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HANDBOUND 
AT  THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
TORONTO  PRESS 


THE 


;. 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


A  MAGAZINE  OF 


^  &rt,  ana 


VOLUME  XC 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YOKE 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
Uliber^itie  ^re^,  Camftritige 

1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902, 
Br  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


The  Riverside,  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass     USA 
ectrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


INDEX  BY  TITLES. 

PAGE 


African  Pygmies,   The,   Samuel  Phillips 

Verner 184 

All  Sorts  of  a  Paper,  Thomas  Bailey  Al- 

drich 735 

America,  Certain  Aspects  of,  H.  D.  Sedg- 

wick,  Jr '5 

America,  The  Ideals  of,  Woodrow  Wilson  721 

Artist  in  Hair,  An,  Mary  A.  Taylor      .     .  838 

Athletics,  Intercollegiate,  Ira  N.  Hollis    .  534 

Author,  An  Unpublished,  Edward  Thomas  834 

Autumn  Thoughts,  Edward  Thomas     .    .  354 

Black  Men,  Of  the  Training  of,   W.  E. 

Burghardt  Du  Bois 289 

Bo's'n  Hill  Ground,  The,  George  S.  Was- 

son 73 

Book  in  the  Tenement,  The,  Elizabeth 

McCracken.     .     .     . 589 

Books  New  and  Old,  H,  W.  Boynton. 

Landor's  Poetry 126 

Summer  Fiction 275 

American  Humor 414 

Poetry  and  Commonplace 553 

Four  Recent  Biographies 706 

Cleverness 852 

Brazil,  A  Letter  from,  George  Chamber- 

lain 821 

Bret  Harte,  H.  C.  Merwin 260 

Brieux,  Eugene,  The  Plays  of,  George  P. 

Baker 79 

Browning  Tonic,  The,  Martha  Baker  Dunn  203 

Cave  of  Adullam,  The,  Alice  Brown  .  .  252 
Christianity,  Chinese  Dislike  of,  Francis 

H.  Nichols 773 

Coal  Wars,  Australasian  Cures  for,  Henry 

Demarest  Lloyd 667 

Commercialism,  Edward  Atkinson  .  .  .  517 
Comparative  Literature,  The  Columbia 

Studies  in,  Ferris  Greenslet 133 

Cookery  Books,  My,  Elizabeth  Robins  Pen- 

nell 221,679 

Court  Bible,  The,  Alexander  Black  ...  809 

Delicate  Trial,  A,  Marrion  Wilcox  ...  772 
Democracy  and  Society,  Vida  D.  Scudder  348 
Democracy  and  the  Church,  Vida  D.  Scud- 
der    521 

Desert,  The,  Verner  Z.  Eeed 166 

Dumas,  The  Elder,  George  B.  Ives  ...  841 

Economic  Cycle,  The  End  of  an,  Frederic 

C.Howe 611 


Education,  A  National  Standard  in  Higher, 

Herbert  W.  Horwill 329 

Elaine,  Emerson  Gifford  Taylor    ....  548 
Emerson's  Diary,  Fresh  Leaves  from : 

Walks  with  Ellery  Channing     ....  27 

England,  Early  Georgian,  S.  M.  Francis  .  714 

Ethics,  The  New,  William  De  Witt  Hyde .  577 
Evenings    at  Simeon's    Store,    George  S. 

Wasson 694 

Eyes,  The  Care  of  the,  A.  B.  Norton    .    .  614 

Fisheries  Question,  The  Atlantic,  P.  T. 

McGrath 741 

French  Memoirs  in  English,  S.  M.  Francis  281 

Gardens  and  Garden-Craft,  Frances  Dun- 
can    559 

Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins,  The, 

E.  E.  Young 55 

Handicraft,  Modern  Artistic,  Charles  H. 

Moore 674 

Henry  Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker,  A  Bit 
of  Unpublished  Correspondence  between, 

E.H.Eussell 370 

In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord,  Norman  Dun- 
can    145 

Japanese  Painters,  Two,  Adachi  Kinnosuke  527 
Jimville :  A  Bret  Harte  Town,  Mary  Aus- 
tin    690 

Johnson,  Lionel,  Of,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney  856 

Kansas  of  To-Day,  The,  Charles  Moreau 

Harger 361 

Knightly  Pen,  A,  Harriet  Waters  Preston  506 

Local  Option,  A  Study  of,  Frank  Foxcroft  433 

Longfellow,   Higginson's,   W.  A.  Neilson  849 

Marsh,  The,  Dallas  Lore  Sharp    ....  87 

Mary  Boyle,  S.  M.  Francis 420 

Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron,  Emily  V. 

Mason 305,  475 

Memories,  The  Garden  of,  C.  A.  Mercer  .  703 

Miss  Petrie's  Avocation,  Kate  Milner  Eabb  95 

Montaigne,  H.  D.  Sedgwick,  Jr 441 

Moonshiner  at  Home,  The,  Leonidas  Hub- 
bard,  Jr 234 

Moral  Hesitations  of  the  Novelist,  Edith 

Baker  Brown 545 

Mozart :  A  Fantasy,  Elia  W.  Peattie  .    .  634 


IV 


Contents. 


Navy,  The  New,  Talcott  Williams  ...  383 
Negro,  The :  Another  View,  Andrew  Sledd  65 
Night's  Lodging,  A,  Arthur  Cotton  ...  195 

Old  Times  at  the  Law  School,  Samuel  F. 

Batchelder 642 

On  Keeping  the  Fourth  of  July,  Bliss 

Perry 1 

On  Reading  Books  through  their  Backs, 

Gerald  Stanley  Lee 124 

On  the  Off-Shore  Lights,  Louise  Lyndon 

Sibley 377 

Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches,  Baroness  von 

Hutten 13, 172,  335,  493 

Pagan,  Why  I  am  a,  Zitkala-Sa  ....    801 

Philippines,  Race  Prejudice  in  the,  James 
A.  Le  Roy 100 

Pipes  of  Passage,  Joseph  Russell  Taylor    .    454 

Place  of  Darkness,  The,  George  Kibbe  Tur- 
ner  394 

Poetic  Drama,  The  Revival  of  the,  Ed- 
mund Gosse 156 

Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools,  Some  Impres- 
sions of,  C.  Hanford  Henderson  .  .  .  783 

Porto  Rico,  Two  Years'  Legislation  in, 
William  F.  Willoughby 34 

Princess  of  Make -Believe,  The,  Annie 
Hamilton  Donnell 268 

Recent  Religious  Literature,  John  Win- 

throp  Plainer 423 

Russia,  Herbert  H.  D.  Peirce 465 

Sailing,  W.  J.  Henderson 43 


Sally,  Laura  Spencer  Portor 626 

Samuel  Johnson,  A  Possible  Glimpse  of, 

William  Everett 622 

Scott,  Lockhart's  Life  of,  Henry  D.  Sedg- 

wick,  Jr 755 

Shakespeare  and  Voltaire,  Ferris  Greenslet  712 

Short  Story,  The,  Bliss  Perry 241 

Sill's  Poetry,  W.  B.  Parker 271 

Skyscrapers,  Limitations  to  the  Production 

of,  Burton  J.  Hendrick 486 

Some  Brief  Biographies,  S.  M.  Francis  .  421 

Sound  of  the  Axe,  The,  S.  Carleton ...  454 
Strikes,  A  Quarter  Century  of,  Ambrose  P. 

Winston 656 

Things  Human,  Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler     .  636 
To-Morrow's  Child,  Mary  Tracy  Earle      .  599 
The  Trade  Union  and  the  Superior  Work- 
man, Ambrose  P.  Winston 794 

Unconscious    Plagiarist,   The,   Fanny  K. 

Johnson 812 

Walter  Pater,  Edward  Dowden    ....  112 
Whar  my  Chris'mus  ?  Beirne  Lay    ...  749 
What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for  Chil- 
dren, Hiller  C.  Wellman 402 

White  Feather,  The,  Thomas  Bailey  Al- 

drich 298 

William  Black,  Edward  Fuller    ....  409 

Women's  Heroes,  Ellen  Duvall  ....  831 
Woods,  Going  into  the,  Eben  Greenough 

Scott 318 

Woodberry's  Hawthorne,  Ferris  Greenslet  563 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS. 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  The  White  Fea- 
ther       298 

All  Sorts  of  a  Paper ,.    .  735 

Alexander,  Hartley,  "  The  Only  Good'  In- 
dian is  a  Dead  Indian  " 656 

Atkinson,  Edward,  Commercialism  .    .    .  517 

Austin,  Mary,  Jimville :   A  Bret  Harte 

Town 690 

Baker,  George  P.,  The  Plays  of  Eugene 

Brieux 79 

Batchelder,  Samuel  F.,  Old  Times  at  the 

Law  School 642 

Black,  Alexander,  The  Court  Bible  ...  809 
Boynton,  H.  W.,  Books  New  and  Old. 

Lander's  Poetry 126 

Summer  Fiction 275 

American  Humor 414 

Poetry  and  Commonplace 553 

Four  Recent  Biographies 706 

Cleverness 852 

Domremy  and  Rouen 514 

Brown,  Alice,  The  Cave  of  Adullam    .    .  252 
Brown,  Edith  Baker,  Moral  Hesitations  of 

the  Novelist 545 

Carleton,  S.,  The  Sound  of  the  Axe  ...  454 

Chadwick,  John  White,  An  Autumn  Field  360 


Chamberlain,  George,  A  Letter  from  Brazil  821 

Cloud,  Virginia  Woodward,  Balm  ...  124 

Colton,  Arthur,  A  Night's  Lodging  ...  195 

Daskam,  Josephine  Dodge,  Two  Sonnets 

from  the  Hebrew 748 

Donnell,  Annie  Hamilton,  The  Princess  of 

Make-Believe 268 

Dorr,  Julia  C.R.,  When  I  Sleep     ...  304 
Dowden,  Edward,  Walter  Pater  ....  112 
Du  Bois,  W.  E.  Burghardt,  Of  the  Train- 
ing of  Black  Men     289 

Duncan,  Frances,  Gardens   and   Garden- 
Craft 559 

Duncan,  Norman,  In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord  145 

Dunn,  Martha  Baker,  The  Browning  Tonic  203 

Duvall,  Ellen,  Women's  Heroes   ....  831 

Earle,  Mary  Tracy,  To-Morrow's  Child     .  599 
Everett,  William,  A  Possible  Glimpse  of 

Samuel  Johnson 622 

Foxcroft,  Frank,  A  Study  of  Local  Option  433 

Francis,  S.  M.,  French  Memoirs  in  English  281 

Mary  Boyle 420 

Some  Brief  Biographies 421 

Early  Georgian  England 714 

Fuller,  Edward,  William  Black  ....  409 


Contents. 


Gosse,  Edmund,  The  Revival  of  the  Poetic 

Drama 156 

Greenslet,  Ferris,  The  Columbia  Studies  in 

Comparative  Literature 133 

Woodberry's  Hawthorne 563 

Shakespeare  and  Voltaire     .     .     .     .     .  712 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen,  Of  Lionel  Johnson  856 

Harger,  Charles  Moreau,  The  Kansas  of 

To-Day 361 

Hawthorne,  Hildegarde,  Loss 99 

Henderson,  C.  Hanford,  Some  Impressions 

of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools  ....  783 

Henderson,  W.  J.,  Sailing 43 

Hendrick,  Burton  J.,  Limitations  to  the 

Production  of  Skyscrapers 486 

Hollis,  Ira  N.,  Intercollegiate  Athletics   .  534 

Horwill,  Herbert  IF.,  A  National  Standard 

in  Higher  Education 329 

Howe,  Frederic  C.,  The  End  of  an  Eco- 
nomic Cycle 611 

Hubbard,  Leonidas,  Jr.,  The  Moonshiner 

at  Home 234 

Hyde,  William  De  Witt,  The  New  Ethics .  577 

Ireland,  Ethel  Alleyne,  A  Renunciation     .  492 

Ives,  George  B.,  The  Elder  Dumas  ...  841 

Johnson,  Fanny  K.,  The  Unconscious  Pla- 
giarist    812 

Ketchum,  Arthur,  A  Song 610 

Kinnosuke,  Adachi,  Two  Japanese  Paint- 
ers    527 

Lay,  Beirne,  Whar  my  Chris'mus  ?  .  .  .  749 
Lee,  Gerald  Stanley,  On  Reading  Books 

through  their  Backs, 124 

Le  Roy,  James  A.,  Race  Prejudice  in  the 

Philippines 100 

Lloyd,  Henry  Demarest,  Australasian  Cures 

for  Coal  Wars 667 

Macy,  Annie  Weld  Edson,  The  Highlands, 

Cape  Cod 401 

Mason,  Emily  V.,  Memories  of  a  Hospital 

Matron 305, 475 

Mercer,  C.  A.,  The  Garden  of  Memories   .  703 

Merwin,  H.  C.,  Bret  Harte 260 

Monahan,  Michael,  Ballade  of  Poor  Souls  793 
Moore,  Charles  H.,  Modern  Artistic  Handi- 
craft    674 

Morse,  James  Herbert,  Spider  Web  ...  78 
McCracken,  Elizabeth,  The  Book  in  the 

Tenement 589 

McGrath,  P.  T.,  The  Atlantic  Fisheries 

Question 741 

Neilson,  W.  A.,  Higginson's  Longfellow  .  849 
Nichols,  Francis  H.,  Chinese  Dislike  of 

Christianity 782 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  Wide  Margins  ...  440 

Edward  Eggleston 804 

Norton,  A.  B.,  The  Care  of  the  Eyes  .  .  614 

Parker,  W.  B.,  Sill's  Poetry 271 


Peattie,  Elia  W.,  Mozart :  A  Fantasy  .    .  634 

Peirce,  Herbert  H.  D.,  Russia 465 

Pennell,   Elizabeth    Robins,  My  Cookery 

Books 221,  679 

Perry,  Bliss,  On  Keeping  the  Fourth  of 

July .  1 

The  Short  Story 241 

Piatt,  John  James,  At  Kilcolman  Castle    .  702 
Plainer,  John  Winthrop,  Recent  Religious 

Literature 423 

Pollock,  Frank  Lillie,   The  End  of  the 

Quest 347 

Pomeroy,  Edward  N.,  The  Watch  Be- 
low    53 

Portor,  Laura  Spencer,  Sally 626 

Preston,    Harriet     Waters,    A    Knightly 

Pen 506 

Rabb,  Kate  Milner^  Miss  Petrie's  Avoca- 
tion    95 

Reed,  Verner  Z.,  The  Desert 166 

Russell,  E.H.,A  Bit  of  Unpublished  Cor- 
respondence between  Henry  Thoreau  and 

Isaac  Hecker 370 

Scott,  Duncan  Campbell,  Rapids  at  Night .  259 
Scott,  Eben    Greenough,    Going   into    the 

Woods 318 

Scudder,  Vida  D.,  Democracy  and  Society  348 

Democracy  and  the  Church 521 

Sedgwick,  Henry  D.,  Jr.,  Certain  Aspects 

of  America .  5 

Montaigne 441 

Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott 755 

Sharp,  Dallas  Lore,  The  Marsh    ....  87 
Sibley,  Louise  Lyndon,  On  the  Off-Shore 

Lights 337 

Sledd,  Andrew,  The  Negro :  Another  View  65 
Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott,  Midsummer's 

Day 183 

Tabb,  John  B.,  The  Dove 304 

Taylor,  Emerson  Gifford,  Elaine  ....  548 

Taylor,  Joseph  Russell,  Pipes  of  Passage  .  454 

Taylor,  Mary  A.,  An  Artist  in  Hair      .     .  838 

Thomas,  Edward,  Autumn  Thoughts    .     .  354 

An  Unpublished  Author 834 

Turner,  George  Kibbe,  The  Place  of  Dark- 
ness   394 

Verner,  Samuel  Phillips,  The  African  Pyg- 
mies    184 

Von  Hutten,  Baroness,  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches 13,  172,  335,  493 

Wasson,  George  S. ,  The  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  73 

Evenings  at  Simeon's  Store 694 

Wellman,  Hitter  C.,  What  Public  Libra- 
ries are  doing  for  Children 402 

Wheeler,  Benjamin  Ide,  Things  Human    .  636 
Wilcox,  Marrion,  A  Delicate  Trial  ...  772 
Williams,  Talcott,  The  New  Navy   ...  383 
Willoughby,  William  F.,  Two  Years'  Leg- 
islation in  Porto  Rico 34 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  The  Ideals  of  Amer- 
ica...  .  721 


VI 


Contents. 


Winston,  Ambrose  P.,  A  Quarter  Century 

of  Strikes 656 

The    Trade    Union    and    the    Superior 
Workman    ....  .794 


Young,  B.  E.<  The  Genius  of  Retta  Rom- 
any Tompkins 55 


Zitkala-Sa,  Why  I  am  a  Pagan 


801 


A  Song,  Arthur  Ketchum 

At  Kilcolman  Castle,  John  James  Piatt    . 
Autumn  Field,  An,  John  White  CkadwicTc 

Ballade  of  Poor  Souls,  Michael  Monahan  . 
Balm,  Virginia  Woodward  Cloud    .    .    . 

Domremy    and    Rouen,    Henry    Walcott 
Boynton 

End  of  the  Quest,  The,  Frank  Lillie  Pol- 
lock    , 


POETRY. 

610      Pipes  of  Passage,  Joseph  Eussell  Taylor    .    454 
702 

360      Rapids  at  Night,  Duncan  Campbell  Scott  .    259 
Renunciation,  A,  Ethel  Alleyne  Ireland     .    492 
793     - 


124      Spider  Web,  James  Herbert  Morse 


18 


The  Dove,  John  B.  Tabb 304 

514      The  Highlands,  Cape  Cod,  Annie  Weld 

Edson  Macy 401 

"  The  Only  Good  Indian  is  a  Dead  Indian," 

347          Hartley  Alexander 656 

Two  Sonnets  from  the  Hebrew,  Josephine 
Loss,  Hildegarde  Hawthorne 99          Dodge  Daskam 748 


Midsummer's  Day,  Harriet  Prescott  Spof- 
ford 


Watch  Below,  The,  Edward  N.  Pomeroy .      53 

183      When  I  Sleep,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  ....    304 

Wide  Margins,  Meredith  Nicholson  ...    440 


CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 

.    429      Milton  and  his  Elm  .    719 


Altruism,  The  New 

Barbara  Frietchie  at  Home 717      Orthography,  A  Question  of 716 

Belt  and  Button 284      Out  of  the  Way,  A  Little 572 

Bookshelf,  My  Friends' 430 

Peddlers,  A  Plague  of 137 

Contributor,  The  Reminiscences  of  a    .     .    285      Plots  that  One  Covets 140 

Good  Story,  Concerning  the 431      Reading,  Pace  in 143 

Grievance,  An  Afternoon 568      Robert  Herrick,  A  Call  on 574 

InMemoriam 288      Singular  Plurality,  A 139 

South  Africa,  A  Briton's  Impressions  of  .    136 

Law,  The  Lady's 569 

Local  Color,  The  Study  of 864      Those  Red-Eyed  Men 139 

Lowell's  Temperament 862 

Verse  in  Prose 283 

MagnaParsFui 575 

Millionaires,  On  a  Certain  Lack  of  On-  Walk  with  Mr.  Warner,  A 428 

ginality  in 286 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


of  literature^  ^cience^  art,  anD 

VOL.  XC.  —  JUL  Y,  1902.  —  No.  DXXXVIL 


ON  KEEPING  THE   FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


"  This  anniversary  animates  and  gladdens 
and  unites  all  American  hearts.  On  other  days 
of  the  year  we  may  be  party  men,  indulging  in 
controversies,  more  or  less  important  to  the  pub- 
lic good  ;  we  may  have  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
we  may  maintain  our  political  differences,  often 
with  warm,  and  sometimes  with  angry  feelings. 
But  to-day  we  are  Americans  all  ;  and  all  no- 
thing but  Americans."  —  DANIEL  WEBSTER  : 
Address  on  July  ^,  1851, 

"  The  assumption  that  the  cure  for  the  ills  of 
Democracy  is  more  Democracy." — JANE  AD- 
DAMS  :  Democracy  and  Social  Ethics,  1902. 

THE  readers  of  the  Atlantic  may  re- 
member that  in  the  January  number 
there  was  something  said  about  the 
Cheerful  and  the  Cheerless  Reader. 
Under  a  harmless  fiction  which  enabled 
him  to  speak  as  the  Toastmaster  of  the 
monthly  dinner,  the  editor  of  the  maga- 
zine commented  upon  some  of  the  arti- 
cles which  were  to  make  up  the  bill  of 
fare  for  the  ensuing  year.  And  July 
is  here  already;  the  year  is  half  over, 
and  the  monthly  feasts  have  been  duly 
spread.  No  doubt  they  might  have  been 
more  skillfully  served.  The  Atlantic's 
modest  "  mahogany  tree  "  might  have 
been  garnished  in  a  more  costly  manner. 
But  there  has  been  wholesome  fare,  each 
month,  and  good  company,  and  new 
voices  to  mingle  pleasantly  with  the  more 
familiar  ones.  Saying  grace  has  nowa- 
days gone  somewhat  out  of  fashion,  but 
among  the  Atlantic's  circle  there  has 
been  at  least  a  grateful  disposition  to  re- 
turn thanks.  It  is  the  Cheerful  Reader 
who  has  been  mainly  in  evidence  since 
January.  Perhaps  the  Cheerless  Read- 
ers are  suffering  from  writer's  cramp. 


Or  are  they  grimly  sharpening  their  pens 
for  some  future  onslaught  ?  At  any  rate, 
they  have  kept  strangely,  perhaps  omi- 
nously silent.  It  has  been  the  turn  of 
the  gayer  souls  to  be  voluble.  The 
Toastmaster  has  been  assured  that  even 
the  business  communications  to  the  maga- 
zine, such  as  renewals  of  subscriptions 
and  directions  for  summer  addresses, 
have  frequently  been  signed  "Yours 
Cheerfully."  It  is  true  that  this  access 
of  gayety  may  prove  to  be  but  temporary. 
In  that  case  there  is  some  comfort  in 
the  shrewd  advice  of  a  seasoned  man  of 
letters,  who  writes  to  the  editor :  "  My 
theory  is  that  every  periodical  should 
contain  in  every  number  something  to 
make  somebody  '  cuss.'  It  is  certainly 
the  next  best  thing  to  making  them  de- 
lighted." Very  possibly  that  is  just 
what  the  unlucky  Toastmaster  is  now 
proceeding  to  do,  in  offering,  by  way  of 
introduction  to  the  contents  of  the  pre- 
sent number,  some  considerations  On 
Keeping  the  Fourth  of  July. 

It  should  be  said,  in  the  first  place, 
that  few  readers  of  the  Atlantic  are  like- 
ly to  accuse  it  of  a  lack  of  patriotism. 
An  intelligent  devotion  to  the  highest  in- 
terests of  America  is  the  chief  article  in 
its  creed.  It  endeavors  to  secure,  month 
by  month,  the  opinions  of  competent  ob- 
servers of  our  national  life,,  and  to  en- 
courage perfect  freedom  in  the  expres- 
sion of  those  opinions.  While  it  is  not 
committed  to  the  support  of  any  partisan 
platform  or  policy,  it  believes  that  the 
men  who  have  been  chosen  to  carry  for- 


On  Keeping  the  Fourth  of  July. 


ward  the  present  administration  of  the 
government  are  honest,  able,  and  high- 
minded,  and  that  they  deserve  the  fullest 
possible  cooperation  of  their  fellow  citi- 
zens in  maintaining  American  interests 
at  home  and  abroad.  Whatever  criti- 
cism of  national  policy  may  appear  from 
time  to  time  in  these  pages  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  in  a  government  like  ours,  based 
upon  freely  voiced  public  opinion,  men 
of  knowledge  and  conviction  are  bound 
to  differ  in  their  interpretation  of  current 
issues.  It  is  the  aim  of  the  Atlantic  to 
present  views  based  upon  both  know- 
ledge and  conviction.  Such  has  been  the 
spirit  of  Mr.  Nelson's  review  of  the 
opening  months  of  President  Roosevelt's 
administration ;  of  Lieutenant  Hanna's 
and  Superintendent  Atkinson's  accounts 
of  educational  work  in  Cuba  and  the 
Philippines ;  of  Mr.  Villard's  paper  on 
The  New  Army  of  the  United  States. 
This  last  article,  together  with  one  short- 
ly to  appear,  on  The  New  Navy,  will 
perhaps  serve  better  than  the  others  to 
illustrate  the  attitude  of  this  magazine. 
Many  of  its  readers  deplore,  as  its  editor 
certainly  does,  that  present  glorification 
of  brute  force  which  would  measure  na- 
tional greatness  by  the  size  of  national 
armaments.  We  may  properly  wish  for 
and  work  for  the  day  when  the  Disarma- 
ment Trust  —  so  agreeably  pictured  by 
Mr.  Rollo  Ogden  —  shall  be  a  reality. 
But  even  while  we  are  supporting  schools 
and  churches  and  every  other  means  for 
promoting  good  will  among  men,  we  keep 
a  policeman  at  the  crossing,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  that  very  decency  which  will  ulti- 
mately make  the  policeman  unnecessary. 
The  world's  cross-roads  will  have  to  be 
policed  for  a  long  time  yet,  until  men 
learn  to  hate  one  another  less,  and  our  own 
country's  share  in  the  world's  police  ser- 
vice should  be  efficient  and  ample.  The 
good  citizen  of  the  United  States  ought 
to  know  something  about  this  department 
of  his  country's  activities,  and  the  Atlan- 
tic believes  in  offering  him  the  informa- 
tion, whatever  may  be  his  —  or  the  edi- 


tor's —  personal  views  as  to  the  essential 
folly  and  wickedness  of  militarism. 

The  current  number  of  the  magazine, 
for  example,  contains  several  of  these  ar- 
ticles devoted  to  fundamental  problems 
of  our  national  life,  issues  that  should 
not  be  forgotten  on  Independence  Day. 
Mr.  Sedgwick's  interpretation  of  Certain 
Aspects  of  America  is  characterized  by 
the  frank  analysis,  the  insistence  upon 
the  subordination  of  material  to  spiritual 
values,  for  which  he  has  so  often  made 
the  readers  of  the  Atlantic  his  debtors. 
Mr.  Willoughby,  the  Treasurer  of  Porto 
Rico,  gives  a  re'sume'  of  the  legislation 
already  enacted  in  that  island,  where 
American  "  expansion "  is  apparently 
accomplishing  some  of  its  most  beneficent 
results.  Mr.  Le  Roy,  who  has  lately  re- 
turned from  two  years'  service  with  the 
Philippine  Commission,  calls  attention 
to  the  grave  consequences  of  perpetuat- 
ing our  American  race  prejudices  in  deal- 
ing with  the  Filipinos.  He  shows  that 
the  "  nigger  "  theory  of  proceeding  with 
the  natives  has  already  proved  a  serious 
obstacle  to  the  pacification  of  the  islands. 
How  deep  rooted  this  theory  is,  and  how 
far  reaching  are  the  moral  and  political 
penalties  of  African  slavery  in  America, 
can  be  traced  in  Mr.  Andrew  Sledd's  illu- 
minating discussion  of  the  negro  problem 
in  the  South. 

Indeed,  profitable  argument  concern- 
ing the  behavior  of  our  soldiers  and  civil- 
ians in  the  Orient  must  begin  with  this 
sort  of  scrutiny  into  what  we  really  feel 
and  think  at  home.  Self-examination, 
reflection  upon  the  actual  organization 
of  our  American  society,  and  upon  the 
attempts  we  are  making  to  impose  that 
organization  by  force  upon  Asiatic  peo- 
ples, —  this  is  surely  a  useful  occupation 
for  some  portion  of  the  Fourth  of  July. 
It  happens  that  the  Toastmaster  is  quite 
ignorant  of  the  political  affiliations  of  the 
authors  of  those  four  articles  to  which 
allusion  has  been  made.  But  men  of  all 
parties  and  creeds  have  shared  and  will 
continue  to  share  in  the  Atlantic's  hospi- 


On  Keeping  the  Fourth  of  July. 


3 


tality,  and  on  Independence  Day  in  par- 
ticular, questions  of  party  politics  should 
be  tacitly  dismissed.  "  On  other  days 
of  the  year  we  may  be  party  men.  .  .  . 
But  to-day  we  are  Americans  all ;  and  all 
nothing  but  Americans." 

Do  they  sound  rather  grandiloquent, 
these  orotund  Websterian  phrases  of 
half  a  century  ago  ?  Have  we  grown 
superior  to  spread-eagleism,  to  barbe- 
cues and  buncombe,  to  the  early  fire- 
cracker and  the  long-awaited  sky-rocket, 
and  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
the  Glorious  Fourth  ?  The  Toastm aster, 
for  one,  confesses  to  a  boyish  fondness 
for  the  old-fashioned,  reckless,  noisy 
day.  He  is  willing  to  be  awakened  at  an 
unseemly  hour,  if  only  for  the  memory 
of  dewy-wet  dawns  of  long  ago,  and  the 
imminent  deadly  breach  of  the  trusty 
cannon  under  the  windows  of  irascible 
old  gentlemen,  of  real  battle-flags  wav- 
ing, and  perspiring  bands  pounding  out 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner,  and  impas- 
sioned orators  who  twisted  the  British 
Lion's  tail  until  it  looked  like  a  cork- 
screw. The  day  we  celebrate,  ladies 
and  gentlemen  !  And  may  there  ever 
be  American  boys  to  celebrate  the  day ! 

In  the  schooling  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury we  have  learned  something,  of 
course.  Twisting  the  Lion's  tail  already 
seems  a  rather  silly  amusement,  espe- 
cially when  it  is  likely  to  lessen  the  in- 
come from  our  investments.  "  We  deep- 
ly sympathize  with  the  brave  burghers," 
announces  a  New  Orleans  paper,  "  but 
we  cannot  afford  to  miss  selling  a  single 
mule."  It  seems  provincial  now  to  re- 
peat the  old  self-satisfied  "  What  have 
we  got  to  do  with  abroad  ?  "  We  have 
a  great  deal  to  do  with  abroad.  We 
have  been  buying  geographies,  and  have 
grown  suddenly  conscious  of  the  world's 
life.  And  new  occasions  teach  new  du- 
ties. Here  is  a  fighting  parson  in  Bos- 
ton who  insists  that  we  shall  "  take  the 
Golden  Rule  and  make  it  militant,"  and 
a  doughty  Captain  of  Infantry  in  Buf- 
falo who  preaches  that  "the  currents 


of  civilization  flow  from  the  throne  of 
God,  and  lead  through  ways  sometimes 
contrary  to  one's  will,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  our  civilization  of  steel  and 
steam  must  be  laid  over  all  the  world, 
even  though  its  foundations  be  cemented 
with  the  blood  of  every  black  race  that 
strives  to  thwart  us  in  our  policy  of  be- 
nevolent assimilation."  Thus  is  the 
Websterian  doctrine  of  "  Americans  all ; 
and  all  nothing  but  Americans  "  brought 
up  to  date  in  1902. 

And  yet  looking  back  to  the  Fourth 
of  July  oratory  preceding  and  imme- 
diately following  the  Civil  War  it  is 
difficult  to  avoid  the  feeling  that  we 
have  lost  something  too.  Beneath  all 
the  rhodomontade  there  was  a  real  gen- 
erosity of  sentiment.  There  was  boast- 
ing enough  and  to  spare,  but  it  was  a 
boasting  of  principles,  of  liberal  politi- 
cal theory,  of  the  blessings  of  liberty 
itself.  The  politicians  of  that  day  were 
not  so  frankly  materialistic  as  their  suc- 
cessors, not  such  keen  computers  of  the 
profits  of  commercial  supremacy.  It  is 
true  that  they  had  less  temptation.  It 
is  likewise  true  that  they  failed,  in  more 
than  one  section  of  the  country,  to  carry 
the  principles  of  the  Declaration  to  their 
logical  conclusion.  But  they  were  at  least 
proud  of  the  Declaration  ;  it  did  not  oc- 
cur to  them  to  doubt  its  logic,  although 
here  and  there  they  may  have  forgotten  to 
practice  it.  But  ever  since  Ruf  us  Choate 
set  the  bad  example  of  sneering  at  its 
"  glittering  generalities,"  there  have  not 
been  lacking  clever  young  students  of 
history  and  politics  who  have  been  eager 
to  demonstrate  its  fallacies.  One  may 
suspect  that  some  of  the  Americans  who 
have  just  attended  King  Edward's  coro- 
nation, and  many  more  who  have  stayed 
at  home  and  read  about  it,  are  at  heart 
a  trifle  ashamed  of  the  provincial  ear- 
nestness of  Jefferson's  indictment  of  King 
George.  And  we  are  told  that  in  one 
portion  of  the  American  dominions,  a 
year  ago,  it  was  a  crime  to  read  the  De- 
claration aloud. 


On  Keeping  the  Fourth  of  July. 


But  it  is  no  crime  to  read  it  here,  and 
one  may  venture  to  say  that  a  good  many 
inconspicuous  Americans,  who  have  not 
recently  refreshed  their  memory  of  the 
immortal  document,  will  this  year  hunt 
around  until  they  find  it,  —  in  some  hum- 
ble Appendix  to  a  School  History,  very 
likely,  —  and  take  the  trouble  to  read 
it  through.  For  there  has  been  a  good 
deal  said  about  the  Declaration  lately, 
and  much  more  is  likely  to  be  said  before 
our  Philippine  troubles  are  ended.  The 
past  three  months  have  thrown  more  light 
upon  the  essential  character  of  our  occu- 
pation of  the  Archipelago  than  the  pre- 
ceding three  years  have  done.  The  At- 
lantic argued  many  months  ago  that  the 
first  duty  of  the  Administration  and  Con- 
gress was  to  give  the  country  the  facts, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  decide  upon  our 
future  course  in  the  islands  until  we  knew 
more  about  what  was  actually  happening 
there.  We  have  found  out  something  at 
last.  The  knowledge  is  not  very  plea- 
sant, but  it  sticks  in  the  memory,  and  not 
all  the  fire-crackers  and  fun  of  the  Glori- 
ous Fourth  will  keep  American  citizens 
from  reflecting  that  we  are  engaged,  on 
that  anniversary,  in  subjugating  a  weak- 
er people  who  are  struggling,  however 
blindly  and  cruelly,  for  that  independ- 
ence which  we  once  claimed  as  an  "  in- 
alienable right "  for  ourselves. 

For  subjugation  is  the  topic  of  the 
day  ;  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  "  ex- 
pansion," or  even  of  "  imperialism."  It 
is  plain  enough  now  that  we  are  holding 
the  Philippines  by  physical  force  only, 
and  that  the  brave  and  unselfish  men  we 
have  sent  there  have  been  assigned  to  a 
task  which  is  not  only  repellent  to  Amer- 
icans, but  bitterly  resented  by  the  sup- 
posed beneficiaries  of  our  action.  To 
risk  the  life  of  a  soldier  like  Lawton  or 
a  civilian  like  Governor  Taft  in  order 
to  carry  the  blessings  of  a  Christian  civ- 
ilization to  benighted  Malays  seemed, 
in  the  opinion  of  a  majority  of  Ameri- 
cans in  1899,  a  generous  and  heroic  en- 
terprise. It  was  a  dream  that  did  the 


kindly  American  heart  infinite  credit. 
But  now  that  we  have  learned  how  the 
thing  must  be  done,  if  it  is  to  be  done 
successfully,  the  conscience  of  the  coun- 
try is  ill  at  ease.  It  is  neither  necessary 
nor  desirable  to  dwell  on  the  fact  that 
some  of  our  soldiers  have  disgraced  their 
uniform.  Such  men  have  shown  the  pit- 
iable weakness  of  human  nature  under 
distressing  conditions  which  they  did  not 
create  ;  but  the  story  is  a  shamefully  old 
one  ;  it  has  been  told  for  three  hundred 
years  in  the  history  of  tropical  coloni- 
zation. Lincoln  put  the  whole  moral  of 
it,  with  homely  finality,  into  his  phrase 
about  no  man  being  good  enough  to 
govern  another  man  without  the  other 
man's  consent.  Not  "  strong  enough," 
nor  "  smart  enough,"  nor  "  Anglo-Sax- 
on enough ;  "  simply  not  good  enough. 
Upon  that  point,  at  least,  there  is  no- 
thing more  to  be  said. 

Rude  as  this  awakening  to  the  actual 
nature  of  the  Philippine  campaign  has 
been,  it  is  far  less  disheartening  to  the 
lover  of  republican  institutions  than  the 
period  of  moral  indifference  which  pre- 
ceded it.  It  is  a  lesser  evil  to  see  war 
in  its  nakedness  and  be  shocked  by  it, 
than  to  be  so  absorbed  in  material  inter- 
ests as  to  be  willing  to  sacrifice  a  gal- 
lant Lawton  in  order  that  some  sleek 
trader  should  win  a  fortune.  Any  bit- 
ter truth  is  preferable  to 

' '  The  common,  loveless  lust  of  territory  ; 
The  lips  that  only  babble  of  their  mart 
While  to  the  night  the  shrieking  hamlets  blaze  ; 
The^bought  allegiance  and  the  purchased  praise, 
False  honor  and  shameful  glory." 

With  the  passing  of  this  good-natured, 
easy-going  indifference  to  suffering  and 
struggle,  we  are  distinctly  nearer  a  solu- 
tion of  the  Philippine  problem.  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt  declared  last  December, 
with  characteristic  generosity,  that  the 
aim  of  our  endeavors  was  to  "  make  them 
free  after  the  fashion  of  the  really  self- 
governing  peoples."  If  he  were  now,  in 
the  light  of  the  additional  evidence  as 
to  the  attitude  of  the  Filipinos  and  the 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


changed  sentiment  here,  to  send  a  mes- 
sage to  Congress  embodying  a  definite 
programme  leading  not  merely  to  Fili- 
pino "  self-government  "  but  to  ultimate 
national  independence,  he  would  have  be- 
hind him  a  substantial  majority,  not  only 
of  his  own  party,  but  of  the  citizens  of  the 
United  States.  To  promise  the  Fiilpinos 
ultimate  independence,  —  upon  any  rea- 
sonable conditions,  —  meaning  to  keep 
that  promise,  as  we  have  already  kept  our 
word  to  Cuba,  would  be  honor  enough  for 
any  administration.  President  Roose- 
velt's administration  inherited  the  Phil- 
ippine "  burden."  The  islands  came  to 
us  partly  through  force  of  circumstances, 
partly  through  national  vanity  and  thirst 
for  power,  but  mainly  through  our  igno- 
rance. Now  that  we  have  learned  what 
we  were  really  bargaining  for,  it  becomes 
possible  to  give  over  the  burden  to  those 
to  whom  it  belongs.  It  cannot  be  trans- 
ferred in  a  day,  it  is  true,  but  a  day  is  long 
enough  to  make  a  resolve  to  rid  ourselves 


of  it  at  the  earliest  practicable  moment. 
And  the  Fourth  of  July  is  a  good  day  for 
such  a  resolution.  To  leave  the  Philip- 
pine Islands,  under  some  amicable  ar- 
rangement, to  the  Philippine  people  may 
be  called  "  scuttling,"  —  if  critics  like 
that  word,  — but  it  will  be  a  return  to 
American  modes  of  procedure,  to  that 
fuller  measure  of  Democracy  which  is 
the  only  cure  for  the  evils  of  Democracy. 
For  the  chief  obstacle  to  the  subjugation 
of  an  Asiatic  people  by  Americans  lies  in 
human  nature  itself.  The  baser  side  of 
human  nature  may  always  be  depended 
upon  to  strip  such  conquest  of  its  tinsel 
and  betray  its  essential  hideousness; 
while  the  nobler  side  of  human  nature 
protests  against  the  forcible  annexation 
of  a  weaker  people  by  the  countrymen  of 
Washington.  This  protest,  in  the  Toast- 
master's  opinion,  will  never  be  more  in- 
stinctive or  more  certain  of  final  victory 
than  on  the  day  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  our  own  national  independence. 

B.  P. 


CERTAIN   ASPECTS   OF  AMERICA. 


Gulliver.     (Aside.)    What  is  Lilliput  doing  ? 
Lilliputian.     (In  Gulliver's  snuff-box.)     The 
life  of  this  Giant  is  very  dark  and  snuffy. 


THERE  is  an  opinion,  at  least  a  saying, 
current  among  us,  that  a  great  man  steps 
forth  when  a  nation  needs  him.  This 
theory  is  very  comfortable,  especially  in 
those  parts  -of  the  world  where  great 
men  are  rare,  for  it  follows  that  ordinary 
men  behave  themselves  so  wisely  and  so 
well  that  they  have  no  need  of  a  great 
man.  It  is  a  theory,  however,  that 
bristles  with  difficulties.  Ancient  na- 
tions have  decayed  and  fallen  to  ruin ; 
did  not  they  need  great  men  ?  Some  na- 
tions to-day  are  losing  vigor  and  vitality ; 
do  not  they  need  great  men?  Has  a 


nation  ever  been  so  great  as  it  might 
have  been,  so  noble  as  it  might  have 
been,  so  honorable  as  it  might  have 
been,  or  so  rich  and  comfortable  that  it 
might  not  have  been  still  more  rich 
and  yet  more  comfortable  ?  Neverthe- 
less there  is  some  truth  in  the  saying, 
for  certain  needs  do  create  great  men. 
Our  human  nature  is  such  that  if  its 
most  sensitive  children  hear  the  cry  of 
human  needs,  their  faculties  pass,  as  it 
were,  through  a  fire,  become  purged, 
hardened,  and  of  a  temper  to  do  those 
deeds  which  we  call  great.  It  is  not 
every  human  need,  unfortunately,  that 
has  that  creative  power.  Mere  barren- 
ness and  want  cannot  create  great  men ; 
neither  can  corporeal  needs,  they  are 
too  easily  satisfied.  Since  Prometheus 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


struck  the  first  spark,  neither  corporeal 
needs,  nor  their  derivatives,  —  ease,  com- 
fort, luxury,  — have  required  great  ser- 
vice. It  is  not  a  common  need,  but  a 
penitential  need,  that  brings  forth  the 
great  man.  Washington  rose  up,  not 
because  our  forefathers  needed  to  gain 
battles,  but  because  they  needed  "a 
standard  to  which  the  wise  and  the  just 
could  repair ; "  Lincoln  arose,  not  be- 
cause our  fathers  needed  statecraft,  but 
because  they  needed  "  malice  towards 
none ;  with  charity  for  all."  When  a 
nation's  want  is  deepened  to  desire,  and 
desire  is  intensified  into  need,  then  that 
nation  may  hope  that  its  need  will  create 
a  great  man.  The  fructifying  need  must 
be  a  yearning  and  a  conscious  need.  In 
America  we  have  no  men  whom  we  call 
great,  not  because  we  have  no  needs,  for 
we  have  profound  needs,  but  because  we 
are  not  conscious  of  them.  We  walk 
about  as  in  a  hypnotic  spell,  all  unaware 
of  our  destitution.  When  we  shall  open 
our  minds  to  our  needs,  we  shall  do  the 
first  act  toward  ministering  to  them. 

What  is  there  to  open  our  minds  ? 
Nature  has  provided  a  means  through 
our  affections.  For  ourselves,  we  are  too 
old  to  perceive  that  which  we  lack,  our 
habits  are  adjusted  to  privation,  we  are 
unconscious  of  the  great  needs  of  life  ; 
but  if  we  let  our  thoughts  dwell  on  those 
things  which  we  desire  for  our  children, 
then  by  constant  brooding,  by  intense 
thinking,  out  of  vague  notions,  out  of  un- 
certain hopes,  out  of  dim  ambitions,  defi- 
nite wants  will  take  shape,  grow  hungrier 
and  leaner,  till  they  starve  into  needs  that 
must  be  satisfied.  What  is  a  son  to  a 
father's  hope,  —  "  in  form  and  moving 
how  express  and  admirable  !  in  action 
how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension  how 
like  a  god !  " 

Hamlet  gives  our  clue  :  our  manners 
and  behavior  should  be  express  and  ad- 
mirable ;  our  actions  should  be  like  the 
angels',  just  and  dutiful ;  our  apprehen- 
sion should  be  like  the  gods',  seeing  the 
values  of  things  as  they  truly  are.  Thus 


through  affection  we  discover  our  real 
needs.  But  as  they  are  only  creations  of 
imaginative  insight,  they  are  very  placid. 
They  do  not  disquiet  us  ;  they  do  not 
make  us  wriggle  on  our  chairs,  nor  lie 
awake  at  night ;  nor  do  they  take  from 
cakes  and  ale  their  pristine  interest. 
What  can  we  do  to  nurse  these  Barme- 
cide wants,  to  convert  these  embryonic 
desires  into  organic  needs  ?  Is  not  the 
first  thing  to  speak  out,  and  give  them 
at  least  an  existence  in  words ;  and  hav- 
ing put  them  into  words,  is  not  the  sec- 
ond thing  to  speculate  as  to  how  they  are 
affected,  whether  for  health  or  for  disap- 
pearance, by  our  American  civilization  ? 
There  is  nothing  unpatriotic  in  sociologi- 
cal inquiry.  Civilization  is  organized  ef- 
fort to  satisfy  conscious  needs,  and  we 
may  naturally  be  curious  to  see  how  our 
American  civilization  affects  unconscious 
needs,  how  it  tends  to  make  our  manners 
gracious  and  admirable,  to  render  our  ac- 
tions just  and  dutiful,  to  clarify  our  ap- 
prehension so  that  it  shall  behold  life  as 
it  really  is. 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  elementary  feel- 
ing, akin  to  filial  piety,  which  would  nat- 
urally deter  a  right-minded  man  from  any 
attempt  at  expressing  even  the  adumbra- 
tion of  his  opinions  concerning  his  coun- 
try. If  a  friend  were  about  to  tumble 
into  such  a  pitfall,  —  properly  set  for 
foreigners,  —  one  would  buttonhole  him, 
urge  him  to  desist,  explain  that  his  pro- 
ject was  temerarious,  or,  if  need  were, 
make  use  of  still  more  violent  means. 
One  would  catch  at  everything  from 
superstition  to  coat-tails  to  prevent  such 
a  display  of  sentimental  deficiency.  But 
every  man  is  wiser  for  his  friends  than 
for  himself.  We  seldom  listen  to  the 
modest  voice  of  self-criticism  ;  we  charge 
it  with  opportunism,  cowardice,  con- 
servatism, and  retrogression,  and  go  on 
our  own  way. 

The  very  difficulties  and  risks  lend  a 
zest  to  rashness.  The  America  which  I 
think  I  see  may  have  been  produced  by 
applying  a  microscope  to  the  street  in 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


which  I  live,  till  that  be  magnified  to  the 
requisite  bulk ;  or  it  may  be  merely  my 
own  shadow  cast  on  the  clouds  of  my 
imagination  by  the  simple  machinery  of 
ignorance  and  self-complacency.  But 
when  I  consider  my  friend  Brown,  the 
manufacturer,  and  find  that  in  his  opin- 
ion America  is  the  most  magnificent  of  de- 
partment stores  ;  or  Jones,  of  the  militia, 
who  conceives  her  as  a  Lady  Bountiful 
presenting  liberty  and  democracy  to  Asia 
and  Polynesia ;  or  Robinson,  the  ship- 
builder, who  beholds  her,  robed  in  oil- 
skins, glorious  queen  of  the  seas,  I  reflect 
that  perhaps  to  me,  as  well  as  to  them,  a 
little  of  the  truth  has  been  vouchsafed, 
and  I  am  encouraged  to  use  the  Ameri- 
can prerogative  of  looking  with  my  own 
eyes  to  see  what  I  can  see. 

ii. 

The  aims  to  which  we  would  aspire 
for  our  sons  are  various  and  require  a 
various  civilization,  a  manifold  educa- 
tion. It  is  obvious,  however,  that  our 
national  life  is  not  manifold  but  single. 
The  nation  embodies  to  an  astonishing 
degree  the  motto,  E  Pluribus  Unum. 
Our  civilization  is  single,  it  centres  about 
the  conception  of  life  as  a  matter  of  in- 
dustrial energy.  This  conception,  at 
first  hazily  understood  and  imperfectly 
mastered,  has  now  been  firmly  grasped, 
and  is  incorporate  in  our  national  civili- 
zation. Its  final  triumph  is  due  to  the 
generation  which  has  been  educated 
since  the  Civil  War.  Under  that  guid- 
ance material  prosperity  has  dug  the 
main  channel  for  the  torrent  of  our 
activities,  and  the  current  of  our  life 
pours  down,  dragging  even  with  the 
whiff  and  wind  of  its  impetuosity  the 
reluctance  and  sluggishness  of  conserva- 
tism. The  combinations  of  business, 
the  centralization  of  power,  the  growth 
of  cities,  the  facility  of  locomotion,  have 
decreed  uniformity.  Individuality,  the 
creation  of  race  and  place,  is  wrenched 
from  its  home.  The  orange-grower  from 
Florida  keeps  shop  in  Seattle,  the  school- 


ma'am  from  Maine  marries  a  cow- 
puncher.  All  of  us,  under  the  assimilat- 
ing influences  of  common  ends,  assume 
the  composite  type.  The  days  of  diver- 
sity are  numbered.  The  Genius  of  in- 
dustrial civilization  defies  the  old  rules 
by  which  life  passed  from  homogeneity 
to  heterogeneity  :  she  takes  men  from  all 
parts  of  Europe,  —  Latin,  Teuton,  Celt, 
and  Slav,  —  trims,  lops,  and  pinches,  till 
she  can  squeeze  them  into  the  Ameri- 
can mould.  Miss  Wilkins's  New  Eng- 
landers,  Bret  Harte's  miners,  Owen  Wis- 
ter's  ranchmen,  are  passing  away.  The 
variegated  surface  of  the  earth  has  lost  its 
power  over  us.  Mountain,  prairie,  and 
ocean  no  longer  mark  their  sons,  no 
longer  breed  into  them  the  sap  of  pine, 
the  honey  of  clover,  the  savor  of  salt. 
This  moulding  influence  does  its  work 
thoroughly  and  well;  it  acts  like  that 
great  process  of  nature  in  the  insect 
world,  which  M.  Maeterlinck  calls  I' es- 
prit de  la  ruche.  The  typical  American 
becomes  a  power  house  of  force,  of  will, 
of  determination.  He  dissipates  no  en- 
ergy ;  as  a  drill  bites  into  the  rock,  so  he 
bores  into  his  task. 

This  mighty  burst  of  American  in- 
dustry is  as  magnificent  in  its  way  as 
Elizabethan  poetry,  or  Cinquecento 
painting ;  no  wonder  it  excites  admira- 
tion and  enthusiasm.  What  brilliant 
manifestation  of  energy,  of  will,  of  cour- 
age, of  devotion !  Willy  nilly  we  shout 
hurrah.  There  stands  America,  bare- 
armed,  deep-chested,  with  neck  like  a 
tower,  engaged  in  this  superb  struggle 
to  dominate  Nature  and  put  the  elements 
in  bondage  to  man.  It  is  not  strange 
that  this  spectacle  is  the  greatest  of  in- 
fluences, drawing  the  young  like  fishes 
in  a  net.  Involuntarily  all  talents  apply 
themselves  to  material  production.  No 
wonder  that  men  of  science  no  longer 
study  Nature  for  Nature's  sake,  they 
must  perforce  put  her  powers  into  har- 
ness; no  wonder  that  professors  no 
longer  teach  knowledge  for  the  sake  of 
knowledge,  they  must  make  their  stu- 


8 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


dents  efficient  factors  in  the  industrial 
world ;  no  wonder  that  clergymen  no 
longer  preach  repentance  for  the  sake 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  they  must 
turn  churches  into  prosperous  corpora- 
tions, multiplying  communicants,  and  dis- 
tributing Christmas  presents  by  the 
gross.  Industrial  civilization  has  de- 
creed that  statesmanship  shall  consist  of 
schemes  to  make  the  nation  richer,  that 
presidents  shall  be  elected  with  a  view 
to  the  stock  market,  that  literature  shall 
keep  close  to  the  life  of  the  average 
man,  and  that  art  shall  become  national 
by  means  of  a  protective  tariff. 

The  process  of  this  civilization  is  sim- 
ple; the  industrial  habit  of  thought 
moulds  the  opinion  of  the  majority  which 
rolls  along,  abstract  and  impersonal, 
gathering  bulk,  till  its  giant  figure  is 
saluted  as  the  national  conscience.  As 
in  an  ecclesiastical  state  of  society,  de- 
crees of  a  council  become  articles  of 
private  faith,  and  men  die  for  homoiou- 
sian  or  election,  so,  in  America,  the  opin- 
ions of  the  majority  once  pronounced 
become  primary  rules  of  conduct.  Take, 
for  example,  the  central  ethical  doctrine 
of  industrial  thought,  namely,  that  ma- 
terial production  is  the  chief  duty  of 
man.  That  and  other  industrial  dog- 
mas, marshaled  and  systematized,  sup- 
ported by  vigorous  men  whose  interest 
is  identical  with  that  of  the  dogmas,  grow 
and  develop  ;  they  harden  and  petrify  ; 
they  attack  dissent  and  criticism.  This 
is  no  outward  habit,  but  an  inward  plas- 
ticity of  mind;  the  nervous  American 
organism  draws  sunshine  and  health 
from  each  new  decree  of  public  opinion. 
This  appears  in  what  is  called  our  re- 
spect for  law,  —  the  recorded  opinion  of 
the  majority,  —  in  our  submission  to 
fashion,  in  the  individual's  indecision  and 
impassivity  until  the  round-robin  reaches 
him,  in  the  way  that  private  judgment 
waits  upon  the  critics  and  the  press, 
while  these  hurriedly  count  noses. 

Such  a  society,  such  educating  forces, 
produce  men  of  great  vigor,  virility,  and 


capacity,  but  do  not  tend  to  make  man- 
ners and  behavior  gracious  and  admir- 
able, nor  actions  just  and  dutiful,  nor  ap- 
prehensions which  see  life  in  its  reality. 

ill. 

If  we  pursue  our  examination  of  the 
educational  tendencies  of  our  industrial 
civilization,  we  perceive  not  only  that 
they  are  single  while  the  ends  which  we 
seek  are  multiple,  but  also  that  indus- 
trial civilization,  so  far  as  it  is  not  with 
us,  is  against  us.  For,  according  to  the 
measure  in  which  industrial  interests  ab- 
sorb the  vital  forces  of  the  nation,  other 
interests  of  necessity  are  neglected.  This 
neglect  betrays  itself  in  feebleness,  in 
monotony,  in  lack  of  individuality.  Let 
us  consider  matters  which  concern  the 
emotions,  religion  or  poetry ;  matters 
which  in  order  to  attain  the  highest  ex- 
cellence require  passion.  Now,  passion  is 
only  possible  when  vital  energy  is  thrown 
into  emotion,  and  as  we  have  other  uses 
for  our  vital  energy,  we  find  ourselves 
face  to  face  with  a  dilemma ;  either  to 
make  up  our  minds  to  let  our  religion 
and  our  poetry  —  and  all  our  emotional 
life  —  be  without  passion,  or  else  to  use 
a  makeshift  in  its  stead.  What  course 
have  we  chosen  ?  Look  at  our  religion, 
read  our  poetry ;  witness  our  national  joy, 
expressed  in  papier-mache  arches  and 
Dewey  celebrations,  our  national  grief 
vented  in  proclamations  and  exaggera- 
tion. We  have  not  boldness  enough  to 
fling  overboard  our  inherited  respect  for 
passion,  and  to  proclaim  it  unnecessary 
in  religion  and  poetry,  in  grief  and  joy ; 
and  so  we  cast  about  for  a  makeshift, 
and  adopt  a  conventional  sentimentality, 
which  apes  the  expressions  of  passion,  — 
as  in  tableaux  an  actor  poses  for  Laocoon, 
—  and  combines  a  sincere  desire  to  ape 
accurately  with  an  honest  enjoyment  in 
the  occupation.  Our  conventional  sen- 
timentality is  the  consequence  of  econo- 
my of  vital  energy  in  our  emotional  life 
in  order  that  we  may  concentrate  all  our 
powers  in  our  industrial  life. 


Certain  Aspects  of  'America. 


Or  let  us  look  at  our  spiritual  life,  to 
see  how  that  has  been  affected  by  this 
diversion  of  vital  energy.  Spiritual 
sturdiness  shows  itself  in  a  close  union 
between  spiritual  life  and  the  ordinary 
business  of  living,  while  spiritual  feeble- 
ness shows  itself  in  the  separation  of 
spiritual  life  from  the  ordinary  business 
of  living.  We  get  an  inkling  of  the 
closeness  of  that  union  in  this  country 
by  considering,  for  instance,  our  concep- 
tion of  a  nation.  In  our  hearts  we  be- 
lieve that  a  nation  consists  of  a  multi- 
tude of  men,  joined  in  a  corporate  bond 
for  the  increase  of  material  well-being, 
for  the  multiplication  of  luxury,  for  the 
free  play  of  energy,  at  the  expense,  if 
need  be,  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  In 
countries  which  spare  enough  vital  en- 
ergy from  industrial  life  to  vivify  spirit- 
ual life,  other  conceptions  prevail.  Maz- 
zini  defined  a  nation  as  a  people  united 
in  a  common  duty  toward  the  world ;  he 
even  asserted  that  a  nation  has  a  right 
to  exist  only  because  it  helps  men  to 
work  together  for  the  good  of  humanity. 
Our  conception  shows  how  our  spiritual 
life  holds  itself  aloof  from  this  worka- 
day world,  and  denies  all  concern  with 
so  terrestrial  a  thing  as  a  nation.  One 
cause  of  this  spiritual  feebleness  is  our 
irregularly  developed  morality,  for  spir- 
itual life  thrives  on  a  complete  and  cu- 
rious morality  which  essays  all  tasks, 
which  claims  jurisdiction  over  all  things  ; 
but  our  morality,  shaped  and  moulded 
for  industrial  purposes,  is  uneven  and 
.*  lopsided,  and,  as  industrial  civilization 
has  but  a  limited  use  for  morality,  as- 
serts but  a  limited  jurisdiction.  It  has 
certain  great  qualities,  for  industrial  civ- 
ilization exacts  severe,  if  limited,  ser- 
vice from  it ;  it  has  resolution,  perse- 
verance, courage.  Subject  our  morality 
to  difficulty  or  danger,  and  it  comes  out 
triumphant ;  but  seek  of  it  service,  such 
as  some  form  of  self-abnegation,  some 
devotion  to  idealism,  which  it  does  not 
understand,  and  it  fails.  Cribbed  and 
confined  by  a  narrow  morality,  our  spir- 


itual life  sits  like  an  absentee  landlord, 
far  from  the  turmoil  and  sweat  of  the 
day's  work,  enjoying  the  pleasures  of 
rigid  respectability. 

Another  proof  of  the  lack  of  vitality 
in  the  parts  and  organs  remote  from  the 
national  heart  is  our  formlessness.  An 
industrial  society  is  loath  to  spare  the 
efforts  necessary  to  produce  form.  The 
nice  excellences  which  constitute  form 
require  an  immense  amount  of  work. 
The  nearer  the  approach  to  perfection, 
the  more  intense  is  the  labor,  the  less 
obvious  the  result,  and  to  us  who  enjoy 
obvious  results,  who  delight  in  the  appli- 
cation of  power  to  obvious  physical  pur- 
poses, the  greater  seems  the  waste  of 
effort.  The  struggles  of  the  artist  to 
bridge  the  gap  between  his  work  and  his 
idea  look  like  fantastic  writhings.  We 
stare  in  troubled  amazement  at  the  ideal- 
ist. 

"  Alas,  how  is 't  with  you  ? 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And    with    th'    incorporal    air    do   hold    dis- 
course ?  " 

Read  poetry,  as  the  material  in  which 
form  is  readily  perceived  ;  if  we  pass 
from  the  verse  of  Stephen  Phillips,  of 
Rostand,  or  of  Carducci,  to  that  of  some 
American  poet  of  to-day,  we  experience 
a  sensation  of  tepidity  and  lassitude. 
Or,  consider  the  formlessness  of  our 
manners,  which  share  the  general  debil- 
ity of  non-industrial  life.  Our  moral- 
ity is  too  cramped  to  refine  them,  our 
sense  of  art  too  rough  to  polish  them,  our 
emotional  life  too  feeble  to  endow  them 
with  grace.  The  cause  is  not  any  native 
deficiency.  "  We  ought,"  as  Lowell  said 
fifty  years  ago,  "to  have  produced  the 
finest  race  of  gentlemen  in  the  world," 
nor  is  it  lack  of  that  cultivation  which 
comes  from  books,  but  of  that  education 
which  comes  from  looking  on  life  as  a 
whole,  which  a  man  acquires  by  regard- 
ing himself,  not  as  an  implement  or  tool 
to  achieve  this  or  that  particular  thing, 
but  as  a  human  being  facing  a  threefold 
task,  physical,  intellectual,  and  spiritual. 


10 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


IV. 


The  unequal  development  in  this  rapid 
evolution  of  the  industrial  type  appears 
also  in  the  contrast  between  different 
sets  of  our  ideas.  Those  ideas  which  are 
used  by  industrial  civilization  are  clear, 
definite,  and  exact ;  they  show  rigorous 
training  and  education,  whereas  ideas 
which  have  no  industrial  function  to  per- 
form, being  commonly  out  of  work,  de- 
generate into  slatterns.  Industrial  civi- 
lization is  like  a  schoolmaster  with  a  hob- 
by :  it  throws  its  pedagogical  energies 
into  the  instruction  which  it  approves, 
and  slurs  the  rest;  in  one  part  of  the 
affairs  of  life,  the  reason,  the  under- 
standing, the  intelligence  are  kept  on  the 
alert,  in  another  part  no  faculty  except  the 
memory  is  used.  The  result  is  frequent 
discrepancy  between  ideas  expressed  in 
action  and  ideas  expressed  in  language. 

This  discrepancy  appears  in  our  po- 
litical life.  We  have  all  learned  by 
heart  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
snatches  from  old  speeches,  —  "  give  me 
liberty,  or  give  me  death ;  "  tags  from  the 
Latin 

"  Victrix  causa  diis  placuit  sed  victa  Catoni ;  " 

and  .  maxims  concerning  inalienable 
rights,  natural  justice,  God's  will,  — 
maxims  whose  use  is  confined  to  speech, 
—  come  from  the  memory  trippingly  to 
the  tongue.  Put  us  to  action,  make  us 
do  some  political  act,  such  as  to  adjust 
our  relations  with  Cuba,  and  we  uncover 
another  set  of  maxims,  those  whose 
use  is  confined  to  action :  "  the  indus- 
trially fit  ought  to  survive,"  "  the  elect 
of  God  are  revealed  by  economic  supe- 
riority," "  Success  is  justified  of  her  chil- 
dren," "  the  commandments  of  the  ma- 
jority are  pure  and  holy."  If  we  are 
taxed  with  the  discrepancy,  we  stare, 
and  repeat  the  contrasted  formulae,  one 
set  in  words,  the  other  in  actions  ;  we  are 
conscious  of  no  inconsistency,  we  will 
give  up  neither.  This  is  not  a  case  of 
hypocrisy.  We  believe  what  we  say; 


for  belief  with  us  is  not  necessarily  a 
state  of  mind  which  compels  action  to 
accord  with  it,  but  often  an  heirloom 
to  be  treated  with  respect.  Look  at  our 
Christianity:  we  honor  riches,  oppress 
our  neighbors,  keep  a  pecuniary  account 
with  righteousness,  nor  could  even  St. 
Paul  persuade  us  to  be  crucified,  and 
yet  we  honestly  insist  upon  calling  our- 
selves Christians. 

It  is  the  same  with  our  social  ideas. 
The  American  believes  that  all  men  are 
born  free  and  equal,  that  they  possess 
an  inalienable  right  to  pursue  their  own 
happiness,  but  if  one  questions  his  neigh- 
bor in  the  smoking-car  on  the  way  to 
Chicago  as  to  his  views  on  Socialism,  he 
will  reply,  "  Socialism,  sir,  is  the  curse 
of  this  country.  Czolgosz  and  Guiteau 
are  enough  for  me ;  the  Socialists  must 
be  suppressed.  If  they  ever  set  up  an- 
archy in  these  United  States,  I  will  em- 
igrate, I'll  go  to  Europe."  To  which 
you  reply,  "  Certainly ;  but  may  there 
not  be  something  in  their  notions,  that 
the  accident  of  birth  is  unjust,  that  op- 
portunities should  be  equal,  that  every 
man  should  receive  pay  according  to  his 
labor  ?  "  Then  he  will  answer,  "  In  this 
country,  sir,  all  men  are  equal ;  but  if 
you  think  that  my  partner  and  me  are 
to  be  treated  equal  to  Herr  Most  or  the 
late  lamented  Altgeld,  or  some  of  those 
Anarchists,  I  say  no,  not  if  I  know  it." 

Take  our  practice  in  ethics.  We  be- 
lieve in  "  millions  for  defense,  but  not  one 
cent  for  tribute  ;  "  nevertheless,  as  direc- 
tors or  stockholders  of  a  corporation,  we 
buy  immunity  from  hostile  legislation. 
We  believe  in  the  brotherhood  of  man, 
but  we  use  any  means  to  save  our  cor- 
porate purse  from  removing  stoves  from 
our  cars,  from  putting  electric  power  to 
use  in  our  tunnels,  from  providing  seats 
for  our  shopgirls.  Even  in  science  it  is 
not  beyond  the  mental  elasticity  of  the 
American  to  harbor  in  one  compartment 
of  his  mind  the  conclusions  of  biological 
evolution,  and  in  another  the  texts  of  the 
Old  Testament. 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


11 


This  capacity  for  self-deception  ex- 
tends far  and  wide,  it  honeycombs  our 
thoughts  and  theories.  We  call  our  lack 
of  manners  liberty,  our  lack  of  distinc- 
tion fraternity,  our  formless  homogeneity 
equality.  We  think  that  industrial  so- 
ciety with  its  carri&re  ouverte  aux  tal- 
ents is  democracy  ;  in  fact,  it  bears  the 
relation  to  democracy  which  the  Napo- 
leonic empire  bore  to  the  ideals  of  the 
French  Revolution.  We  are  none  the 
less  honest,  we  are  a  people  with  a  na- 
tive love  of  phrases.  Phraseology  is  that 
form  of  art  which  we  understand  the 
best.  We  cling  to  a  phrase  made  by  one 
of  our  patriot  fathers,  —  a  phrase  of  the 
best  period,  —  and  no  more  dream  of 
parting  with  it  because  it  does  not  repre- 
sent any  living  idea,  than  a  man  would 
part  with  a  Gainsborough  portrait  of  his 
great-great-grandfather.  It  is  like  an 
ancestral  chair  in  the  parlor,  not  to  be 
sat  upon.  We  are  justly  proud  of  our 
heroic  maxims  ;  we  shall  teach  them  to 
negroes,  Filipinos,  Cubans,  perhaps  to  the 
Chinese  ;  we  shall  contribute  them  as  our 
fine  art  to  the  world.  Who  can  blame 
us  ?  We  have  had  our  Revolution,  our 
struggle  with  slavery ;  we  have  had  Wash- 
ington and  Lincoln  ;  we  have  had  noble 
enthusiasms  which  have  bequeathed  to 
us  a  phraseology :  and  if  we  make  parade 
of  it,  if  we  sentimentally  cling  to  it,  who 
shall  find  fault  ? 

v. 

One  has  moods,  and  as  they  shift,  the 
image  of  America  shifts  too.  At  one 
time  it  appears,  like  Frankenstein's  mon- 
ster, to  move  its  great  joints  and  irresist- 
ible muscles  under  the  influence  of  am- 
bitions and  purposes  that  seem  incompre- 
hensible, as  Hamlet's  words  about  man 
drift  through  one's  mind.  At  another 
time  it  appears  young,  brilliant,  powerful, 
flushed  with  hope,  full  of  great  projects, 
flinging  all  its  abounding  energy  into  its 
tasks,  which  to-day  are  physical,  but  to- 
morrow shall  be  intellectual,  and  there- 
after spiritual.  Now  it  looks  the  dan- 
ger, and  now  the  liberator,  of  the  world. 


But  whichever  view  be  correct,  whether 
America  shall  fulfill  our  hopes  or  our 
fears,  we  are  bound  to  do  thbse  humble 
and  commonplace  acts  which  may  help 
our  sons  to  meet  the  difficulties  that  lie  be- 
tween them  and  our  aspirations  for  them. 

We  see  that  absorption  of  our  ener- 
gies in  material  labor  leaves  great  do- 
mains of  human  interest  uncared  for; 
we  find  that  our  emotional  life  is  thin, 
that  our  sentimentality  is  ubiquitous ;  we 
find  that  our  intelligence,  when  not  de- 
voted to  business,  is  slovenly  and  trips  us 
into  self-deceit.  The  dangers  are  plain  ; 
how  can  we  help  ourselves  ?  Surely  with 
such  an  inexhaustible  reservoir  of  will 
and  energy,  America  might  spare  a  little 
to  free  her  from  sentimentality  and  save 
her  from  self-deceit. 

We  accept  sentimentality,  because  we 
do  not  stop  to  consider  whether  our  emo- 
tional life  is  worth  an  infusion  of  blood 
and  vigor,  rather  than  that  we  have  de- 
liberately decided  that  it  is  not.  We 
neglect  religion,  because  we  cannot  spare 
time  to  think  what  religion  means,  rather 
than  that  we  judge  it  only  worthy  con- 
ventionality and  lip  service.  We  think 
poetry  effeminate,  because  we  do  not  read 
it,  rather  than  that  we  believe  its  effect 
to  be  injurious.  We  have  been  swept 
off  our  feet  by  the  brilliant  success  of 
our  industrial  civilization,  and,  blinded 
by  vanity,  we  enumerate  the  list  of  our 
exports,  we  measure  the  swelling  tide  of 
our  material  prosperity,  but  we  do  not 
stop  even  to  repeat  to  ourselves  the  names 
of  other  things.  If  we  were  to  stop,  and 
reckon  the  values  of  idealism,  of  religion, 
of  literature,  if  we  were  to  weigh  them  in 
the  balance  against  comfort,  luxury,  ease, 
we  should  begin  to  deliberate,  and  after 
deliberation  some  of  us  would  be  convert- 
ed, for  the  difficulty  confronting  the  typ- 
ical American  is  not  love  of  material 
things,  but  pride  of  power.  He  deems 
that  will,  force,  energy,  resolution,  perse- 
verance, in  the  nature  of  things  must  be 
put  to  material  ends,  and  that  whatever 
may  be  the  qualities  and  capacities  put 


12 


Certain  Aspects  of  America. 


to  use  in  science,  philosophy,  literature, 
religion,  they  are  not  those.  Once  per- 
suade him  that  will,  energy,  and  their  fel- 
low virtues  will  find  full  scope  in  those 
seemingly  effeminate  matters,  and  he  will 
give  them  a  share,  if  not  a  fair  share,  of 
his  attention  ;  for  the  American  is  little, 
if  at  all,  more  devoted  to  luxury,  ease, 
and  comfort  than  other  men.  But  how 
is  he  to  be  buttonholed,  and  held  long 
enough  for  arguments  to  be  slipped  into 
his  ear?  There  is  at  hand  the  old,  old 
helper, "  the  Cherub  Contemplation."  By 
its  help  man  —  for  it  takes  him  upon  an 
eminence  —  sees  all  the  great  panorama 
of  life  at  once,  and  discovers  that  it  is  a 
whole.  Since  the  first  conception  of  mo- 
notheism there  has  been  no  spiritual  idea 
equal  to  that  of  the  unity  of  life,  for  it  as- 
serts that  spiritual  things  and  material 
things  are  one  and  indivisible.  Contem- 
plation also  teaches  that  action  is  not  a 
substitute  for  virtue,  that  will,  resolution, 
and  energy  take  rank  according  to  their 
aims  ;  it  leads  man  little  by  little  to  fix 
his  mind  upon  the  notion  that  he  ought 
to  have  a  philosophy  of  life,  and  to  live 
not  unmindful  of  that  philosophy,  for  a 
philosophy  however  imperfect  is  not  like- 
ly to  teach  him  that  happiness  and  the 
meaning  of  life  are  to  be  found  only  in 
industrial  matters,  and  if  it  should,  well 
and  good,  for  the  aim  of  Contemplation 
is  not  to  teach  a  man  this  belief  or  that, 
but  to  rescue  him  from  the  clutch  of 
blind  social  forces,  and  let  him  choose 
his  own  path  in  life. 

As  our  sentimentality  is  a  sign  that  we 
have  neglected  great  interests  connected 
with  the  emotions,  so  our  self-deceit  is  a 
sign  that  we  have  neglected  great  inter- 
ests connected  with  the  intellect.  If  our 
minds  were  used  to  study  not  merely  ma- 
terial things,  but  also  all  other  ideas  that 
surround  and  vivify  life,  we  should  not 
be  able  to  lead  this  amphibious  existence 
of  self-deceit,  —  half  in  words  and  half 
in  deeds.  As  Contemplation  is  our  help 
to  see  life  as  a  whole,  and  our  guide  to- 


ward ripeness  and  completeness,  so  we 
may  discover  a  help  against  self-deceit  in 
the  observance  of  Discipline.  Discipline 
is  the  constant  endeavor  to  understand, 
the  continual  grapple  with  all  ideas,  the 
study  of  unfamiliar  things,  the  search  for 
unity  and  truth ;  it  is  the  spirit  which 
calls  nothing  common,  which  compels  that 
deep  respect  for  this  seemingly  infinite 
universe  which  the  Bible  calls  the  fear 
of  the  Lord.  Discipline  turns  to  account 
all  labor,  all  experience,  all  pain ;  it  is 
the  path  up  the  mountain  of  purgatory 
from  the  top  of  which  Contemplation 
shows  man  life  as  a  whole.  On  the  in- 
tellectual side  Discipline  teaches  us  to 
keep  distinct  and  separate  the  permanent 
and  the  transitory  ;  on  the  moral  side  Dis- 
cipline teaches  us  that  right  and  wrong 
are  not  matters  of  sentimentality,  that 
will  and  energy  are  untrustworthy  guides. 
Discipline  lies  less  in  wooing  success  than 
in  marriage  to  unsuccessful  causes,  un- 
popular aims,  unflattering  ends.  Disci- 
pline is  devotion  to  form  ;  it  teaches  that 
everything  from  clay  to  the  thought  of 
man  is  capable  of  perfect  form,  and  that 
the  highest  purpose  of  labor  is  to  approach 
that  form.  Discipline  will  not  let  us  nar- 
row life  to  one  or  two  ideas  ;  it  will  not  let 
us  deceive  ourselves,  or  put  on  the  sem- 
blance of  joy  or  grief  like  a  Sunday  coat. 

"  For  the  holy  Spirit  of  Discipline  will  flee  de- 
ceit, 

And  remove  from  thoughts  that  are  without 
understanding, 

And  will  not  abide  when  unrighteousness  com- 
eth  in." 

Discipline  and  Contemplation  bring 
life  to  that  ripeness  which  is  the  founda- 
tion of  happiness,  of  righteousness,  of 
great  achievement ;  they  are  the  means 
by  which,  while  we  wait  for  the  inspira- 
tion and  leadership  of  great  men,  we  may 
hope  to  piece  out  the  brilliant  but  imper- 
fect education  provided  by  our  industrial 
civilization,  and  help  our  sons  to  become, 
in  Lowell's  proud  words,  "  the  finest  race 
of  gentlemen  in  the  world." 

H.  D.  Sedgwick,  Jr. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Seeches. 


13 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES. 


PROLOGUE   OF   LETTERS. 


LETTER  I. 


IN  A  BEECH  FOREST,  April  7. 

DEAR  PESSIMIST,  —  I  have  read 
your  book  through  three  times ;  my  copy 
has  grown  very  shabby ;  the  covers  are 
stained,  —  I  dropped  it  in  a  brook ;  the 
margins  are  covered  with  penciled  notes. 
In  a  word,  I  love  ttye  book.  Does  this 
justify  my  writing  to  you,  an  absolute 
stranger  ?  By  no  means,  I  should  say ; 
and  yet,  safe  among  my  beeches,  I  am 
not  afraid  of  doing  so.  I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  nor  you  who  I  may  be,  and 
if  you  should  choose  to  ignore  my  let- 
ter, that  is  an  easy  way  of  making  an 
end  of  it.  The  direct  reason  for  my 
writing  is  this :  — 

The  little  pointed  shadows  of  the  new 
beech  leaves,  dancing  over  the  ground, 
have  reminded  me  of  your  shadow  the- 
ory, and  I  have  been  wondering  whether 
you  really  believe  in  that  theory,  or 
whether  it  is  merely  a  poetic  idea  be- 
longing to  your  pose  as  "The  Pessi- 
mist. "  Do  you  really  think  that  no  life 
can  be  judged  alone,  "without  consid- 
^  eration  of  the  shadows  of  other  lives 
that  overlap  it  "  ? 

This  theory,  sincerely  believed  in, 
would  lead  to  a  very  comfortable  phi- 
losophy of  irresponsibility,  and  the  more 
I  study  the  Breviary,  the  more  I  won- 
der whether  it  is  sincere,  or  merely  an 
artistic  point  of  view  assumed  for  the 
occasion.  Your  chapter  on  Hamlet  is 
delicious;  Hamlet  as  a  neurasthenic, 
treated  in  a  way  that  tempts  me  strong- 
ly to  the  belief  that  you  are  a  physi- 
cian. I  wonder!  Is  n't  it  Balzac  who 
says,  "  Les  drames  de  la  vie  ne  sont  pas 
dans  les  circonstances,  —  ils  sont  dans 
le  co3ur  "  ? 

I  have  been  sitting  here,  like  Mr. 
Leo  Hunter's  expiring  frog,  "on  a 


log, "  trying  to  think  over  this  theory  in 
connection  with  yours  of  the  shadows. 
I  say  trying  to  think,  because,  what- 
ever other  women  may  find  their  brains 
capable  of,  I  much  doubt  whether  my 
own  ever  gets  further  than  musing  — 
or  even  dreaming. 

You  say  that  if  Hamlet  had  not  been 
a  nervous  invalid,  the  trifling  shock  of 
his  father's  murder  and  his  mother's 
marriage  would  not  have  been  fatal  to 
him,  — such  events  being  quite  every- 
day in  his  age  and  country.  Then  you 
apply  your  shadow  theory  to  him,  the 
shadows,  on  his  poor  dazed  brain,  of  his 
mother,  of  Ophelia,  etc.,  — and  go  off 
into  incomprehensibilities  that  make  my 
poor  dazed  brain  whirl. 

I  have  read  and  re-read  the  abstruser 
parts  of  the  book,  trying  to  understand 
with  I  fear  little  success,  but  against 
one  thing  I  protest.  You  speak  of  na- 
ture, and  yet  you  avow  that  your  studies 
are  made  in  a  laboratory !  Wise  as  you 
are  and  ignorant  though  I  am,  I  am 
nearer  nature  here  in  my  forest  than 
you  in  your  laboratory.  The  things  that 
fall  away  from  one,  leaving  one  almost 
a  child,  when  one  is  alone  with  trees! 

The  tone  of  your  book  is  a  curious 
one.  It  is  not  despairing,  it  is  intel- 
lectual, it  is  charming,  and  yet  —  what 
is  the  use  of  being  wise  if  it  brings  no 
more  than  it  has  brought  you ! 

Another  thing.  Why  do  you  say 
that  you  do  not  know  German  ?  You 
do,  for  your  translations  from  poor 
Nietzsche  are  original.  Chapter  5,  para- 
graph 2 :  "  Great  people  have  in  their 
very  greatness  great  virtues,  and  do  not 
need  the  small  goodnesses  of  the  small- 
brained."  Let  it  go  at  that.  You  are 
a  great  man,  and  do  not  need  the  bour- 
geois virtue  of  truth-telling.  T^he  last 
remark  is  rather  impertinent,  but  it 


14 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


is  one  of  those  spring  days  when  one 
grows  expansive  and  daring,  and,  after 
all,  the  luxury  of  saying  what  one  likes 
is  rare. 

So,  good-by,  Pessimist.  Greetings 
from  my  beech  forest  and  from  myself. 
The  small  brook,  much  interested  in  the 
greenness  of  the  valley,  is  rushing  down 
over  the  stones  with  the  noisy  haste  of 
things  youthful,  and  I  see  one  cowslip  in 
a  hollow.  I  wonder  if  even  Pessimists 
love  Spring! 

And  if  you  will  be  indulgent  toward 
this  feminine  curiosity  about  your  book, 
which  has  charmed  a  woman  not  easily 
charmed,  let  me  know  just  this  much: 
whether  the  Breviary  expresses  your 
real  convictions,  or  is  written  as  it  were 
by  a  fictitious  character. 

If  you  will  tell  me  this  I  shall  be 
very  grateful  to  you,  and  in  any  case 
let  me  thank  you  for  having  charmed 
away  for  me  a  great  many  hours.  Ad- 
dress : 

MADAME  ANNETTE  BONNET, 

4  bis,  rue  Tambour,  Paris. 
Madame  Bonnet  being  an  old  servant, 
who  will  forward  your  note,  if  you  are 
kind  enough  to  write  one,  to  me  here  in 
my  forest. 

LETTER  II. 

In  A  LABORATORY,  May  7. 

To  MY  UNKNOWN  CRITIC,  —  Should 
I  explain,  excuse,  give  a  thousand  and 
one  reasons  why  four  weeks  have  been 
allowed  to  pass  without  my  acknowledg- 
ing the  kindly  meant  letter  of  a  gra- 
cious critic?  A  "gentle"  one,  too,  as 
the  polite  men  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
used  to  say. 

But  why  should  I  answer  ?  And  why 
do  I? 

From  a  beech  forest  to  a  laboratory 
is  a  wide  leap,  a  rude  transition,  one, 
my  critic,  that,  if  you  could  make  it, 
would  cause  you  to  rub  your  eyes,  and 
stare,  and  blink  (forgive  the  unroman- 
tic  picture  that  I  draw), and  cry,  "Wait 
till  I  collect  my  senses." 


It  is  no  wonder  that  you  would  be 
dizzy,  for  a  moment  at  least,  and  think 
that  some  rude  hand  had  roughly  called 
you  back  from  a  land  of  dreams,  beau- 
tiful dreams,  and  dragged  you  into  a 
dazzling  light  of  stern,  hard,  unroman- 
tic  facts.  It  is  all  very  well  to  lie  in 
your  beautiful  forest,  and  watch  the 
lights  and  shadows  play,  and  dream  that 
you  know  the  truth. 

Truth  is  not  found  in  dreams,  dear 
lady.  It  is  found,  if  ever,  in  laborious 
observation  of  facts,  in  patient,  drudg- 
ing study  of  nature.  What  do  you 
know  of  truth?  Do  you  not  see  that 
it  is  absurd,  your  calling  me  to  account 
for  my  book  ?  You  are  idling  with  the 
emotions  that  nature  stirs  within  you, 
and  I  have  studied  that  nature  for 
years.  Not  the  nature  only  of  trees  and 
flowers,  but  the  nature  that  is  every- 
thing, —  the  spring  of  the  universe. 
You  watch  a  cowslip  and  fancy  yourself 
close  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  while 
we  scientists  crush  every  emotion  that 
the  real  naked  facts  of  nature  may  not 
be  obscured.  There  is  no  passion  in 
the  soul  of  the  scientist. 

But  I  am  rude,  and  after  all  it  is 
only  a  difference  in  the  point  of  view. 
You  in  your  beech  forest  watch  the  ef- 
fect of  nature  on  the  human  heart,  — 
not  on  the  soul,  as  you  imagine !  We 
in  our  laboratories  see  the  warring  and 
antagonizing  force  of  nature ;  the  world 
as  it  is,  not  as  man  loves  to  picture  it 
to  himself.  Why,  then,  dreamer,  do  you 
ask  me  whether  I  really  believe  in  my 
own  theories?  Pardon  me  that  I  for- 
got myself  for  the  moment,  and  be- 
came too  earnest,  perhaps  impatient, 
but  —  you  "wonder  whether  I  am  real- 
ly in  earnest !  " 

If  there  is  one  exasperating  thing  in 
the  world  to  a  man  who  has  spent  his 
best  years  looking  down,  deep  down, 
into  the  recesses  of  life,  seen  things  as 
they  are,  and  detected  their  false  color- 
ing as  well  as  the  deceit  practiced  on 
the  senses  of  this  jabbering,  stupid  flock 
of  sheep  called  mankind,  —  it  is  to  be 


OUT  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


15 


told  that  he  does  not  really  believe  in 
what  he  has  learned  by  years  of  hard 
work. 

Why  should  I  pretend  to  believe 
something  which  I  do  not  ?  Is  it  to  en- 
joy the  fancies  excited  by  —  But  I 
forget.  You  live  in  a  beech  forest. 

After  all,  everything  is  only  a  ques- 
tion of  the  vibration  of  one's  cerebral 
molecules.  They  vibrate  transversely 
and  one  is  displeased,  —  yours  will  vi- 
brate transversely,  no  doubt,  in  reading 
this  answer  to  your  charming  letter; 
and  though  I  am  bearish,  I  will  admit 
that  mine  vibrated  perpendicularly  on 
reading  your  kind  words  of  apprecia- 
tion. 

About  my  theories,  dear  lady,  the 
little  book  you  have  read  is  only  the 
forerunner  of  a  much  more  comprehen- 
sive, and  much  duller,  volume  which  is 
to  come  out  soon ;  may  I  refer  you  to 
that?  I  will  only  say  now,  in  two 
words,  that  I  do  believe'  that  everything 
in  the  world  is  relative,  and  that  every 
life  is  a  resultant,  as  physicists  say,  of 
all  the  forces  of  its  environment.  No 
life  could  be  what  it  is  if  isolated  from 
all  others,  —  surely  even  a  dreamer  in 
a  forest  must  know  that  ? 

Only  a  small  fraction  of  the  know- 
ledge of  any  human  being  can  be  cred- 
ited to  himself.  Ninety-nine  per  cent 
is  the  result  of  the  accumulated  know- 
ledge of  the  generations  which  have  pre- 
N  ceded  him,  and  of  his  contemporaries. 
So  his  personality  is  in  part  the  inher- 
ited characteristics  of  his  ancestors,  in 
part  the  traits  engrafted  upon  the  soil 
by  suggestions  (subtle  and  unconscious 
often)  from  the  lives  about  him.  Upon 
him  is  impressed  the  composite  individ- 
uality of  many  lives. 

But  I  am  talking  too  much,  and  I 
doubt  not  you  will  think  me  garrulous, 
as  well  as  unappreciative !  I  admit  the 
lie  about  the  German,  the  reason  being 
that  my  incognito  must  be  kept,  on  ac- 
count of  the  new  book.  As  a  rule,  what 
you  call  the  "bourgeois  virtue "  of 
truth- telling  is  mine.  Forgive  my 


roughness.  Perhaps  to-morrow  —  who 
knows  ?  —  might  find  me  in  a  milder 
mood,  when  I  would  tear  up  this  un- 
grateful letter.  But  then,  would  I 
write  another? 

Who  are  you  ?  I  wonder  what  you 
are  like,  whether —  But  it  doesn't 
matter. 

LETTER  III. 

May  8. 

To  THE  FOREST  DREAMER,  —  Since 
writing  you  I  have  re-read  your  letter, 
and  I  am  struck  with  two  things. 

The  first,  that  I  should  have  written 
as  I  did  to  an  utter  stranger;  that  to 
this  stranger,  who  carefully  conceals 
every  trace  of  her  identity,  I,  of  all 
men,  should  have  orated  and  scolded 
through  ten  pages  or  more ! 

The  second  point  that  astonishes  me 
is  that  this  unknown  has  told  me  abso- 
lutely nothing  of  herself  beyond  the  fact 
that  she  once  sat  on  a  log  like  an  ex- 
piring frog,  and  that  she  wrote  from  a 
beech  forest. 

Do  you  take  my  amazement  amiss  ? 
If  so,  I  must  in  defense  offer  half  a 
hundred  or  more  of  letters  —  all  un- 
answered —  sent  me  by  as  many  daugh- 
ters of  Eve,  of  many  nations,  for  you 
do  not  appear  to  know  that  the  Breviary 
has  been  translated  into  both  French 
and  German. 

Some  of  these  dear  creatures  have 
sent  me  pages  of  heart-history,  and  one 
or  two  their  photographs.  It  is  an 
irony  of  fate  that  you,  the  one  whose 
letter  irritated  or  charmed  me  into  a 
reply,  should  be  she  who  tells  me  no- 
thing of  herself !  May  I  not  know 
something?  Your  incog,  is  at  least  as 
safe  as  mine.  Even  from  the  shad- 
owy indication  I  can  glean  from  your 
writing,  your  mode  of  expression,  etc., 
I  think  I  have  made  a  picture  from 
them  not  wholly  unlike  the  original: 
you  are  not,  I  am  sure,  more  than 
twenty  -  seven,  you  are  married,  you 
are  —  But  —  from  the  security  of 
your  forest,  will  you  not  tell  me  a  lit- 
tle of  yourself  ? 


16 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


LETTER  IV. 


IN  THE  BEECHWOOD,  May  28. 
To  the  laboratory  from  the  beech- 
wood,  all  hail !  And  you  should  see  the 
grace  with  which  every  bough  sways 
downward,  while  the  glossy  leaves  quiv- 
er with  pleasure,  and  the  shadows  — 
my  shadows  —  chase  each  other  across 
the  moss,  and  the  cuckoo  calls. 

So  I  am  a  dreamer  ?  A  dreamer  in  a 
forest !  Since  writing  to  you,  O  Pes- 
simist, this  dreamer  has  been  far  from 
her  dear  trees.  She  has  been  at  a 
court,  she  has  walked  a  quadrille  with  a 
King  and  supped  with  an  Emperor. 

She  has  worn  satin  gowns  and  jewels 
that  contrasted  oddly  with  her  wind- 
browned  face ;  she  has  flirted  lazily  with 
tight-waisted  youths  in  uniform;  she 
has  learned  something  of  a  certain  great 
Power's  China  Policy  that  President 
McKinley  would  love  to  know,  —  and 
she  has  been  bored  to  death,  —  poor 
dreamer ! 

Last  night,  near  to-day,  after  a  long 
journey  and  a  two  hours'  drive  through 
a  silvery  world,  she  reached  the  old 
house  among  the  trees  that  she  loves ; 
and  now  here  she  is  again,  high  on  the 
hill  in  the  mottled  shadows  at  which 
you  laugh.  The  lilies  of  the  valley 
have  come,  and  the  brook  is  shrinking 
in  the  heat. 

Just  as  she  reached  this  corner  of  the 
world  where  she  idles  away  so  much 
time,  a  cuckoo  called  to  her,  —  the 
first,  mind  you,  that  she  had  heard  this 
year! 

Instead  of  turning  money  in  her 
pocket,  she  paused,  poor  dreamer,  to  find 
a  happiness  in  her  heart  to  turn !  The 
servant's  explanation  would  be  incom- 
prehensible to  you,  if  quoted,  but  what 
he  brought  were  your  two  letters,  ar- 
rived during  the  tarrying  at  courts,  and 
forgotten  in  the  hurry  of  arrival. 

Thank  you.  Thank  you  for  telling 
me  that  you  really  do  believe  in  your 
book.  Do  you  know,  Pessimist,  that 


in  spite  of  the  tone  of  the  book,  your 
theories  are  merciful  ?  If  every  life  is 
the  result  of  its  environments,  and  every 
character  the  result  of  heredity  and  sur- 
roundings, then  people  should  judge 
each  other  more  tenderly.  Without 
knowing  it,  are  you  one  of  those  who 
have  pessimism  in  their  mouths,  opti- 
mism in  their  hearts? 

Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  a  mere 
dreamer  in  a  beech  forest  (do  you  par- 
ticularly despise  beeches  ?),  for  daring 
to  suggest  thus  a  sort  of  unconscious  in- 
sincerity in  what  you  profess  to  be- 
lieve. Remember,  opinions  are  merely 
points  of  view,  and  what  I  think  comes 
to  me  partly  from  my  grandfather  the 
bishop,  partly  from  my  great-great- 
great-uncle  the  pirate! 

Joking  aside,  why  must  my  dreams 
in  a  forest  be  of  a  necessity  less  profit- 
able to  me  personally  than  are  to  you 
what  after  all  are  only  your  dreams  in 
a  laboratory  ?  God  —  and  I  mean  the 
universal  Master,  not  the  prejudiced 
president  of  any  narrow  sect  —  gave  us 
nature  as  a  guide,  or  at  least  as  a  help. 
Do  you,  among  your  crucibles  and  tests, 
find  the  peace  and  rest  that  I  do  here 
under  my  great,  quiet,  understanding 
trees  ? 

And  I  am  not  a  child  —  nor  even 
an  elderly  child  —  of  nature.  I  may 
be  a  dreamer,  but  I  am  a  woman  of 
the  world  with  open  eyes,  and  I  know 
that  what  I  see  in  the  world  I  learn  to 
understand  here,  far  from  its  din  and 
hurry. 

The  wood  is  full  of  cuckoo-clocks, 
striking  all  sorts  of  impossible  hours, 
—  dream-hours,  dream-clocks,  —  de- 
spise them  as  much  as  you  like,  for  you 
haven't  them,  poor  scientist!  Now 
the  nearest  dream -clock  has  struck 
twenty-three,  which  is  time  for  lilies- 
of-the-valley-picking,  so  good-by. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter.  I  say  for 
your  letter,  because  the  second  was  sim- 
ply a  burst  of  graceful  inconsistency. 
If  I  am  only  a  bundle  of  molecules, 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


17 


cerebral  and  otherwise,  why  should  you 
wish  to  know  what  I  look  like,  and  who 
I  am? 

Believe  me,  your  desire  is  —  let  us 
say  —  nothing  but  an  irregular  vibra- 
tion of  cerebral  molecules!  and  I  am 
"as  other  men  (sic!)  are,"  I  am  just 
"Snug  the  Joiner." 

This  is  a  leaf  from  the  biggest,  wisest, 
and  dearest  of  my  beeches.  It  has  just 
fluttered  down  to  me,  and  I  think  wishes 
to  go  to  you.  Good-by. 


LETTER   V. 


June  10. 

And  so  you  are  still  to  be  a  myth 
to  me,  my  Fair  Unknown  ?  Well,  —  it 
does  not  matter.  Thank  you  for  your 
letter.  You  are  a  poet.  I  like  you, 
I  like  your  forest,  I  like  your  brook  and . 
your  cuckoos.  Won't  you  tell  me  more 
of  them  ? 

So  you  find  my  questions,  my  cu- 
riosity, inconsistent  with  devotion  to 
science  ?  Why  ?  There  is  a  type  of 
New  England  woman  who  thinks  that 
when  a  man  marries  he  becomes  a 
monk.  Do  you  think  that  because  a 
man  takes  the  study  of  nature  as  his 
life-work,  he  becomes  a  monk  ?  Rather, 
is  not  a  woman  part  of  nature  ?  And 
because  I  have  written  a  somewhat  dry 
book,  am  I  to  have  no  interest  in  things 
charming  ?  I  rather  think  my  cerebral 
molecules  are  jingling  and  tingling  over 
your  letter  as  would  those  of  any  one  of 
your  tight- waisted  lieutenants.  How- 
ever, to-morrow  comes  work  again,  and 
you  will  be  forgotten. 

So  my  forest  dreamer  has  been  to 
court,  and  danced  with  kings  and  em- 
perors, and  —  been  bored  to  death 
withal.  I  wonder  whether  she  felt  like 
Alice,  when  she  told  her  Wonderland 
kings,  "  You  are  nothing  but  a  pack  of 
cards  "  ? 

At  all  events,  I  am  glad  that  my 
dreamer  is  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
because  of  being  that,  fond  of  her  beech 
forest.  This  all  tells  me  much.  And 
so  you  are  "as  other  men  are  "  !  When 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  2 


a  woman  is  as  other  men  are,  she  has 
developed  much  that  other  women  do 
not  know.  She  is  a  woman  of  whom  a 
man  may  make  a  friend.  They  speak 
the  same  language,  think  the  same 
thoughts,  —  and  each  knows  that  the 
other  can  understand.  Good  -  night. 
Write  me  again. 

LETTER  VI. 

June  26. 

After  being  called  a  "Fair  Un- 
known "  it  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to 
undeceive  you.  However,  I  must  do 
this,  for  though  my  cerebral  molecules 
may  be  charming,  I  am  outwardly  not 
attractive.  I  was  born  with  slightly 
crossed  eyes  and  large  red  ears,  which 
misfortune  many  tears  have  failed  to 
remedy. 

I  notice  a  startling  amount  of  world- 
liness  in  your  last  letter,  and  as  I  fear 
you  will  no  longer  care  to  hear  from  a 
person  afflicted  as  I  am,  I  will  take 
time  by  the  forelock  and  bid  you  good- 
by  now. 

Ainsi,  adieu. 

LETTER   VII. 

July  10. 

It  is  not  true !  Do  you  think  that 
science  is  a  study  so  unprofitable  that 
I  have  devoted  myself  to  it  for  years 
without  having  learned  something  of 
cause  and  effect? 

No  woman  with  crossed  eyes  and 
(Heaven  save  the  mark)  "large  red 
ears  "  could  ever  have  written  the  let- 
ters you  have  written  me! 

You  are  not  only  charming,  but  you 
are  beautiful.  I  'd  stake  my  profes- 
sional reputation  on  this.  Your  forest, 
your  kings  and  emperors,  your  cuckoos 
and  cowslips,  may  be  all  a  pose ;  you 
may  be  old,  you  may  be  Madame  An- 
nette Bonnet  yourself  for  all  I  know, 
but  you  are,  or  have  been,  beautiful; 
men  have  loved  you,  women  have  envied 
you,  you  have  known  power. 

Deny  this,  if  you  dare,  on  your  word 
of  honor! 


18 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


LETTER  VHI. 

August  10,  THE  LABORATORY. 
Are  you   never  going   to   write   me 
again  ? 


LETTER  IX. 


August  25,  BERLIN. 


No. 


LETTER  X. 

September  17. 

DEAR  PESSIMIST,  —  Did  you  think 
me  very  horrid?  Did  your  cerebral 
molecules  rub  each  other  into  shreds, 

—  tranverse  shreds  ? 

It  was  not  nice  of  me,  but  I  was 
not  in  a  letter-writing  frame  of  mind, 
and  I  could  n't  write,  even  to  you  whom 
I  don't  know.  I  was  away  from  home, 
amid  crowds  of  people,  — people  I 
don't  like ;  I  was  worried  and  irritated 
in  more  ways  than  one. 

And  now! 

Here  I  am  again  by  my  brook,  which 
is  rushing  noisily  in  frantic  haste,  swol- 
len by  recent  rain;  the  birches,  dear 
butterfly  trees,  are  losing  their  poor 
wings;  there  are  coppery  lights  on  the 
beech  leaves ;  the  ferns  are  drying,  and 
here  and  there  the  duskiness  of  autumn 
is  lit  by  the  scarlet  of  a  poisonous  fun- 
gus. Quite  near  me  is  a  lizard's  hole, 
and  out  of  it  peers  a  small  bright  eye. 
I  like  lizards.  One  of  my  happinesses 
is  that  of  being  free  from  little  fears 

—  fears  of  bats ;   of  poor  wee  snakes ; 
of  blundering  winged  things.    The  only 
thing  of  the  kind  of  which  I  have  a  hor- 
ror is  the  creature  called  a  "black  bee- 
tle, "  and  as  I  have  never  seen  one,  and 
know  it  chiefly  through  a  translation 
of  Le  Petit  Chose   that   I  read  when 
almost  a  child,  I  cannot  say  that  the 
horror  is  very  vivid.      But  this  is  ab- 
surd, my  writing  you  about  black  bee- 
tles! 

Your  last  letter,  or  last  but  one,  was 
amusing.  I  neither  affirm  nor  deny  the 
truth  of  what  you  say  in  it,  but  it 
amused  me.  You  say,  O  Wise  Man, 
that  men  have  loved,  women  envied 
me.  And  have  I  loved  any  man,  and 


envied  any  woman  ?     You  see,  I  am  in 
a  sentimental  September  mood. 

I  have  been  learning  how  I  missed 
my  trees  during  the  hot,  hot  days, 
and  how  my  trees  missed  me,  —  the 
days  when  a  blue  mist  softens  the  dis- 
tance, when  the  pine  smell  is  the  strong- 
est, the  shadows  the  blackest  of  the  year, 
when  no  place  on  earth  is  bearable 
except  the  depths  of  a  thick-knit  wood. 
Don't  snub  me  by  calling  this  poetical, 
for  you  know  you  wrote  that  you  wished 
to  hear  about  my  trees  and  my  brook, 
—  which  was  crafty  of  you ! 

To-day  I  have  visited  all  my  deserted 
friends;  the  dream  tree,  the  wisdom 
tree,  —  a  great  beech,  the  butterfly  tree, 
and  they  all  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  I 
at  them.  The  face  in  the  wisdom  tree, 
a  combination  of  knots  and  branches, 
cowled  in  summer  by  leaves,  frowns  at 
me  to-day  in  evident  disapproval  of  my 
wasted  midsummer.  A  bird  has  built 
her  nest  in  one  of  the  eyes,  which  some- 
how gives  it  the  air  of  the  sternest  of 
monkish  confessors.  Only  the  cedars 
and  pines  and  firs  are  unchanged.  They 
are  tonic,  but  a  wee  bit  unsympathetic. 
One  great  fir  has  a  wound  in  his  side  as 
large  as  my  hand,  but  he  holds  his  head 
as  erect  as  ever,  and  does  not  seem  to 
notice  his  heart's  blood  oozing  down  his 
rough  bark.  I  should  not  dare  pity 
him,  which  is  fatal  to  a  true  sympathy. 
I  found  a  mushroom,  and  ate  it.  Per- 
haps it  was  a  toadstool. 

You  will  think  me  mad,  you  will 
snub  me. 

I  don't  mind  being  thought  mad,  for 
I  am  used  to  it,  and  rather  agree  with 
the  theory  in  my  heart  of  hearts ;  but  I 
object  to  being  snubbed.  So,  to  avoid 
that,  let  me  hasten  to  snub  you  first.  I 
saw  in  AmieFs  Journal,  the  other  day,  a 
most  fitting  sentiment,  which  please  ac- 
cept with  my  compliments:  "Science 
is  a  lucid  madness,  occupied  in  tabu- 
lating its  own  hallucinations." 

Think  me  crazy,  "tabulate"  me, 
and  go  on  making  nasty  messes  in  cru- 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


19 


cibles,  —  or  are  crucibles  the  soap-bub- 
bly things  that  explode  ?  —  but  if  your 
laboratory  holds  one  single  object  as 
consoling  to  you  on  blue  days  as  is 
one  of  my  trees  to  me,  even  on  a  wet 
September  evening,  I  '11  eat  that  ob- 
ject ! 

The  sun  is  going  down  the  hill,  arid 
so  must  I.  Good-night. 

LETTER   XI. 

IN  THE  WILDS  OF  MAINE,  October  2. 

Bonjour,  1'Inconnue!  Your  letter 
has  just  been  brought  to  me,  and  though 
Heaven  knows  you  don't  deserve  it,  I  sit 
down  at  once  by  the  lake,  to  answer.  I 
missed  you,  cross-grained  though  I  am, 
and  though  I  fully  recognize  the  way  in 
which  you,  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches, 
intend  to  use  this  humble  devotee,  I  am 
glad  to  hear  from  you  once  more,  and 
put  myself  at  your  disposition. 

Your  kings  and  queens,  your  people 
whom  you  "don't  like,"  know  nothing 
of  the  dreamer.  They  know  the  slightly 
mocking  writer  of  your  letter  of  June 
26,  —  they  know  nothing  of  the  beech 
forest,  nothing  of  the  impetuous,  nat- 
ural, warm-hearted  woman  that  the 
Primo  Facto  meant  you  to  be. 

And  I,  insignificant  scientific  worm, 
am  to  be  your  safety  valve.  Did  you 
think  I  did  not  realize  all  this  ?  As 
you  never  intend  to  tell  me  who  you  are, 
you  feel  safe.  You  are  safe.  No  one 
N  shall  ever  see  one  of  your  letters,  and  I 
shall  make  no  effort  to  find  you  out. 

Dear  lady,  will  your  crossed  eyes 
twinkle  with  amusement  when  I  tell  you 
that  your  letters  have  been  the  means 
of  sending  me  up  here,  away  from  the 
haunts  of  woman,  to  rest  an  over-tired 
nervous  system?  Without  the  small 
packet  in  my  writing-table  I  should 
have  betaken  myself  to  the  comparative 
simplicity  of  Bar  Harbor;  with  the 
small  packet  I  came  here,  —  three 
weeks  ago.  I  am  alone,  but  for  my 
guide.  There  are  little  beech  trees 
here,  too,  —  a  few,  —  many  pines,  a 
small  lake,  birds,  and  quiet.  In  spite 


of  these  charming  things,  however,  I 
am  not  happy.  The  quiet  gets  on  my 
nerves,  and  if  your  letter  had  not  come 
to-day,  I  should  probably  have  been  off 
to-morrow. 

Solitude  is  bad,  I  see,  for  me.  My 
sins  loom  great  among  the  rusty  pine 
stems,  my  neglected  opportunities  stare 
me  in  the  face,  my  utter  insignificance 
is  brought  home  to  me  in  a  way  I  do 
not  like.  You  are  too  young  to  feel 
the  reproach  of  wasted  years,  or  you 
could  not  love  your  forest  as  you  do. 

May  I  know  your  age  ?  And  —  do 
not  snub  me  —  if  you  have  troubles 
small  enough  to  be  talked  about,  and 
choose  to  do  so,  tell  me  them.  Advice 
helps  no  mortal,  but  it  suggests  self- 
help. 

Now  good-by.  I  must  go  and  make 
coffee.  I  suppose  you  do  not  know  the 
smell  of  coffee  rising  among  sunbaked 
pines  ? 

LETTER   XII. 

LONDON,  October  25. 

So  you  will  be  my  confessor,  my  pa- 
tient safety  valve  ?  Are  you  not  afraid 
of  being  overwhelmed  by  an  avalanche 
of  sentimental  semi-woes  ?  What  if  I 
should  write  you  that  I  am  that  most 
appalling  creature,  une  femme  incom- 
prise  ?  Or  that  I  am  pining  with  love 
for  a  man  not  my  husband  ?  Or  that 
I  adore  my  husband,  while  he  wastes 
his  time  in  greenrooms  ?  Or  —  or  — 
or  —  Pessimist,  where  is  thy  pessi- 
mism, that  thou  riskest  such  a  fate  ? 

However,  as  it  happens,  I  have  no 
woes  to  pour  into  even  your  sympathetic 
and  invisible  ear.  I  am  quite  as  happy 
as  my  neighbors,  and  even  of  a  rather 
cheerful  disposition.  Bored  at  times, 
of  course,  — who  isn't?  That  is  all. 

In  a  few  days  I  go  to  Paris,  after  a 
very  charming  visit  in  England,  where 
I  have  met  many  very  interesting  and 
delightful  people,  among  others  the 
Great  Man. 

He  is  a  great  man,  the  Napoleon  of 
the  eye-glass,  though  I  have  heard  that 
he  is  not  Napoleonic,  in  that  he  has  a 


20 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


conscience,  whose  existence  he  carefully 
hides  behind  a  mask  of  expediency.  It 
amused  me,  while  stopping  in  the  house 
with  this  man  and  studying  in  a  hum- 
ble way  his  face  and  his  manners,  to 
read  certain  European  papers  describ- 
ing him  as  slyness  and  unscrupulousness 
in  person ! 

Do  you  like  gossip?  I  love  it  my- 
self, and  here  is  a  good  story.  A  cer- 
tain R.  H.  told  a  lady  of  his  acquaint- 
ance that  she  might  choose  for  herself 
a  certain  gift,  —  say  a  tiara  of  dia- 
monds, costing  £2000.  The  lady,  see- 
ing a  very  beautiful  one  for  £4000, 
bought  it  and  had  it  sent  with  the  bill 
for  £2000  to  the  royal  giver,  and  paid 
the  extra  two  thousand  herself.  So  far, 
good.  But  wasn't  it  one  of  life's  lit- 
tle ironies  that  the  gift,  greatly  ad- 
mired by  H.  R.  H.,  should  have  been 
sent  by  him  to  a  younger  and  fairer 
friend,  and  that  the  poor  fading  one 
should  have  had  to  pay  for  half  of  it ! 

England  rings  with  such  tales.  It 
is  a  curiously  anomalous  country,  Re- 
spectability is  its  God,  yet  it  readily,  al- 
most admiringly,  forgives  the  little  slips 
of  the  smart  set.  One  woman,  Lady 
X,  told  me,  "Oh  yes,  Lord  Y  is  my 
aunt  Lady  F's  lover."  On  seeing  my 
expression,  she  added,  with  a  laugh, 
"Everybody  has  known  it  for  years, 
so  some  one  else  would  have  told  you 
if  I  had  n't.  Besides,  she  is  received 
everywhere."  So  she  is.  An  awful 
old  woman  with  a  yellow  wig,  —  poor 
soul. 

So  you  do  not  love  solitude  ?  And 
you  miss  people.  Possibly  I  love  my 
beeches  so,  because  I  can  never  be  alone 
with  them  more  than  a  few  hours  at  a 
time.  Possibly,  but  I  don't  believe  it. 

My  portrait  has  just  been  done  by  a 
great  English  painter,  and  I  was  much 
pleased  that  he  himself  suggested  doing 
it  out  of  doors !  The  background  is  a 
laurel  hedge,  glistening  and  gleaming 
in  the  sun.  The  picture  is  good,  but 
it  flatters  me. 

I  have  been  trying  again  to  under- 


stand the  more  scientific  parts  of  the 
book,  but  I  can't!  This  will  probably 
reach  you  in  your  beloved  laboratory. 
Are  your  fingers  brown  and  purple  ?  Do 
you  wear  an  apron  when  you  work  ?  If 
so,  I  will  make  you  one ! 

Good-by,  and  a  pleasant  winter  to 
you.  Thanks  for  the  kindness  in  your 
letter. 

LETTER    XIII.  » 

THE  LABORATORY,  November  11. 

Please  make  me  an  apron !  Could  it 
have  a  beech-leaf  pattern  ? 

Thanks  for  your  charming  letter, 
which  I  will  answer  soon.  I  am  just 
off  to  Paris,  —  affaire  de  Sorbonne. 
Don't  mock  at  my  laboratory,  dear  Our 
Lady  of  the  Beeches !  I  have  been  as 
happy  as  a  child  ever  since  I  got  back 
to  it.  Forests  may  be  all  very  well  for 
the  young,  —  I  am  too  old  for  them 
and  need  hard  work.  Good-by ! 

LETTER  XIV. 

December  13,  THE  LABORATORY. 

DEAR  LADY,  —  I  sit  by  my  table. 
The  "  soap-bubbly  things  that  explode  " 
are  pushed  aside,  to  make  room  for  an 
electric  lamp ;  I  am  beautiful  to  behold 
in  the  beech-leaf  pattern  apron ! 

I  landed  yesterday,  to  find  the  pack- 
age awaiting  me,  and  the  contents  ex- 
ceeded my  wildest,  most  sanguine  ex- 
pectations !  Did  you  yourself  put  in  all 
those  wee  stitches?  I  notice  that  the 
border  is  sewed  on  extra,  —  did  you  do 
it  ?  It  took  me  some  time  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  the  strings,  —  it  is  years 
since  I  wore  a  bib,  —  but  now,  they  are 
neatly  tied  around  my  waist  and  about 
my  neck.  It  falls  in  graceful  folds,  — 
it  is  perfect. 

There  is  only  one  drawback  to  my 
happiness  in  my  new  possession,  —  the 
well-founded  fear  of  making  a  spot  on 
it,  or  burning  a  hole  in  it !  By  the  way, 
speaking  of  burning  holes  in  things,  I 
burnt  a  large  one,  the  other  day,  in  my 
thumb,  —  luckily  my  left  one.  It  hurt 
like  mad,  kept  me  awake  two  or  three 
nights,  and  did  no  good  to  my  temper. 


Our  Lady  of  ttie  Seeches. 


21 


Once  I  got  up  (it  was  in  Paris,  you 
know)  and  went  out  for  a  tramp.  You 
don't  know  the  Paris  of  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  It  had  rained,  there 
was  a  ragged  mist,  the  lights  reflected 
their  rays  in  ruts  and  pools ;  the  abomi- 
nation of  desolation  is  Paris  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  — to  cross- 
grained  foot  passengers.  You  were  in 
Paris  that  night,  probably  dancing  at 
some  ball  —  "  lazily  flirting  with  a 
tight-waisted  "  somebody. 

I  thought  of  you  as  I  plodded  through 
the  dreary  streets  and  laughed  at  the 
remembrance  of  my  first  letter  to  you, 
—  a  pedantic  outpouring  of  heavy- 
handed  indignation.  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches  must  have  smiled  at  it.  Will 
she  smile  again  at  what  I  'm  going  to 
tell  her  now?  A  carriage  passed  me 
at  a  corner  of  the  rue  Royale,  and  the 
lights  flashed  over  the  face  of  its  oc- 
cupant; a  woman  wrapped  in  a  dark 
furred  coat.  The  idea  came  to  me  that 
it  was  —  you.  I  wonder !  She  had 
lightish,  brilliant  hair  and  a  rather  tired 
face. 

If  I  had  been  —  well  —  several  years 
younger,  I  should  have  followed  the 
carriage;  but  I  remembered  my  pro- 
mise, and  let  it  pass  without  hailing  the 
hansom  near  by.  The  horses  were 
grays,  the  carriage  dark  green  —  I  did 
n't  notice  the  livery. 

Rue  Tambour,  4  bis  —  it  was  n't 
^breaking  my  word  to  drive  to  rue  Tam- 
bour, was  it  ?  I  walked  in  a  pouring 
rain  (good  for  a  feverish  thumb !)  the 
length  of  the  deserted  street  to  4  bis. 
Six  stories  high,  respectable,  dull,  with 
a  red  light  in  the  hall.  And  there 
dwells  Madame  Annette  Bonnet,  sweet 
sleep  to  her. 

Where  are  you  now  ?  Lady  without 
troubles,  in  what  part  of  the  world  are 
you  smiling  away  the  winter  in  cheer- 
ful content? 

Write  me  again  when  the  spirit  mov- 
eth  you. 

The  night  I  visited  rue  Tambour  was 
November  26. 


LETTER   XV 

RUE  TAMBOUR,  4  bis,  PARIS, 

Christmas  Day. 

The  night  you  visited  rue  Tambour 
I  sat  high  up  in  4  bis,  watching  a  sick 
woman. 

My  poor  old  nurse  was  taken  ill  a 
few  days  before,  and  as  she  has  only 
me  in  the  world,  I  moved  from  my 
hotel  here,  and  have  been  with  her  ever 
since.  I  leave  to-morrow,  but  have  a 
fancy  for  writing  to  you  from  here,  so 
forgive  this  paper,  which  I  couldn't 
wound  her  by  refusing,  and  try  to  ad- 
mire the  gilt  edges. 

How  curious  that  you  should  have 
been  roderiug  about  underneath  our  win- 
dows that  night.  It  was  her  worst  one, 
and  I  sat  up  till  dawn.  Several  times  I 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  at 
the  rain.  I  was  very  anxious  and  very 
sad.  I  love  old  Annette;  she  gave  me 
all  the  mothering  I  ever  had,  and  one 
doesn't  forget  that. 

The  young  doctor,  hastily  called  in 
when  she  fainted,  was  unsatisfactory, 
being  too  busy  trying  to  show  me,  in 
delicate  nuances,  his  full  appreciation 
of  the  strangeness  of  the  presence  in 
that  house  of  such  a  woman  as  I ;  the 
nurse,  a  stupid  Sister  of  Charity,  made 
me  very  nervous ;  if  I  had  known  you 
were  below,  who  knows  whether  I  would 
not  have  rushed  down  for  a  word  of 
sympathy?  But  now  I  am  happier 
again,  'the  dear  old  woman  is  nearly 
well,  and  her  sweet  taking-for-granted 
of  my  kindness  to  her,  better  than  all 
the  gratitude  in  the  world. 

Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  am  glad 
that  you  like  the  apron.  I  did  make 
it  myself,  —  every  stitch,  and  a  terri- 
ble time  I  had  finding  the  famous  beech- 
leaf  pattern !  Only  please  wear  it,  burn 
holes  in  it  (instead  of  your  poor  thumb) 
and  really  use  it.  Then,  when  it  is 
worn  out,  I  '11  make  you  another.  Did 
I  tell  you  how  old  I  am  ?  I  am  twenty- 
nine. 

By  the  way,  olive  oil  and  lime  water 
is  a  very  good  remedy  for  burns.  Re- 


22 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


member  this,  as  you  will  doubtless  go 
on  burning  yourself  from  time  to  time ! 
Good-by. 

LETTER  XVI. 

January  14,  THE  LABORATORY. 

DEAR  LADY,  —  What,  in  your  wis- 
dom, do  you  think  of  this  story?  A 
woman,  whom  I  have  known  for  more 
years  than  she  would  care  to  remember, 
has  just  enlivened  us  by  running  away 
from  her  husband  with  a  man  whom 
every  one  knows  and  nearly  every  one 
dislikes.  The  town  has  been  agog  with 
the  tale  for  the  past  week ;  it  has  been 
the  occasion  of  much  excited  conversa- 
tion at  two  or  three  dinners  where  I  was, 
and  the  different  view-points  of  differ- 
ent people  have  interested  me  greatly. 
The  retrospective  keenness  of  observa- 
tion of  almost  all  those  men  and  women 
is  delightful ;  but  as  for  myself,  though 
I  have  known  jtnany  men  and  some  wo- 
men, and  flattered  myself  that  I  knew 
more  than  a  little  about  human  nature, 
this  case  has  floored  me.  Listen,  and 
then  tell  me  what  you  think. 

She  is  a  woman  of  forty-two  or  three, 
handsome,  fairly  clever,  masterful,  with 
a  faint  idea  of  metaphysics  and  some 
knowledge  of  archaeology.  Her  husband 
is  a  good  sort,  with  plenty  of  money, 
who  let  her  do  about  as  she  liked,  — - 
even  to  the  extent  of  blackening  her 
eyebrows.  The  other  man  is  thirty- 
four,  with  padded  shoulders  and  a  lisp. 
He  wears  opal  shirt-studs,  and  was 
formerly  suspected  of  a  bracelet.  He 
has  no  money,  no  profession,  no  pros- 
pects. Off  they  went  one  moonlight 

night,  and  as  Mr.  will  divorce 

her,  they  will  marry,  and  live  on  — 
love,  in  New  Jersey.  Do  you  think 
it  possible  for  two  rational  beings  to 
live  on  love,  in  New  Jersey  ?  And  yet 
they  must  love  each  other,  or  they 
wouldn't  have  done  it. 

The  question  and  the  collateral  ones 
suggested  by  it  have  been  distracting 
me  greatly.  When  I  was  twenty  — 
or  even  twenty-five,  I  could  —  in  fact 
did  —  believe  in  the  sufficiency  of  one 


man  and  one  woman  to  each  other.  I 
no  longer  do,  however,  and  know  few 
people  who  could  swear  to  such  a  belief. 
My  sister-in-law,  a  clever  woman,  with 
whom  I  have  discussed  the  affair,  seems 
inclined  to  envy  them,  —  she  herself  has 
been  a  widow  for  years,  and  shows  no 
disposition  to  change  her  estate;  but 
I  am  conscious  of  pitying  them  both. 
Are  n't  they  going  to  wake  up  in  a  few 
weeks  at  most,  and  loathe  each  other  ? 
Tell  me  what  you  think  ? 

Even  assuming  that  Browning  is 
right  in  his  Soul-Sides  theory,  must  not 
two  people,  as  isolated  as  they  must  be, 
be  bored  to  death  by  each  other's  soul- 
sides  after  a  time  ?  People  rarely  tell 
each  other  the  whole  truth  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  such  questions,  chiefly  be- 
cause every  one  has  a  certain  amount  of 
pose  ;  but  you,  woman  of  the  world, 
from  your  forest,  could  tell  me  fear- 
lessly your  inmost  thoughts  about  the 
matter.  If  you  wish  to! 

I  like  to  think  of  you  caring  for  your 
old  nurse,  and  I  am  glad  you  were  in  the 
house  that  night  when  the  spirit  in  my 
feet  led  me  to  it. 

This  disembodied  friendship  has  a 
great  charm  for  me,  and  I  like  knowing 
of  you  all  that  you  will  allow  me  to, 
though  I  grant  you  that  did  we  know 
each  other  personally  much  of  the  in- 
terest would  be  lost.  You  are  wise  in 
telling  me  nothing  of  your  outside  per- 
sonality, your  name,  your  home,  your 
looks,  etc.,  but  let  me  know  what  you 
can  of  your  character,  your  thoughts, 
your  feelings. 

I  would  willingly  tell  you  my  name, 
but  it  would  not  interest  you,  and  would 
change  the  whole  attitude  of  things,  per- 
haps disastrously  to  me.  We  would  be 
friends  if  we  met,  you  and  I,  but  each 
would  keep  from  the  other  something 
that  he  or  she  would  tell  the  next  com- 
er. Our  view-points  would  influence, 
not  the  character  of  each  other,  but 
what  each  would  be  willing  to  show  the 
other. 

Would  there  not  be  a  great  charm  in 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


23 


being  absolutely  truthful  to  each  other 
by  letter  ?  In  showing  each  other  — 
you  know  what  I  mean.  The  idea  is 
not  original,  but  we  have  drifted  uncon- 
'sciously  into  the  beginning  of  an  origi- 
nal exposition  of  it. 

I  am  over  forty  years  old.  I  have 
never  had  any  especial  fondness  for 
women  as  a  whole ;  I  am  a  busy  man, 
with  an  engrossing  life-work  that,  even 
were  my  temperament  other,  would 
prevent  my  ever  trying  to  penetrate 
your  incognito. 

You  are  a  young  and  (I  insist)  beau- 
tiful woman,  living  in  the  world,  occu- 
pied with  the  million  interests  of  the 
woman  of  the  world ;  consoled  on  the 
other  hand  for  the  inevitable  slings  and 
arrows  of  life  by  a  curiously  strong  love 
of  nature  and  a  certain  intelligent  cu- 
riosity as  to  things  abstruse. 

Granted,  then,  that  I  am  (alas!)  no 
impetuous  boy,  to  fall  in  love  with  you 
and  rush  across  the  world  to  find  you 
out,  —  that  you  are  no  lonely  senti- 
mentalist with  a  soul-hunger,  —  why 
not  be  friends  ? 

You  say  you  have  no  troubles.  Good ! 
Then  tell  me  your  joys.  What  I  will 
be  able  to  give  you,  Heaven  knows !  I 
am  asking  much,  and  can  probably  give 
little  —  or  nothing,  though  one  thing  I 
can  do.  I  can  send  you  books,  if  you 
will  let  me,  books  that  would  never 
\come  in  your  way,  probably,  and  that 
you  will  love. 

And  you  will  —  do !  —  give  me  many 
pleasant  thoughts,  instantaneous  day- 
dreams, so  to  say,  gleams  of  sunshine 
that  brighten  my  hours  of  hard  work. 

This  has  grown  to  be  a  volume,  and 
if,  after  all,  you  only  laugh  at  me,  O 
dreamer?  I  '11  only  say,  if  you  must 
snub,  snub  gently! 

There  is  a  heart-breaking  hole  burnt 
in  the  front  breadth  (!)  of  the  apron, 
and  a  terrible  tear  at  the  root  of  one  of 
the  bib-strings.  I  forgot  I  had  an  apron 
on,  and  nearly  hanged  myself  getting 
down  from  a  ladder  on  which  I  'd  been 
standing  driving  some  nails  in  the  wall. 


My  sister-in-law  mended  it,  and  offered 
even  to  make  me  another,  but  I  would 
n't  have  it. 

I  hope  you  've  not  forgotten  your 
promise  ? 

Dear  Lady  of  the  Beeches,  good-by. 

LETTEK  XVII. 

February  1, 
In  a  small  room  high  in  a  tower. 

Why  should  I  snub  you?  On  the 
contrary  I  am  pleased  —  flattered,  pos- 
sibly —  by  your  letter.  Another  thing, 
—  you  have  put  into  words  something 
that  I  have  felt  for  years.  The  influ- 
ence of  the  character  of  another  person, 
not  on  one's  own  character,  but  on  the 
choice  of  the  side  of  one's  character 
that  one  is  willing  to  show  that  person. 

If  I  have  a  virtue  (besides  that  of 
modesty,  you  see!)  it  is  that  of  frank- 
ness. I  think  I  may  honestly  say  that 
I  know  no  woman  with  less  of  conscious 
pose.  Yet  even  when  striving  with 
somewhat  untoward  circumstances  to  be 
perfectly  natural,  I  am  conscious  of 
something  more  than  mere  justifiable 
reserve. 

The  side  I  show  to  one  person  is 
never,  do  what  I  will,  the  same  side  I 
show  to  another,  and,  as  the  French  say, 
that  afflicts  me,  in  morbid  moments. 
"  Each  life  casts  a  shadow,  be  it  ever  so 
slight,  on  the  lives  about  it,  and  is  shad- 
owed by  those  lives.  The  sun  show- 
ing through  a  combination  of  blue  and 
green,  though  the  same  sun,  throws  a 
light  different  from  that  it  throws  when 
it  shines  through  blue  and  red." 

You  will  remember  this  quotation, 
though  it  is  not  exact. 

In  moments  of  self-confidence,  which 
are  more  frequent  than  the  morbid 
ones,  I  tell  myself  that  one  must  re- 
spect one's  moods,  which  are  a  part  of 
one's  self  after  all.  Am  I  right?  Is 
this  a  bit  of  what  you,  O  Wise  Man, 
call  so  gently  "an  intelligent  interest 
in  things  abstruse  "  ? 

This  interest  in  one's  self,  in  one's 
motives,  is  of  course  a  kind  of  vanity, 


24 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


but  surely  if  one  honestly  tries,  one  can 
learn  to  know  one's  self  better  than  any 
other  person's  self,  and  one's  self  be- 
longs to  humanity  as  much  as  does  one's 
neighbor. 

So  we  are  to  be  friends.  I  am  glad. 
I  am  glad  you  are  not  young,  I  am  glad 
you  are  a  busy  man.  And  you  must  in- 
deed be  busy  between  your  laboratory 
and  your  metaphysics.  I  like  busy 
men,  and  I  am  glad  you  understand  so 
well  the  advantages  of  our  not  knowing 
each  other  personally. 

Frankly,  I  should  be  terribly  influ- 
enced by  external  things.  It  could 
never  be  the  same.  If  your  eyes  hap- 
pened to  be  blue  instead  of  brown,  or 
brown  instead  of  gray,  I  should  be  dis- 
appointed. Also,  if  you  had  a  certain 
kind  of  mouth  I  should  be  quite  unable 
to  like  you.  Observe  how  gracefully  I 
ignore  the  possibility  of  your  being  in- 
fluenced by  such  trifles.  Your  great 
mind  being  sternly  bent  on  molecules, 
you  no  doubt  would  not  even  notice 
whether  I  am  tall  or  short,  bony  or 
baggy!  But  you  will  think  this  very 
foolish  babbling,  after  the  profundity  of 
my  beginnings. 

About  your  story.  I  agree  with  you 
in  pitying  her.  In  such  cases  I  am  al- 
ways inclined  to  pity  the  woman.  And 
this  woman  has  put  everything  into  the 
scale  against  the  love  of  a  man  years 
younger  than  she,  as  well  as  having 
taken  from  him,  at  least  for  a  time, 
the  companionship  of  other  men  and 
women,  his  club,  all  his  menus. 

As  a  merciful  Providence  in  the  mys- 
tery of  his  wisdom  has  created  man 
polygamous,  woman  monogamous  (by 
instinct,  which  is,  after  all,  what  counts), 
every  man,  unless  his  love  for  a  woman 
is  backed  and  braced  by  a  lot  of  other 
things,  the  respect  of  his  kind,  amuse- 
ment, occupation,  etc.,  is  bound  to  tire 
of  her  after  a  time. 

Even  backed  by  these  things,  how 
many  a  perfectly  sincere  love  wanes 
with  time! 


Poor  soul!  I  hope  her  husband  will 
divorce  her  soon,  and  at  least  give  her 
the  legal  possession  of  the  lisp  and  the 
opals,  before  the  charm  of  her  position, 
her  house,  her  friendships  with  other 
people,  in  a  word,  before  his  love  — 
under  the  removal  of  the  host  of  gra- 
cious "  shadows  "  chased  away  by  the 
stern  sun  of  solitude  —  has  begun  its 
absolutely  inevitable  waning. 

There  is  my  opinion;  take  it  for 
what  it  's  worth. 

I  have  just  been  out  for  a  walk 
through  softly  melting  snow,  on  which 
all  shadows  are  blue,  into  the  beech- 
wood.  The  snow  was  so  deep  that  I 
could  not  go  far,  but  I  stood  under  a 
big,  knobby  old  fellow  near  the  edge, 
and  looked  up  the  slope,  up  which  the 
blue  shadows  slanted. 

A  wood  in  winter  is  very  beautiful. 
The  white  quiet  was  not  yet  broken  by 
the  thaw,  though  the  branches  gleamed 
black  in  the  moist  air;  all  little  twigs 
seemed  sketched  in  ink  against  the 
snow.  The  sun  behind  me  threw  a  red 
glow  for  a  second  over  it  all,  edging 
the  shriveled  leaves  clinging  here  and 
there  with  fire. 

The  snow  will  soon  be  gone,  leaving 
the  ground  an  untidy  mass  of  slippery 
red  soil,  and  I  will  put  on  rubber  boots, 
take  a  stick,  and  pay  a  round  of  visits 
on  the  slope.  The  winter  has  been  hard, 
and  some  of  my  friends  will  have  suf- 
fered. 

There  is  a  pastel  portrait  hanging  op- 
posite me  as  I  write,  and  I  think  you 
must  be  like  it.  I  don't  mean  as  to 
features,  but  in  a  certain  air  of  quiet 
determination  and  knowing  what  you 
are  about. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  other 
day,  in  a  certain  old  university  town, 
I  was  taken  to  see  a  chemical  labora- 
tory. It  made  me  think  of  you,  dear 
Pessimist,  and  I  admit  that  the  retorts 
and  crucibles  have  a  certain  charm,  to 
say  nothing  of  all  the  other  things, 
nameless  to  me. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


25 


I  shall  be  glad  to  have  the  books. 
Don't  forget  to  send  them. 

Since  my  walk,  by  the  way,  I  am 
less  fearful  for  the  poor  woman  with 
the  blackened  eyebrows.  Possibly  she 
has  great  charm,  and  possibly  he  is  too 
completely  under  her  sway  to  tire  of 
her.  I  hope  so,  and  I  have  seen  it, 
only  in  my  case  the  woman  was  greatly 
the  social  superior  of  the  man.  At  all 
events,  they  interest  me,  and  she  was 
certainly  better  and  more  courageous  in 
running  off  with  him  than  she  would 
have  been  in  doing  what  nine  women 
out  of  ten  —  over  here,  at  least  —  would 
have  done. 

It  is  late;  I  must  dress  for  dinner. 
Shall  I  wear  yellow  or  pink  ? 

Good-night,  amigo  di  mi  alma. 

LETTER  XVIII. 

March  16. 

Thank,  you.  I  can  write  you  only  a 
few  words,  dear  lady,  as  I  have  had 
pneumonia,  and  am  still  almost  help- 
less. Your  letter  was  given  me  to-day, 
and  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have 
re-read  it.  I  suppose  that  by  this  time 
you  are  busy  hunting  the  first  violets  ? 
Send  me  one. 

It  is  an  infernal  thing  to  be  ill;  a 
worse  thing  to  be  ill  and  alone.  It  is 
just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  I  can't  write, 
for  I  am  in  a  state  approaching  the 
fearful. 

If  I  had  married  the  girl  whom  I  once 
loved,  my  eldest  child  might  have  been 
nineteen,  and,  if  a  girl,  sitting  there  in 
the  big  chair  with  the  firelight  on  her 
hair.  I  am  growing  old;  I  drivel.  If 
I  were  even  ten  years  younger  I  should 
want  you  awfully.  It  is  hard  to  feel 
that  one  is  too  old  for  falling  in  love 
with  the  most  charming  woman  in  the 
world,  —  and  you  are  she,  of  that  I  am 
sure. 

Have  you  dimples,  and  blue  veins  in 
your  temples  ?  My  nurse  has  come,  and 
is  scolding  me  for  disobeying  her.  She 
has  no  dimples ;  she  has  an  imperial  in- 
stead. 


Write  me  soon,  and  forgive  all  this 
idiocy.  I  am  to  have  a  poached  egg. 
If  it  is  slippery,  I  won't  eat  it.  Would 
you?  C.  R.  S. 

LETTER  XIX. 

March  30. 

Poor  dear!  I  am  so  sorry  that  you 
have  been  ill.  Are  you  better  now? 
Here  is  the  violet,  poor  wee  thing! 
bringing  a  most  cordial  and  sincere 
greeting  from  me  to  you. 

It  is  awful  to  be  ill,  and  it  is  worse 
to  be  ill  and  alone.  A  nurse  with  an 
imperial  would  hardly  improve  matters, 
I  suppose,  though,  all  things  considered, 
perhaps  the  imperial  was  a  blessing  in 
disguise. 

You  were,  despite  your  potential 
daughter  of  nineteen,  in  a  dangerous 
state  of  mind  when  you  wrote  that  note, 
Mr.  Pessimist!  But  now,  no  doubt, 
you  are  back  at  work,  at  least  no  longer 
shut  in  your  room,  and  all  is  well. 

This  last  month  has  been  an  anxious 
one  for  me.  My  poor  Annette,  fired 
with  ambition  as  to  window-cleaning, 
fell  off  a  chest  of  drawers  and  broke  her 
leg,  a  few  days  after  I  wrote  you.  She 
was  in  Paris ;  I  —  far  from  there.  She 
is  the  embodiment  of  health  as  a  rule, 
but  she  is  over  sixty,  and  to  make  mat- 
ters worse,  fell  to  fretting  for  her  hus- 
band, a  creature  charming  in  his  way, 
but  with  whom  she  had  never  been  able 
to  live  in  peace,  and  whom  she  left 
twenty  years  ago  and  more. 

Her  letters  to  me  have  been  very 
touching.  Years  ago  they  had  a  child, 
a  poor  little  thing  born  lame,  and  it 
seems  that  Pere  Bonnet's  one  good  qual- 
ity, beyond  great  charm  of  manner,  and 
a  tenor  voice  fit  for  the  heavenly  choir, 
was  his  utter  devotion  to  Le  Mioche. 
I  know  no  other  name  for  him.  Le 
Mioche  lived  only  four  years,  but  those 
four  years,  looked  back  on,  through  the 
kindly  mist  of  something  over  thirty, 
have  grown  to  be  of  paramount  impor- 
tance to  the  poor  old  woman.  Her  man, 
she  wrote  me,  used  to  carry  Le  Mioche 
in  a  sort  of  hammock  on  his  back,  and 


26 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


then,  while  he  worked,  Le  Mioche  sat 
in  a  heap  of  sawdust  covered  with  her 
man's  coat,  and  looked  on.  Le  pere 
Bonnet  was  working  in  a  lumber  camp 
at  that  time,  —  indeed,  they  lived  in  a 
log  hut  built  by  his  own  hands.  Le 
Mioche  had  a  precocious  fondness  for 
mushrooms,  and  many  times  "mon 
homme  "  brought  a  hatful  home  with 
him,  and  tenderly  fed  them  to  the  poor 
child  —  raw !  The  grave  is  somewhere 
there  in  the  Maine  woods,  and  several 
times,  of  late,  Annette  has  expressed 
to  me  her  longing  to  visit  it  once  more 
with  the  recreant  Bonnet,  who,  "after 
all, "  was  the  father  of  Le  Mioche. 

It  would  be  a  pitiful  pilgrimage, 
would  it  not  ?  She  was  a  high-spirited, 
handsome  woman,  as  I  first  remember 
her.  Now  she  is  old  and  bent,  this 
very  longing  for  the  husband  she  hated 
in  her  youth  being  a  pathetic  indica- 
tion of  her  weakness.  He,  I  gather, 
for  I  remember  him  very  faintly,  was  a 
handsome,  light-hearted  creature  who 
simply  could  n't  understand  her  mental 
attitudes,  and  whom  her  ideas  of  faith- 
fulness and  honor  bored  to  death.  Think 
of  the  meeting,  drawn  together  over  the 
grave  of  Le  Mioche ! 

I  suspect  her  of  having  written  to 
him,  poor  soul !  Does  this  bore  you  ? 
I  hope  not,  for  it  really  is  "being 
friends, "  as  children  say.  My  mind  is 
full  of  Annette  and  her  troubles,  so  I 
tell  you  of  them.  It  is  at  least  a  sug- 
gestive story  enough.  I  hope  your  friend 
who  ran  away  with  the  man  with  the 
opals  had  no  Mioche ! 

To-morrow  I  go  south  on  a  yachting 
trip.  We  leave  Italy  about  April  15, 
and  I  don't  know  where  we  shall  go,  so 
do  not  hurry  about  writing,  though  I 
am  always  glad  to  have  your  letters. 

Has  not  your  book  come  out? 

I  will  write  you  some  time  from  the 
yacht,  and  in  the  meantime,  behiit'  dich 
Gott. 


You  signed  your  initials  to  your  note, 
do  you  remember? 

LETTER  XX. 

ON  BOABD  THE  YACHT  X ,  May  3. 

Just  five  minutes  in  which  to  beg  a 
great  favor  of  you.  Le  pere  Bonnet 
needs  money,  and  I  cannot  get  ashore 
to  send  it  him.  Will  you  send  him  $200 
at  once,  with  the  inclosed  note  ? 

We  shall  be  in  England  next  week 
en  route  for  home,  and  I  will  of  course 
send  you  the  money  at  once.  I  know 
that  this  is  very  dreadful,  but  I  have  no 
one  in  America  to  do  it  for  me,  and 
Annette  writes,  urging  me  to  send  it 
at  once,  as  a  miracle  has  come  to  pass, 
and  he  wishes  to  go  to  France  to  see 
her. 

You  see,  I  trust  you,  in  giving  you 
the  address  of  this  man  who  would  tell 
you  all  about  me.  I  will  send  you  the 
money  in  English  banknotes,  registered, 
care  Harper  Brothers. 

Thanking  you  a  thousand  times  in 
advance,  believe  me  to  be  sincerely  your 
friend,  W.  Z. 

LETTER  XXI. 

May  20,  THE  LABORATORY. 

Thank  you  for  trusting  me.  Pere 
Bonnet  has  his  money,  and  as  I  sent  no 
address  he  could  not  write  to  acknow- 
ledge it,  and  I  know  no  more  of  you, 
dear  Lady  of  the  Beeches,  than  I  did 
before.  That  is  —  do  I  not  ?  Am  I  not 
learning  to  know  so  much  that  it  is  more 
than  just  as  well  that  I  know  no  more  ? 
Thank  you  for  signing  the  initials  of 
your  name,  and  thank  you  again  for 
trusting  me. 

I  am  tormented  by  an  insane  desire 
to  tell  you  my  name,  but  I  dare  not. 
I  know  you  would  snub  me,  and  possibly 
you  might  never  write  me  again.  So 
good-by.  *  I  have  been  writing  to  you 
for  hours  with  this  result. 

C.  R.  S. 
Bettina  von  Hutten. 


(To  be  continued.) 


Walks  with  J2llery   Channing. 


27 


WALKS   WITH   ELLERY   CHANNING. 


THE  following  extracts  from  the  MS. 
diaries  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  are 
here  for  the  first  time  offered  to  the 
public,  with  the  consent  of  his  children. 
They  describe  with  utter  frankness  his 
walks,  talks,  and  excursions  with  his 
younger  neighbor  and  friend,  the  late 
William  Ellery  Channing,  usually  known 
as  Ellery  Channing,  to  distinguish  him 
from  his  uncle  and  godfather,  the  emi- 
nent divine.  The  younger  Channing 
resided  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
in  Concord,  and  clearly  inspired  in  Em- 
erson much  admiration  for  his  rare  gifts, 
as  well  as  a  warm  affection  for  his  way- 
ward and  recluse  temperament.  This 
combination  of  feeling  shows  Emerson 
in  a  light  almost  wholly  new  to  the  gen- 
eral reader,  exhibiting  him,  not  merely 
as  a  warm  and  even  tender  friend,  but 
as  one  fully  able  to  recognize  the  limita- 
tions and  even  defects  of  the  man  he  loved 
.and  to  extend  to  him,  when  needful,  the 
frankest  criticism.  With  all  our  previous 
knowledge  of  Emerson,  it  may  yet  be 
truly  said  that  he  has  nowhere  been  re- 
vealed in  so  sweet  and  lovable  a  light 
as  in  these  detached  fragments.  His 
relations  with  Thoreau  may  have  come 
nearest  to  this  friendship  with  Channing ; 
but  in  dealing  with  the  self-reliant  Tho- 
reau, he  had  not  to  face  a  nature  so  com- 
plex, so  shy,  or  so  difficult  to  reach.  It 
might  well  be  of  this  friendship 'that  Em- 
erson wrote,  in  his  essay  bearing  that 
title,  "  Let  it  be  an  alliance  of  two  large 
formidable  natures,  mutually  beheld,  mu- 
tually feared,  before  yet  they  recognize 
the  deep  identity  which  beneath  these  dis- 
parities unites  them." 

T.  W.  H. 

Probably  1841.  10  December.  A 
good  visit  to  Boston,  saw  S.  G.  W. 
[Ward]  and  Ellery  [Channing]  to  ad- 
vantage. E.  has  such  an  affectionate 


speech  and  a  tone  that  is  tremulous  with 
emotion,  that  he  is  a  flower  in  the  wind. 

Ellery  said  his  poems  were  proper  love 
poems  ;  and  they  were  really  genuine 
fruits  of  a  fine,  light,  gentle,  happy  in- 
tercourse with  his  friends.  C.'s  [Chan- 
ning's]  eyes  are  a  compliment  to  the  hu- 
man race  ;  that  steady  look  from  year 
to  year  makes  Phidian  Sculpture  and 
Poussin  landscape  still  real  and  contem- 
porary, and  a  poet  might  well  dedicate 
himself  to  the  fine  task  of  expressing 
their  genius  in  verse. 

1843.  Ellery,  who  hopes  there  wiU 
be  no  cows  in  heaven,  has  discovered 
what  cows  are  for,  namely,  it  was  two- 
fold, (1)  to  make  easy  walking  where 
they  had  fed,  and  (2)  to  give  the  farm- 
ers something  to  do  in  summer-time.  All 
this  haying  comes  at  midsummer  be- 
tween planting  and  harvest  when  all 
hands  would  be  idle  but  for  this  cow  and 
ox  which  must  be  fed  and  mowed  for ; 
and  thus  intemperance  and  the  progress 
of  crime  are  prevented. 

20  May.  Walked  with  Ellery.  In 
the  landscape  felt  the  magic  of  color; 
the  world  is  all  opal,  and  those  ethereal 
tints  the  mountains  wear  have  the  finest 
effects  of  music  upon  us.  Mountains 
are  great  poets,  and  one  glance  at  this 
fine  cliff  scene  undoes  a  great  deal  of 
prose  and  reinstates  us  wronged  men  in 
our  rights. 

Ellery  thinks  that  very  few  men  carry 
the  world  in  their  thoughts.  But  the  ac- 
tual of  it  is  thus,  that  every  man  of  me- 
diocre health  stands  there  for  the  sup- 
port of  fourteen  or  fifteen  sick ;  and 
though  it  were  easy  to  get  his  own  bread 
with  little  labor,  yet  the  other  fourteen 
damn  him  to  toil. 

Ellery  said  the  village  [of  Concord] 
did  not  look  so  very  bad  from  our  point ; 
the  three  churches  looked  like  geese 
swimming  about  in  a  pond. 


28 


Walks  with  JZllery  Channing. 


W.  E.  C.  railed  an  hour  in  good  set 
terms  at  the  usurpation  of  the  past,  at  the 
great  hoaxes  of  the  Homers  and  Shake- 
speares,  hindering  the  books  and  the  men 
of  to-day  of  their  just  meed.  Oh,  cer- 
tainly !  I  assure  him  that  the  oaks  and 
the  horse-chestnuts  are  entirely  obsolete, 
that  the  Horticultural  Society  are  about 
to  recommend  the  introduction  of  cab- 
bage as  a  shade  tree,  so  much  more  con- 
venient and  every  way  comprehensible ; 
all  grown  from  the  seed  upward  to  its 
most  generous  crumpled  extremity  with- 
in one's  own  short  memory,  past  contra- 
diction the  ornament  of  the  world,  and 
then  so  good  to  eat,  as  acorns  and  horse- 
chestnuts  are  not.  Shade  trees  for  break- 
fast. 

Ellery's  poetry  shows  the  art,  though 
the  poems  are  imperfect ;  as  the  first  da- 
guerres  are  grim  things,  yet  show  that  a 
great  engine  has  been  invented. 

Ellery's  verses  should  be  called  poetry 
for  poets.  They  touch  the  fine  pulses  of 
thought  and  will  be  the  cause  of  more 
poetry  and  of  verses  more  finished  and 
better  turned  than  themselves ;  but  I 
cannot  blame  the  N.  Americans  [N.  A. 
Reviews  J  and  Knickerbockers  if  they 
should  not  suspect  his  genius.  When 
the  rudder  is  invented  for  balloons,  rail- 
roads will  be  superseded,  and  when  El- 
lery's muse  finds  an  aim,  whether  some 
passion,  or  some  fast  faith,  and  kind  of 
string  on' which  all  these  wild  and  some- 
times brilliant  beads  can  be  strung,  we 
shall  have  a  poet.  Now  he  fantasies 
merely,  as  dilettante  in  music.  He  breaks 
faith  continually  with  the  intellect.  The 
sonnet  has  merits,  fine  lines,  gleams  of 
deep  thought,  well  worth  sounding,  well 
worth  studying,  if  only  I  could  confide 
that  he  had  any  steady  meaning  before 
him,  that  he  kept  faith  with  himself  ;  but 
I  fear  that  he  changed  his  purpose  with 
every  verse,  was  led  up  and  down  to  this 
or  that  with  the  exigencies  of  the  rhyme, 
and  only  wanted  to  write  and  rhyme  some- 
what, careless  how  or  what,  and  stopped 
when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  paper. 


He  breaks  faith  with  the  reader,  wants 
integrity.  Yet,  for  poets,  it  will  be  a 
better  book  than  whole  volumes  of  Bry- 
ant and  Campbell. 

A  man  of  genius  is  privileged  only  as 
far  as  he  is  a  genius.  His  dullness  is  as 
insupportable  as  any  other  dullness.  Only 
success  will  justify  a  departure  and  a 
license.  But  Ellery  has  freaks  which 
are  entitled  to  no  more  charity  than  the 
dullness  or  madness  of  others,  which  he 
despises.  He  uses  a  license  continually 
which  would  be  just  in  oral  improvisa- 
tion, but  is  not  pardonable  in  written 
verses.  He  fantasies  on  his  piano. 

Elizabeth  Hoar  said  that  he  was  a 
wood-elf  which  one  of  the  maids  in  a 
story  fell  in  love  with  and  then  grew 
uneasy,  desiring  that  he  might  be  bap- 
tized. Margaret  [Fuller  ?]  said  he  re- 
minded one  of  a  great  Genius  with  a 
wretched  little  boy  trotting  before  him. 

1846.  Channing  thinks  life  looks 
great  and  inaccessible  and  constantly  at- 
tacks us,  and  notwithstanding  all  our 
struggles  is  eating  us  up. 

Sunday,  September  20.  Suffices  El- 
lery Channing  a  mood  for  a  poem. 
"  There,  I  have  sketched  more  or  less  in 
that  color  and  style.  You  have  a  sam- 
ple of  it,  what  more  would  you  get  if  I 
worked  on  forever  ?  "  He  has  no  pro- 
position to  affirm  or  support,  he  scorns 
it.  He  has,  first  of  all  Americans,  a 
natural  flow,  and  can  say  what  he  will. 
I  say  to  him,  if  I  could  write  as  well  as 
you,  I  would  write  a  good  deal  better. 

No  man  deserves  a  patron  until  first 
he  has  been  his  own.  What  do  you 
bring  us  slipshod  verses  for  ?  no  occa- 
sional delicacy  of  expression  or  music  of 
rhythm  can  atone  for  stupidities.  Here 
are  lame  verses,  false  rhymes,  absurd 
images,  which  you  indulge  yourself  in, 
which  is  as  if  a  handsome  person  should 
come  into  a  company  with  foul  hands  or 
face.  Read  Collins  !  Collins  would  have 
cut  his  hand  off  before  he  would  have 
left,  from  a  weak  self-esteem,  a  shabby 
line  in  his  ode. 


Walks  with  Ellery   Charming. 


29 


1847.  Channing   wished    we    had   a 
better  word  than  Nature  to  express  this 
fine  picture  which  the  river  gave  us  in 
our  boat,  yesterday.     "  Kind  "  was  the 
old  word  which,  however,  only  filled  half 
the  range  of  our  fine  Latin  word.     But 
nothing    expresses    that    power   which 
seems  to  work  for  beauty  alone,  as  C. 
said,  whilst   man  works    only  for   use. 
The  Mikania  scandens,  the  steel-blue 
berries  of  the  cornel,  the  eupatoriums 
enriched  now  and  then  by  a  well-placed 
cardinal  adorned  the  fine  shrubbery  with 
what  Channing  called  judicious  modest 
colors,  suited  to  the  climate,  nothing  ex- 
travagant, etc. 

1848.  I  find  W.  E.  C.  always  in  cun- 
ning contraries.     He   denies  the  books 
he  reads,  denies  the  friends  he  has  just 
visited ;    denies  his  own  acts  and  pur- 
poses :  "  By  God,  I  do  not  know  them," 
and  instantly  the  cock  crows.     The  per- 
petual non  sequitur  in  his  speeches  is  ir- 
resistibly comic. 

Ellery  affirms,  that  "James  Adams, 
the  cabinet  maker,  has  a  true  artistic 
eye ;  for  he  is  always  measuring  the 
man  he  talks  with  for  his  coffin." 

He  says  that  Hawthorne  agrees  with 
him  about  Washington,  that  he  is  the 
extreme  of  well-dressed  mediocrity. 

If  he  was  Mr.  Bowditch  [President 
qf  the  Life  Insurance  Company]  he 
would  never  insure  any  life  that  had  any 
infirmity  of  goodness  in  it.  It  is  Good- 
win who  will  catch  pickerel ;  if  he  had 
any  moral  traits,  he  'd  never  get  a  bite. 

He  says  writers  never  do  anything ; 
some  of  them  seem  to  do,  but  do  not. 
H.  T.  [Thoreau]  will  never  be  a  writer ; 
he  is  as  active  as  a  shoemaker.  The 
merit  of  Irving's  Life  of  Goldsmith  is 
that  he  has  not  had  the  egotism  to  put 
in  a  single  new  sentence  ;  't  is  agreeable 
repetition  of  Boswell,  Johnson  &  Com- 
pany ;  and  Montaigne  is  good,  because 
there  is  nothing  that  has  not  already 
been  cured  in  books.  A  good  book  be- 
ing a  Damascus  blade,  made  by  welding 
old  nails  and  horseshoes.  Everything 


has  seen  service,  and  had  wear  and  tear 
of  the  world  for  centuries,  and  now  the 
article  is  brand-new.  So  Pope  had  but 
one  good  line,  and  that  he  got  from 
Dry  den,  and  therefore  Pope  is  the  best 
and  only  readable  English  poet. 

Channing  has  a  painter's  eye,  an  ad- 
mirable appreciation  of  form  and  espe- 
cially of  color.  But  when  he  bought 
pigments  and  brushes,  and  painted  a 
landscape  with  fervor  on  a  barrel-head, 
he  could  not  draw  a  tree  so  that  his  wife 
could  surely  know  it  was  a  tree.  So  Al- 
cott,  the  philosopher,  has  not  an  opinion 
or  an  apothegm  to  produce. 

Ellery  C.  declared  that  wealth  is  ne- 
cessary to  every  woman,  for  then  she 
won't  ask  you  when  you  go  out  whether 
you  will  call  a  hack.  Every  woman  has 
a  design  on  you  —  all,  all  —  if  it  is  only 
just  a  little  message.  But  Mrs.  H.  rings 
for  her  black  servant. 

Ellery  was  witty  on  Xantippe  and  the 
philosophers  old  and  new ;  and  compared 
one  to  a  rocket  with  two  or  three  mill- 
stones tied  to  it,  or  to  a  colt  tethered 
to  a  barn. 

He  celebrates  Herrick  as  the  best  of 
English  poets,  a  true  Greek  in  England  ; 
a  great  deal  better  poet  than  Milton  who, 
he  says,  is  too  much  like  Dr.  Channing. 

Yesterday,  28  October.  Another  walk 
with  Ellery  well  worth  commemoration, 
if  that  were  possible  ;  but  no  pen  could 
write  what  we  saw.  It  needs  the  pencils 
of  all  the  painters  to  aid  the  description. 

November  19.  Yesterday,  a  cold  fine 
ride  with  Ellery  to  Sudbury  Inn  and 
mounted  the  side  of  Nobscot.  'T  is  a 
pretty  revolution  effected  in  the  land- 
scape by  turning  your  head  upside  down  ; 
an  infinite  softness  and  loveliness  is  add- 
ed to  the  picture.  Ellery  declared  it 
made  Campagna  of  it  at  once  ;  so,  he  said, 
Massachusetts  is  Italy  upside  down. 

26  November.  Yesterday  walked  over 
Lincoln  hills  with  Ellery  and  saw  golden 
willows,  savins  with  two  foliages,  old 
chestnuts,  apples  as  ever. 

"  What  fine  weather  is  this,"  said  El- 


30 


Walks  with  Ellery   Channing. 


lery,  as  we  rode  to  Acton,  "  nothing  of 
immortality  here ! " 

"  Life  is  so  short,"  said  he,  "  that  I 
should  think  that  everybody  would  steal." 

"  I  like  Stow.  He  is  a  very  good  char- 
acter. There  is  only  a  spoonful  of  wit, 
and  ten  thousand  feet  of  sandstone." 

He  told  Edmund  Hosmer  that  he  "  did 
not  see  but  trouble  was  as  good  as  any- 
thing else  if  you  only  had  enough  of  it." 

He  says  "  Humour  is  unlaughed  fun." 

He  said  of  Stow's  poor  Irishman  that 
he  "  died  of  too  much  perspiration." 

He  thinks  our  Thurston's  disease  is 
"  a  paralysis  of  talent." 

Of  H.D.  T.  [Thoreau]  he  said,  "  Why, 
yes,  he  has  come  home,  but  now  he  has 
got  to  maximize  the  minimum,  and  that 
will  take  him  some  days."  [This  irresist- 
ibly suggests  Thoreau's  noted  sentence, 
"  I  have  traveled  a  great  deal  —  in  Con- 
cord."] 

[Apparently  a  quotation  from  Ellery 
Channing's  talk.]  "  Drive  a  donkey 
and  beat  him  with  a  pole  with  both  hands 
—  that 's  action ;  but  poetry  is  revolu- 
tion on  its  own  axis." 

He  says  he  has  an  immense  dispersive 
power. 

"  How  well  they  [the  stars]  wear  !  " 
He  thought  a  man  could  still  get  along 
with  them,  who  was  considerably  re- 
duced in  his  circumstances  ;  they  are  a 
kind  of  bread  and  cheese  which  never 
fail. 

1849,  November  17.  Yesterday  saw 
the  fields  covered  with  cobwebs  in  every 
direction,  on  which  the  wake  of  the  set- 
ting sun  appeared  as  on  water.  Walked 
over  hill  and  dale  with  Channing,  who 
found  wonders  of  color  and  landscape 
everywhere,  but  complained  of  the  want 
of  invention :  "  Why,  they  had  frozen 
water  last  year  ;  why  should  they  do  it 
again  ?  Therefore  it  was  so  easy  to  be 
an  artist,  because  they  do  the  same  thing 
always,  and  therefore  he  only  wants  time 
to  make  him  perfect  in  the  imitation; 
and  I  believe,  too,  that  pounding  is  one 
of  the  secrets."  All  summer  he  gets 


water  au  naturel,  and  in  winter  they 
serve  it  up  artistically  in  this  crystal 
johnny-cake;  and  he  had  observed  the 
same  thing  at  the  confectioners'  shops, 
that  he  could  never  get  but  one  thing 
there,  though  [they]  had  two  ways  of 
making  it  up. 

14  December.  Every  day  shows  a 
new  thing  to  veteran  walkers.  Yester- 
day, reflections  of  trees  in  the  ice ;  snow- 
flakes,  perfect,  on  the  ice ;  beautiful 
groups  of  icicles  all  along  the  eastern 
shore  of  Flint's  Pond,  in  which,  espe- 
cially where  encrusting  the  bough  of  a 
tree,  you  have  the  union  of  the  most 
flowing  with  the  most  fixed.  Ellery  all 
the  way  squandering  his  jewels  as  if  they 
were  icicles,  sometimes  not  comprehend- 
ed by  me,  sometimes  not  heard.  "  How 
many  days  can  Methusalem  go  abroad 
and  see  somewhat  new  ?  When  will  he 
have  counted  the  changes  of  the  kaleido- 
scope ?  " 

1850.  Then  came  the  difference  be- 
tween American  and  English  scholars. 
H.  said  the  English  were  all  bred  in  one 
way,  to  one  thing,  they  went  to  Eton, 
they  went  to  college,  they  went  to  Lon- 
don, they  all  knew  each  other  and  never 
did  not  feel  [i.  e.,  never  doubted]  the 
ability  of  each.  But  here  Channing  is 
obscure,  Newcomb  is  obscure,  and  so  all 
the  scholars  are  in  a  more  natural,  health- 
ful, and  independent  condition. 

W.  E.  C.  said  A.  [Alcott]  is  made  of 
earth  and  fire  ;  he  wants  air  and  water. 
How  fast  all  this  magnetism  would  lick 
up  water!  He  discharges  himself  in 
volleys.  Can  you  not  hear  him  snap 
when  you  are  near  him  ? 

1852.  Walk  with  Ellery  to  Lincoln ; 
benzoin,  laurus,  rich  beautiful  plant  in 
this  dried-up  country  ;  parti-colored  war- 
bler. E.  laughed  at  Nuttall's  descrip- 
tion of  birds,  "  On  the  top  of  a  high  tree 
the  bird  pours  all  day  the  lays  of  affec- 
tion," etc.  Affection  !  Why,  what  is  it  ? 
A  few  feathers,  with  a  hole  at  one  end, 
and  a  point  at  the  other,  and  a  pair  of 
wings ;  Affection !  Why,  just  as  much 


Walks  with  Ellery  Channing. 


31 


affection  as  there  is  in  that  lump  of  peat. 
We  went  to  Bear  Hill,  and  had  a  fine 
outlook.  Descending,  E.  got  sightof  some 
laborers  in  the  field  below.  Look  at  them, 
he  said,  those  four !  four  demoniacs 
scratching  in  their  cell  of  pain  !  Live 
for  the  hour !  Just  as  much  as  any  man 
has  done  or  laid  up  in  any  way,  unfits 
him  for  conversation.  He  has  done  some- 
thing, makes  him  good  for  boys,  but  spoils 
him  for  the  hour.  That 's  the  good  of 
Thoreau,  that  he  puts  his  whole  sublu- 
nary capital  into  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour  ;  carries  his  whole  stock  under  his 
arm.  At  home  I  found  H.  T.  [Thoreau] 
himself  who  complained  of  Clough  or 
somebody  that  he  or  they  recited  to  every 
one  at  table,  the  paragraph  just  read  by 
him  or  them  in  the  last  newspaper,  and 
studiously  avoided  everything  private.  I 
should  think  he  was  complaining  of  one 
H.  D.  T.  [Thoreau  himself]. 

1853.  Yesterday  a  ride  to  Bedford 
with  Ellery  along  the  "  Bedford  Levels  " 
and  walked  all  over  the  premises  of  the 
Old  Mill,  King  Philip's  mill,  —  on  the 
Shawsheen  River  ;  old  mill,  with  sundry 
nondescript  wooden  antiquities.  Boys 
with  bare  legs  were  fishing  on  the  little 
islet  in  the  stream  ;  we  crossed  and  re- 
crossed,  saw  the  fine  stumps  of  trees, 
rocks  and  groves,  and  many  Collot  views 
of  the  bare  legs  ;  beautiful  pastoral  coun- 
try, but  needs  sunshine.  There  were 
millions  of  light  to-day,  so  all  went  well 
(all  but  the  dismal  tidings  which  knelled 
a  funeral  bell  through  the  whole  after- 
noon, in  the  death  of  S.  S.). 

Rich  democratic  land  of  Massachu- 
setts, in  every  house  well-dressed  women 
with  air  of  town  ladies  ;  in  every  house 
a  clavecin  [harpsichord]  and  a  copy  of 
the  Spectator ;  and  some  young  lady  a 
reader  of  Willis.  Channing  did  not  like 
the  landscape  ;  too  many  leaves  —  one 
leaf  is  like  another  and  apt  to  be  agi- 
tated by  east  wind,  on  the  other  hand 
"  Professor  "  (Ellery's  dog)  strode  grave- 
ly as  a  bear  through  all  the  sentimental 
parts  and  fitted  equally  well  the  grave  and 


the  gay  scenes.  He  has  a  stroke  of  humor 
in  his  eye,  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  master's 
jokes  —  Ellery  "  thinks  England  a  flash 
in  the  pan ;  "  as  English  people  in  1848 
had  agreed  that  Egypt  was  humbug.  I 
am  to  put  down  among  the  monomaniacs 
the  English  agriculturist,  who  only  knows 
one  revolution  in  political  history,  the 
rape-culture.  But  as  we  rode,  one  thing 
was  clear,  as  oft  before,  that  is  favora- 
ble to  sanity  —  the  occasional  change  of 
landscape.  If  a  girl  is  mad  to  marry, 
let  her  take  a  ride  of  ten  miles,  and  see 
meadows,  and  mountains,  she  never  saw 
before,  two  villages  and  an  old  mansion 
house  and  the  odds  are,  it  will  change 
all  her  resolutions.  World  is  full  of  fools, 
who  get  a-going  and  never  stop ;  set  them 
off  on  another  tack,  and  they  are  half- 
cured.  From  Shawsheen  we  went  to  Bur- 
lington ;  and  E.  reiterated  his  conviction, 
that  the  only  art  in  the  world  is  land- 
scape-painting. The  boys  held  up  their 
fish  to  us  from  far  ;  a  broad  new  pla- 
card on  the  Brails  announced  to  us  that 
the  Shawsheen  mill  was  for  sale ;  but  we 
bought  neither  the  fish  nor  the  mill. 

1854.  Delicious  summer  stroll  through 
the  endless  pastures  of  Barrett,  Buttrick, 
and  Esterbrook  farms,  yesterday,  with 
Ellery ;  the  glory  of  summer,  what  mag- 
nificence !  yet  one  night  of  frost  will  kill 
it  all.  E.  was  witty  on  the  Biographie 
Universelle  —  de  soi-meme.  H.  D.  T. 
had  been  made  to  print  his  house  into  his 
title-page,  in  order  that  A.  might  have 
that  to  stick  into  one  volume  of  the  B.  U. 
[Probably  referring  to  Alcott's  volumi- 
nous journals.] 

1856.  November  15.  Walk  with 
Ellery,  who  finds  in  Nature  or  man  that 
whatever  is  done  for  beauty  or  in  sport 
is  excellent;  but  the  moment  there  is 
any  use  in  it,  or  any  kind  of  talent,  't  is 
very  bad  and  stupid.  The  fox-sparrows 
and  the  blue  snow-birds  pleased  him,  and 
the  water-cresses  which  we  saw  in  the 
brook,  but  which  he  said  were  not  in 
any  botany. 

When  I  said  of  Ellery's  new  verses 


32 


Walks  with  Ellery   Channing. 


that  they  were  as  good  as  the  old  ones, 
"  Yes,"  said  Ward, "  but  those  were  excel- 
lent promise  and  now  he  does  no  more." 
He  has  a  more  poetic  temperament  than 
any  other  in  America,  but  the  artistic  ex- 
ecutive power  of  completing  a  design  he 
has  not.  His  poetry  is  like  the  artless 
warbling  of  a  vireo,  which  whistles  pret- 
tily all  day  and  all  summer  on  the  elm, 
but  never  rounds  a  tune,  nor  can  increase 
the  value  of  melody  by  the  power  of  com- 
position and  cuneiform  [sic"\  determina- 
tion. He  must  have  construction  also. 

As  Linnaeus  delighted  in  a  new  flower 
which  alone  gave  him  a  seventh  class,  or 
filled  a  gap  in  his  system,  so  I  know  a 
man  who  served  as  intermediate  between 
two  notable  acquaintances  of  mine,  not 
else  to  be  approximated,  and  W.  E.  C. 
served  as  a  companion  of  H.  D.  T.,  and 
T.  of  C.  [Thoreau  of  Channing]. 

In  answer  to  evidences  of  immortal- 
ity, Ellery  said,  "  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  self-importance,  and  the  good  Orien- 
tal who  cuts  such  a  figure  was  bit  by 
this  fly." 

He  said  of  Boston,  "  There  is  a  city 
of  130,000  people,  and  not  a  chair  in 
which  I  can  sit." 

There  often  seems  so  little  affinity  be- 
tween him  and  his  works  that  it  seems 
as  if  the  wind  must  have  written  the 
book  and  not  he. 

1859.  Secondary  men  and  primary 
men.  These  travelers  to  Europe,  these 
readers  of  books,  these  youths  rushing 
into  counting-rooms  of  successful  mer- 
chants, are  all  imitators,  and  we  get 
only  the  same  product  weaker.  But  the 
man  who  never  so  slowly  and  patiently 
works  out  his  native  thoughts  is  a  pri- 
mary person. 

Ellery  said,  looking  at  a  golden-rod, 
"  Ah !  here  they  are.  These  things  con- 
sume a  great  deal  of  time.  I  don't 
know  but  they  are  of  more  importance 
than  any  other  of  our  investments." 

Glad  of  Ellery's  cordial  praise  of 
Carlyle's  history,  which  he  thinks  well 
entitled  to  be  called  a  "  Work,"  far  su- 


perior to  his  early  books  ;  wondered  at 
his  imagination  which  can  invest  with 
such  interest  to  himself  these  (one  would 
think)  hopeless  details  of  German  story. 
He  is  the  only  man  who  knows.     What 
a  reader,  such  as  abound  in  New  Eng- 
land, enwreathed  by  the  thoughts  they 
suggest  to  a  contemplative  pilgrim. 
"Unsleeping  truths  by  which  wheels  on 
Heaven's  prime." 

There  is  a  neglect  of  superficial  cor- 
rectness which  looks  a  little  studied,  as 
if  perhaps  the  poet  challenged  notice  to 
his  subtler  melody,  and  strokes  of  skill 
which  recall  the  great  masters.  There 
is  nothing  conventional  in  the  thought 
or  the  illustration,  but  "  thoughts  that 
voluntary  move  harmonious  numbers," 
and  pictures  seen  by  an  instructed  eye. 

Channing,  who  writes  a  poem  for  our 
fields,  begins  to  help  us.  That  is  con- 
struction, and  better  than  running  to 
Charlemagne  and  Alfred  for  subjects. 

W.  E.  C.'s  poetry  is  wanting  in  clear 
statement.  Rembrandt  makes  effects 
without  details,  gives  you  the  effect  of  a 
sharp  nose  or  a  gazing  eye,  when,  if  you 
look  close,  there  is  no  point  to  the  nose, 
and  no  eye  is  drawn.  W.  M.  Hunt  ad- 
mires this,  and  in  his  own  painting  puts 
his  eye  in  deep  shadow ;  but  I  miss  the 
eye,  and  the  face  seems  to  nod  for  want 
of  it.  And  Ellery  makes  a  hazy,  indefi- 
nite expression,  as  of  miscellaneous  music 
without  any  theme  or  tune.  Still  it  is  an 
autumnal  air,  and  like  the  smell  of  the 
herb,  Life  Everlasting  and  syngenesious 
flowers.  Near  Home  is  a  poem  which 
would  delight  the  heart  of  Wordsworth, 
though  genuinely  original  and  with  a  sim- 
plicity of  plan  which  allows  the  writer  to 
leave  out  all  the  prose.  'T  is  a  series  of 
sketches  of  natural  objects. 

W.  E.  C.,  the  model  of  opinionists,  or 
weather  painters.  He  has  it  his  own  way. 
People  whose  watches  go  faster  than 
their  neighbors'. 

1861.  March  26.  Yesterday  wrote 
to  F.  G.  Tuckerman  to  thank  him  for 
his  book  [Poems.  Boston  :  1860],  and 


Walks  with  JZllery   Channing. 


33 


praised  Rhotruda  [a  poem].  EHery  C. 
finds  two  or  three  good  lines  and  metres 
in  the  book ;  thinks  it  refined  and  deli- 
cate, but  says  the  young  people  run  on  a 
notion  that  they  must  name  the  flowers, 
talk  about  an  orchis,  and  say  something 
about  Indians;  but  he  says,  "I  prefer 
passion  and  sense  and  genius  to  botany." 

Ellery  says  of  Tennyson,  "What  is 
best  is  the  things  he  does  not  say." 

He  thinks  these  frogs  at  Walden  are 
very  curious  but  final  facts ;  that  they 
will  never  be  disappointed  by  finding 
themselves  raised  to  a  higher  state  of 
intelligence. 

Here  is  a  right  bit  of  Ellery  C. : 
"  Helps's  book,  called  Friends  in  Coun- 
cil, is  inexpressibly  dull."  "  In  this 
manufacture  the  modern  English  excel. 
Witness  their  Taylors,  Wordsworths, 
Arnolds  and  Scotts  (not  Walter).  Wise, 
elegant,  moderate,  and  cultivated,  yet 
unreadable." 

Ellery  says  of  Thoreau :  "  His  effects 
can  all  be  produced  by  cork  and  sand ; 
but  the  substance  that  produces  them  is 
godlike  and  divine."  And  of  C.  [Cur- 
tis ?],  "  Yes,  he  would  make  a  very 
good  draughtsman,  if  he  had  any  talent 
for  it." 

October  24.  A  ride  yesterday  to 
Marlborough,  though  projected  for  years, 
was  no  good  use  of  the  day.  That  town 
has  a  most  rich  appearance  of  rural 
plenty,  and  comfort ;  ample  farms,  good 
houses,  profusion  of  apples,  pumpkins, 
etc.  Yellow  apple  heaps  in  every  en- 
closure, whole  orchards  left  ungathered, 
and  in  the  Grecian  piazzas  of  houses, 
pumpkins  ripening  between  the  columns. 
At  Gates's,  where  Dr.  Channing  and  Mr. 
Jonas  Phillips  used  to  resort,  they  no 
longer  keep  a  public  house,  closed  it 
to  the  public  last  spring.  At  Cutting's, 
though  there  were  oats  for  the  horse, 
there  was  no  dinner  for  men,  —  so  we 
repaired  to  the  chestnut  woods  and  an 
old  orchard,  for  ours.  Ellery,  who  is  a 
perpetual  holiday,  and  ought  only  to  be 
used  like  an  oriflamme  or  a  garland  for 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  3 


May-days  and  parliaments  of  wit  and 
love,  was  no  better  to-day  nor  half  so 
good  as  in  some  walks. 

Ellery  says  :  "  What  a  climate ! 
one  day  they  take  the  cover  off  the  sun, 
and  all  the  Irishmen  die  of  drinking  cold 
water  ;  and  the  next  day  you  are  up  to 
your  knees  in  snow." 

He  admires,  as  ever,  the  greatness  in 
Wilhelm  Meister.  "It  is  no  matter 
what  Goethe  writes  about.  There  is  no 
trifle ;  much  superior  to  Shakespeare  in 
this  elevation." 

A.  B.  A.  [Alcott]  said  of  W.  E.  C. 
that  he  had  the  keen  appetite  for  society 
with  extreme  repulsion,  so  that  it  came 
to  a  kind  of  commerce  of  cats,  love  and 
hate,  embrace  and  fighting. 

Ellery  thinks  that  he  is  the  lucky  man 
who  can  write  in  bulk,  forty  pages  on  a 
hiccough,  ten  pages  on  a  man's  sitting 
down  in  a  chair  (like  Hawthorne,  etc.) 
that  will  go.  [Evidently  referring  to 
the  marvelous  chapter  in  the  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables,  where  Governor 
Pyncheon  sits  dead  in  the  lonely  room.] 

Ellery  thinks  that  these  waterside  cot- 
tagers of  Nahant  and  Chelsea,  and  so  on, 
never  see  the  sea.  There,  it  is  all  dead 
water,  and  a  place  for  dead  horses,  and 
the  smell  of  Mr.  Kip's  omnibus  stable. 
But  go  to  Truro,  and  go  to  the  beach 
there,  on  the  Atlantic  side,  and  you  will 
have  every  stroke  of  the  sea  like  the 
cannon  of  the  "  sea-fencibles  "  [old-fash- 
ioned military  companies  for  coast  de- 
fense]. There  is  a  solitude  which  you 
cannot  stand  more  than  ten  minutes. 

He  thinks  the  fine  art  of  Goethe  and 
company  very  dubious,  and  't  is  doubtful 
whether  Sam  Ward  is  quite  in  his  senses 
in  his  value  of  that  book  of  prints  of  old 
Italian  school,  Giotto  and  the  rest.  It 
may  do  for  very  idle  gentlemen,  etc., 
etc.  I  reply,  There  are  a  few  giants 
who  gave  the  thing  vogue  by  their  real- 
ism, Michel  Angelo  and  Ribiera  and 
Salvator  Rosa,  and  the  man  who  made 
the  old  Torso  Hercules  and  the  Phidias 
—  man  or  men  who  made  the  Parthenon 


34 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


reliefs  —  had  a  drastic  style  which  a 
blacksmith  or  a  stone-mason  would  say 
was  starker  than  their  own.  And  I 
adhere  to  [Van  Waagen's  ?]  belief,  that 
there  is  a  pleasure  from  works  of  art 
which  nothing  else  can  yield. 

1862.  Matthew  Arnold  writes  well 
of  "the  grand  style,"  but  the  secret  of 
that  is  a  finer  moral  sentiment.  'Tis 
very  easy  for  Alcott  to  talk  grandly,  he 
will  make  no  mistake.  'Tis  certain 
that  the  poetic  temperament  of  W.  E.  C. 
will  utter  lines  and  passages  inimitable 
by  any  talent;  'tis  wood-thrush  and 
cat-bird. 

His  talk  is  criss-cross,  humorsome, 
humorous.  I  tormented  my  memory 


just  now  in  vain  to  restore  a  witty  criti- 
cism of  his,  yesterday,  on  a  book. 

1864.  On  the  24th  of  September 
Ellery  and  I  walked  through  Becky 
Stow's  hole  dry-shod  ;  hitherto  a  feat 
for  a  muskrat  alone. 

This  year  the  river  meadows  all  dry 
and  permeable  to  the  walker.  But  why 
should  Nature  always  be  on  the  gallop  ? 
Look  now,  and  instantly,  or  you  shall 
never  see  it.  Not  ten  minutes'  repose 
allowed.  Incessant  whirl  ?  And  Jt  is 
the  same,  I  thought,  with  my  compan- 
ion's genius.  You  must  carry  a  steno- 
graphic press  in  your  pocket  if  you  would 
have  his  commentaries  on  things  and 
men  or  they  are  irrecoverable. 


TWO  YEARS'  LEGISLATION  IN  PORTO   RICO. 


THE  WORK  OF  THE  FIRST  LEGISLATIVE  ASSEMBLY   OF  PORTO  RICO, 

1900-1902. 


THE  problem  of  endowing  our  new- 
ly acquired  insular  possessions  with  po- 
litical institutions  and  systems  of  law  at 
once  conforming  to  American  ideals  of 
individual  liberty  and  political  justice, 
and  yet  adapted  to  the  peculiar  condi- 
tions in  each  island  and  the  character 
of  its  inhabitants,  constitutes  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  many  responsibilities  now 
resting  upon  the  American  people.  Of 
the  various  possessions  to  which  this 
problem  relates  Porto  Rico  occupies  an 
unique  position  from  the  fact  that  it  is 
the  first  of  the  possessions  coming  to  us 
from  Spain  to  be  granted  a  civil  govern- 
ment and  a  considerable  measure  of 
local  autonomy.  It  is  in  this  island, 
then,  that  the  United  States  is  really 
making  its  first  essay  in  the  field  of 
governing  a  dependency.  The  capacity 
of  the  United  States  to  govern  another 
people  may  be  said  there  to  be  on  trial. 
More  than  this,  it  is  certain  that  the  re- 


sults there  actually  accomplished  will 
exercise  a  profound  influence  upon  the 
management  of  affairs  in  our  other  pos- 
sessions. If  the  policies  pursued  in 
Porto  Rico  meet  with  success,  they  will 
undoubtedly  be  used  as  a  guide  for  action 
elsewhere.  Everything,  therefore,  that 
is  done  in  Porto  Rico  in  the  way  of  work- 
ing out  the  problem  of  government  and 
administration  assumes  an  interest  and 
importance  to  the  whole  United  States 
almost  as  great  as  to  Porto  Rico  itself. 

Civil  government  was  organized  in 
Porto  Rico  on  May  1,  1900.  Its  con- 
stitution is  found  in  the  so-called  "  For- 
aker  Act,"  approved  by  Congress  April 
12,  1900,  which  provides  the  Organic 
Act  under  which  civil  government  is  es- 
tablished on  the  island.  This  act  did 
little  more  than  set  forth  the  bare  out- 
lines of  a  scheme  of  central  government, 
leaving  to  the  Porto  Ricans  its  subsequent 
elaboration.  Briefly,  the  act  provided 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


35 


that  the  government  of  the  island  should 
be  administered  by  a  Governor  and  six 
chiefs  of  executive  departments  known 
as  the  Secretary,  the  Attorney-General, 
the  Treasurer,  the  Auditor,  the  Commis- 
sioner of  the  Interior,  and  the  Commis- 
sioner of  Education,  all  appointed  by  the 
President  with  the  advice  and  consent 
of  the  Senate.  The  exercise  of  legisla- 
tive powers  was  vested  in  a  Legislative 
Assembly  consisting  of  an  Executive 
Council,  or  upper  house,  and  a  House  of 
Delegates,  or  lower  house.  The  Execu- 
tive Council  was  composed  of  eleven 
members,  —  the  six  chiefs  of  executive 
departments  already  named,  and  five 
others,  citizens  of  Porto  Rico,  appointed 
by  the  President.  The  House  of  Dele- 
gates was  made  to  consist  of  thirty-five 
members,  to  be  elected  by  the  people  of 
Porto  Rico.  The  Governor  was  given 
the  usual  power  of  veto  of  legislation, 
while  Congress  remained  the  final  au- 
thority with  full  power  to  legislate  re- 
garding the  affairs  of  the  island  in  any 
particular. 

While  Congress  thus  provided  for  a 
form  of  insular  government,  it  made  al- 
most no  provision  regarding  the  funda- 
mental laws  that  should  regulate  Porto 
Rican  affairs.  The  greatest  freedom 
was  given  to  the  newly  constituted  gov- 
ernment to  work  out  the  great  problems 
of  revenue,  of  education,  of  public  works, 
of  local  government,  and,  in  fact,  of 
practically  every  question  requiring  the 
exercise  of  governmental  authority.  A 
great  responsibility  was  thus  thrown 
upon  the  persons  entrusted  with  the  ad- 
ministration of  affairs  in  the  island. 
Whether  the  bestowal  of  so  large  a 
measure  of  independent  government  was 
or  was  not  a  wise  act  would  be  deter- 
mined according  to  the  way  in  which 
the  great  powers  entrusted  to  those  in 
authority  were  exercised  by  them.  The 
two  sessions  of  the  first  Legislative  As- 
sembly have  now  been  held,  the  first 
sitting  for  sixty  days  in  the  months  of 
December,  1900,  and  January,  1901, 


and  the  second  during  the  months  of 
January  and  February,  1902,  and  it  is 
a  matter  of  no  little  interest  to  attempt 
to  sum  up  the  manner  in  which  it  has 
performed  its  novel  duties  and  the  ex- 
tent to  which  it  has  met  the  great  re- 
sponsibilities thrown  upon  it. 

Properly  to  appreciate  the  work  of 
these  two  sessions  it  is  necessary  to  un- 
derstand something  of  the  conditions 
under  which  the  law-makers  worked. 
As  the  Legislative  Assembly  of  Porto 
Rico  is  organized,  the  American  mem- 
bers of  the  government,  constituting  a 
majority  of  the  Executive  Council,  are 
able  to  control  the  action  of  that  body. 
The  lower  house  is  composed  entirely 
of  representatives  elected  by  the  people 
of  Porto  Rico,  and,  therefore,  represents 
the  will  of  the  island  in  respect  to  all 
matters.  The  consequence  of  this  con- 
dition of  affairs  is  that  though  the  Execu- 
tive Council  and  the  Governor  through 
his  power  t>f  veto  can  prevent  legislation 
which  they  believe  to  be  undesirable, 
they  cannot  secure  legislation  that  they 
may  desire  without  the  consent  of  the 
lower  house.  Any  measure  to  become 
a  law  must,  therefore,  meet  with  the  ap- 
proval of  both  the  representatives  of  the 
United  States  and  of  Porto  Rico. 

Generally  speaking,  the  essential  point 
of  difference  between  the  two  bodies  is 
that  of  location  of  power  in  the  central 
or  insular  government,  or  in  the  local 
or  municipal  governments.  The  Ameri- 
can representatives  feel  the  necessity  for 
exercising  a  considerable  degree  of  con- 
trol for  some  years  to  come,  and  this 
control  they  can  only  exercise  through 
the  insular  government.  The  Porto 
Ricans,  however,  almost  without  excep- 
tion, are  demanding  a  greater  voice  in 
affairs,  and  as  they  absolutely  control 
local  government  in  the  island  they  de- 
sire to  have  governmental  duties  and 
functions  as  far  as  possible  made  muni- 
cipal functions.  This  essential  differ- 
ence in  the  positions  of  the  American 
and  the  Porto  Rican  representatives  in 


36 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


the  Assembly  must  always  be  borne  in 
mind  in  the  framing  of  any  policy  af- 
fecting the  political  institutions  of  the 
country.  Not  a  measure  can  be  brought 
forward,  whether  regarding  the  organi- 
zation of  a  system  of  taxation,  of  a  pub- 
lic health  service,  of  the  regulation  of 
industry,  or  what  not,  but  that  it  is  sub- 
jected to  the  closest  scrutiny  of  the  House 
of  Delegates  with  a  view  to  determining 
if  its  administration  cannot  be  entrusted 
to  the  local  authorities. 

When  the  first  Legislative  Assembly 
convened  on  December  1,  1900,  it  had 
before  it  several  imperative  tasks  for 
accomplishment.  The  first  and  most 
important  of  these  was  probably  that  of 
providing  a  revenue  law.  The  system 
for  the  raising  of  revenue  which  had  ex- 
isted under  the  Spanish  regime  had  been 
slightly  modified  by  certain  general  or- 
ders issued  by  the  military  authorities, 
but  even  in  its  modified  form,  was  of 
a  character  so  inequitable  to  individual 
taxpayers,  and  so  inefficient  in  the  meth- 
ods of  its  administration,  that  its  con- 
tinuance could  not  for  a  moment  be  con- 
templated. The  urgency  of  devising  a 
new  revenue  system  for  the  island  had 
already  been  recognized  by  the  War  De- 
partment, and  the  President  had  sent  a 
special  commissioner,  Dr.  J.  H.  Hollan- 
der, a  trained  economist,  to  visit  the  island 
and  report  upon  the  steps  that  should  be 
taken  for  reorganizing  its  finances.  Upon 
the  inauguration  of  civil  government  the 
wise  step  was  taken  by  the  President  of 
appointing  this  special  commissioner  to 
the  important  office  of  Treasurer  of  the 
island.  The  man  best  fitted  for  the  task 
was  thus  put  in  a  position  where  he  could 
exercise  a  direct  influence  in  having  the 
plans  which  he  deemed  desirable  adopt- 
ed. Dr.  Hollander,  before  the  meeting 
of  the  legislature,  had  carefully  drawn  up 
a  revenue  act  providing  for  a  fiscal  sys- 
tem closely  following  American  practice 
in  taxation.  This  system  was  embodied 
in  a  bill  and  promptly  introduced  into 
the  legislature.  It  immediately  met  with 


intense  hostility  on  the  part  of  the  Porto 
Ricans,  because  it  contemplated  the  shift- 
ing of  the  burdens  of  taxation  to  the  own- 
ers of  property,  —  to  whom  such  bur- 
dens properly  belong.  In  spite  of  this 
hostility  the  act  was  finally  passed,  with 
slight  modifications,  and  became  the  law 
under  which  the  insular  government  now 
obtains  its  revenue. 

Though  this  act  has  been  in  operation 
but  little  over  a  year,  it  has  vindicated 
the  claims  of  its  author,  and  those  who 
were  its  strongest  opponents  are  now 
among  its  greatest  admirers.  It  pro- 
vided that  the  insular  revenue  should  be 
obtained  from  the  following  sources : 

(1)  excise   and  license  taxes  upon  the 
manufacture  and  sale  of  liquors  and  to- 
bacco in  their  various  forms,  and  upon 
certain  classes  of   commercial   papers; 

(2)  a  general  property  tax  upon  all  real 
and  personal  property,  with  certain  lib- 
eral exemptions,  of  one  half  of  one  per 
cent ;  (3)  a  tax  upon  inheritances  ;  and 
(4)    certain   miscellaneous    imposts    of 
minor  importance.     In  addition  to  the 
proceeds  of  these   taxes,  it  should   be 
stated  that  Congress  had  provided  with 
great  liberality  that  the  net  receipts  from 
all  customs  duties  collected  in  Porto  Rico 
on  foreign  importations  should  be  turned 
over  to  the  insular  treasury.     The  act, 
furthermore,  made  elaborate   provision 
for  carrying  out  the  assessment  of  pro- 
perty on  the  island  for  purposes  of  taxa- 
tion.    This  in  itself  was  a  stupendous 
task,  and,  considering  the  short  time  that 
was  available  for  its  performance,  was  in 
the  main  successfully  carried  through. 
This  was  the  first  great  accomplishment 
of  the  first  session  of  the  legislature. 

The  reputation  of  this  assembly  for 
ability  to  transact  business  does  not, 
however,  rest  wholly  upon  the  enactment 
of  this  law.  One  of  the  distinct  pledges 
of  the  American  government  was  to 
provide  an  adequate  system  of  public 
schools.  This  work  had  already  been 
begun  and  notable  results  accomplished 
under  the  administration  of  the  military 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


37 


authorities.  That  this  work,  however, 
might  be  systematized  and  made  a  per- 
manent undertaking  there  was  required 
a  fundamental  school  law.  A  bill  pro- 
viding for  such  a  law  was  drafted  by 
the  Commissioner  of  Education,  and  was 
duly  enacted.  It  outlines  a  scheme  of 
public  instruction  comparable  to  that 
which  exists  in  many  of  the  American 
states,  and  its  workings  thus  far  have 
given  great  satisfaction.  Under  it  lo- 
cal school  boards  have  been  created  all 
over  the  island ;  the  municipalities  have 
been  required  to  devote  a  certain  per- 
centage of  their  income  to  school  pur- 
poses ;  schools  have  been  established  in 
all  important  centres,  and  their  work 
has  been  received  with  great  enthusiasm 
by  all  classes  of  the  population.  In  ad- 
dition to  this  general  educational  law 
special  acts  were  passed  providing  for 
the  sending  of  twenty  young  men  and 
women  to  the  United  States  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  insular  government,  —  to 
be  educated  in  the  various  arts  and  trades 
best  qualifying  them  to  assist  in  the  im- 
provement of  conditions  in  Porto  Rico, 
—  and  a  further  number  of  young  men 
to  pursue  advanced  studies,  for  a  period 
not  to  exceed  five  years,  in  such  subjects 
as  the  Legislative  Assembly  and  the 
Commissioner  of  Education  should  deter- 
mine. An  annual  appropriation  of  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  was  made  for  carrying 
out  the  provisions  of  these  two  acts. 

Among  other  laws  going  to  the  very 
basis  of  the  legal  constitution  of  the  island 
that  met  with  successful  action  at  this 
first  session  was  a  law  introducing  trial 
by  jury.  This  act  was  drawn  with  great 
care  by  the  present  Governor  of  Porto 
Rico,  Honorable  William  H.  Hunt,  who 
then  held  the  office  of  Secretary.  An- 
other law  provided  for  the  creation  and 
maintenance  of  an  insular  police  force. 
This  was  an  imperative  necessity,  as 
many  of  the  municipalities  did  not  pos- 
sess financial  resources  permitting  them 
to  maintain  a  police  force  on  a  proper 
basis.  It  also  gave  to  the  insular  au- 


thorities a  body  of  men  through  whom 
order  could  be  maintained  throughout 
the  island,  of  which  there  was  great  need. 

Other  important  acts  were  those  pro- 
viding for  the  organization  of  police 
courts  throughout  the  island  of  Porto 
Rico,  for  the  abolition  of  the  board  of 
charities,  and  the  creation  of  the  new  of- 
fice of  director  of  charities,  the  creation 
of  the  office  of  director  of  prisons  and 
the  determination  of  his  powers  and 
duties,  the  establishment  of  a  peniten- 
tiary, the  condemnation  and  use  of  lands 
for  cemetery  purposes,  and,  finally,  an 
act  authorizing  the  larger  municipalities 
of  the  island  to  incur  bonded  indebted- 
ness to  an  extent  not  exceeding  in  any 
one  case  seven  per  cent  of  the  total  value 
of  the  property  of  such  municipalities 
for  purposes  of  taxation,  the  proceeds  of 
which  were  to  be  devoted  to  the  making 
of  urgent  public  improvements.  Under 
this  act  a  number  of  the  municipalities 
have  already  successfully  floated  issues 
of  bonds  at  or  above  par,  and  a  begin- 
ning in  the  application  of  the  sums  thus 
realized  has  been  made. 

The  second  session  of  the  legislature 
was  productive  of  even  more  important 
results.  It  assembled  with  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  the  experience  gained  in  the 
preceding  session.  The  members  of  both 
houses  had  become  familiar  with  parlia- 
mentary procedure,  committee  work,  and 
the  drafting  of  bills,  and  it  was  thus  able 
to  accomplish  within  the  sixty  days, 
which  constitutes  the  maximum  length  of 
the  session  permitted  under  the  Organic 
Act,  a  much  greater  volume  of  work. 

While  the  first  session  accomplished 
the  fundamental  task  of  providing  a  reve- 
nue and  a  school  system  for  the  island, 
the  second  session  performed  the  equally 
important  work  of  definitely  adopting  a 
series  of  codes  covering  the  more  impor- 
tant branches  of  law,  and  of  thoroughly 
reorganizing  the  entire  system  of  local 
government.  In  addition  to  this  work 
a  large  number  of  very  important  laws 
were  also  enacted. 


38 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


Prior  to  the  organization  of  civil  gov- 
ernment on  the  island,  the  Secretary  of 
War  had  appointed  a  special  commission 
to  prepare  codes  relating  to  these  dif- 
ferent branches  of  law.  This  commis- 
sion went  out  of  existence  with  the  or- 
ganization of  civil  government,  but  one 
of  the  first  acts  of  the  first  Legislative 
Assembly  was  to  provide  for  a  new  com- 
mission to  continue  the  work  of  the  old. 
This  commission  completed  its  labors 
shortly  before  the  assembling  of  the  sec- 
ond session  of  the  Legislative  Assembly, 
and  promptly  upon  the  convening  of  the 
latter  laid  before  it  drafts  of  a  penal 
code,  a  code  of  criminal  procedure,  a  civil 
code,  and  a  political  code.  Both  houses  of 
the  legislature  went  over  these  proposed 
codes  with  great  care,  examining  each 
feature  in  detail,  and  as  a  result  made 
important  changes,  most  or  all  of  which 
were  undoubtedly  in  the  line  of  better- 
ment. The  improvement  that  will  be 
brought  about  by  the  adoption  of  these 
codes  cannot  well  be  overestimated. 
Owing  to  the  change  of  government,  — 
first  from  the  Spanish  to  the  United  States 
military  authorities,  and  then  from  the 
military  to  the  civil  authorities,  • —  there 
had  inevitably  arisen  uncertainty  regard- 
ing the  laws  in  force,  and  many  of  the 
laws  that  the  civil  government  received 
as  a  legacy  from  prior  governments  were 
framed  on  principles  so  contrary  to 
American  practice  that  the  substitution 
of  other  laws  for  them  was  extremely 
desirable.  With  these  four  codes  duly 
enacted  Porto  Rico  will  now  be  able  to 
continue  her  advancement  under  a  sys- 
tem of  law  closely  in  accord  with  Ameri- 
can practice  and  principle. 

Second  only  in  far-reaching  effect  to 
the  enactment  of  these  codes  should  be 
reckoned  the  important  action  taken  by 
the  Legislative  Assembly  for  the  reor- 
ganization of  the  whole  system  of  local 
government  upon  the  island.  The  Or- 
ganic Act  related  only  to  the  provision  of 
a  scheme  of  central  government  for  the 
island,  and  contained  no  provision  what- 


ever regarding  municipal  affairs,  local 
government  being  thus  allowed  to  con- 
tinue in  practically  the  same  form  as  un- 
der the  Spanish  regime.  Without  en- 
tering into  details,  it  may  be  said  that 
this  system  presented  almost  every  defect 
that  it  would  seem  a  local  government 
could  well  present.  Authority  and  re- 
sponsibility were  not  definitely  located  ; 
the  form  of  government  was  on  a  scale 
far  more  expensive  than  the  resources 
of  the  municipalities  could  afford  ;  pub- 
lic office  was  administered  as  a  means  of 
gratifying  private  ends  rather  than  the 
public  good ;  extravagance  and  misdi- 
rection in  the  expenditure  of  municipal 
funds  were  prevalent,  but  a  small  part 
of  the  public  revenues  being  spent  for 
public  improvements,  while  the  majority 
went  for  the  payment  of  excessive  sala- 
ries, or  for  the  salaries  of  useless  officers ; 
the  obligations  of  the  municipalities  were 
persistently  disregarded,  and  many  of 
them  were  burdened  with  obligations  the 
results  of  deficits  running  back  a  num- 
ber of  years,  and  which  they  were  wholly 
unable  to  pay ;  discriminations  of  the 
most  unfair  character  were  made  between 
taxpayers,  some  being  greatly  overbur- 
dened, while  others  standing  in  the  favor 
of  those  in  authority  were  practically  ex- 
empt from  taxation  ;  and,  finally,  there 
existed  a  hopelessly  complicated  system 
for  regulating  the  relations  that  existed 
between  the  insular  government  and  the 
local  governments. 

The  defects  of  this  system  were  both 
in  organization  and  in  administration. 
As  regards  organization  the  chief  points 
of  criticism  were :  the  excessive  number 
of  local  divisions  into  which  the  island 
was  divided  ;  the  unsatisfactory  relations 
which  existed  between  the  governments 
of  these  districts  and  the  central  govern- 
ment ;  and  the  entrusting  of  both  legis- 
lative and  executive  powers  to  the  same 
set  of  individuals  within  the  municipal- 
ity, thus  making  it  possible  in  certain 
cases  for  one  man  or  a  few  men  abso- 
lutely to  control  the  government. 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


39 


This  small  island  was  divided  into 
sixty-six  local  divisions  called  munici- 
palities, each  of  which  was  endowed  with 
a  scheme  of  government  fitted  for  a  large 
city,  though  many  comprehended  only 
sparsely  settled  rural  districts.  An  ob- 
vious measure  of  reform,  therefore,  con- 
sisted in  the  reduction  of  the  number  of 
these  municipalities.  This  was  accom- 
plished by  a  special  act,  which  provided 
for  the  consolidation  of  twenty-one  of 
the  weaker  municipalities  with  the  re- 
maining stronger  ones,  leaving  the  island 
divided  into  forty-five  instead  of  sixty- 
six  separate  local  divisions.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  this  consolidation  went  far 
enough,  but  it  was  believed  to  be  as  radi- 
cal a  measure  as  was  advisable  at  the 
present  time. 

Nothing  short  of  a  complete  reorgani- 
zation of  the  scheme  of  government  could 
meet  the  other  two  evils.  A  bill  was 
therefore  carefully  prepared  providing 
a  new  scheme  of  local  government  for 
the  island,  and  after  receiving  some 
amendment  was  duly  enacted.  The  gen- 
eral principles  upon  which  this  act  is 
framed  are  the  following :  — 

In  the  first  place  a  complete  change 
is  made  from  the  old  system  —  whereby, 
as  has  been  said,  legislative  and  execu- 
tive powers  were  exercised  by  the  same 
parties  —  to  one  where  they  are  rigidly 
divorced.  This  is  accomplished  by  pro- 
viding that  the  mayor  of  a  municipality 
shall  no  longer  be  the  president  of  the 
municipal  council,  as  under  the  old  sys- 
tem, and  by  providing  that  all  appoint- 
ments with  the  exception  of  that  of  comp- 
troller, whose  essential  functions  are 
those  of  checking  the  administration  of 
finances  by  the  executive,  shall  be  taken 
away  from  the  council,  where  they  for- 
merly rested,  and  be  given  to  the  mayor. 

There  is  an  equally  complete  change 
in  the  manner  in  which  the  insular  gov- 
ernment will  exercise  its  control  over  the 
administration  of  affairs  in  the  munici- 
palities. The  old  system  required  the 
local  authorities  to  get  an  authorization 


or  permit  before  they  could  take  any  step 
of  importance.  This,  while  apparently 
giving  to  the  central  government  a  very 
great  power  over  local  affairs,  in  practice 
resulted  frequently  only  in  vexatious  in- 
terference. The  central  government  was 
utterly  unable  to  pass  upon  the  wisdom 
of  every  proposal  brought  before  it,  and 
the  fact  that  the  local  authorities  had  to 
secure  such  authorization  weakened  to  a 
very  great  extent  their  own  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. The  new  system  is  framed 
upon  the  theory  of  frankly  entrusting  to 
the  local  authorities  original  power  to 
act  within  their  jurisdiction  regarding 
local  affairs  without  intervention  on  the 
part  of  the  central  government  so  long 
as  they  act  in  a  legal  and  just  manner. 
Should,  however,  the  local  authorities  be 
guilty  of  action  contrary  to  law  or  work- 
ing injustice  between  individual  citizens, 
the  central  government  has  then  full 
power  to  intervene  on  appeal  being  made 
to  it,  or  on  the  matter  coming  to  its  at- 
tention in  any  way.  Considerable  ap- 
prehension has  been  expressed  regarding 
the  wisdom  of  thus  entrusting  the  man- 
agement of  affairs  to  the  local  authori- 
ties, but  it  is  evident  that  if  a  beginning 
is  ever  to  be  made  in  the  building  up  of 
responsible  local  self-government  in  Porto 
Rico  it  must  be  by  giving  to  the  local 
authorities  the  power  of  independent  ac- 
tion so  long  as  this  power  is  not  abused. 
The  third  important  principle  involved 
in  the  new  law  is  that  in  respect  to  the 
authority  of  the  insular  government  as 
exercised  through  the  Treasurer  over  the 
management  of  the  financial  affairs  by 
the  municipalities.  The  act  as  framed 
gives  to  the  Treasurer  full  power  to  pre- 
scribe the  manner  and  form  in  which 
municipalities  shall  keep  their  accounts, 
deposit  all  moneys,  audit  all  claims,  et 
cetera ;  to  require  such  reports  from  mu- 
nicipal treasurers  and  comptrollers  as  he 
deems  fit ;  and,  finally,  and  most  impor- 
tant of  all,  to  have  their  accounts  inspect- 
ed at  any  time  by  examiners  especially 
appointed  by  him  for  this  purpose.  Un- 


40 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


der  these  provisions  it  will  now  be  possi- 
ble for  the  Treasurer  of  the  island  to 
require  all  of  the  municipalities  to  keep 
their  books  according  to  an  uniform  sys- 
tem and  in  accordance  with  the  most  ap- 
proved rules  of  public  accounting.  He 
will  also  be  able  to  keep  himself  informed 
of  exactly  how  the  affairs  are  being  ad- 
ministered, whether  irregularity  or  dis- 
honesty exists,  and  to  bring  about  the 
prompt  removal  and  punishment  of  of- 
fenders. It  is  hardly  necessary  to  com- 
ment upon  the  tremendous  significance  of 
these  powers  in  bringing  good  local  gov- 
ernment to  the  island. 

Another  very  important  feature  of  the 
bill  relating  to  municipal  finances  is  that 
which  provides  that  if  any  municipality 
fails  to  make  adequate  provision  in  its 
budget  for  any  fiscal  year  for  the  meeting 
of  any  deficit  resulting  from  the  operation 
of  prior  years,  or  of  expenditures  for 
which  it  is  obligated  in  consequence  of 
contracts  already  entered  into,  or  of  all 
payments  imposed  upon  it  by  the  laws  of 
Porto  Rico,  or  of  all  payments  on  account 
of  final  judgments  rendered  against  it 
by  any  competent  tribunal,  its  budget  for 
the  next  fiscal  year  shall  not  become  ef- 
fective until  it  has  been  submitted  to  and 
duly  approved  by  the  Treasurer  of  Porto 
Rico,  and  that  officer  is  given  full  power 
to  make  such  changes  in  the  budget  in 
the  way  of  eliminating  or  reducing  items 
of  expenditure,  or  in  raising  the  rates  of 
the  proposed  taxes,  that  he  deems  neces- 
sary. It  will  be  observed  that  according 
to  this  provision  municipalities  are  to  be 
treated  exactly  as  are  ordinary  corpora- 
tions. Within  the  limits  of  their  char- 
ters they  are  allowed  full  freedom  of  ac- 
tion as  long  as  they  meet  all  of  their  legal 
obligations,  but  as  soon  as  they  default 
in  any  respect  the  state  steps  in  —  in  one 
case  by  the  intervention  of  the  Treasur- 
er, and  in  the  other  by  the  appointment 
of  a  receiver  under  the  authority  of  the 
courts  —  to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  de- 
faulting corporation  until  all  legal  re- 
quirements have  been  complied  with. 


There  are  a  great  many  other  features  of 
this  bill  which  are  of  interest,  but  limita- 
tions of  space  prevent  us  from  entering 
into  further  details. 

Mention  has  been  made  that  one  of  the 
defects  of  the  old  system  was  that  muni- 
cipalities utterly  failed  to  perform  a  num- 
ber of  the  most  important  duties  properly 
falling  to  local  governments,  the  revenues 
instead  being  expended  upon  extravagant 
salaries  or  the  remuneration  of  useless 
officers.  This  failure  was  especially  ap- 
parent in  respect  to  the  maintenance  of 
public  schools  and  the  opening  and  im- 
provement of  local  highways.  To  correct 
this  evil  two  special  laws  were  passed : 
the  one  provides  that  each  municipality 
shall  devote  a  certain  proportion  of  its 
income  to  the  constitution  of  a  school 
fund,  to  be  used  in  promoting  public  edu- 
cation in  conjunction  with  the  expendi- 
tures for  the  same  purpose  made  by  the 
insular  government ;  the  other  divides 
the  island  into  a  number  of  road  districts, 
and  provides  that  not  less  than  twenty- 
five  per  cent  of  the  income  derived  from 
the  tax  upon  real  estate  situated  in  the 
rural  districts  shall  be  carried  to  a  road 
improvement  fund,  to  be  exclusively  ex- 
pended for  the  betterment  of  local  roads. 
The  insular  government,  as  is  well 
known,  has  already  done  a  great  deal  in 
the  way  of  the  construction  of  main 
thoroughfares,  and  is  still  devoting  large 
sums  to  the  working  out  of  a  comprehen- 
sive system  of  public  trunk  highways. 
This  work  would  fail  of  accomplishing 
the  results  desired  unless  improved  local 
roads,  to  act  as  feeders,  were  constructed 
by  the  municipal  authorities.  With  this 
act  in  practical  operation  Porto  Rico  will 
in  time  be  given  a  system  of  improved 
highways  of  which  many  states  in  the 
Union  might  well  be  envious. 

Another  matter  in  respect  to  the  muni- 
cipalities urgently  requiring  action  was 
that  of  making  some  provision  regarding 
the  heavy  floating  debt  with  which  they 
were  burdened.  An  act  was  accordingly 
passed  which  provides  that  each  munici- 


Two  Years'  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


41 


pality  having  a  floating  indebtedness  may 
issue  certificates  of  indebtedness  in  li- 
quidation of  all  claims  against  it  due  and 
unpaid  on  July  1, 1902,  which  certificates 
shall  bear  interest  at  the  rate  of  three 
per  cent  and  be  retired  iu  five  annual  in- 
stallments. 

All  of  these  acts  that  have  been  men- 
tioned go  in  force  on  July  1,  1902,  and 
on  that  date,  therefore,  the  new  forty- 
five  municipalities  will  start  upon  a  new 
life  under  a  new  form  of  government  with 
their  old  obligations  definitely  adjusted, 
and  with  new  services  to  look  after  two 
of  their  most  important  functions  :  that 
of  providing  for  public  education,  and  for 
road  improvement.  Only  time  can  tell 
how  this  new  system  will  work,  but  it  at 
least  represents  a  step  that  had  to  be  tak- 
en sooner  or  later,  and  permits  the  people 
of  Porto  Rico  to  make  the  essay  of  local 
government  under  more  favorable  condi- 
tions than  they  have  ever  heretofore  en- 
joyed, while  at  the  same  time  leaving  to 
the  insular  government  full  power  to  in- 
tervene wherever  failure  results. 

A  great  deal  of  attention  has  been  giv- 
en to  this  subject  of  local  government, 
as  it  is  one  of  such  fundamental  impor- 
tance. The  second  session  of  the  legis- 
lature, however,  found  time  to  take  im- 
portant action  in  a  number  of  other 
directions.  A  law  was  thus  passed  vast- 
ly simplifying  and  improving  the  system 
for  the  assessment  of  property  on  the 
island  for  purposes  of  taxation ;  while 
another  act  corrected  features  of  the  rev- 
enue system  passed  by  the  first  session 
that  had  been  found  to  work  badly  in 
practice.  The  most  important  of  these 
changes  introduced  were  the  more  defi- 
nite separation  of  the  sources  from  which 
the  incomes  of  the  insular  and  munici- 
pal governments,  respectively,  should  be 
derived  :  in  raising  slightly  the  license 
taxes  upon  saloons,  restaurants,  mer- 
chants, and  others  selling  liquor  and  to- 
bacco ;  in  providing  that  each  piece  of 
real  property  should  be  separately  listed, 
assessed,  and  taxed,  instead  of  the  hold- 


ings of  each  individual  being  assessed  as 
a  whole,  —  a  matter  which  often  made  it 
impossible  to  determine  whether  a  partic- 
ular property  was  encumbered  by  a  lien 
on  account  of  unpaid  taxes  or  not ;  in 
making  the  corporation  tax  strictly  an 
insular  tax ;  and  in  correcting  an  omis- 
sion in  the  first  law  which  failed  to  state 
specifically  the  method  to  be  followed  in 
assessing  foreign  corporations. 

Another  act  that  will  have  the  most 
beneficial  effect  upon  the  industrial  de- 
velopment of  the  island  was  that  putting 
upon  the  statute  books  a  general  corpo- 
ration law.  This  law  is  modeled  close- 
ly after  that  of  the  state  of  New  Jer- 
sey, which  possesses  features  especially 
desirable  in  the  case  of  a  new  country 
awaiting  development.  Under  it  the  in- 
vestment of  capital  in  the  island  under 
the  corporate  form  of  management  will 
be  much  stimulated,  and  one  of  the  ob- 
stacles that  have  stood  in  the  way  of  the 
influx  of  foreign  capital  will  be  removed. 

To  attempt  to  comment  at  any  length 
upon  other  important  measures  becom- 
ing law  would  require  an  examination 
of  almost  every  department  of  public 
affairs.  Thus,  the  whole  system  of  the 
protection  of  public  health  and  the  du- 
ties of  the  insular  and  local  authorities 
in  respect  to  sanitation  and  prevention 
of  disease  was  put  upon  a  more  definite 
and  satisfactory  basis  by  a  general  law 
providing  for  the  appointment  of  a  di- 
rector of  public  health  and  a  superior 
board  of  health,  and  defining  their  re- 
spective duties.  An  act  was  passed  for 
the  regulation  and  government  of  the  in- 
sular police  force  of  Porto  Rico  and 
permitting  its  extension  throughout  the 
island  of  Porto  Rico.  The  political 
system  of  the  island  was  improved  by 
the  enactment  of  a  general  election  law 
embodying  the  chief  features  of  the 
Australian  ballot  and  regulating  in  de- 
tail the  manner  of  holding  elections. 
The  organization  of  building  and  loan 
associations  and  their  regulation  were 
provided  for  by  a  law  modeled  closely 


42 


Two  lrears9  Legislation  in  Porto  Rico. 


after  the  Massachusetts  statute  though 
incorporating  several  of  the  good  fea- 
tures of  other  acts.  Thirty  thousand 
dollars  was  appropriated  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  Porto  Rico  at  the  Louisiana 
Purchase  Exposition  at  St.  Louis  in 
1903.  The  Governor  was  authorized  to 
cooperate  with  the  United  States  Geolo- 
gical Survey  in  having  a  topographical 
survey  and  map  of  the  island  prepared, 
and  an  adequate  sum  of  money  was 
placed  at  his  disposal  for  this  purpose. 
The  purchase  of  land  for  the  use  of  the 
new  United  States  Agricultural  Experi- 
ment Station  was  authorized.  A  con- 
servative employers'  liability  law  was 
enacted.  Provision  was  made  for  the  es- 
tablishment and  maintenance  of  an  asy- 
lum for  the  indigent  blind.  The  carry- 
ing of  firearms  and  concealed  weapons 
was  regulated.  Gaming  was  prohibit- 
ed. Cruelty  to  animals  was  made  a  mis- 
demeanor. The  judicial  system  of  the 
island  was  modified  in  various  ways  so 
as  to  introduce  needful  changes  and 
make  it  conform  to  American  practice. 
Finally  must  be  mentioned  the  passage 
at  each  session  of  that  most  important 
of  laws,  the  general  appropriation  act. 
These  acts,  carrying  each  between  two 
and  two  and  a  quarter  million  dollars, 
determined  the  whole  programme  of  the 
government  for  the  ensuing  fiscal  years. 
Inevitably  there  existed  much  difference 
of  opinion  regarding  the  wisdom  of  cer- 
tain items  that  were  included  and  of  the 
failure  to  include  others.  The  demand 
for  appropriations  for  certain  works  was 
very  great,  and  the  final  passage  of  the 
acts  carrying  total  appropriations  well 
within  the  financial  resources  of  the 
treasury  constitute  not  the  least  claim  of 
the  first  Legislative  Assembly  as  a  con- 
servative and  public-spirited  body. 

In  conclusion,  when  the  facts  are 
taken  into  consideration  that  each  ses- 
sion of  the  legislature  was  limited  by 
law  to  a  duration  of  sixty  days ;  that 
one  of  its  houses,  at  least,  was  composed 


of  members  exercising  for  the  first  time 
legislative  functions,  and  were,  conse- 
quently, wholly  unfamiliar  with  parlia- 
mentary procedure  ;  that  there  was  an 
essential  difference  between  the  two 
houses  in  respect  to  the  extent  to  which 
power  should  be  conferred  upon  the 
people  of  Porto  Rico  acting  through 
their  local  governments ;  that  many  of 
the  measures  proposed  represented  rad- 
ical changes  from  existing  customs  ;  that 
the  patriotic  purposes  of  the  United 
States  were  still  questioned  by  a  portion 
of  the  population,  —  when  these  and  nu- 
merous other  difficulties  are  appreciated, 
this  record  of  the  first  genuine  legislative 
body  that  the  island  has  ever  enjoyed 
cannot  but  be  considered  as  a  remark- 
ably creditable  one.  Yet  this  is  but  the 
beginning  of  the  real  work  of  endow- 
ing Porto  Rico  with  institutions  and 
laws  conforming  to  Anglo-Saxon  ideals. 
The  problems  that  confront  the  United 
States  cannot  be  solved  by  a  few  months 
of  legislative  activity.  The  great  ques- 
tions are  questions  of  administration  ra- 
ther than  of  legislation.  Whether  the 
laws  that  have  been  passed  will  prove  suc- 
cessful or  not  will  depend  wholly  upon 
the  manner  in  which  they  are  adminis- 
tered, and  the  tact  and  ability  with  which 
the  American  representatives  exercise 
their  delicate  functions  of  control  and 
supervision.  Years  will  be  required  be- 
fore the  difficulties  involved  in  the  po- 
litical problem  will  be  brought  under 
control,  the  new  system  of  local  govern- 
ment perfected,  and  the  thousand  and 
one  details  of  the  administrative  ma- 
chinery satisfactorily  worked  out.  Only 
the  most  conscientious  and  sustained  ac- 
tivity on  the  part  of  those  entrusted  with 
authority  in  our  insular  possessions  will 
bring  about  the  full  realization  of  the  high 
aims  that  the  American  people  have  set 
before  them  in  respect  to  the  govern- 
ment of  the  countries  that  have  lately 
come  under  the  protection  of  the  Amer- 
ican flag. 

William  F.  Willoughby. 


/Sailing. 


SAILING. 


FAR  back  beyond  the  shadowy  years 
in  which  the  Egyptian  traders  were 
wafted  across  the  Mare  Internum  to  the 
shores  of  Greece,  before  the  Phoenician 
galleys  carried  the  crystals  and  purples 
of  Sidon  to  the  barbarians  of  Gaul,  or 
took  homeward  the  ivory  and  gold  of 
Ophir,  the  incense  and  spices  of  Arabia, 
or  the  pearls  of  the  Persian  Gulf,  there 
blazed  in  the  insatiable  heart  of  man  a 
burning  desire  to  cross  great  waters,  to 
master  the  might  and  mystery  of  the  sea. 
Byron,  wresting  truth  to  poetic  ecstasy, 
sang, 

"  Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  —  his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore." 

But  man  has  never  rested  content  upon 
the  shore.  Somewhere  in  the  dim  ages 
beyond  the  furthest  backward  glance  of 
peering  History,  he  embarked  in  a  qua- 
vering, infant  shallop,  and  ferried  him- 
self over  some  appalling  rivulet.  Thirty 
centuries  before  Christ  there  were  toler- 
ably fashioned  sailing  ships,  and  com- 
merce had  taken  its  place  among  the  ac- 
tivities of  the  world.  Furthermore  there 
were  luxurious  yachts  in  the  early  days 
of  Greek  history,  for  even  then  man  sailed 
not  for  gain  or  necessity  alone,  but  for 
his  lordly  pleasure. 

The  story  of  the  distant  times  is  the 
story  of  to-day.  For  the  mastery  of  the 
seas  man  still  strives.  Though  the 
power  of  steam  has  revolutionized  com- 
merce, and  huge  steel  leviathans  have 
made  the  ocean  safer  than  a  New  Eng- 
land railway,  the  brave  spirit  of  old  yet 
lives,  and  it  delights  men  to  adventure 
upon  the  waters  in  light  sailing  craft, 
not  immune  from  the  furies  of  wind  and 
wave.  It  is  this  spirit  which  preserves 
the  sport  of  sailing,  in  all  its  forms,  from 
the  impudent  challenge  of  foamy  wind- 
rows by  the  cedar  canoe  to  the  trium- 
phant progress  over  crested  hills  of  the 
sea-going  schooner  yacht. 


In  this  favored  land  of  ours  the  gen- 
eral history  of  the  practice  of  sailing  has 
been  obscured  by  the  brilliant  annals  of 
yacht  racing.  Our  long  series  of  tri- 
umphs in  the  defense  of  the  America's 
Cup  has  monopolized  our  attention,  and 
in  looking  at  ourselves  as  adepts  of  the 
flying  start  and  connoisseurs  of  balloon 
canvas,  we  have  forgotten  how  much  of 
the  true  sea  hawk's  blood  flows  in  our 
veins.  The  spirit  of  the  Saxon  and 
Danish  and  Norman  invaders,  who  har- 
ried the  hosts  of  Britain,  and  of  their 
descendants,  Drake  and  his  followers, 
who  swept  the  coasts  of  the  West  Indies 
and  southern  America,  has  never  died 
out  in  the  land  which  produced  Law- 
rence and  Perry,  Farragut  and  Dewey. 
But  in  Great  Britain  a  greater  propor- 
tion of  the  people  is  familiar  with  sail- 
ing than  in  our  country.  This  is  not 
the  place  nor  the  occasion  for  a  discus- 
sion of  political  policies  which  bear  upon 
this  matter.  We  may  safely  confine 
ourselves  to  a  brief  consideration  of  the 
work  of  natural  causes. 

In  the  creation  of  the  differences  in 
the  seafaring  proclivities  of  the  two  na- 
tions the  vast  extent  of  our  interior  as 
compared  with  our  coast  line  is  a  pri- 
mary factor.  Our  shores  measure  many 
more  miles  than  Britain's,  but  our  ter- 
ritory measures  still  more,  and  thus  the 
ratio  of  sailors  to  non-sailors  becomes 
smaller  in  our  population.  In  England, 
the  shore  is  scalloped  by  innumerable 
harbors,  and  the  heart  of  the  land  is 
touched  by  rivers  that  have  not  far  to 
flow  to  reach  the  sea.  A  thousand  sails 
woo  the  breezes  of  these  streams,  while 
here  the  river  sailing  craft  is  almost  a 
stranger  except  in  tidewaters.  In  too 
many  of  our  rivers  sailing  except  for 
business  is  neglected,  because  tides  race 
swiftly,  or  high  shores  cut  the  breezes 
into  alternate  streaks  of  calm  and  sud- 


44 


Sailing. 


den  squall.  One  may  watch  the  paddles 
of  a  hundred  steamers  churn  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Mississippi  or  the  Ohio,  but 
seldom  see  the  tower  of  a  white  sail, 
while  the  lordly  Hudson  is  ploughed  by 
only  a  few  patient  strugglers  against  piti- 
less tides  and  baffling  winds.  As  for  the 
inland  lakes,  only  in  recent  years  has  the 
spirit  of  sailing  adventure  reached  them, 
though  they  have  long  borne  upon  their 
bosoms  a. race  of  hardy  and  skillful  sea- 
men of  commerce. 

Not  only  have  the  lakes  and  the  in- 
land rivers  lacked  the  physical  advan- 
tages of  salt  water,  but  they  have  also 
wanted  the  stimulus  of  yacht  racing,  and 
the  great  cruises  of  the  leading  yacht 
clubs.  Sailing  as  a  sport  is  nurtured  by 
the  racing  and  the  cruising  spirit.  The 
great  regattas  and  the  monster  cruises 
of  fleets  belong  to  the  eastern  coast. 
And  the  eastern  coast  has  these  things 
largely  because  of  its  eastward  outlook. 
To  face  the  western  ocean  is  to  bask  in 
the  sunlight  of  four  centuries  of  mari- 
time glory.  It  is  to  sit  continually  be- 
fore the  glittering  page  on  which  Colum- 
bus and  Raleigh,  Hudson  and  John 
Smith,  wrote  their  deeds  with  the  stylus 
of  the  streaming  prow.  It  is  to  breathe 
inspiration  from  the  breezes  that  brought 
to  our  shores  the  first  adventurous  cara- 
vels of  Spain  laden  with  their  precious 
freight  of  futurity.  It  is  to  smell  the 
odor  of  the  distant  gales  that  sent  Tyng 
and  Pepperell  to  take  Louisburg,  Paul 
Jones  to  find  the  Serapis,  and  Hull  and 
Decatur  to  make  the  American  frigate 
the  terror  of  the  seas.  It  is  to  look  out 
upon  the  waters  over  which,  in  fair 
weather  or  foul,  with  the  winds  roaring 
out  of  their  crescent  canvas  and  acres  of 
smoking  foam  under  their  thundering 
bows,  the  American  clippers  and  packets 
scored  records  of  speed  only  to  be  oblit- 
erated by  the  black  smoke  of  the  Atlan- 
tic greyhound.  It  is  to  front  the  ocean 
over  which  royal  Sammy  Samuels  drove 
the  clipper  Dreadnaught  from  New 
York  to  Liverpool  in  13  days  and  15 


hours,  and  the  schooner  yacht  Henrietta 
from  Sandy  Hook  to  Daunt's  Rock  in 
13  days  and  21  hours. 

And  to  face  that  eastern  outlook  is  to 
fix  the  eyes  upon  a  sea  whose  power  is 
still  subject  to  the  mastery  of  seaman- 
ship. Though  the  record-breaking  ton- 
nage giant,  hurling  herself  over  vainly 
opposing  combers,  never  pausing  for 
gale  or  lying  helpless  in  calm,  has  super- 
seded the  clipper  and  the  packet  as  a 
carrier  of  both  freight  and  humanity, 
the  Atlantic  is  not  bare  of  canvas.  Even 
yet  the 

"  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill," 

for  the  splendid  four-masters  of  Liver- 
pool and  Glasgow  stem  the  tides  of  the 
Gedney  and  Hypocrite  channels,  and  the 
barkentines  come  swimming  up  from  the 
south  with  the  odor  of  the  northeast  trades 
yet  in  their  sails.  And  it 's 
"  0,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play !  " 

for  the  schooners  of  Chatham  and 
Gloucester  still  scatter  their  dories  above 
the  mighty  submarine  pasturage  that 
spreads  from  the  southernmost  limit  of 
the  ice  northward  to  where  the  swells 
quiver  around  the  Virgin  Rock. 

Where  man  goes  for  his  necessities,  he 
goes  for  his  pleasure.  Sordid  and  filled 
with  the  thirst  of  gain  as  we  all  are,  we 
have  dared  more  from  curiosity  than 
from  hope  of  wealth.  Men  have  faced 
the  deadly  cold  and  eternal  snows  of 
Nome  for  gold,  but  there  are  no  dia- 
monds away  yonder  in  the  north  where 
lie  the  bones  of  Franklin,  and  where 
Peary  yet  struggles  to  wrest  the  secret 
of  the  Pole.  Men  have  toiled  over  the 
Rockies  in  search  of  the  yellow  dust,  but 
there  are  no  diadems  of  precious  stones 
upon  the  brows  of  Mont  Blanc  and 
Everest.  If  only  the  insatiable  curiosity 
of  the  human  intellect  has  sent  men  to 
their  fates  on  the  sands  of  Sahara,  in 
the  jungles  of  India,  and  in  the  hills  of 
South  Africa,  a  lordly  scorn  of  danger  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure  has  been  the  first 


Sailing. 


45 


page  of  many  a  story  of  missing  craft, 
and  in  the  wake  of  the  streaming  hull  of 
commerce  always  floats  the  gilded  pin- 
nace of  pastime.  The  yacht  ensign  has 
circled  the  world;  it  has  flown  to  the 
gales  of  the  North  Atlantic  and  the  mon- 
soons of  the  Indian  Ocean.  And  the 
great  majority  of  sea-going  yachts  which 
make  long  voyages  lift  their  anchors  in 
the  harbors  of  our  eastern  seaboard,  for 
the  storied  waters  of  the  western  ocean 
invite  with  the  irresistible  witchery  of 
recorded  daring. 

But  prosaic  and  practical  considera- 
tions play  no  less  important  a  part  in 
making  the  eastern  seaboard  the  sail- 
ing front  of  our  country.  The  geogra- 
phical features  of  the  coast  offer  advan- 
tages or  impose  limitations  which  guide 
the  operations  of  the  human  will  and 
fancy.  The  essentials  of  a  sailing  country 
are  an  extensive  coast  line  with  numer- 
ous bays  of  considerable  extent  and 
depth.  These  bays  should  be  well  shel- 
tered by  land  from  the  swifter  winds 
and  rougher  seas  to  be  found  on  the 
open  waters  outside.  Within  the  bays 
small  craft,  unsuited  to  the  outer  waters, 
could  find  abundant  room  to  spread  their 
little  wings,  and  in  days  of  light  winds 
and  smooth  waters  could  venture  outside 
and  rock  themselves  upon  the  deep- 
chested  breathing  of  summer  swells. 
The  generous  depth  of  water  in  these 
bays  would  afford  riding  ground  for 
large  sea-going  yachts,  thus  bringing  to- 
gether all  types  of  pleasure  craft. 

If  now  we  add  to  these  large,  deep, 
landlocked  bays  some  shallows,  of  min- 
gled fresh  and  salt  water,  with  openings 
into  the  bays  or  the  sea,  such  shining  ve- 
neers of  water  as  the  Shrewsbury  River 
and  Barnegat  Bay,  we  have  a  sailing 
country  which  offers  every  conceivable 
advantage.  Perhaps  the  man  who  loves 
to  solve  small  problems  with  tiller  and 
sheet  may  ask  for  one  thing  more,  —  a 
narrow  tidewater  creek,  winding  its 
devious  path  among  salt  grass  and  wiry 
reeds,  far  up  into  the  bosom  of  some 


marshy  flat  where  ages  ago  a  broad 
river  flowed,  and  where  now  the  bittern 
broods  and  the  kingfisher  chatters  in 
the  idle  sun  of  the  summer  afternoon. 
A  most  enticing  ribbon  of  water  is  the 
tidewater  creek,  and  its  elusive  waters 
woo  the  brown  and  ragged  urchin  of  the 
countryside  to  launch  his  rickety  bateau, 
flat-bottomed  and  sprit-sailed,  upon  voy- 
ages of  conquest  or  adventure,  not  in- 
frequently ended  by  ignominious  strand- 
ing upon  the  unsuspected  mud-bank. 

A  country  combining  all  these  features 
will  produce  pleasure  sailors  as  surely 
as  salt  meadows  produce  mosquitoes. 
The  number  of  the  sailors,  however,  will 
be  greatly  increased  if  large  cities  and 
rich  yacht  clubs  are  in  this  country  and 
operating  to  stimulate  in  the  surround- 
ing population  the  sailing  spirit.  The 
country  boy  who  goes  out  in  his  dirty 
skiff  to  get  clams  enjoys  no  longer  his 
pristine  peace  of  mind  when  once  he 
has  seen  the  thirty-footer  of  some  "  city 
chap,"  with  her  white  sides  gleaming 
with  new  paint,  her  brass  flashing  back 
the  refulgence  of  the  sun,  her  rigging  all 
a-taut,  and  her  ensign  snapping  in  the 
breeze.  For  him  the  line  between  the 
working  and  the  pleasure  craft  is  now 
drawn,  and  he  rests  no  more  till  the  an- 
cient bateau  gets  a  coat  of  green  paint 
and  the  old  sprit  is  scraped,  if  not  var- 
nished. 

Such  a  land  as  this  lies  along  the 
eastern  seaboard  of  the  United  States. 
The  deep,  landlocked  bays,  the  shallow 
broads,  the  tidewater  rivers  and  creeks 
stretch  along  almost  the  entire  length  of 
our  Atlantic  coast,  and  even  follow  the 
line  around  into  the  Gulf,  where  Tampa 
Bay,  at  least,  invites  the  sailor  with  no 
little  charm.  But  the  Gulf  has  no  yacht- 
ing waters  to  compare  with  the  Atlantic 
shore,  while  the  Great  Lakes  require  of 
the  sailor  a  large  amount  of  hardihood 
and  ready  skill.  Though  landlocked, 
these  bodies  of  water  are  too  large  to 
resemble  bays,  and  they  are  subject  to 
sudden  and  fierce  squalls.  The  west 


46 


Sailing. 


coast  of  our  country  is  almost  destitute 
of  waters  favorable  to  yachting.  San 
Francisco  Bay  stands  almost  alone  as  a 
sailing  centre.  Once  outside  the  Golden 
Gate,  the  sailor  must  face  the  iron  coast 
of  the  Pacific,  which  is  not  at  all  what 
its  name  implies. 

Let  us  look  at  these  matters  more 
closely.  Boats  are  sailed  on  the  coast 
of  Maine.  The  natives  of  the  region 
sail  strictly  for  business,  for  they  are  not 
gifted  with  large  quantities  of  this 
world's  goods,  and  they  cannot  afford  to 
loiter  on  the  waters  for  their  amuse- 
ment. If  they  venture,  as  they  often 
must,  into  open  water,  they  meet  with 
stiff  breezes  and  lumpy  seas.  Wherefore 
one  finds  along  this  coast  a  race  of  raw- 
boned,  slab-sided  fishermen,  who  squint 
to  windward  with  an  especial  solemnity, 
and  go  down  to  the  sea  in  craft  of  sturdy 
patterns  and  sound  timbers.  Up  in  the 
northern  islands  sailing  is  more  com- 
fortable, but  even  here  the  native  is  a 
professional.  A  professional  he  is  with 
a  world-wide  reputation,  for  who  has 
not  heard  of  the  Deer  Island  sailors  of 
Defender  and  Columbia  ?  Nowhere  on 
the  American  coast  are  there  better  sea- 
men than  these  sons  of  Maine,  and  out  of 
their  rock-bound  harbors  come  the  great 
five  and  six  masted  schooners,  levia- 
thans of  pure  American  breed,  not  born 
in  other  lands.  Up  among  these  same 
Maine  islands  are  thousands  of  summer 
homes,  owned  by  people  from  Boston 
and  New  York ;  even  from  as  far  west 
as  Cleveland.  These  people  have  their 
pleasure  craft  almost  literally  tied  up  to 
their  front  gate-posts.  Small  sloops  and 
catboats  are  the  favorite  types,  but  all 
are  broad  of  beam,  fairly  deep,  and 
high-sided ;  for  the  sea  will  get  up  oc- 
casionally and  the  boat  must  be  able. 
These  are  not  the  only  pleasure  craft, 
for  the  cruising  yachts  sail  up  from  the 
south,  and  the  magnificent  floating  pal- 
aces of  Boston  and  New  York  magnates 
often  lave  their  shining  sides  in  the  cold 
waters  of  Bar  Harbor. 


But  sailing  on  the  Maine  coast  as  a 
sport  is  purely  exotic.  The  people  there 
sail,  as  has  been  said,  too  much  for  busi- 
ness to  care  about  doing  it  for  pleasure. 
To  them  the  sea  is  a  hunting  ground  and 
a  burial  place,  a  vast,  mysterious  expanse 
from  which  a  precarious  livelihood  is 
wrung  by  daring,  in  the  face  of  cruel 
danger,  and  where  the  bones  of  many  a 
sound  vessel  and  good  man  lie  fathoms 
deep  among  swaying  grasses  and  inde- 
scribable crawling  things. 

As  one  slips  slowly  down  the  eastern 
coast,  however,  he  comes  upon  a  land  of 
boats  and  boatmen,  a  land  where  every 
boy  has  some  sort  of  craft  to  sail,  and 
where  the  waters  whiten  on  Saturday 
and  Sunday  with  the  foam  of  a  thousand 
driven  keels.  Spreading  away  to  the 
northward  in  the  swelling  neck  of  Mar- 
blehead,  the  kind  lagoons  of  Salem  and 
Lynn,  and  the  broad  bight  of  Nahant 
Bay,  to  the  southward  in  the  streaming 
stretches  of  Nantasket  Roads,  the  shel- 
tering circle  of  Hingham  Bay,  the  tor-" 
tuous  channels  of  Cohasset  Harbor,  and 
the  pygmy  cranny  of  Scituate,  it  is  the 
lovely  land  that  lies  round  about  the 
hub  of  the  world.  It  is  a  land  of  chan- 
nels and  reefs,  tideways  and  tiderips, 
rocks  and  islands,  with  its  Graves  and 
its  Roaring  Bulls,  its  Devil's  Back  and  its 
Shag  Rocks,  its  Thieves'  Ledge  and  its 
Centurions,  its  score  of  scattered  islands, 
and  in  the  centre  of  all  the  wise  old  eye 
of  Boston  Light  gazing  in  benignant 
refulgence  over  all. 

Boston  Harbor  is  confessedly  a 
"  mean  "  place  for  sailing,  but  Boston 
Bay,  out  to  the  northward  and  eastward 
of  Deer  Island,  down  to  the  southward 
and  eastward  of  Boston  Light,  is  a 
paradise,  while  in  Marblehead  Harbor 
there  is  the  sweetest  anchorage  imagi- 
nable for  craft  of  high  and  low  degree. 
With  such  waters,  it  is  not  at  all  as- 
tonishing that  Boston  is  the  most  en- 
thusiastic yachting  port  in  the  United 
States,  and  that  in  every  nook  and  cor- 
ner of  the  surrounding  waters  are  to 


Sailing. 


47 


be  found  boat  sailors  of  all  kinds. 
Racing  runs  rampant.  Even  the  fisher- 
men have  schooners  built  by  yacht  de- 
signers, and  meet  in  stirring  competition 
for  substantial  prizes.  The  Eastern 
Yacht  Club  leads  in  the  luxury  of  the 
sport,  while  the  Corinthian  and  the  Hull- 
Massachusetts,  and  a  score  of  others,  sup- 
ply the  demands  of  sailors  of  small  boats. 

The  small  boats  used  around  Boston 
Bay  are  a  demonstration  in  themselves 
of  the  hold  the  sport  of  sailing  has  on 
all  classes.  Even  young  men  of  small 
means  associate  and  raise  money  enough 
to  purchase  some  old-fashioned  sloop  of 
small  tonnage,  discarded  by  her  owner 
for  a  newer  type.  Such  out-of-date 
craft  one  may  see  any  summer  Saturday 
fighting  for  supremacy  off  Marblehead 
Rock  with  the  newest  designs  in  u  knock- 
abouts "  and  "  raceabouts,"  and  not  infre- 
quently, through  superior  skill  and  the 
inventiveness  which  comes  of  necessity, 
winning  the  prizes.  But  this  is  not  all. 
The  numerous  contests  among  small  boat 
sailors  in  and  around  Boston  have  de- 
veloped the  fastest,  stanchest,  and  sound- 
est types  of  small  craft  known  to  the  east- 
ern seaboard.  There  is  plenty  of  water 
all  around  Boston  Bay,  and  the  typical 
small  yacht  of  that  country  has  what  the 
seamen  call  a  "  long  leg."  This  means 
that  she  is  built  with  a  healthy  body  go- 
ing well  down  into  the  water,  giving  her 
a  deep  draught,  placing  her  ballast  and 
her  centre  of  gravity  low,  and  making  her 
uncapsizable.  These  characteristics  have 
been  found  in  a  dozen  types  of  Boston 
small  craft,  which  have  set  the  pattern 
for  the  rest  of  America. 

Deep  keel  sloops  of  the  old  type  were 
more  popular  around  Boston  than  else- 
where. Who  forgets  the  famous  Burgess 
thirties  of  a  dozen  or  fifteen  years  ago, 
Saracen,  Rosalind,  and  their  compan- 
ions ?  I  never  sailed  a  sweeter  ship  than 
one  of  these,  twenty-nine  feet  seven 
inches  on  the  water  line,  thirty-five  feet 
over  all,  with  six  feet  of  head  room  in 
the  cabin,  and  berthing  space  for  six 


persons  forward  and  aft.  And  she  had 
a  sound  lead  keel  going  six  feet  toward 
the  bottom.  Fin  keels  abounded  in 
Boston  waters  in  the  days  when  these 
sword-fish  of  the  sailing  world  were  the 
fashion,  and  the  sneak-box  bow  and 
elongated  overhang  were  familiar  around 
Marblehead  before  they  were  at  New- 
port. In  short,  there  is  no  kind  of  sail- 
ing craft  that  is  used  for  pleasure  and 
sailed  by  an  amateur  that  is  not  to  be 
found  in  the  waters  around  Boston. 

Who  sails  boats  in  that  part  of  the 
world?  Why,  every  one!  From  the 
"Adams  Boys,"  the  smartest  yacht 
racers  of  the  East,  down  to  the  Marble- 
head  street  boy,  every  one  takes  pride 
in  his  skill  in  getting  the  best  work  out 
of  some  sort  of  sailing  boat.  Those 
who  do  not  sail  talk  about  it,  and  on  a 
summer  day  in  the  drowsy  atmosphere 
of  a  Boston  club,  or  in  the  shadow  of 
some  tall  pile  in  Washington  Street,  you 
shall  hear  more  racing  seaman's  lore 
than  anywhere  else  in  this  country  ex- 
cept on  the  cruising  ground  of  the 
Rocking-Chair  fleet  at  the  Larchmont 
Yacht  Club.  Boston's  claim  to  be  the 
hub  of  the  universe  may  be  disputed 
perhaps  when  you  consider  the  steel  in- 
dustry or  the  unimportant  matter  of 
freight  tonnage  ;  but  when  you  come  to 
talk  about  sailing,  you  must  admit  that 
Boston  is  the  greatest  yachting  port  in 
this  country.  Even  the  little  children 
there  know  the  history  of  the  America's 
Cup,  and  the  public  school  boy  can  sail 
a  dory  with  a  leg-of-mutton  sail  for  driv- 
ing power  and  an  oar  for  steering  gear. 

The  New  England  coast  from  Prov- 
incetown  down  to  the  entrance  to  the 
Vineyard  Sound  is  not  favorable  to  the 
sport  of  sailing,  and  little  is  done  except 
for  the  business  of  fishing.  Nantucket 
is  no  place  for  small  craft,  though  a  few 
hardy  catboats  do  take  out  fishing 
parties.  The  same  is  true  of  Cottage 
City.  The  tides  race  swiftly  east  and 
west  through  the  Sound,  and  fresh 
breezes  kick  up  a  choppy  sea.  It  is  a 


48 


Sailing. 


wet  and  uncertain  sailing  ground.  But 
it  has  a  sound  type  of  catboat,  broad 
of  beam,  deep  of  draught,  high -sided, 
strongly  sheered,  and  not  over-sparred. 
All  sorts  of  craft  are  seen  in  Vineyard 
Haven  and  even  at  Edgartown,  for  here 
is  the  eastern  limit  of  the  cruising 
grounds  for  the  great  fleets  of  small 
sailing  craft  from  Newport,  New  Lon- 
don, New  Haven,  and  New  York.  But 
on  the  other  side  of  the  northern  shore 
of  the  Vineyard  Sound,  and  connected 
with  it  by  those  captivating  little  pas- 
sages, Wood's  Hole,  Quick's  Hole,  and 
Robinson's  Hole,  lies  the  broad,  inviting 
bosom  of  Buzzard's  Bay,  landlocked  on 
all  sides,  filled  with  a  thousand  nooks 
and  corners  of  placid  shoal  water,  a 
very  paradise  for  small  boat  sailing,  and 
the  sailing  grounds  of  a  truly  amphibious 
race.  If  the  boys  of  Boston  are  nauti- 
cal, those  of  the  heel  of  the  Cape  are 
pure  salt,  and  when  the  summer  heat 
sends  the  Boston  boy  down  to  join  the 
Cape  boy  for  the  months  of  July  and 
August,  all  that  man  knows  of  the  art 
of  sailing  small  craft  is  explored  and  re- 
vised. 

Westward  from  where  the  barrens  of 
Cuttyhunk  front  the  Joseph's  Coat  of 
Gay  Head  the  gliding  keel  moves 
through  enchanted  waters  of  translucent 
blue,  till  the  rising  of  the  lighthouse  at 
West  Island  warns  of  the  approach  to 
Newport.  Here  is  the  summer  haven 
of  all  that  is  opulent  and  luxurious  in 
the  world  of  the  sailor.  It  is  the  riding 
ground,  too,  of  the  humblest ;  for  as  a 
cat  may  look  at  a  king,  so  may  the 
homely  single-handed  cruiser  of  some 
New  York  boy  lie  within  the  shadow  of 
the  boom  of  the  railroad  magnate's 
palatial  schooner.  For  west  of  New- 
port lies  the  most  inviting  stretch  of 
yachting  water  in  all  America,  water 
ploughed  by  every  type  of  sailing  craft 
known  to  the  United  States,  from  the 
Herreshoff  cup  defender  to  the  crusier 
that  "  looks  as  if  some  fellow  had  built 
her  himself."  Deep  keels,  skimming 


dishes,  centreboards,  fins,  schooners, 
sloops,  yawls,  knockabouts,  half-raters, 
auxiliaries,  and  a  thousand  weird  pat- 
terns of  small  craft  improvised  out  of  old 
ships'  boats  or  cut  down  fishing  smacks, 
—  all  these  may  be  seen  of  a  summer's 
day  on  the  welcoming  bosom  of  old 
Long  Island  Sound. 

A  wondrous  and  beneficent  gift  of  na- 
ture to  New  York  is  that  Sound.  The 
Hudson  River  is  not  favorable  to  sailing  ; 
the  bay  is  rough  and  torn  to  shreds  by 
the  iron  prow  of  restless  Commerce  ;  the 
East  River  is  a  roaring  tideway  beset 
with  ferry-boats  and  tows.  But  once 
past  the  treacherous  swirls  of  Hell  Gate, 
the  world  is  open  to  the  New  York  sail- 
or, and  as  he  sets  his  face  eastward,  he 
knows  that  as  far  as  Nantucket  he  may 
thrash  the  foamy  windrows  with  his  little 
vessel  almost  certain  of  a  comfortable 
harbor  every  night.  True,  the  tide  does 
set  east  and  west  through  the  Sound  with 
perceptible  force,  but  the  prevailing 
winds  are  such  that  almost  any  sailing 
craft  can  beat  the  tides.  Seriously  rough 
weather  is  not  often  encountered  in  the 
summer  season,  though  a  smoky  south- 
wester  does  sometimes  make  a  bad  lee 
shore  of  Connecticut.  But  the  weather- 
wise  sailor  is  seldom  on  the  lee  shore, 
and  if  he  is,  there  are  plenty  of  harbors. 
The  most  frequent  winds  have  some 
southing  in  them,  and  the  north  shore  is 
dotted  with  islands  and  scalloped  with 
bays.  The  south  shore  has  fewer,  but 
deeper  harbors,  and  in  such  shelters  as 
Glen  Cove  a  mighty  fleet  could  lie  at 
anchor. 

At  the  eastern  extremity  of  Long  Is- 
land Sound  one  passes  out  into  a  stretch 
of  open  water,  but  here  he  may  pick  his 
weather  for  the  run  around  to  Newport, 
and  while  waiting  may  lie  peacefully  in 
the  placid  waters  of  New  London  Har- 
bor, or  in  the  still  more  sequestered  an- 
chorage of  Stonington.  Or  he  may  slip 
across  to  the  south  shore,  and  thread- 
ing the  narrows  of  Plum  Gut,  swim  into 
the  broad  lagoon  of  Gardiner's  Bay,  or 


Sailing. 


49 


hurry  on  to  the  slimmer  avenues  oppo- 
site Greenport  and  the  enticing  hotels 
at  Shelter  Island.  Biting  deep  into  the 
heart  of  Long  Island  at  this  end  lies  Pe- 
conic  Bay,  but  although  I  have  gone  over 
its  shores  and  its  shallows  with  compass 
and  sounding  line  making  a  naval  militia 
reconnaissance,  I  have  seen  little  use  of 
its  waters  by  pleasure  craft.  It  lacks 
objective,  — there  is  no  place  to  go. 
That  is  the  secret  of  the  idleness  of  many 
an  otherwise  attractive  piece  of  water. 

Who  sails  the  alluring  waters  to  the 
eastward  of  New  York  ?  For  pure  sport 
one  may  take  it  for  granted  that  the 
dwellers  along  their  shores  do  not. 
These  sail  for  business.  There  is  a  fine 
fishing  fleet  at  Larchmont,  and  the  Larch- 
mont  Yacht  Club  gets  one  race  a  year 
out  of  it  by  offering  good  prizes  ;  but 
this  race  is  a  gentle  bribe  to  prevent  the 
fishermen  from  removing  course  marks 
and  buoys  planted  out  in  the  Sound  by 
the  club.  From  every  bay  and  harbor 
of  these  waters  oystermen  or  fishermen 
go  out  to  seek  for  food  products  beneath 
the  surface,  but  the  pleasure  sailing  is 
done  almost  wholly  by  summer  visitors 
or  city  people  who  have  made  country 
homes  along  the  shores.  As  a  cruising 
ground  for  the  New  York  youths  of 
moderate  means  the  Sound  is  most  popu- 
lar, and  many  a  badly  built,  badly 
manned,  and  badly  sailed  craft,  with  a 
crew  and  a  cook  of  the  lowest  amateur 
standing,  staggers  out  past  Execution 
Light,  finding  her  nightly  anchorage  by 
good  luck  rather  than  good  navigation. 
Yet  it  is  the  nautical  spirit  that  sends 
her  out,  and  an  added  store  of  nautical  ex- 
perience that  brings  her  back.  From  such 
beginnings  grow  up  the  crack  yachts- 
men of  New  York,  men  who  almost  hold 
their  own  with  the  professional  skippers, 
who  fill  pages  of  the  racing  annals  of 
great  years,  and  who  sometimes  become 
even  managers  of  cup  defenders. 

Long  Island  Sound  is  the  scene  of  the 
big  annual  cruises  of  the  yacht  clubs  of 
New  York,  but  the  history  of  these  is 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  4 


known  of  all  men.  Let  me  pause  here 
only  to  say  that  there  never  was  a  more 
interesting  popular  error  than  that  which 
regards  the  yachtsmen  of  the  New  York, 
Larchmont,  Atlantic,  and  Seawanhaka 
yacht  clubs  as  so  many  gilded  orna- 
ments on  the  decks  of  their  own  yachts. 
It  is  true  that  these  clubs  contain  a  good 
many  dilettante  sailors,  but  the  repre- 
sentative men  are  masters  of  their  art, 
and  command  even  the  patronizing  ad- 
miration of  their  own  sailing  masters. 

On  the  south  side  of  Long  Island  lies 
the  Great  South  Bay,  and  here  is  the 
real  nursery  of  New  York  yacht  sailors. 
In  this  broad,  shallow  sheet,  where  four 
feet  are  a  deep  draught,  and  where  a 
forty-foot  water  line  is  the  foundation  of 
a  leviathan,  has  been  bred  a  race  of  ex- 
pert small  boat  sailors,  capable  of  han- 
dling the  omnipresent  catboat  or  the  jib- 
and-mainsail  yacht  as  well  as  any  others 
in  the  world.  Along  the  shores  dwells 
a  hardy  race  of  seafarers,  who  venture 
out  through  the  treacherous  waters  of 
Fire  Island  Inlet  into  the  open  sea  in 
search  of  fish.  These  sailors  never  sail 
for  pleasure,  but  all  summer  long  they 
carry  on  the  business  of  taking  out  visit- 
ors for  hire  in  all  sorts  of  craft,  from  th« 
twenty-foot  catboat  of  Amityville  to  the 
high-sided,  broad-bodied,  forty-foot  jib- 
and-mainsail  that  plies  between  Sayville 
and  Water  Island.  These  sailor  men 
are  the  instructors  of  thousands  of  young- 
sters from  the  cities,  and  the  dean  of 
them  all  is  that  splendid  old  racing  mas- 
ter, Captain  "  Hank  "  Haff  of  Islip. 

Again,  to  the  southward  of  New  York 
lie  the  great  summer  resorts  of  the  New 
Jersey  coast,  with  the  Shrewsbury  and 
Navesink  rivers  and  Barnegat  Bay 
within  easy  reach.  Shallow  broads  are 
these  where  the  skimming-dish  catboat 
and  the  half-rater  are  sailed  daily,  but 
again  chiefly  by  the  boys  from  the  cities. 
The  native  sails  for  gain  in  the  summer  ; 
in  the  winter  —  on  the  Shrewsbury  at 
least  —  he  finds  his  sport  in  racing  the 
swift  ice-boat.  But  in  all  these  wonder- 


50 


Sailing. 


ful  stretches  of  water  that  lie  around 
New  York  there  are  sailors  of  all  classes, 
and  he  who  imagines  that  yachting  is  a 
sport  exclusively  for  the  rich  has  not 
seen  the  young  adventurers  of  Gotham. 
From  the  poor  clerks  who  band  together 
in  groups  of  four  or  five  and  hire  a  New 
Haven  sharpie,  long,  squat,  and  uncom- 
fortable, for  a  two  weeks'  vacation  cruise, 
and  the  hard-fisted  Brooklyn  boys  who 
spend  Saturday  afternoon  in  thrashing 
down  the  Bay  against  the  southerly  wind 
that  they  may  lie  over  Sunday  in  the 
racing  tides  of  the  Shrewsbury  near  the 
Atlantic  Highlands  drawbridge  and 
bathe  with  the  excursionists  at  Highland 
Beach,  to  the  owner  of  the  big  schooner 
that  reels  off  her  ten  knots  as  she  flies 
eastward  through  the  Sound,  or  of  the 
steamer  that  drops  her  anchor  off  Sea 
Gate  and  lolls  lazily  in  the  summer  sea, 
all  conditions  of  men  are  represented  in 
the  army  of  pleasure  sailors  in  and  about 
New  York.  They  form  a  smaller  per- 
centage of  the  population  than  the  sailing 
fraternity  of  Boston  and  its  vicinity,  and 
there  is  probably  no  other  seaport,  except 
London,  where  there  is  such  a  vast  and 
overpowering  ignorance  of  nautical  mat- 
ters as  there  is  in  New  York.  Yet  the 
love  for  sailing  and  the  appreciation  and 
understanding  of  it  grow  every  year,  and 
there  is  a  very  considerable  influence  of 
that  spirit  which  made  the  War  of  1812, 
the  clipper  ship,  and  the  America's  Cup 
all  ours. 

What  has  been  said  of  sailing  on  the 
northern  part  of  the  Atlantic  coast  of  the 
United  States  embodies  what  might  be 
said  in  a  general  way  of  sailing  in  the 
Southern  states.  The  use  of  the  boat 
among  the  natives  is  almost  invariably 
fathered  by  necessity.  To  find  a  coast 
dweller  going  out  "  for  a  sail "  is,  indeed, 
a  rare  thing.  If  he  goes,  he  uses  his  boat 
as  a  means  of  conveyance.  He  goes  to 
fish,  or  perchance  to  shoot  ducks,  or  to  set 
lobster  pots  —  but  not  just  to  sail.  On 
the  other  hand  there  is  hardly  a  bay  or 
a  river  mouth  on  the  entire  coast  without 


its  group  of  summer  homes,  and  the 
dwellers  in  these  homes  use  boats  for 
their  pleasure.  Men  do  not  build  cot- 
tages beside  the  water  without  the  desire 
to  float.  These  summer  visitors  carry 
with  them  the  racing  spirit,  and  with  it 
they  stimulate  the  native  to  look  upon 
his  boat  as  something  more  than  a  mere 
vehicle.  Thus  sailing  as  a  sport  makes 
its  way  among  the  toilers  of  the  sea,  and 
the  fishing  craft  learns  to  jockey  for  po- 
sition at  the  start  and  to  fly  kites.  All 
the  way  down  the  Atlantic  coast  one 
finds  the  sport  of  sailing  and  flourishing 
yacht  clubs.  The  cruising  yachts  of  va- 
rious ports  find  their  way  along  the  coast 
line,  and  some  of  them  creep  through  the 
sheltered  waters  of  the  various  sounds. 
The  government  a  few  years  ago  sent  a 
torpedo  boat  through  the  tortuous  chan- 
nels of  Albemarle  and  Pamlico  sounds, 
solely  for  the  purpose  of  demonstrating 
their  usefulness.  While  these  waters 
have  long  been  ploughed  by  light-draught 
vessels  of  the  types  familiar  to  the  east- 
ern coast,  they  now  not  infrequently 
carry  on  their  kindly  bosoms  the  larger 
and  deeper  sea-going  craft  from  distant 
ports.  And  so  you  may  follow  the  sports- 
man of  the  water  all  the  way  round  into 
Tampa  Bay,  where  you  will  be  welcomed 
by  the  members  of  a  lively  little  yacht 
club,  and  will  find  at  anchor  as  pretty  a 
"  mosquito  "  fleet  as  you  would  in  Larch- 
mont  Harbor. 

On  the  west  coast  of  the  United  States 
sailing  as  a  sport  is  almost  wholly  con- 
fined to  San  Francisco,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  requirements  of  a  yacht- 
ing country  are  to  be  found  only  there. 
Outside  cruising  is  little  practiced  for 
reasons  already  given.  Winds  are  heavy, 
seas  rough,  harbors  scarce.  Almost 
singular  in  western  sailing  annals  stands 
the  cruise  of  the  Casco,  schooner  yacht, 
ninety-four  feet  long,  which  went  down 
into  the  South  Seas.  It  was  a  memora- 
ble cruise,  a  never-to-be-forgotten  schoon- 
er, for  one  of  the  passengers  was  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  When  the  San  Fran- 


Sailing. 


51 


cisco  yachtsman  does  venture  outside  the 
Golden  Gate,  it  is  for  a  run  down  to  Mon- 
terey. Owing  to  the  prevalent  winds, 
it  is  literally  a  run  down  and  a  beat 
back.  Usually  the  owner  of  the  yacht 
leaves  the  windward  "  thrash "  to  his 
sailing  master  and  goes  home  by  train. 
If  he  stays  on  his  yacht,  he  has  much  pa- 
tience or  no  engagements.  In  the  sum- 
mer the  sailor's  worst  enemy,  fog,  is  fre- 
quently found  outside,  and  consequently 
most  of  the  sailing  is  done  inside  the  Bay. 
Here,  indeed,  is  a  magnificent  body  of 
water.  The  Bay  proper  is  290  square 
miles  in  extent,  and  with  all  its  branches 
it  reaches  the  size  of  480  square  miles. 
Hundreds  of  miles  of  river  and  creek 
open  into  this  splendid  inland  sea  and  of- 
fer irresistible  allurements  to  the  sailor  of 
the  light-draught  vessel.  Chiefly  because 
the  masters  of  this  Bay  issue  out  of  these 
creeks  and  rivers  the  deep-keel  yacht  is 
scarce  in  San  Francisco  waters.  The 
typical  craft  is  a  centreboard,  fore-and- 
aft  rigged  yacht,  of  wide  beam  and  short 
spars.  The  yawl  rig  is  very  popular,  and 
balloon  canvas  is  rare. 

Of  course  there  are  reasons  for  these 
peculiarities.  When  it  blows,  it  blows  a 
fresh  breeze,  and  it  comes  on  quickly.  It 
is  more  comfortable  to  have  a  yacht  with 
a  small  rig  than  to  be  continually  reefing. 
Owing  to  the  regularity  with  which  the 
wind  rises  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
sailor  men  wish  to  reach  their  home 
ports,  balloon  canvas  is  seldom  carried, 
because  at  the  time  when  it  would  be 
most  desired  it  would  be  superfluous. 
The  favor  of  the  yawl  rig  is  due  to  the 
ease  and  celerity  with  which  it  admits  of 
the  shortening  of  sail.  Yachting  in  San 
Francisco  Bay  is  all  done  in  the  summer 
season,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  in 
the  winter  there  are  no  winds  and  a  good 
deal  too  much  rain.  In  the  summer,  how- 
ever, there  is  enough  sailing  to  delight 
the  eye  of  the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of 
the  sport,  and  the  waters  north  and  south 
and  east  and  west  are  ploughed  by  a  great 
fleet  of  high -sided,  short  •  bodied,  and 


low-rigged  craft  which  get  their  stability 
chiefly  from  their  wide,  squat  hulls,  and 
which,  though  not  especially  fast,  are 
safe,  weatherly,  and  comfortable. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  fresh 
water  sailor  was  not  taken  into  account, 
but  that  time  has  passed.  The  Great 
Lakes  are,  as  I  have  already  said,  not  en- 
couraging to  the  sport  of  pleasure  sailing, 
yet  it  is  not  absent  from  them.  One  of 
the  greatest  drawbacks  to  the  pastime  is 
the  want  of  places  to  visit.  When  a  man 
goes  out  sailing  he  likes  to  run  into  some 
inviting  place  to  dine  or  eat  a  light  lunch- 
eon. Such  resorts  are  rare  on  the  Great 
Lakes.  When  you  go  out  to  sail,  you  sail 
and  you  go  home  again.  But  the  racing 
spirit  again  comes  to  the  front,  and  in- 
cites the  amateur  of  the  helm  and  sheet 
to  drive  his  craft  over  the  blue  waters  of 
our  inland  seas.  The  history  of  the  in- 
ternational races  between  American  and 
Canadian  yachts  on  the  lakes  is  yet 
young,  but  it  is  inspiring.  These  races 
have  done  much  to  evolve  sound  and 
swift  types  of  sailing  craft  for  lake  sail- 
ing, and  they  will  do  a  great  deal  more 
in  the  future.  On  Ontario,  for  instance, 
there  has  been  for  years  a  racing  circuit, 
which  embraces  Big  Sodus  Bay,  Oswego, 
Sackett's  Harbor,  Kingston,  Belleville, 
Cobourg,  Port  Hope,  and  Toronto.  The 
fleet  cruises  around  this  circuit,  sailing 
races  at  each  port,  and  the  sailors  gain  a 
large  amount  of  valuable  experience. 

The  lakes  are  squally  waters,  and  the 
yachts  and  sailors  are  both  fashioned  to 
suit  their  needs.  The  trading  schooners, 
for  example,  all  have  short  lower  masts 
and  long  topmasts,  so  that  by  clewing  up 
topsails  they  are  immediately  put  under 
snug  canvas  and  made  fit  for  any  ordi- 
nary squall.  So  one  finds  that  the  plea- 
sure yachts  are  mostly  able-bodied  craft, 
with  ample  freeboard  and  low  rigs. 
They  are  just  the  sort  of  sailing  boats  to 
contend  with  fresh  winds  and  choppy 
seas.  Plenty  of  modern  designs  are  to  be 
found  on  the  Great  Lakes  now,  and  the 
eastern  designers  send  many  of  the  pro- 


Sailing. 


ducts  of  their  boards  to  fight  for  the  su- 
premacy of  the  inland  seas.  The  work- 
ing seamen  of  the  lakes  are  splendid 
sailors,  and  the  amateurs  are  a  handy, 
hardy  lot,  who  compare  very  favorably 
with  the  best  Corinthians  of  the  salt 
water  clubs. 

Even  the  smaller  lakes  of  the  North- 
west have  their  sailor  men  and  their  ra- 
cing craft.  The  twin  cities  of  Minneapo- 
lis and  St.  Paul  can  turn  you  out  some 
of  the  liveliest  handlers  of  the  good  old 
"sand-bagger"  to  be  found  anywhere 
outside  of  Larchmont.  Minneapolis  peo- 
ple sail  on  Minnetonka  Lake,  while  the 
St.  Paul  yachtsman  finds  his  sea  on 
White  Bear  Lake.  But  the  sand-bag- 
ger with  outriggers  is  rapidly  going  out 
of  fashion,  if,  indeed,  it  has  not  already 
quite  gone ;  and  now  one  finds  in  these 
waters  half-raters,  one-raters,  and  the 
omnipresent  catboat. 

This  cursory  glance  at  the  sport  of 
sailing  as  practiced  in  the  United  States 
should  suffice  to  demonstrate  at  least  one 
thing,  namely,  that  it  is  chiefly  in  the 
hands  of  amateurs,  most  of  whom  are 
dwellers  in  cities  and  towns.  The  rural 
population  does  little  sailing  for  pleasure. 
From  it,  however,  comes  the  great  body 
of  professional  seamen,  who  teach  the 
amateurs  all  they  know.  The  nautical 
spirit  of  the  country  is  fairly  divided  be- 
tween the  two  classes ;  for,  if  the  city 
yachtsman  races  from  Sandy  Hook  to 
Daunt's  Rock  or  defends  the  America's 
Cup,  he  has  the  aid  of  the  best  profes- 
sional talent  in  the  land  ;  and  when  the 
American  flag  is  to  be  carried  to  the  ut- 
termost ends  of  the  earth,  it  is  the  profes- 
sional seaman  who  takes  the  helm,  who 
cons  the  ship,  and  who  shapes  the  course. 
The  traditions  of  the  American  merchant 
marine,  except  in  the  matter  of  the  treat- 
ment of  men  by  officers,  are  all  glorious, 
and  they  go  far  toward  inspiring  the 
amateur  with  courage  to  adventure  upon 
the  sea.  If  to  the  professional  belongs 
the  desire  to  master  the  ocean  for  utili- 


tarian  purposes,  the  amateur  seeks  to 
master  it  for  the  sheer  joy  of  the  game. 

Out  of  the  endeavors  of  the  two  classes 
have  grown  the  American  ship  and  the 
American  yacht.  The  former  now  shows 
a  diminished  glory,  but  her  past  is  im- 
perishable. The  records  of  the  Dread- 
naught,  the  Flying  Cloud,  the  Comet, 
and  the  Sovereign  of  the  Seas  are  graven 
in  letters  of  gold  on  the  pages  of  sea  an- 
nals. The  achievements  of  American 
skill  in  yacht  building  and  handling  are 
known  to  all  the  world.  For  a  time  the 
nautical  spirit  seemed  not  to  penetrate 
deeper  than  the  skin  of  the  land.  It  lay 
along  the  coasts.  But  with  the  advent 
of  the  specially  designed  defenders  of  the 
America's  Cup,  beginning  with  the  Puri- 
tan in  1885,  there  came  a  revival  of  nau- 
tical enthusiasm,  and  a  spread  of  it  into 
the  interior.  Doubtless  this  had  not  a 
little  influence  in  the  passage  of  certain 
appropriation  bills  by  Congress  looking 
toward  the  beginnings  of  our  new  navy. 
In  the  War  of  1812  the  American  frigate 
was  the  terror  of  the  seas,  and  the  Ameri- 
can seaman  the  monarch  of  the  deep. 
The  spirit  which  made  that  seaman  and 
that  frigate  living  actualities  has  re- 
turned, and  it  has  given  us  our  new  navy, 
with  its  unsurpassed  ships  and  its  un- 
equaled  personnel. 

The  nurture  of  that  spirit  in  its  broad- 
est relations  to  the  national  life  begins 
with  the  boat  sailor,  who  learns  to  feel 
the  thrill  of  conquest  of  the  elements  even 
when  steering  his  little  catboat  across 
some  landlocked  bay.  His  act,  his 
thought,  his  emotion  are  the  seedlings 
from  which  grow  the  splendid  plant.  Yet 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  he  but  follows  in 
the  wake  of  the  large  yacht,  and  strives 
to  imitate  the  yachtsman  of  the  club. 
We  owe  a  big  debt  to  our  leading  yacht 
clubs.  They  are  the  propagators  of  the 
true  nautical  spirit  among  the  lovers  of 
sport.  Their  membership  is  a  very  small 
percentage  of  the  myriad  of  sailors  they 
give  to  the  country. 

W.  J.  Henderson. 


The    Watch  Below.  53 


THE   WATCH   BELOW. 

His  childhood's  longings  are  come  true 
In  all  their  widest,  wildest  range ; 

This  is  the  picture  fancy  drew; 
How  real,  yet  how  strange ! 

The  braces  snap  ;  the  storm  sails  rip ; 

The  fettered  gales  have  struggled  free; 
The  straining  greyhound  is  the  ship, 

The  foaming  wolves,  the  sea. 

Their  glistening  fangs  are  wide  to  strike  ; 

Their  famished  eyes  are  flakes  of  fire ; 
Hunger  and  surfeit  whet  alike 

Their  immemorial  ire. 

But  fleeter  than  the  fleeing  hound, 
And  surer  than  the  ruthless  foe, 

On  rushes  to  its  fated  bound 
The  midnight  watch  below. 

The  watch  is  called ;  he  never  heeds ; 

Let  the  sweet  feast  his  longing  cloy } 
On  nectar  and  ambrosia  feeds 

The  sleeping  sailor  boy. 

The  fo'castle,  the  deck,  the  spars, 
The  swollen  sea,  the  lowering  skies, 

The  drowning  sun,  the  dripping  stars 
Have  faded  from  his  eyes. 

The  mast  is  creaking  by  his  berth, 
The  lantern  smokes  above  his  head, 

But  sleepless  potentates  of  earth 
Might  envy  him  his  bed. 

4 

His  yearning  gaze  is  on  the  past: 

Through  their  red  gates  the  hot  tears  flow 

That  this  swift  hour  will  be  his  last 
Ah,  well  he  does  not  know! 

His  sister's  prattle  charms  his  ear; 

His  mother's  silence  stirs  his  soul: 
What  matters  now  the  exile's  tear, 

The  vessel's  plunging  roll? 


54  The   Watch  Below. 

All  in  the  revel  of  his  dream 
He  loiters  down  the  leafy  lane ; 

He  plashes  in  the  pebbly  stream ; 
Above  the  storm's  refrain 

He  hears  the  oriole's  sweet  clang ; 

He  sees  the  swinging  apple  spray ; 
The  same  call  through  the  orchard  rang  . 

The  morn  he  came  away. 

The  age-long  malady  of  grief 
No  earthly  remedy  can  mend: 

Alas,  that  only  joy  is  brief, 
That  fairest  visions  end  ! 

He  wakes  at  rush  of  trampling  feet, 

And  shouts,  and  oaths  that  stay  his  prayer, 

To  join,  at  halyard  and  at  sheet, 
The  seamen  swaying  there. 

With  these  he  lines  the  lurching  deck 
And  mans  the  yards  that  skim  the  seas : 

He  fears  nor  wind,  nor  wave,  nor  wreck, 
Nor  destiny's  decrees. 

In  all  his  wrath  the  storm  is  on ; 

Deep  calls  to  deep  in  travail-moan: 
Down  to  the  waste  the  boy  has  gone  — 

The  weltering  waste  —  alone. 

The  horror  of  the  downward  sweep  ! 

The  struggle  of  the  smothering  brine! 
My  guardian  angel,  thou  wouldst  weep 

If  such  a  fate  were  mine! 

Did  ghostly  forms  about  him  flit 
In  the  vast  void  of  rolling  foam  ? 

Did  all  the  demons  of  the  pit 
To  mock  his  anguish  come  ? 

Stay,  weak  lament !     He  fared  not  ill ; 

My  life-dream  too  will  soon  go  by. 
It  is  his  watch  below ;  be  still : 

Let  the  wet  sea  boy  lie ! 

Edward  N.  Pomeroy. 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


55 


THE  GENIUS  OF  RETTA  ROMANY  TOMPKINS. 


IF  Penangton  had  been  in  England 
instead  of  in  Missouri,  the  relative  su- 
periority of  the  Tompkins  family  would 
have  come  to  stunted  blossom  in  the 
title  of  squire;  but  the  advantage  of 
living  in  Missouri  over  living  in  Eng- 
land is  suggested  by  the  aphorism  that 
to  title  superiority  is  to  limit  it.  To 
be  heralded  a  squire  is  to  be  heralded 
as  better  than  a  yeoman,  but  it  is  also 
to  be  heralded  as  not  so  good  as  a  lord. 
Nobody  in  Missouri  could  stand  that. 
Instead  of  being  squires,  the  Tompkins 
family  for  three  generations  had  been 
prosperous  citizens ;  and  for  three  gen- 
erations they  had  been  the  kind  of  citi- 
zens to  whom  a  Western  town  can  most 
safely  allow  success.  Whatever  the  de- 
gree of  success  attained  by  a  Tompkins, 
the  stress  of  it  had  never  yet  carried 
him  beyond  the  claim  of  Penangton; 
there  had  been  no  lifting  him  out  of  the 
Missouri  soil;  he  had  been  warm  and 
rich  with  Missouri,  and  he  had  lived  and 
died  in  Missouri. 

Going  back  three  generations,  the 
first  Tompkins  out  from  Kentucky  was 
Thousand-acre.  He  came  with  the  rush 
in  1816,  and  on  the  banks  of  Big 
Snibble  Creek  he  took  up  so  much  gov- 
ernment land  and  "pitched  "  his  crops 
so  successfully  that  being  a  Tompkins 
came  easier  ever  after.  The  son  of 
Thousand-acre  was  State  Rights  Tomp- 
kins, one  of  the  elect  few  called  down 
to  St.  Louis  in  1861  to  help  determine 
which  way  Missouri  should  go.  It  was 
Frank  Blair,  with  that  great  mailed 
hand  of  his  immediately  on  the  throat 
of  the  caucus,  who  jumped  to  his  feet 
on  the  side  of  the  Union  in  the  very 
fever  of  the  St.  Louis  discussion,  and 
shouted :  "  Gentlemen,  we  waste  time ! 
Let  us  have  a  country  first,  and  talk 
politics  later !  "  And  it  was  old  State 
Rights  Tompkins  who  jumped  to  his 
feet  next,  and  caught  Blair  on  the  re- 


bound, as  though  Blair  had  been  a  rub- 
ber ball.  "  In  God's  name,  sir, "  State 
Rights  bellowed,  "what  better  country 
do  you  want  than  Missourah  ?  " 

And  then,  continuing  in  the  inevita- 
ble Missouri  sequence  of  those  days, 
with  gouge  of  spur  and  hemp- tied,  rot- 
ting boots,  there  dashed  to  the  front 
State  Rights'  son  Elmer,  Colonel  Bare- 
head  Tompkins,  who  rode  into  Penang- 
ton one  September  evening,  hatless, 
blood-dabbled,  and  laughing  like  a  luna- 
tic. "The  Lyon's  whelps  'most  got  me, 
boys !  "  he  called  to  the  gray-faced  men 
who  came  hobbling  from  the  Court 
House  steps.  "But  I  said  I'd  bring 
those  dispatches  through  from  Jackson, 
didn't  I?"  Elmer  was  not  the  sort 
of  man  to  have  thrown  away  his  hat  for 
the  sake  of  riding  into  Penangton  with 
his  yellow  hair  streaking  out  behind, 
but  it  would  have  been  plain  to  a  baby, 
if  there  had  been  any  babies  that  Sep- 
tember, that  since  the  hat  was  gone  the 
gentleman  knew  how  to  make  the  most 
of  himself  without  a  hat.  He  made  his 
mare  leap  forward,  he  rose  in  his  stir- 
rups, and  he  yelled  over  his  shoulder : 
"Well,  I  guess  I  got  'em!  They  got 
my  hat,  but  I  got  the  dockyments.  Er- 
raw  for  Pap  Price  V  the  State  Guard !  " 
Bareheaded,  with  the  hair  blowing  back 
from  his  gay,  thin  face,  he  thundered  on 
toward  Academy  Hill  where  Price  lay 
encamped. 

State  Rights'  daughter,  Miss  Muriel 
"  Murmur, "  was  a  Tompkins  whose  tal- 
ents were  essentially  and  delicately  pre- 
servative. In  the  first  blush  of  those 
talents  she  compiled  a  volume  of  poems 
from  the  works  of  Missouri's  best  po- 
ets, and  styling  the  compilation  Mis- 
souri's Murmur  ings,  the  title's  gentle 
meanderings  through  happy  hearts,  win- 
ter winds,  soft  sighs,  and  rippling  rivers 
finally  brought  it  to  rest  upon  the  gifted 
lady's  own  head  in  an  encircling  climax 


56 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


not  unlike  laurel.  It  also  fell  to  Miss 
Muriel's  lot,  after  the  finish  of  Elmer 
in  the  wild  hours  at  Bloody  Hill  and 
the  death  of  Elmer's  heart-broken  fa- 
ther and  wife,  to  supervise  his  orphan 
children,  and  prod  them  up  to  what  was 
expected  of  them  as  Tompkinses. 

During  the  childhood  of  Elmer's  son 
and  daughter  it  was  Miss  Muriel's  habit, 
as  it  was  all  Penangton's  habit,  to  dwell 
with  a  certain  high-headedness  upon  the 
characteristics  of  the  Tompkins  girl. 
"Her  father's  own  child,  you  may  say, " 
was  Miss  Muriel's  and  Penangton's  way 
of  labeling  the  girl's  energy,  vitality, 
and  tricks  of  face  and  gesture,  until  the 
child  herself  took  up  the  song,  and  got 
around  in  front  of  her  brother  with  it. 
"I  'm  a  Tompkins  all  over,  ain't  I,  Mar- 
maduke?  And  you  are  like  mother, 
ain't  you,  Marmaduke?  "  she  would  say. 
And  the  boy  would  say  yes,  with  a 
strange,  old  feeling  of  locking  arms 
with  his  mother,  and  so  standing,  white 
and  ineffectual,  before  a  capable  world 
of  Tompkinses.  Then  he  would  prob- 
ably lift  the  girl  from  some  fence  to  a 
lower  and  safer  place,  or  pull  her  back 
from  the  brink  of  Little  Snibble,  or  in 
some  other  way  look  out  for  her  and 
take  care  of  her. 

It  was  not  until  the  girl  was  fifteen, 
and  had  twice  run  away  from  the  Cen- 
tral Missouri  Female  Boarding  School 
in  St.  Louis,  that  Miss  Muriel  and  Pe- 
nangton  began  to  see  that  the  Tompkins 
energy  and  vitality  might  prove  disturb- 
ing elements  in  a  woman,  and  to  set 
about  doing  their  best  by  the  Tompkins 
boy,  and  showing  him  that  since  his  fa- 
ther had  been  cut  down  in  the  very 
heat  and  sweat  of  accomplishment,  and 
since  his  sister  wasn't  a  man,  he  was 
expected  to  finish  that  father's  record. 
Having  set  about  this,  Penangton  and 
Miss  Muriel  did  it  so  well  that  all 
through  his  youth  Marmaduke  had  to 
carry  about  with  him  a  digging  sensa- 
tion that  he  ought  to  do  something  or 
other,  or  be  something  or  other ;  and  all 
through  his  youth  life  presented  dark, 


unsatisfactory  spots  where  the  Penang- 
tonians  buttonholed  him  and  tried  to 
help  him  toward  a  big  career. 

Perhaps  it  was  General  Tom  Whit- 
tington,  his  father's  one-time  crony, 
and  now  deputy  United  States  marshal : 
"Marmaduke,  see  here  a  minute. 
Would  you  care  for  that  West  Point 
place  ?  Seems  like  a  pity  to  put  you 
in  the  off-color  clothes ;  but  what 's  past 
help  's  past  grief,  Marmaduke,  and  if 
you  can  be  half  as  good  a  fighter  as 
your  daddy,  seems  like  a  pity  not  to 
put  you  where  you  can  fight." 

Perhaps  it  was  his  aunt  Muriel  her- 
self, with  her  transparent  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  prodding  him  poetically: 
"  Whither  now,  young  aspirant  ?  Un- 
der which  queen  ?  Scientia  ?  Justitia  ? 
Martia?" 

Meantime  Marmaduke  was  growing 
up  the  more  helpless  to  do  because  the 
more  appreciative  of  what  ought  to  be 
done.  The  boy  realized,  if  the  town 
didn't,  that  it  was  not  to  be  allowed 
to  him,  as  it  had  been  allowed  to  his 
ancestors,  to  be  a  pillar  of  state  with- 
out ever  leaving  the  porch  of  Thousand- 
acre.  Missouri  was  too  big  for  that 
now,  and  his  father  had  already  brought 
the  family  name  too  close  to  the  outer 
boundaries  of  Missouri.  If  the  Tomp- 
kins record  was  to  be  continued,  the 
banner  must  next,  and  inevitably,  be 
carried  on  beyond  Missouri.  Marma- 
duke did  not  want  to  get  beyond  Mis- 
souri, under  no  matter  how  good  a  ban- 
ner. It  was  not  only  that  he  had  n't 
the  capacity  for  that  sort  of  progres- 
sion; he  didn't  want  it.  He  had  ac- 
cepted the  family  feeling  for  Missouri 
just  as  it  had  been  handed  to  him ;  then, 
as  his  town  was  a  good  place,  something 
Southern  and  something  Western,  and 
as  he  was  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
old  landmarks,  well-known  faces,  the 
fair,  wide  roll  of  the  land,  the  crunch- 
ing bite  of  the  river,  and  the  sweep  of 
the  wind  in  the  wheat,  the  feeling  had 
grown  as  he  grew  into  an  immeasur- 
able devotion  to  his  state  and  to  his 


The   Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins0 


57 


town.  He  saw  things  as  his  town  saw 
them;  he  was  accustomed  to  what  his 
town  was  accustomed  to,  and  he  was 
convinced,  as  his  town  was  convinced, 
that  everybody  ought  to  be  a  Presbyte- 
rian, a  Methodist,  a  Baptist,  or  a  Camp- 
bellite,  and  eat  supper  at  night  instead 
of  dinner. 

It  was  on  a  fine  June  day,  close  to 
his  twenty-second  birthday,  that  he  came 
home  from  Chicago,  after  one  last  effort 
at  the  university  somehow  to  get  him- 
self ready  to  do  what  was  expected  of 
him.  When  he  left  the  train  at  the 
Penangton  depot,  he  doubled  straight 
back  into  the  Thousand-acre  land, 
jumped  Little  Snibble  Creek,  climbed 
a  fence  into  the  Red  Haw  Pasture, 
fared  across  that,  struck  the  Fair 
Ground  Road  at  Big  Snibble  Bridge, 
and  so  up  to  the  great  Thousand-acre 
gate.  There  he  stooped  down  and  pat- 
ted the  earth.  "Good  old  ground,"  he 
said.  Once  in  his  old  room,  he  lost  no 
time  in  getting  out  of  his  pepper-and- 
salt  suit,  got  his  stiff  shirt  up  over  his 
head,  and  flapped  his  arms  vigorously. 
"Because,"  he  crowed,  "I'm  done. 
Before  I  'd  squeeze  up  my  soul  in  kid, 
before  I  'd  forget  the  smell  of  the 
ground  where  the  reaper  's  run  over,  I  'd 
—  well, I  don't  squeeze  and  I  don't  for- 
get. That 's  all.  As  I  am,  after  this, 
not  as  I  ought  by  family  rights  to  be. 
Can't  be  a  lawyer,  can't  be  a  soldier; 
going  to  be  a  farmer  —  and  a  damn 
good  one  almost  surely, "  he  said,  while 
his  eyes  rioted  outside  in  the  young  glory 
of  his  fields. 

For  a  few  months  he  lay  back  easy 
and  fanned  himself  in  the  relief  his  de- 
cision had  brought  him.  Miss  Muriel 
had  closed  Thousand-acre  that  last  win- 
ter, because  the  Fair  Ground  Road  got 
so  bad,  and  had  moved  in  to  the  Tomp- 
kins  town  house  to  live;  but  it  didn't 
take  Marmaduke  very  long  to  marshal 
the  old  force  of  Tompkins  darkies  back 
into  the  kitchen,  to  the  tubs,  and  into 
the  fields ;  and  he  was  so  well  satisfied 
to  be  about  it,  and  got  so  busy  selling 


his  wheat  and  keeping  his  fences  up, 
that  cold  weather  had  fairly  come  be- 
fore he  saw  that  the  tragedy  which  his 
decision  had  entailed  upon  the  town  had 
worked  to  the  surface  and  had  frozen 
over  Penangton  like  a  great  tear.  By 
Christmas  time  he  was  having  to  stand 
the  knowledge  that  Penangton  was  say- 
ing soberly,  "Oh,  'tis  n't  as  though 
Marmaduke  had  taken  after  his  father's 
side." 

Two  years  is  a  good  while  to  work 
against  the  disappointment  of  your 
town,  against  its  patiently  silent  re- 
proach, .  but  it  was  all  of  two  years  — 
years  of  close-mouthed  effort  on  Mar- 
maduke's  part  to  lift  some  of  the  results 
of  the  war  from  Thousand- acre  —  be- 
fore General  Tom  Whittington  found 
occasion  to  say:  "Talk  to  Marmaduke 
about  the  farmers'  body  militant  or  the 
mistakes  of  the  Grangers,  and  you  won't 
get  him  to  do  nothing  but  bat  his  eyes ; 
but  harkee, "  —  the  general  cleared  a 
permanent  way  for  the  revised  opinion 
by  spitting  far  up  the  cottonwood  tree  in 
front  of  the  Commercial  Hotel :  "  Mar- 
maduke can  pitch  the  southwest  quarter 
of  the  northwest  quarter  of  section  seben 
in  township  leben  of  range  thirteeun  in 
chicory  beans  and  reap  a  mighty  good 
article  of  wheat  off  the  forty." 

That  ought  to  have  meant  a  good 
deal  to  Marmaduke,  and  undoubtedly 
would  have,  had  it  not  been  that  just  at 
this  time  he  was  too  absorbed  in  his  sis- 
ter Retta's  future  to  care  much  about 
his  own  present,  or  what  Penangton 
thought  or  said  about  it.  Retta  had 
gone  from  the  school  in  St.  Louis  to  a 
school  in  New  York,  and  she  had  now 
written  from  the  New  York  school  that, 
please  God,  she  was  done  with  schools, 
and  was  going  to  visit  a  friend  in  the 
city.  She  said  she  would  stay  at  the 
friend's  house  until  she  could  think  up 
another  place.  "And  the  place  won't 
be  Penangton,"  she  said. 

As  the  girl  had  moved  restlessly  far- 
ther and  farther  from  Marmaduke  and 
Thousand-acre,  it  had  followed,  as  one 


58 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


of  the  results  of  his  nature,  that  Mar- 
maduke  had  all  the  more  braced  him- 
self, ready  and  waiting,  for  whatever 
she  might  by  and  by  require  of  him. 
Almost  unconsciously,  the  religious  feel- 
ing that  was  his  by  inheritance  came  to 
be  doubly  his  by  necessity,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  Retta' s  future.  He  had  grown 
to  feel  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
turn  the  matter  over  to  God;  that  it 
was  too  much  for  him.  But  long  after 
Penangton  had  given  Retta  up,  and  long 
after  Miss  Muriel  had  ceased  to  speak 
of  her  except  with  a  frightened  sigh, 
Marmaduke  kept  hoping  that  all  that 
fanfare  of  childish  ability  in  Retta  might 
yet  mean  something,  that  she  might 
some  day  do  something  that  would  pull 
both  her  and  him  to  a  fair  level  with  the 
dead-and-gone  Tompkinses,  even  while 
he  kept  fearing  that  she  might  some  day 
do  something  so  terrible  that  she  would 
pull  both  her  and  him  down  too  low  for 
the  shadow  Tompkinses  on  the  heights 
ever  to  recognize  them.  There  was  a 
cheerfulness  in  his  conviction  that  he 
would  go  up  or  down  with  Retta  that 
gave  it  the  free  dignity  of  a  determina- 
tion, and  there  was  enough  of  a  haunt- 
ing prescience  that  the  journey  would  be 
down  to  give  the  conviction  the  set  face 
of  courage. 

It  was  out  in  the  wheat  at  Thousand- 
acre,  one  day,  that  he  lifted  up  his  eyes 
and  saw  a  boy  coming  toward  him,  wav- 
ing something  that  was  flat  and  white; 
and  though  the  boy  was  little  he  was 
accurate,  and  he  landed  fair  at  Marma- 
duke's  feet.  In  another  flash  the  spe- 
cial letter  was  open  and  Marmaduke 
was  reading :  — 

"  MARMADUKE,  DEAR,  —  You  see  I 
haven't  been  telling  you  all  I  've  been 
up  to  these  last  few  weeks.  I  've  been 
meeting  some  people  and  pulling  some 
strings,  and  now  such  a  splendid  thing 
has  happened.  I  'm  going  on  the  stage. 
And  right  in  the  beginning,  don't  you 
get  the  idea  that  you  or  anybody  can 
stop  me.  It  means  too  much  to  me. 
It 's  a  great  thing  for  me,  even  if  I  do 


have  to  begin  at  the  bottom.  I  don't 
care  where  I  begin.  I  don't  care  how 
I  begin.  The  thing  is  to  begin  —  be- 
gin —  begin  "  — 

The  letter  blurred  under  Marma- 
duke's  eyes,  and  he  stared  about  him. 
The  post-office  boy  was  cutting  along 
the  fence  path,  slashing  at  the  fluffy- 
headed  wheat  as  he  went.  The  darky 
on  the  reaper  had  turned  on  the  upsweep, 
and  only  his  back  was  visible,  a  round, 
sweat -stained  back,  which  soon  disap- 
peared through  the  barn  gate.  Down 
on  Snibble  a  bird  crinkled  her  timid  toes 
in  the  shallows,  gave  a  cheep  of  terror, 
and  careened  into  the  air  toward  some 
distant  nest.  Every  man  and  bird  and 
beast  on  Thousand-acre,  just  at  that 
hour,  was  bound  for  home,  where  the 
niche  of  shelter  was.  Would  all  of 
them  find  the  way  ?  The  man  would  : 
he  rooted  close  to  earth,  where  there 
is  room.  The  boy  would:  a  boy  can 
always  squeeze  in.  But  the  bird  yon- 
der, already  far  up  in  the  tremulous 
air,  —  would  it  find  the  way  ?  It  was 
flying  to  the  north  now,  where  the  town 
stretched  out  as  calm  and  cocksure  as 
though  no  baneful  news  ever  seeped  into 
it.  In  a  little  while  the  town  must 
know.  Then  the  talk. 

"Ah,  God!  "  cried  Marmaduke,  "the 
talk !  "  He  turned  to  the  letter  again. 

"  Oh,  Marmaduke,  I  know  I  'm  a  silly 
to  believe  them,  but  they  say  it  is  n't 
just  talent:  they  say  it 's  genius;  they 
say  I  owe  it  to  the  world  as  well  as  to 
myself  to  go  on  the  stage  "  — 

"They!  "  snarled  Marmaduke,  — 
"  they !  And  who  may  they  be  ?  Some 
yellow-skinned,  thick-lipped  son  of  a 
pawnbroker;  some  lying,  hump-nosed 
scoundrel  who  knows  of  the  girl's  mon- 
ey ;  some  —  Ah,  God !  "  cried  Marma- 
duke again,  dropping  crazily  down  into 
the  wheat.  "Why  do  you  let  it  hap- 
pen ?  Why  did  n't  you  protect  her  ?  I 
trusted  you,  I  trusted."  The  letter 
rustled  waitingly  on  the  wheat  heads 
while  he  dug  at  his  eyes. 

"They  say  there  is  no  question  about 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


59 


my  career,  that  I  'm  sure  of  a  great  fu- 
ture "  — 

"  Oh  yes,  great  —  of  sin  and  suffer- 
ing," choked  Marmaduke. 

"Of  course  I  've  got  to  start  almost 
at  the  bottom.  At  first  I  thought  I 
should  have  to  start  at  the  very  bottom, 
and  when  the  extras  were  called  for  the 
Far  From  Home  Company  I  went  down 
to  the  theatre  to  take  my  medicine  with 
the  rest;  but  Goldberg  happened  to  be 
there,  and  seemed  to  notice  me,  for  I  saw 
him  go  over  to  Silbermann,  who  is  stag- 
ing the  play,  and  say  something,  and 
directly  I  was  singled  out  for  a  little 
business  part.  Oh,  Marmaduke,  ever 
since  then  the  world  's  been  turned  up- 
side down,  and  I  've  been  walking  with 
my  feet  inside  heaven.  Be  glad.  I 
don't  stop  now  till  I  get  to  the  top.  I 
want  you  to  come  a  little  later  to  see 
my  success.  It 's  not  to  be  a  little  suc- 
cess, not  just  a  Penangton,  Tompkinsy 
success.  The  whole  wide  world  is  to 
ring  with  it.  Poor  old  Marmaduke, 
are  you  very  afraid  for  me  ?  Of  course 
you  are.  You  were  always  afraid  for 
me ;  afraid  I  'd  fall  off  things  or  get  too 
close  to  things,  — scare-for-nothings 
all,  Marmaduke.  I  'm  all  right.  I  'm 
not  so  awful  just  because  I  'm  going  to 
be  an  actress.  But  I  tell  you  what,  if 
it  was  the  most  awful  thing  on  earth, 
I  'd  still  be  one;  I  've  got  to.  Only  I 
wish  one  thing,  — I  wish  you  didn't 
have  to  hear  Penangton  talk  about  me. 
I  know  it  '11  hurt.  Take  my  side, 
Marmaduke,  take  my  side.  Also  send 
me  a  lot  of  money." 

She  wrote  just  enough  more  to  re- 
mind him  that  she  was  of  age ;  that  he 
could  come  after  her  now  if  he  wanted 
to,  but  that  he  wouldn't  get  her;  that 
she  had  found  a  good  place  to  board ;  and 
that  New  York  was  not  as  dark  a  place 
to  get  around  in  at  night  as  Penangton. 
Then  she  closed  in  order  to  add  a  post- 
script: "My!  oh,  won't  they  talk!" 

Ay,  would  n't  they?  Penangtonians 
are  as  kind  as  the  exigencies  of  conver- 
sation permit  anybody  to  be,  but  when 


a  girl  reared  in  the  first  Presbyterian 
Church  of  Penangton  goes  on  the  stage, 
there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said.  It  be- 
gan to  be  plain  to  Marmaduke  that  the 
town's  very  kindness,  the  close  intima- 
cy, the  interest,  must  pour  out  in  a  tide 
of  talk  that  would  menace  the  Tompkins 
family  root  and  branch.  All  about  him, 
across  miles  of  pasture  land,  timber,  and 
cereal,  spread  the  honor  and  the  glory 
of  his  family.  He  looked,  as  his  an- 
cestors had  looked,  at  the  stretch  of  it, 
and  off  across  Snibble  Bridge  he  saw,  as 
his  ancestors  had  seen,  the  town  that 
was  at  once  his  vassal  and  his  mistress. 

That  bird  had  closed  in  again,  and 
straight  up  over  his  head  was  circling 
dizzily.  Off  to  the  left  was  the  Fair 
Ground  Road,  crawling  like  a  strip  of 
gold  back  into  his  childhood,  where  a 
little  hot  hand  had  often  lain  in  his, 
throbbing,  twitching,  burning. 

Take  my  side,  Marmaduke. 

In  front  of  him  lay  the  big  house, 
bare,  lonely,  stripped  down  to  a  ridicu- 
lous bachelor  stiffness  inside,  yet  as  full 
to-day  as  it  had  been  all  these  sixty 
years  of  his  sagacious  great-grandfather, 
of  his  assertive  grandfather,  of  his  gay, 
daring  father,  —  all  of  them  forceful 
still,  even  as  ghosts,  and  all  of  them  de- 
manding their  dues  from  their  posterity. 

Take  my  side,  Marmaduke. 

He  lay  flat  down  in  the  wheat,  dry- 
eyed  again,  and  stared  at  the  sky.  The 
bird  in  the  high,  white  air  was  going 
rickety ;  she  teetered ;  and  little  by  lit- 
tle she  descended,  batting  the  air  with  a 
helpless  flutter,  until  she  settled  plain- 
tively back  into  the  shallows  of  Little 
Snibble.  Marmaduke  wondered  what 
she  had  hoped  to  find  up  there  that  she 
had  not  found. 

Take  my  side,  Marmaduke. 

He  got  up  then,  and  went  around  the 
wheat  to  the  house.  A  half  hour  later 
he  came  down  from  his  room,  and  passed 
through  the  dining  -  room  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  portraits  on  the 
wall.  He  had  taken  off  his  corduroys 
for  a  blue  serge  suit,  and  he  looked  trim 


60 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompldns. 


and  strong  and  young  in  spite  of  the 
blue,  beaten  places  under  his  eyes. 

"Shan't  want  any  supper,  Dilse, " 
he  said  to  the  negress  in  the  kitchen. 
"I  'm  going  in  to  the  town  house.  I  '11 
take  supper  with  aunt  Muriel." 

Dilsey  shuffled  lazily  on  her  flat  feet ; 
then  cried  out  in  half  fright :  "  Namer- 
gawd,  Mist'  Mommyduke,  what  matter 
yeh  face  ?  Look  like  yeh  been  stompin' 
on  yehse'f." 

He  remembered  afterward  that  he 
laughed  at  Dilsey,  and  that  he  whistled 
as  he  went  out  the  kitchen  door  to  take 
the  reins  from  the  stable  hand  who  had 
just  brought  his  buggy  up.  He  remem- 
bered because  that  was  where  the  laugh 
and  the  whistle  first  came  to  his  aid, 
and  because  he  used  both  afterward  till 
the  laugh  sounded  like  the  Penangton 
firebell  and  the  whistle  seemed  to  take 
the  asthma.  Ten  minutes  later  he  drove 
around  the  corner  below  the  town  house, 
and  saw  Miss  Muriel  in  the  grape  arbor 
at  the  rear  of  the  house.  By  the  time 
he  had  let  the  mare's  head  down  and 
had  drawn  her  rein  through  the  hitch- 
ing ring  Miss  Muriel  was  on  her  way  to 
him  across  the  short,  tough  Missouri 
grass,  and  the  very  air  had  curled  on 
itself  and  was  bugling  the  command: 
Place  for  the  granddaughter  of  Thou- 
sand-acre Tompkins!  Place  for  the 
daughter  of  State  Rights  Tompkins! 
Place  for  the  sister  of  Barehead  Tomp- 
kins !  And  also,  place  for  the  Preserver 
of  Poetry ! 

"Good-evening,  Marmaduke, "  she 
said  cordially.  "Hess  was  just  this 
minute  wishing  you  would  drive  in. 
There  's  to  be  flour  cakes  for  supper. 
Come  right  in." 

He  came  in,  with  a  terrible  distaste 
for  flour  cakes,  supper,  everything  that 
a  man  has  to  swallow  when  his  throat 
is  dry,  springing  up  within  him.  Ever 
since  his  return  from  Chicago  the  town 
house  had  seemed  to  Marmaduke  like  a 
great  frame  for  the  Tompkinses'  past. 
Miss  Muriel  had  gathered  between  its 
four  walls  all  the  horsehair  sofas,  all 


the  dragon-legged  tables,  all  the  silver 
soup  ladles,  and  all  the  chandeliers  with 
dangling  prisms  that  had  checked  off 
the  prosperity  of  the  family  from  gen- 
eration to  generation.  If  the  difference 
between  Retta  and  Retta' s  forbears  was 
pronounced  at  Thousand-acre,  it  was 
appalling  here  in  the  town  house.  Mar- 
maduke put  his  hat  on  the  antlered 
rack,  —  his  great-grandfather  had  killed 
the  deer  which  furnished  the  antlers,  — 
sat  down  in  an  armchair  which  had 
been  his  grandfather's  special  delight, 
and  stared  at  his  father's  old  rattletrap 
gun  which  hung  above  the  rack. 

"Well,  what  news  from  Retta?" 
Miss  Muriel  was  getting  a  glass  of  crab- 
apple  jelly  from  the  closet  under  the 
stairway,  and  she  put  her  question  with 
some  physical  difficulty  because  of  the 
strained  position  of  her  body,  and  some 
hesitation  because  of  the  strained  po- 
sition her  mind  was  always  in  about 
Retta. 

With  his  eyes  on  the  gun  barrel,  Mar- 
maduke replied  quite  steadily:  "The 
best  of  news.  Retta  —  Retta,  aunt 
Murey,  is  going  to  be  a  great  success. 
What  would  you  think,  now,  if  you  were 
some  day  to  be  pointed  out  as  the  aunt 
of  a  great  —  well,  say  of  a  great  ac- 
tress? " 

Miss  Muriel  backed  out  of  the  closet, 
and  unscrewed  the  top  from  the  jelly- 
glass.  "Why,"  she  said,  trying  to 
support  herself  on  a  laugh  that  trem- 
bled, "why  don't  you  ask  me  how  I 
should  like  to  be  a  great  actress  my- 
self ?  "  She  fished  off  the  cap  of  white 
paper  from  the  top  of  the  jelly  and  said 
sombrely:  "I  shouldn't  like  it.  I 
guess  you  know  that,  Marmaduke." 

Marmaduke  got  up  from  his  chair, 
and  began  again,  straight  and  even  as 
the  gun  barrel  above  him :  "  I  mean  a 
great  one,  aunt  Murey.  I  mean  one 
of  the  actresses  who  sink  all  questions 
of  family  position  and  convention  by  the 
very  weight  of  their  genius.  I  mean 
one  who  will  make  the  whole  wide  world 
ring  with  her  success.  I  don't  mean  a 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


61 


Penangton  success,  I  don't  mean  a  Mis- 
souri success.    I  mean  world-wide  "  — 

"Wait,Marmaduke,  — wait,  child." 
As  they  stood  there,  the  flower-like 
delicacy  of  Miss  Muriel's  own  achieve- 
ment drifted  between  them  like  the  fra- 
grance of  a  past  day.  "I  know  what 's 
coming.  I  've  always  known  it  would 
come,  or  that  something  like  it  would 
come.  It 's  that  Retta  's  going  on  the 
stage." 

"It 's  that  she  's  gone  on  the  stage! 
And  why  not  ? "  cried  Marmaduke. 
"Why  not  the  stage?  'T  is  as  good  a 
way  as  any.  For  genius,  mind  you. 
If  't  were  talent,  now,  there  might  be  a 
question;  but  there's  no  question  for 
genius,  is  there?  That 's  what  it  is  in 
Retta,  —  genius !  Let  her  go.  'T  would 
be  a  shame  to  keep  her  back.  'T  would 
be  wrong  to  her,  wrong  to  the  world." 
He  had  the  matter  well  in  hand  now. 
He  had  already  carefully  figured  out 
just  what  he  had  to  do.  Back  of  his 
aunt  Muriel  stretched  the  phalanxes  of 
tradition,  religion,  and  unworldliness, 
stern  and  jealous.  He  dared  not  take 
Retta  into  their  midst ;  he  felt  that  he 
must  somehow  project  her  over  them, 
he  must  give  her  wings.  "You  want  to 
get  you  some  smoked  glasses  and  watch 
the  flight  of  that  girl,  aunt  Murey. 
Ho !  there  's  a  Tompkins  that  '11  count. 
You  've  always  been  nagging  at  me  to 
take  up  the  Tompkins  banner  where  my 
father  dropped  it.  Watch  that  girl. 
There  's  a  Tompkins  that  '11  do  it  for 
you.  She  '11  have  it  waving  high  and 
steady  soon  "  — 

"Yes,"  cried  Miss  Muriel  at  last, 
bringing  up  her  words  with  a  cog-wheel 
catch,  "yes,  the  Tompkins  banner  — 
from  the  stage  —  with  a  device  of  the 
devil  on  it  —  in  letters  of  red  "  — 

Then  Marmaduke :  "  From  the  stage ! 
With  Genius  on  it  in  letters  that  you  '11 
never  wash  out  with  your  tears,  aunt 
Murey  "  —  He  came  over  and  faced 
his  aunt,  and  there  was  suddenly  some- 
thing overpowering  in  the  great  hulk- 
ing reach  of  his  young  body.  "See 


here,  aunt  Murey,  you  got  to  quit  tak- 
ing this  thing  this  way  before  you  be- 
gin it.  You  shan't  do  it.  You  can 
ruin  Retta  by  it.  You  can  make  the 
town  take  her  as  a  runaway  girl,  set  over 
against  her  family ;  you  can  make  her 
cheap.  But  if  you  're  going  to  do  it, " — 
he  leveled  his  long  brown  hand  at  her 
with  loose,  supple  force,  —  "if  you  're 
going  to  do  it,  I  'm  a  pretty  good  person 
not  to  have  around  when  you  do  it." 
It  was  the  sort  of  voice  that  wipes  away 
tears  as  with  a  scrubbing  brush,  and  he 
began  to  ring  in  that  short,  sharp  laugh 
he  had  just  picked  up.  "The  plain 
truth, "  he  said,  "the  plain  truth  is  that 
just  because  it 's  your  own  niece  you 
are  n't  getting  it  into  your  head  how  big 
a  matter  this  is.  This  is  no  ordinary 
question  of  a  young  girl  going  on  the 
stage,  no  question  of  morals  and  paint 
and  disgrace.  Those  things  fall  away, 
they  flatten  out,  under  the  feet  of  Gen- 
ius. You  know  that,  and  you  'd  better 
take  my  word  for  it  that  Retta  's  a  gen- 
ius." His  lips  stayed  parted  even  when 
he  stopped  for  breath,  and  his  eyes  had 
a  peculiar  hard  brightness. 

"When  did  you  hear?"  asked  the 
poor,  unconvinced,  but  overwhelmed  lady 
in  front  of  him,  driven  like  a  hapless 
leaf  in  the  swirl  of  his  zeal. 

"Just  got  the  letter.  It 's  like  this : 
she  's  already  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  New  York  managers,  and  I  'm  to  go 
on  to  New  York  myself  pretty  soon  to 
help  arrange  with  'em  about  her  —  her 
career,  you  know."  He  came  up  close 
to  his  aunt,  the  wistful  sadness  of  an 
honest  nature  betrayed  by  itself  in  his 
eyes.  "  'T  is  n't  all  thought  out  yet, " 
he  said  meaningly.  "What  I  'm  going 
to  try  to  do  is  to  let  her  know  that  we 
are  with  her,  —  that  I  am,  at  least ;  to 
let  her  know  that  she  can't  get  so  far 
away  but  what  I  '11  be  with  her;  to  let 
this  town  know  it;  to  let  everybody 
know  that  she  doesn't  have  to  stand 
alone  nor  to  fight  alone.  D'  you  see 
what  I  mean  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  the  hall. 


62 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


Through  the  open  door  came  the  soft, 
mystifying  rays  of  the  evening  sun,  and 
the  intermittent  murmur  of  the  town's 
life  as  it  went,  quiet  and  satisfied,  up 
and  down  the  street  in  front  of  the  house. 
Miss  Muriel,  with  her  thin  knuckles 
against  her  mouth,  seemed  to  be  push- 
ing herself  through  some  substratum  of 
thought.  "I  guess  I  do  see  what  you 
mean,  Marmaduke, "  she  said  by  and  by. 
Her  mouth  was  still  rigid,  but  her  eyes 
rippled  in  light.  "That  isn't  all: 
whatever  you  mean,  I  'm  with  you,  Mar- 
maduke. We  '11  stand  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  Retta,  Tompkins  with 
Tompkins.  That 's  it,  isn't  it?  Now 
see  here  ^.  now  don't,  Marmaduke,  — 
now  don't  give  way."  Defrauded  of 
anything  further  on  the  outside  to  fight 
down  and  trample  under,  his  emotion 
had  turned  inward  and  undone  him,  and 
he  sobbed  miserably  before  her.  "  Mar- 
maduke,"  she  said,  with  a  fitting  and 
beautiful  assumption  of  the  r6le  of  com- 
forter, "you  are  right  about  it.  It  's 
getting  plainer  to  me.  It 's  getting  as 
plain  as  day.  And  it 's  a  good  way, 
Marmaduke,  and  we  '11  work  it  out  just 
that  way.  What  a  girl  she  is,  Mar- 
maduke, so  fearless  and  so  ready-wit- 
ted !  And,  Marmaduke,  I  certainly  do 
wish  you  would  come  on  in  and  try  the 
cakes." 

He  laughed  full  and  clear  now,  be- 
cause he  could  never  help  laughing  at  the 
Tompkins  women  for  expecting  a  man 
to  eat  his  way  through  trouble.  "No, 
I  think  not,  aunt  Murey.  I  could  n't 
get  the  cakes  down,  this  trip.  I  want 
to  cut  back  to  Thousand-acre  and  think 
it  out,  but  I  '11  survive  overnight  on 
the  comfort  you  've  been  to  me." 

She  watched  him  go  over  the  grass 
a  moment  later,  and  unhitch  the  mare, 
and  she  saw  how  for  one  second  man's 
head  and  mare's  head  rested  together 
in  his  dumb  cry  for  further  comfort, 
and  how  with  a  leap  he  was  in  his  buggy 
and  off  again  to  Thousand-acre. 

For  the  next  three  months,  while  he 
waited,  full  of  anxious  foreboding,  for 


Retta  to  summon  him  to  New  York,  it 
was  Marmaduke 's  self-imposed  task  to 
trumpet  his  sister's  genius  to  Penang- 
ton.  In  his  way  of  putting  the  matter 
before  his  aunt  he  had  shown  that  he 
knew  the  town's  point  of  view;  that  he 
realized  that  the  only  way  to  save  Retta 
in  the  town's  eyes  would  be  to  get  her 
before  it  in  such  a  white  electrification 
of  genius  that  the  town  could  think  of 
her  only  as  a  sort  of  diaphanous,  deper- 
sonalized glory,  too  big  and  remote  to 
bother  about,  as  it  thought  of  the  United 
States  Senator  who  got  his  first  growth 
in  Penangton,  or  as  it  thought  of  Mark 
Twain,  who  once  went  to  school  at  Pe- 
nangton Academy.  In  his  effort  to  es- 
tablish Retta  in  this  goodly  company  he 
soon  threw  Penangton  into  a  peculiarly 
disagreeable  state  of  perplexity.  If 
there  is  one  thing  a  Missourian  likes 
better  than  another,  it  is  to  be  fore- 
handed in  belief  in  the  right  thing ;  and 
if  there  is  one  thing  he  hates  worse  than 
another,  it  is  to  be  gulled  into  belief  in 
the  wrong  thing.  Perhaps,  if  Marma- 
duke had  gone  a  little  slower  in  his  ar- 
gument, Penangton  would  have  joined 
him  a  little  earlier  in  his  conclusion ; 
but  Marmaduke  was  far  from  being  able 
to  go  slow ;  he  was  enf evered  with  anx- 
iety, and  because  he  had  to  argue  not 
only  against  the  town,  but  against  his 
own  fear,  he  became  over-vehement,  and 
soon  irritated  the  town  into  jeering  op- 
position. 

"  Marmaduke, "  General  Whittington 
would  say,  "you  ought  to  stop  this  gol- 
darned  ballooning  of  your  sister,  and 
get  on  a  train  and  go  bring  her  home. 
What  that  girl  needs  is  an  apron  round 
her  waist  and  a  tea-towel  in  her  hands. 
I  guess  that 's  about  what  she  needs." 

"  General, "  Marmaduke  would  reply, 
with  bitter  politeness,  "you  used  to  be 
a  good  guess  with  a  gun,  but  nowadays 
your  guesses  don't  come  knee-high  to  a 
puddle  duck." 

"And  another  thing,  Marmaduke," 
the  general  would  continue  irascibly, 
"you  forget  that  Retta  is  a  professor. 


The   Gfenius  of  Retta  Romany  TompJcins. 


63 


You  can't  build  a  theatre  big  enough 
for  a  stage  and  a  pulpit.  They  won't 
house  together  and  they  can't  house  to- 
gether." 

"Then  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  Marma- 
duke  would  cry,  goaded  to  fury  and 
laughing  that  harsh,  snorting  laugh  of 
his,  —  "I  '11  tell  you  what :  if  it  comes 
to  a  choice,  genius  will  have  to  have  the 
stage!  It's  got  to  act,  it's  got  to 
sing,  it 's  got  to  paint,  it 's  got  to  dis- 
cover, it 's  got  to  get  itself  expressed. 
That 's  the  great  thing  with  genius,  re- 
ligion or  no  religion." 

Sometimes  he  sat  on  his  back  porch 
out  at  Thousand-acre,  his  face  pulled 
and  thoughtful,  and  read  over  the  last 
letter  from  Retta,  trying  to  find  in  it 
something  like  willingness  to  give  up 
the  struggle,  something  like  the  first 
stirring  of  a  desire  to  get  out  of  the 
glare  and  the  scorch,  something  like 
homesickness  for  the  sweet,  cool  life  at 
Thousand-acre ;  but  he  always  put  the 
letter  back  in  his  pocket  with  a  deep 
and  burdened  sigh.  For  the  letter  only 
said :  — 

"  MARMADUKE,  DEAR,  —  Well,  I 
didn't  pass  up  on  a  line  last  night. 
Didn't  have  but  one  to  pass  up  on! 
I  'm  to  get  something  better  next  time. 
Trouble  is  I  'm  so  everlastingly  young. 
They  're  afraid  of  me.  They  say  it 
is  n't  often  that  a  girl  gets  even  as  much 
of  a  start  as  I  've  had.  Try  to  believe 
in  me.  Mr.  Goldberg  stands  right  up 
for  me ;  he  says  I  'm  to  have  a  chance 
in  centre  before  the  season  is  over, 
whether  I  get  any  older  or  not.  Mar- 
maduke,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret:  it's 
slow  work  and  hard  as  nails.  I  '11  tell 
you  another :  I  would  n't  give  it  up  if  it 
were  ten  times  harder  and  I  knew  that 
I  was  never  to  succeed  in  it.  Are  they 
still  talking?  Course  they  are.  Bet- 
ter send  me  some  money  pretty  generally 
when  you  write." 

After  such  a  letter  he  was  always 
more  taciturn  out  at  Thousand-acre  and 
more  vehement  in  town,  bringing  into 
his  arguments  with  Penangton  an  added 


fire  and  discursiveness,  an  uncompro- 
mising assurance,  that  were  as  discon- 
certing to  the  town  as  they  were  ex- 
hausting to  Marmaduke. 

"What 's  your  feeling  in  regard  to 
Retta' s  course,  Miss  Murmur?"  Pe- 
nangton would  ask,  in  despair  over  Mar- 
maduke. 

"Oh,  I  agree  with  Marmaduke," 
Miss  Muriel  would  answer,  as  true  as 
steel. 

It  was  well  that  this  sort  of  thing 
did  not  have  to  go  on  forever.  When 
Marmaduke  had  had  three  months  of  it 
he  was  Jimp.  He  drove  down  to  one  of 
his  farms  near  Weaver  for  a  few  days,  to 
get  away  from  it ;  but  as  he  turned  into 
the  Fair  Ground  Road,  coming  home, 
one  crisp  fall  morning,  he  found  that  he 
had  not  gotten  away  from  it  at  all.  It 
made  him  irritable  to  see  Thousand-acre 
piling  off  before  him  in  a  great  spread- 
ing protection  that  had  yet  fallen  lam- 
entably short  of  protecting  the  girl 
who  had  the  best  claim  on  it.  It  exas- 
perated him,  as  he  came  on  around  the 
house,  to  see  Miss  Muriel  with  her  nose 
deep  in  some  newspapers  before  the  sit- 
ting-room fire,  safe,  comfortable.  She 
so  emphasized  to  him  the  difference  be- 
tween the  woman  who  stays  at  home  and 
gets  old  without  ever  running  any  dan- 
ger from  anything  and  the  woman  who 
fares  forth  and  runs  the  gamut  of  every 
danger  in  the  world,  that  he  made  a 
point  of  staying  at  the  barn  as  long  as 
he  could  find  any  excuse  for  doing  so. 
When  he  did  at  last  turn  toward  the 
house,  it  was  because  Miss  Muriel  had 
come  to  the  cistern  platform  outside  the 
kitchen  and  was  shaking  a  paper  at  him. 

"You, Marmaduke !  I  've  been  wait- 
ing for  you!  Come  to  the  house  this 
minute!  " 

He  had  put  himself  between  the  shafts, 
and  was  backing  his  buggy  into  the  bug- 
gy-house as  the  long  shake  in  her  voice 
smote  him.  With  a  sick  feeling  of 
crisis  he  stopped,  his  hands  still  on  the 
shafts,  and  tried  to  steady  himself. 

"Marmaduke,  why  don't  you  come 


64 


The  Genius  of  Retta  Romany  Tompkins. 


on?  Or  if  you  won't  come,  listen. 
This  '11  bring  you  "  —  and  she  raised 
the  paper  and  shrieked  across  the  yard 
to  him :  " '  Missouri  has  reason  to  be 
proud  of  the  success  achieved  in  New 
York  a  few  nights  ago  by  the  actress 
Retta  Romany,  a  Missouri  girl. '  '  She 
flapped  the  paper  with  her  hand.  "St. 
Louis  Republic !  "  she  screamed.  "And 
there  's  a  telegram  come  for  you  two 
days  ago,  and  New  York  papers.  Why, 
Marmaduke,  what  in  the  name  of  crazi- 
ness  are  you  bringing  that  buggy  for  ?  " 

With  his  hands  still  on  the  buggy 
shafts  he  had  started  on  a  leaping  run 
to  the  cistern  platform.  "  Well,  I  guess 
I  won't  take  it  any  further,"  he  said, 
abashed.  "'T  won't  go  through  the 
kitchen  door,  will  it  ?  Quit  your  laugh- 
ing at  me,  aunt  Murey,  and  give  me  that 
telegram."  He  bounded  on  into  the 
sitting-room,  snatched  a  yellow  envelope 
from  the  table,  tore  it  open,  and  read :  — 

"I  send  papers  to-day  now  will  you 
believe  in  me  come  as  soon  as  you  can." 

His  aunt  was  beaming  at  him  from 
across  a  table  piled  with  newspapers. 
"You  went  to  Weaver  the  wrong  time, " 
she  said  gayly;  "these  came  yesterday. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  young  lady  named 
Retta  Romany  ?  I  'm  told  her  last  name 
is  Tompkins.  Listen. "  She  picked  out 
one  of  the  papers  and  began  to  read : 
"  '  The  success  of  the  evening  was  made 
by  Miss  Retta  Romany,  a  young  actress 
of  little  or  no  experience,  but  who  last 
night  gave  evidence  of  the  higher  dra- 
matic ability  which  we  are  wont  to  name, 
not  talent,  but  genius. '  And  here  's  an- 
other of  the  best :  '  Retta  Romany  is 
the  name  of  the  young  person  of  whom 
Mr.  Goldberg  has  been  predicting  glory 
all  season,  once  he  could  get  her  before 
the  public  in  a  suited  part.  The  as- 
tuteness of  Mr.  Goldberg's  judgment 
was  made  manifest  last  night  when  a 
large  audience  of  accustomed  first-night- 
ers clapped  its  hands  and  stamped  its 
feet  for  Miss  Romany.  She  is  one  of 
the  notable  comediennes  of  the  future. '  " 


Under  Miss  Muriel's  guidance,  Mar- 
maduke cut  his  way,  like  a  pair  of  clip- 
ping scissors,  through  one  marked  place 
after  another ;  then  took  all  the  papers, 
rolled  them  into  a  neat  bundle,  slipped 
a  rubber  band  around  them,  and  started 
for  the  front  door.  "I  've  got  to  go 
to  the  office  of  the  Progress, "  he  said. 
"The  town  must  have  the  facts." 

At  the  Thousand-acre  gate  he  stood 
a  moment  to  let  the  enlightening  sun 
blaze  away  at  him  from  the  eastern  sky. 

"So  that's  Retta,"  he  said,  "and 
it 's  all  true,  all  my  lies.  And  I  have 
n't  even  done  her  justice.  I  bet  the 
next  time  I  lie  I  do  it  a-plenty." 

A  little  later  he  had  left  the  papers 
at  the  office  of  the  Penangton  Progress ; 
a  little  later  still  he  was  sauntering  into 
the  post  office.  The  post  office  was  full 
of  men  and  women ;  at  the  pen-and-ink 
desk  stood  General  Tom  Whittington. 
"Yes, "  the  general  was  saying,  "she  's 
a  genius.  Oh,  well,  she  always  showed 
it  as  a  child.  I  always  said  —  Hi  ! 
that  you,  Marmaduke  ?  "  The  general, 
a  trifle  uneasily,  held  out  his  hand. 
"You  've  heard  from  Retta?  " 

"Yes,  I  've  heard  from  Retta,"  said 
Marmaduke  carelessly,  though  his  heart 
was  trailing  blood-red  wattles  and  strut- 
ting like  a  turkey  gobbler.  "Heard 
same  thing  I  've  always  heard,  —  heard 
she  's  a  genius.  You  all  are  pretty 
deaf  around  Penangton,  general,  but  I 
reckon  you  are  beginning  to  hear  it  too 
about  now,  aren't  you?  " 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Marma- 
duke, "  said  the  general,  drowning  the 
words  as  much  as  he  could  in  a  stream 
of  tobacco  juice,  "we  will  have  to  admit 
that  you  know  what 's  what  in  theatri- 
cals better  'n  we  do." 

"I  should  think  it,"  said  Marma- 
duke, with  that  damnable  assurance  that 
had  made  him  so  distasteful  to  Penang- 
ton for  the  past  three  months.  "If," 
continued  the  young  man  mercilessly, 
"I  couldn't  tell  genius  any  better 'n 
you  all,  I  'd  never  go  out  by  daylight." 
R.  E.  Young. 


The  Negro :  Another   View. 


65 


THE  NEGRO:  ANOTHER  VIEW. 


So  much  has  appeared  in  the  public 
prints  touching  the  various  phases  of  the 
negro  problem  in  the  South  that  it  is 
perhaps  presumptuous  to  attempt  any 
further  contribution  to  the  literature  on 
that  subject.  Previous  discussion,  how- 
ever, seems  open  to  two  very  serious 
criticisms,  —  it  has  been  largely  section- 
al j  and,  by  consequence,  it  has  been  for 
the  most  part  partisan. 

Northern  writers,  with  practically  no 
knowledge  or  experience  of  actual  con- 
ditions, have  theorized  to  meet  a  condi- 
tion that  they  did  not  understand.  Since 
emancipation,  the  negro  has  been  re- 
garded as  the  rightful  prote'ge'  of  the 
section  that  wrought  his  freedom ;  and 
his  cause  has  been  championed  with  a 
bitter  and  undiscriminating  zeal  as  ear- 
nest as  it  is  misguided.  Southern  writers, 
on  the  contrary,  remembering  the  negro 
as  the  slave,  consider  him  and  his  rights 
from  a  position  of  proud  and  contemp- 
tuo'us  superiority,  and  would  deal  with 
him  on  the  ante-bellum  basis  of  his  ser- 
vile state. 

The  North,  with  many  things  in  the 
Southern  treatment  of  the  negro  justly 
open  to  impeachment,  by  a  general  in- 
dictment at  once  weakens  its  own  case 
and  fortifies  the  evils  it  seeks  to  over- 
throw. The  South,  in  answer  to  what 
is  unjust  in  the  charge  of  the  North,  re- 
calls former  days,  persuades  herself  of 
the  righteousness  of  her  cause,  and  con- 
tinually recommits  herself  to  an  anti- 
quated and  unsound  policy. 

Such  partisan  and  sectional  discus- 
sion cannot  fail  to  be  alike  bitter  and 
unfruitful.  While  it  may,  indeed,  have 
been  natural  at  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War  that  the  hostile  sections  should 
align  themselves  on  opposite  sides,  and 
carry  on  by  the  pen,  and  with  a  more 
virulent  because  impotent  animosity,  the 
discussion  that  had  been  fought  out  with 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  5 


the  sword,  yet  now,  surely,  the  time  for 
such  recrimination  is  past.  If  we  are, 
indeed,  one  people,  United  States  in  more 
than  name  only,  the  problems,  perplexi- 
ties, and  interests  of  every  section  ap- 
pertain in  no  slight  or  trivial  measure 
to  the  country  as  a  whole.  It  is  true 
that  each  section  and  state  and  county 
and  township  has  its  own  problems,  — 
but  the  particular  problems  of  the  part 
are  the  general  problems  of  the  whole ; 
and  the  nation,  as  a  nation,  is  interested 
in  the  administration  and  concerns  of  the 
most  insignificant  members  of  the  body 
politic. 

It  would  be  trite  and  old-fashioned  to 
apply  to  ourselves  the  old  fable  of  the 
body  and  its  members ;  but  we  surely 
lie  open  to  its  application  in  our  treat- 
ment of  the  negro  question.  The  South 
has  regarded  it  as  a  local  and  not  a  na- 
tional matter;  has  refused  to  receive 
any  light  upon  it  from  outside  sources ; 
and  has  met  any  suggestions  and  offers 
of  outside  help  with  a  surly  invitation 
to  "  mind  your  own  business."  The 
North,  on  the  other  hand,  considering 
the  question  in  its  wider  bearings,  has 
approached  it  from  the  side  of  preformed 
theories,  rather  than  of  actual  facts ;  in  a 
spirit  of  tearful  or  indignant  sentimen- 
tality, rather  than  of  calm,  unbiased  rea- 
son ;  and  has  therefore  proposed  reme- 
dies that  must,  in  the  very  nature  of 
things,  be  at  once  undesirable  and  im- 
possible. As  is  usual  in  such  cases,  the 
truth  lies  between  the  two  extremes. 

The  negro  question  is  a  national  one  ; 
as  much  so  as  the  question  of  tariff,  of 
immigration,  of  subsidies,  or  any  such 
issue  that  is  universally  recognized  as 
touching  the  interests  of  the  whole  peo- 
ple. It  is  but  right,  therefore,  that  the 
solution  of  the  question  should  command 
the  attention  and  enlist  the  interest  of 
the  people  as  a  people,  regardless  of  sec- 


66 


The  Negro:  Another    View. 


tion  or  party  or  ante-bellum  attitude ; 
and  the  South  has  no  right  to  take  offense 
at  any  well-meant  and  kindly  effort  to 
relieve  the  situation. 

But,  at  the  same  time,  the  fact  must 
be  recognized  that  the  negro  question  is 
not  different  from  all  other  questions, 
does  not  occupy  a  place  apart,  unique, 
and  cannot  be  dealt  with  in  any  other 
way  than  the  common,  rational  method 
applicable  to  the  commonest  social  and 
political  problem.  Ignorance  of  the  facts 
cannot  take  the  place  of  knowledge  here 
any  more  than  elsewhere.  Sentiment 
cannot  safely  here  or  elsewhere  usurp 
the  place  of  reason.  Blindness,  preju- 
dice, uncharitableness,  vilification,  have 
the  same  value  here  as  elsewhere,  and 
are  as  likely  to  lead  to  a  fair  and  satis- 
factory solution  of  the  negro  problem  as 
of  any  other,  —  just  as  likely  and  no 
more.  We  must,  as  a  whole  people, 
candidly  and  honestly  recognize  a  cer- 
tain set  of  underlying  facts,  which  may 
or  may  not  differ  from  our  theories, 
cross  our  sympathies,  or  contravene  our 
wishes.  Then  we  shall  be  in  a  position 
to  deal  with  the  question. 

Now,  the  fundamental  facts  to  be  re- 
cognized in  the  case  are  these  :  — 

(1.)  The  negro  belongs  to  an  infe- 
rior race. 

And  this  not  by  reason  of  any  pre- 
vious condition  of  servitude  or  brutal 
repression  on  the  part  of  his  former 
master,  whether  in  the  days  of  slavery 
or  since  ;  not  on  account  of  his  color  or 
his  past  or  present  poverty,  ignorance, 
and  degradation.  These,  to  be  sure,  must 
be  reckoned  with ;  but  they  do  not  touch 
the  fundamental  proposition. 

The  negro  is  lower  in  the  scale  of  de- 
velopment than  the  white  man.  His 
inferiority  is  radical  and  inherent,  a  phy- 
siological and  racial  inequality  that  may, 
indeed,  be  modified  by  environment,  but 
cannot  be  erased  without  the  indefinite 
continuance  of  favorable  surroundings 
and  the  lapse  of  indefinite  time.  But 
what  the  negro  race  may  become  in  the 


remote  future  by  process  of  development 
and  selection  is  not  a  matter  for  present 
consideration.  The  fact  remains  that 
now  the  negro  race  is  an  inferior  race. 

There  can  hardly  be  any  need  to  de- 
fend this  proposition  in  these  days  of 
the  boasted  universal  supremacy  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon.  Occasionally  we  hear  hys- 
terical utterances  by  negroes  or  by  well- 
meaning,  but  misguided  friends  of  the 
race  to  the  effect  that  the  negro  is  the 
equal  of  any  white  man  anywhere.  But 
in  general  such  ill-advised  cant  is  being 
laid  aside,  and  the  inferiority  of  the  race 
is  coming  to  be  recognized. 

This  is  a  hopeful  sign.  And  the  gen- 
eral recognition  of  the  proper  place  of 
the  freedman  will  go  far  toward  adjust- 
ing conflicting  theories  and  removing  lin- 
gering sectional  misunderstanding  and 
bitterness.  It  will  do  away  at  once  with 
all  those  schemes  that  used  to  find  favor 
in  the  North,  and  are  still  at  times  most 
unwisely  advocated,  for  the  establishment 
of  social  equality  and  the  amalgamation 
of  the  races. 

Probably  no  scheme  advanced  for  the 
solution  of  this  problem  has  given  more 
lasting  offense  to  the  people  of  the  South, 
or  done  more  to  embitter  sectional  feel- 
ing than  this  of  amalgamation.  It  has 
been  received  in  the  same  spirit,  and 
has  engendered  the  same  feelings,  as  a 
proposition  to  bring  about  equality  and 
a  union  between  some  cultured  New 
England  belle  and  the  public  scavenger 
of  her  city,  with  all  the  filth  and  foul- 
ness of  his  calling  on  his  person  and  in 
his  blood.  The  very  words  are  sicken- 
ing. And  the  idea,  so  coarse  and  re- 
pugnant to  every  finer  feeling,  could 
have  originated  only  in  the  brain  of  the 
wildest  theorist,  ignorant  of  conditions, 
and  hurried  by  his  negrophile  propen- 
sities and  desire  to  do  justice  to  the 
black  man  into  entire  forgetfulness  of 
the  rights  and  feelings  of  the  Southern 
white  man. 

There  seems  to  be  no  essential  con- 
dition of  causality  between  the  previous 


The  Negro:  Another    View. 


67 


bondage  and  suffering  of  the  negro  and 
the  assumption  by  him  or  for  him,  on 
emancipation,  of  any  equality  with  his 
former  master  other  than  the  grand  and 
fundamental  equality  of  man  to  man  be- 
fore God  and  the  national  law.  Eman- 
cipation could  not  eradicate  the  essen- 
tial inferiority  of  the  negro.  No  such 
conditions  existed  as  in  other  states  of 
slavery,  —  in  Greece  or  Rome,  for  ex- 
ample, where  the  slave  was  often  of 
kindred  blood,  and  even  higher  born, 
better  educated,  and  of  finer  tastes  and 
feelings  than  his  master.  Emancipation 
there  might  naturally  be  followed  by  an 
approximate  equality  between  the  ex- 
slave  and  his  former  master.  But  the 
negro  when  enslaved  was  —  a  negro  ; 
and  the  emancipated  negro  was  a  negro 
still.  Freedom  had  not  made  him  a 
new  creature.  He  was,  indeed,  better 
than  when  he  entered  slavery  ;  but  his 
emancipation  had  not  changed,  and  could 
not  change,  the  fundamental  features, 
the  natural  inferiority  of  his  race. 

(2.)  But  the  negro  has  inalienable 


While  the  North  has  erred  in  ap- 
proaching the  negro  question  with  the 
assertion  of  the  equality  of  the  races, 
and  seeking  to  solve  it  on  that  unsound 
postulate,  the  South  has,  much  more 
grievously,  erred  in  precisely  the  op- 
posite direction.  For  our  section  has 
carried  the  idea  of  the  negro's  inferi- 
ority almost,  if  not  quite,  to  the  point  of 
dehumanizing  him.  This  is  an  unpalata- 
ble truth ;  but  that  it  is  the  truth,  few 
intelligent  and  candid  white  men,  even 
of  the  South,  would  care  to  deny.  Bla- 
tant demagogues,  political  shysters,  court- 
ing favor  with  the  mob  ;  news  sheets, 
flattering  the  prejudices,  and  pandering 
to  the  passions  of  their  Constituency ; 
ignorant  youths  and  loud-voiced  men 
who  receive  their  information  at  second 
hand,  and  either  do  not  or  cannot  see, 
—  these,  and  their  followers,  assert  with 
frothing  vehemence  that  the  negro  is 
fairly  and  kindly  treated  in  the  South, 


that  the  Southern  white  man  is  the  ne- 
gro's friend,  and  gives  him  even  more 
than  his  just  desert. 

But,  if  we  care  to  investigate,  evi- 
dences of  our  brutal  estimate  of  the  black 
man  are  not  far  to  seek.  The  hardest 
to  define  is  perhaps  the  most  impressive, 
—  the  general  tacit  attitude  and  feeling 
of  the  average  Southern  community  to- 
ward the  negro.  He  is  either  nothing 
more  than  the  beast  that  perishes,  un- 
noticed and  uncared  for  so  long  as  he 
goes  quietly  about  his  menial  toil  (as 
a  young  man  recently  said  to  the  writer, 
"  The  farmer  regards  his  nigger  in  the 
same  light  as  his  mule,"  but  this  puts 
the  matter  far  too  favorably  for  the  ne- 
gro) ;  or,  if  he  happen  to  offend,  he  is 
punished  as  a  beast  with  a  curse  or  a 
kick,  and  with  tortures  that  even  the 
beast  is  spared ;  or,  if  he  is  thought  of 
at  all  in  a  general  way,  it  is  with  the 
most  absolute  loathing  and  contempt. 
He  is  either  unnoticed  or  despised.  As 
for  his  feelings,  he  hasn't  any.  How 
few  —  alas  how  few  —  words  of  gentle- 
ness and  courtesy  ever  come  to  the  black 
man's  ear!  But  harsh  and  imperious 
words,  coarseness  and  cursing,  how  they 
come  upon  him,  whether  with  excuse  or 
in  the  frenzy  of  unjust  and  unreasoning 
passion !  And  his  rights  of  person, 
property,  and  sanctity  of  home,  —  who 
ever  heard  of  the  "  rights  "  of  a  "  nig- 
ger "  ?  This  is  the  general  sentiment, 
in  the  air,  intangible,  but  strongly  felt ; 
and  it  is,  in  a  large  measure,  this  senti- 
ment that  creates  and  perpetuates  the 
negro  problem. 

If  the  negro  could  be  made  to  feel 
that  his  fundamental  rights  and  priv- 
ileges are  recognized  and  respected  equal- 
ly with  those  of  the  white  man,  that  he 
is  not  discriminated  against  both  publicly 
and  privately  simply  and  solely  because 
of  his  color,  that  he  is  regarded  and 
dealt  with  as  a  responsible,  if  humble, 
member  of  society,  the  most  perplexing 
features  of  his  problem  would  be  at  once 
simplified,  and  would  shortly,  in  normal 


68 


The  Negro:  Another    View. 


course,  disappear.  But  the  negro  can- 
not entertain  such  feelings  while  the 
evidence  of  their  groundlessness  and 
folly  is  constantly  thrust  upon  him.  We 
do  not  now  speak  of  the  utterly  worth- 
less and  depraved.  There  are  many 
such;  but  we  whose  skins  are  white 
need  to  remember  that  our  color  too  has 
its  numbers  of  the  ignorant,  lecherous, 
and  wholly  bad.  But  take  a  good  ne- 
gro, —  well  educated,  courteous,  God- 
fearing. There  are  many  such;  and 
they  are,  in  everything  save  color,  supe- 
rior to  many  white  men.  But  what  is 
their  life  ?  As  they  walk  our  streets, 
they  lift  their  hats  in  passing  the  aged 
or  the  prominent,  whether  man  or  wo- 
man ;  yet  no  man  so  returns  their  salu- 
tation. They  would  go  away ;  at  the 
depot  they  may  not  enter  the  room  of 
the  whites,  and  on  the  tram  they  must 
occupy  their  own  separate  and  second- 
class  car.  Reaching  their  destination, 
they  may  not  eat  at  the  restaurant  of 
the  whites,  or  rest  at  the  white  hotel. 
If  they  make  purchases,  shop  ladies  and 
messenger  gentlemen  look  down  upon 
them  with  manifest  contempt,  and  treat 
them  with  open  brusqueness  and  con- 
tumely. And  if,  on  a  Sabbath,  they 
would  worship  in  a  white  man's  church, 
they  are  bidden  to  call  upon  God,  the 
maker  of  the  black  man  as  well  as  of 
the  white,  and  invoke  the  Christ,  who 
died  for  black  and  white  alike,  from  a 
place  apart.  And  so,  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave,  the  negro  is  made,  in  Southern 
phrase,  "  to  know  and  keep  his  place." 

In  the  case  we  are  considering,  these 
distinctions  are  not  based  on  this  negro's 
ignorance,  on  his  viciousness,  on  his 
offensiveness  of  person  or  of  manner; 
for  he  is  educated,  good,  cleanly,  and 
courteous.  They  are  based  solely  on 
the  fact  that  he  is  a  negro.  They  do 
not  so  operate  in  the  case  of  a  white 
man.  But  the  black  man,  because  of 
his  blackness,  is  put  in  this  lowest  place 
in  public  esteem  and  treatment. 

Lynching,   again,  is   but  a  more  in- 


flamed and  conspicuous  expression  of 
this  same  general  sentiment.  An  in- 
vestigation of  the  statistics  of  this  prac- 
tice in  the  United  States  will  bring  to 
light  several  interesting  and  startling 
facts. 

1.  In  the  last  decade  of  the  last  cen- 
tury of  Christian  grace  and  civilization, 
more  men  met  their  death  by  violence 
at  the  hands  of  lynchers  than  were  ex- 
ecuted by  due  process  of  law.     And  this 
holds  true,  with  possibly  one  exception, 
for  each  year  in  the  decade.     The  total 
number  thus  hurried   untried  and  un- 
shriven  into  eternity  during  these  ten  un- 
holy years  approximated  seventeen  hun- 
dred souls. 

2.  The  lynching  habit  is  largely  sec- 
tional.    Seventy  to   eighty  per  cent  of 
all  these  lynchings  occur  in  the  Southern 
states. 

3.  The  lynchings  are  largely  racial. 
About  three  quarters  of  those  thus  done 
to  death  are  negroes. 

4.  The  lynching  penalty  does  not  at- 
tend any  single  particular  crime,  which, 
by  its  peculiar  nature  and  heinousness, 
seems  to  demand  such  violent  and  law- 
less punishment.     But  murder,  rape,  ar- 
son, barn-burning,  theft,  —  or  suspicion 
of  any  of  these,  —  may  and  do  furnish 
the  ground  for  mob  violence. 

These  facts,  especially  the  second, 
third,  and  fourth  items,  are  bitterly  con- 
troverted in  the  section  which  they  most 
concern.  But  they  are  as  demonstrable 
as  any  other  facts,  and  demand  the  as- 
sent of  every  candid  mind. 

The  world  is  familiar  with  the  usual 
Southern  defense  of  lynching.  Passing 
by  the  number,  place,  and  race  of  the 
victims,  the  defense  centres  on  the  fourth 
statement  above  made  ;  and  our  public 
men  and  our  writers  have  long  insisted 
that  this  terrible  and  lawless  vengeance 
is  visited  upon  the  defilers  of  our  homes, 
who  should  be  as  ruthlessly  destroyed  as 
they  have  destroyed  our  domestic  purity 
and  peace.  This  is  the  regular  plea  put 
forth  in  defense  of  this  brutal  practice, 


The  Negro:  Another   View. 


69 


warmly  maintained  by  hot-blooded  and 
misinformed  people  in  private  and  in  the 
public  prints.  No  less  a  person  than  a 
former  Judge  Advocate-General  of  Vir- 
ginia, in  a  recent  issue  of  the  North  Amer- 
ican Review,  reiterates  these  threadbare 
statements. 

He  says :  "It  is  unnecessary  to 
shock  the  sensibilities  of  the  public  by 
*  calling  attention  to  the  repulsive  details 
of  those  crimes  for  which  lynching,  in 
some  form,  has  been  the  almost  invaria- 
ble penalty.  They  have  always  been, 
however,  of  a  nature  so  brutal  that  no 
pen  can  describe  and  no  imagination  pic- 
ture them."  "  Lynchings  in  the  South 
are  mainly  caused  by  the  peculiar  nature 
of  the  crimes  for  which  lynching  is  a 
penalty ; "  and,  more  explicitly,  "  The 
crime  itself,  however,  is  more  responsible 
for  mob  violence  than  all  other  causes 
combined."  "  No  right  thinking  man 
or  woman,  white  or  black,  ought  to  have, 
or  can  have,  any  sympathy  for  such 
criminals  as  those  who  suffer  death  for 
the  crime  described,  nor  can  they  believe 
that  any  punishment,  however  cruel  or 
severe,  is  undeserved."  This  is  a  fair 
type  of  the  usual  plea  of  the  Southern 
advocate.  For  such  a  statement  as  the 
last  quoted  to  be  possible  is  sufficient  evi- 
dence of  the  general  sentiment  of  the 
section. 

But,  now,  if  it  were  strictly  the  fact 
that  violent  rape  is  the  cause  of  most  of 
our  lynchings  ;  if  it  were  true,  moreover, 
that  the  man  were  suddenly  and  violent- 
ly slain  by  the  husband,  lover,  father, 
brother,  of  the  dishonored  one,  in  quick 
tempest  of  wrath  and  agony  unspeaka- 
ble, —  while  we  must  still  condemn,  we 
might,  in  sympathy  and  sorrow,  condone 
the  deed  of  hurried  vengeance.  But 
neither  of  these  things  is  true. 

It  has  been  repeatedly  shown,  in  the 
first  place,  that  only  a  very  small  propor- 
tion (in  some  years  one  tenth)  of  South- 
ern lynchings  are  due  to  rape,  either 
actual  or  suspected.  Statistics  on  the 
subject  may  be  had  for  the  asking ;  and 


in  their  light  it  seems  about  time  for  our 
apologists  to  drop  this  stock  and  entirely 
false  pleading.  "  But  the  writer  in  the 
Review  cites  a  case  where  this  plea  held 
good."  Granted ;  but  this  is  advocacy  : 
and  for  every  case  so  cited  from  five  to 
ten  cases  can  be  cited  where  it  not  only 
did  not  hold  good,  but  was  not  even  pre- 
tended by  the  workers  of  mob  violence. 
So,  in  a  recent  issue  of  a  noted  and  rabid 
Southern  daily  a  case  of  lynching  for 
rape  is  indicated  by  large  headlines ; 
and  just  beneath  it  is  a  short  and  insig- 
nificant paragraph  noting  the  lynching 
of  two  negroes  for  suspected  barn-burn- 
ing. But  these  latter  cases  are  not  men- 
tioned by  our  advocates ;  or,  if  mentioned, 
are  minified  by  those  who  feel  that  our 
section  must  be  defended  at  any  cost,  and 
so  plead. 

On  the  contrary,  a  frank  consideration 
of  all  the  facts,  with  no  other  desire  than 
to  find  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,  however  contrary 
to  our  wishes  and  humiliating  to  our  sec- 
tion the  truth  may  be,  will  show  that  by 
far  the  most  of  our  Southern  lynchings 
are  carried  through  in  sheer,  unqualified, 
and  increasing  brutality.  In  nearly 
every  case,  neither  the  sentiment  that 
prompts  them  nor  the  spirit  of  their  exe- 
cution deserves  anything  less  than  the 
most  bitter  arraignment.  We  do,  indeed, 
hear  from  time  to  time  of  an  "  orderly 
body  of  leading  citizens  "  conducting  a 
lynching.  But,  while  the  writer  knows 
of  certainly  one  instance  where  this  took 
place,  —  the  accused  being,  however,  a 
white  man  known  as  guilty,  and  put  to 
death  in  the  most  painless  possible  way 
with  chloroform  by  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  his  victim,  —  it  is  fortunately 
a  much  rarer  occurrence  than  our  news- 
papers would  have  us  believe.  Our 
lynchings  are  the  work  of  our  lower  and 
lowest  classes.  What  these  classes  are 
is  hardly  comprehensible  to  one  who  has 
not  lived  among  them  and  dealt  with 
them. 

One  adult  white  man  in  the  South  in 


70 


The  Negro:  Another    View. 


every  six  or  eight  can  neither  read  nor 
write  ;  and  if  the  standard  be  put  above 
the  level  of  most  rudimentary  literacy 
the  disproportion  rapidly  increases.  A 
generation  before  our  Civil  War,  George 
Bourne  charged  the  Southern  slavehold- 
ers with  "  self-conceit,"  "  marble-heart- 
ed insensibility,"  total  lack  of  "  correct 
views  of  equity,"  and  "  violence  in 
cruelty."  Whether  applicable,  as  used 
by  Mr.  Bourne,  or  not,  this  terrible  in- 
dictment at  once  intimates  the  origin  of 
our  present  views  and  treatment  of  the 
negro,  and  may  be  applied  to-day,  in 
every  term,  to  the  classes  that  supply 
our  lynchers.  Wholly  ignorant,  abso- 
lutely without  culture,  apparently  without 
even  the  capacity  to  appreciate  the  nicer 
feelings  or  higher  sense,  yet  conceited 
on  account  of  the  white  skin  which  they 
continually  dishonor,  they  make  up,  when 
aroused,  as  wild  and  brutal  a  mob  as  ever 
disgraced  the  face  of  the  earth.  For 
them,  lynching  is  not  "  justice,"  however 
rude ;  it  is  a  wild  and  diabolic  carnival  of 
blood. 

No  candid  man  who  has  seen  the  av- 
erage lynching  mob,  or  talked  with  the 
average  lyncher,  can  deceive  himself  for 
a  moment  with  the  idea  that  this  is  the 
expression  of  a  public  sentiment  right- 
eously indignant  over  the  violation  of  the 
law  and  its  impotence  or  delay.  This, 
too,  is  a  common  Southern  plea ;  but  it 
is  pure  pretense.  The  lyncher  is  not, 
even  under  ordinary  circumstances,  over- 
zealous  for  the  law  ;  and  in  this  case  he 
is  not  its  custodian,  but  himself  its  vio- 
lator. As  for  the  law's  delay  or  ineffi- 
ciency, the  lyncher  does  not  wait  to  see 
what  the  law  will  do ;  and  yet  it  is  a 
well-known  fact  in  the  South  that  in  the 
case  of  a  negro,  where  violent  rape  is 
proven,  the  punishment  of  the  law  is 
both  swift  and  sure.  And  in  other 
crimes  as,  well,  it  is  known  that  the  negro 
will  receive  at  the  hands  of  the  consti- 
tuted authorities  the  same,  perhaps  even 
a  little  sharper  justice  than  is  meted  out 
to  the  white  man.  But  as  the  lyncher 


sees  it,  the  case  stands  thus :  A  negro 
has  committed  or  is  supposed  to  have 
committed  a  crime.  A  negro,  —  and 
the  rest  follows.  There  may  be  some 
maudlin  talk  about  the  "  dreadful 
crime,"  about  "  upholding  the  majesty 
of  the  law,"  about  "  teaching  the  nig- 
gers a  lesson  ;  "  yet  the  lyncher  is  but 
little  concerned  with  the  crime,  less  with 
the  law.  As  for  "  teaching  the  niggers 
a  lesson,"  that  catch  phrase  of  the  lynch- 
ing mob  betrays  its  whole  attitude  and 
temper.  It  would  teach  the  negro  the 
lesson  of  abject  and  eternal  servility, 
would  burn  into  his  quivering  flesh  the 
consciousness  that  he  has  not,  and  cannot 
have,  the  rights  of  a  free  citizen  or  even 
of  a  fellow  human  creature.  And  so  the 
lyncher  seizes  his  opportunity  at  once  to 
teach  this  lesson  and  to  gratify  the  brute 
in  his  own  soul,  which  the  thin  veneer  of 
his  elemental  civilization  has  not  been 
able  effectually  to  conceal. 

A  recent  experience  of  the  writer's 
may  serve  to  illustrate.  A  murder  had 
been  committed  in  one  of  our  Southern 
states.  On  a  night  train,  returning  to 
the  capital  of  the  state,  were  a  marshal 
and  several  deputies.  Word  had  gone 
before  that  these  officers  had  in  charge 
a  negro,  suspected  of  being  the  mur- 
derer ;  and  at  four  stations  in  less  than 
forty  miles,  as  many  mobs  were  gathered 
to  mete  out  summary  vengeance  to  the 
merely  suspected  black.  Fortunately, 
the  negro  was  not  on  the  train.  Had 
he  been,  his  life  were  not  worth  the  ask- 
ing ;  and  he  would  have  been  most  for- 
tunate to  find  a  speedy  end  on  the  near- 
est tree.  It  cannot  be  supposed  that 
these  mobs  were  composed  of  friends 
and  kinsmen  of  the  murdered  man. 
Probably  not  one  quarter  of  them  had 
ever  heard  of  him  previous  to  the  mur- 
der, and  fewer  knew  him.  They  were 
not  orderly  bodies  of  leading  citizens, 
nor  of  the  class  in  which  one  would 
usually  find  the  upholders  of  the  law ; 
but  they  were  coarse,  and  beastly,  and 
drunk,  mad  with  the  terrible  blood-lust 


The  Negro:  Another    View. 


71 


that  wild  beasts  know,  and  hunting  a 
human  prey. 

Take  another  instance.  The  burning 
of  Sam  Hose  took  place  on  a  Sabbath 
day.  One  of  our  enterprising  railroads 
ran  two  special  trains  to  the  scene. 
And  two  train-loads  of  men  and  boys, 
crowding  from  cow-catcher  to  the  tops 
of  the  coaches,  were  found  to  go  to  see 
the  indescribable  and  sickening  torture 
and  writhing  of  a  fellow  human  being. 
And  souvenirs  of  such  scenes  are  sought, 
—  knee  caps,  and  finger  bones,  and 
bloody  ears.  It  is  the  purest  savagery. 

The  utter  shallowness  and  hypocrisy 
of  this  Southern  plea  that  this  is  a  right- 
eous public  sentiment,  aroused  and  ad- 
ministering a  rude  but  terrible  justice, 
is  patent  and  undeniable,  and  can  be 
shown  in  the  clearest  light  by  a  single 
simple  proposition.  White  men  commit 
the  same  crimes,  and  worse,  against  the 
black  man,  for  which  the  black  man  pays 
this  terrible  and  ungodly  penalty.  Can 
any  sane  man,  white  or  black,  North  or 
South,  suppose  for  a  single  instant  that 
a  Southern  community  would  either  per- 
mit a  black  mob  to  lynch  a  white  man, 
whether  merely  suspected  or  known  as 
guilty  of  his  crime,  or  that  a  white  mob 
would  lynch  one  of  its  own  color  for  any 
crime  against  a  black  ?  The  idea  is  in- 
conceivable. The  color  of  the  victim's 
skin  is  the  determining  factor  in  most  of 
our  lynchings. 

And  yet,  the  home  of  the  negro  is  as 
sacred  as  that  of  the  white  man;  his 
right  to  live  as  truly  God-given.  If  the 
negro  can  be  kicked  and  cuffed  and 
cursed  rightly,  so  can  the  white  man. 
If  there  is  no  wrong  in  dishonoring  a 
negro's  home,  there  is  no  more  wrong 
in  dishonoring  the  white  man's.  If  the 
negro  criminal  may  be  burned  at  the 
stake  with  the  usual  accompaniments  of 
fiendish  cruelty,  a  white  man  guilty  of 
the  same  crime  deserves,  and  should 
suffer,  the  same  penalty.  There  is  no- 
thing in  a  white  skin,  or  a  black,  to  nul- 
lify the  essential  rights  of  man  as  man. 


And  yet  to  the  average  Southern  white 
man  this  manifestly  just  view  seems  both 
disloyal  and  absurd. 

It  is  useless  to  speak  of  any  solution 
of  the  negro  question  while  the  condi- 
tion of  public  sentiment  above  described 
continues  to  exist.  The  negro's  poverty 
is,  in  the  main,  the  result  of  the  regular 
operation  of  economic  laws;  his  igno- 
rance is  the  result  of  several,  but,  in 
general,  very  natural  causes  ;  his  social 
position  is,  aside  from  general  sentiment, 
the  result  of  a  manifest  inferiority  and  an- 
tipathy of  race  ;  so  that  any  effort  satis- 
factorily to  solve  his  problem  on  any  of 
these  lines,  not  touching  the  root  of  the 
matter,  cannot  hope  to  meet  with  any 
large  success.  The  radical  difficulty  is 
not  with  the  negro,  but  with  the  white 
man  !  So  long  as  the  negro  is  popularly 
regarded  and  dealt  with  as  he  is  to-day, 
his  problem  will  remain  unsolved,  and 
any  views  as  to  its  solution  or  "  passing  " 
under  present  conditions  are  optimistic 
in  the  extreme.  Indeed,  it  may  be  fairly 
said  that,  as  things  now  are,  the  educa- 
tional, financial,  or  social  advancement 
of  the  negro  will  only  serve  to  render 
more  acute  the  situation  in  the  South. 

It  is  not  necessary,  nor  desired,  that 
the  negro  should  be  the  social  equal  of 
the  white  man.  His  political  privileges 
may  be  curtailed,  and  without  injustice 
or  offense,  provided  the  curtailment  work 
impartially  among  blacks  and  whites 
alike.  If  fifty  per  cent  of  the  negroes 
are  deprived  of  the  right  of  suffrage  by 
reason  of  illiteracy,  and  the  same  legis- 
lation is  fairly  permitted  to  work  the 
disenfranchisement  of  all  whites  (fifteen 
to  twenty  per  cent  of  our  voting  popula- 
tion) of  the  same  class,  no  injustice  is 
done,  and  there  is  no  ground  for  com- 
plaint. His  economic  and  educational 
condition  may  be  left  to  the  operation  of 
natural  and  statute  laws,  fairly  adminis- 
tered. For  it  is  certainly  most  unwise 
in  any  case  to  surround  him  with  arti- 
ficial conditions,  and  to  create  in  him 
artificial  ideas,  ideals,  or  desires. 


72 


The  Negro :  Another   View. 


The  development  of  a  free  people  is 
a  process  of  law,  —  the  gradual  unfold- 
ing and  expansion  of  the  inherent  poten- 
tialities of  the  race.  If  they  are  capa- 
ble of  advancement,  they  will  inevitably 
advance  ;  if  not,  they  will  as  inevitably 
fail  and  fall  out ;  and  no  artificial  con- 
ditions, temporarily  created,  can  perma- 
nently affect  the  operation  of  this  law. 

Yet  it  will  not  do,  on  this  principle, 
to  say,  as  is  so  often  said  in  the  South, 
that  the  negro  has  had  his  chance  and 
has  failed.  He  is  but  a  generation  from 
servitude  and  almost  complete  illiteracy. 
During  that  time  he  has  lived  under  the 
cloud  of  his  former  state,  and  in  the  mi- 
asmic  atmosphere  of  unfriendliness  and 
repression.  That  he  has  made  any  pro- 
gress is  strange  ;  that  he  has  made  the 
progress  that  he  has  is  little  short  of 
wonderful.  For  the  development  of  a 
servile  people  cannot  be  measured  by 
the  standards  of  the  free.  But  freedom 
is  not  a  matter  of  form  and  statute  only. 
No  people  is  free  whose  simple  human 
privileges  and  possibilities  are  curtailed 
or  denied  by  the  public  sentiment  that 
surrounds  them.  No  people  is  free  that 
is  dominated  and  terrorized  by  a  more 
numerous  and  powerful  class.  No  peo- 
ple is  free  whose  inherent  rights  to  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness, 
how  much  soever  guaranteed  by  the  or- 
ganic law,  are,  in  practice  and  in  fact, 
held  on  sufferance,  and  constantly  at  the 
mercy  of  a  lawless  mob. 

Freedom  does  not,  indeed,  imply  so- 
cial, intellectual,  or  moral  equality  ;  but 
its  very  essence  is  the  equality  of  the  fun- 
damental rights  of  human  creatures  be- 
fore God  and  the  law.  Such  freedom 
is  not  a  human  institution  ;  and  no  man 
or  men  have  any  right  inhering  in  their 
birth,  color,  or  traditions,  to  tamper  with 
or  curtail  such  freedom  at  their  arbi- 
trary pleasure,  or  in  accordance  with 
the  dictates  of  their  frenzied  passions. 
Such  men  are  violators  of  the  law,  both 
human  and  divine. 

And  here  lies  the  remedy  for  the  con- 


dition of  things  as  existing  in  the  South. 
The  white  man  who  wrongs  a  black  and 
the  white  mob  that  lynches  a  negro 
have,  by  that  act  and  to  that  extent,  be- 
come criminals  in  the  eyes  of  the  law, 
and  should  be  dealt  with  unsparingly 
as  such.  It  should  no  longer  be  a  notable 
thing,  to  be  chronicled  in  the  news  col- 
umns and  elicit  editorial  comment,  that 
several  white  men  should  be  punished 
for  the  brutal  murder  of  one  inoffensive 
negro.  It  should  be  the  rule.  And  as 
for  lynching,  —  let  all  the  officers  of  the 
law,  with  all  the  powers  of  the  law,  de- 
fend the  rights  and  life  of  every  pris- 
oner. Surely  we  who  can  revel  in  the 
burning  of  a  fellow  human  being,  and 
a  section  some  of  whose  prominent  men 
can  soberly  defend  such  a  bloody  pro- 
ceeding, ought  not  to  have  any  over-sen- 
sitive scruples  at  the  shedding  of  a  little 
additional  blood,  and  that  too  of  crimi- 
nals caught  in  the  very  act  of  crime.  So 
let  our  marshals  have  instructions,  failure 
to  obey  which  shall  result  in  criminal 
prosecution,  to  protect  at  any  cost  the 
accused  who  come  into  their  care. 

If  this  seems  bloody,  is  it  more  bloody 
than  the  lyncher's  purpose  ?  Or  is  he 
any  the  more  a  murderer  who,  in  silence 
and  alone,  takes  the  life  of  a  fellow  man, 
than  every  member  of  a  mob  which, 
without  the  process  of  the  law,  takes  a 
human  life  ?  And  if  the  mob  calls  mur- 
der a  justification  for  its  course  of  ven- 
geance, does  it  not,  by  its  own  act  and 
attitude,  condemn  itself  to  a  like  penal- 
ty? At  any  rate,  this  is  the  only  re- 
straining influence  that  our  lynchers  can 
comprehend,  and  this,  together  with  the 
most  rigid  administration  of  the  law  in 
the  case  of  every  wrong  done  to  a  ne- 
gro, is  the  only  available  remedy  for 
conditions  as  they  now  exist.  Our  lower 
classes  must  be  made  to  realize,  by  what- 
ever means,  that  the  black  man  has  rights 
which  they  are  bound  to  respect. 

This  is  the  heart  of  the  Southern 
problem  of  the  negroj  If  we  call  upon 
the  people  of  the  North  to  give  over 


The  BcSs^n  Hill   Ground. 


73 


their  mistaken  ideas  of  the  equality  of 
the  races  in  superficial  and  accidental 
things,  we  are  called  upon  by  the  louder 
voice  of  simple'  humanity  to  give  over 
our  much  more  vicious  idea  of  the  in- 
equality of  the  races  in  the  fundamental 
rights  of  human  creatures.  If  we  call 
upon  them  to  lay  aside  sentiment,  we 
must  lay  aside  cruelty.  If  they  are  not 
to  elevate  the  negro  above  his  proper 
sphere,  we  are  not  to  debase  him  to 


the  level  of  the  brute.  But  in  mutual 
understanding,  a  frank  (if  sorrowful)  re- 
cognition of  all  the  facts,  —  of  the  lim- 
itations of  the  race  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  its  inalienable  rights  on  the  oth- 
er, with  charity  and  good  will  between 
North  and  South,  and  of  both  toward 
the  black  man,  —  let  us  give  him  fair 
and  favorable  conditions,  and  suffer  him 
to  work  out,  unhampered,  his  destiny 
among  us. 

Andrew  Sledd. 


THE  BO'S'N  HILL  GROUND. 


LYING  upon  its  side  on  a  little  shelf 
containing  the  few  books  owned  by  Miss 
Mercy  Gaskett  was  an  ancient  and  much 
thumbed  copy  of  the  American  Ooast 
Pilot,  dog-eared  and  dirty,  and  stained 
by  countless  soakings  in  fog,  rain,  and 
salt  water.  For  thirty  odd  seasons  Skip- 
per Reuben  Gaskett  carried  the  book 
with  him  to  the  coast  of  Labrador  in  the 
old  pinky  schooner  Good  Intent,  and 
when  in  a  memorable  gale  over  half  a 
century  ago  the  stout  little  vessel  at  last 
laid  her  bones  on  the  desolate  Magdalens, 
the  old  book  was  one  of  the  very  few  ar- 
ticles saved  from  the  wreck.  All  those 
sturdy  mariners  who  eagerly  scanned  its 
pages  in  fog  and  storm  for  so  many  years 
have  long  slept  either  with  the  skipper 
behind  the  weather-beaten  meeting-house 
on  the  hill  at  the  Cove,  or  fathoms  deep 
in  the  ocean.  As  a  pilot  the  old  book 
has  entirely  outlived  its  usefulness,  since 
owing  to  variation  of  the  compass,  xthe 
courses  given  in  it  would  speedily  lead 
to  disaster  if  followed  to-day,  while  so 
many  changes  have  taken  place  in  the 
appearance  of  the  coast  since  it  was  com- 
piled that  the  sailing  directions  are  also 
wholly  untrustworthy. 

Miss  Mercy  was  herself  aware  that 
the  book  had  now  no  practical  value,  and 
was  therefore  somewhat  surprised  when 


one  morning  Jason  Fairway  came  sham- 
bling up  her  path  in  his  red  fishing  boots, 
and  asked  leave  to  look  it  over  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  Look  at  it !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why 
to  be  sure  you  can  look  at  it  all  you  want, 
an'  welcome,  Jase,  but  it  ain't  the  least 
mite  o'  good  to  you  aboard  your  bo't,  now 
I  can  tell  you  that !  Brother  Pel'tiah  I 
know,  he  set  out  one  time  to  run  a  course 
outen  her,  an'  like  to  have  got  cast  away 
there  to  the  Mussel  Ridges  too.  He 
allus  has  told  how  they  had  a  dretf  ul  close 
shave  of  it,  an'  I  guess  likely  't  was  that 
much  's  anything  made  him  quit  goin', 
an'  stop  ashore  same 's  he  has  sence." 

"Wai,  Miss  Mercy,"  said  Jason,  "I 
ain't  cal'latin'  to  take  no  chances  run- 
nin'  ary  course  outen  the  book,  for  I 
don't  doubt  a  mite  but  that  it 's  jes'  you 
say,  she 's  pooty  nigh  bein'  a  back  num- 
ber at  this  day  o'  the  world,  but  what 
I  'm  comin'  at  is  this  here.  Your  bro- 
ther Pelly  was  tellin'  of  me  only  the  very 
last  time  I  was  to  his  store  there,  how 
there  was  a'writin'  somewheres  into  that 
ole  book  that  give  the  marks  for  the 
Bo's'n  Hill  Ground.  He  'lowed  't  was 
years  sence  he  see  it,  but  he  says,  's  'e, 
'  It 's  there  somewheres  into  that  ole  book 
right  in  black  an'  white,  an'  in  my  father's 
own  han'writin',  too.'  " 


74 


The  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground. 


"  Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Mercy,  "pro- 
b'ly  it 's  so,  then !  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  ! 
Land's  sakes,  ef  that  don't  carry  me 
clean  way  back  to  the  time  I  was  a  little 
gal  a-pickin'  oakum  stormy  days  up  in 
the  ole  attic  there  to  home  !  You  take 
an'  set  down  in  the  cheer  there  back  o' 
the  laylocks,  where  it 's  good  an'  shady, 
Jase,  an'  I  '11  fetch  her  right  out  to  ye." 

So  saying,  Miss  Mercy  went  into  the 
house,  and  soon  returned  with  the  ven- 
erable leather-covered  book. 

"  You  would  n't  b'lieve,"  she  continued, 
"  you  would  n't  scursely  b'lieve  how  kind 
o'  queer  it  doos  seem  to  hear  tell  about 
the  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  ag'in !  Why, 
when  I  was  growin'  up,  't  was  nothin' 
but  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground,  an'  the  Spring 
Gardin,  an'  Betty  Moody's  Ten  Acre 
Lot,  an'  a  sight  more  I  clean  forgit  the 
names  of  now.  How  comes  it  we  don't 
never  hear  tell  about  them  ole  fishin' 
grounds  now'days,  Jase  ?  " 

"  Wai,"  replied  he,  taking  the  old  book 
in  his  lap,  "  come  to  that,  there  's  some 
that  doos  fish  on  the  Spring  Gardin  by 
spells  now'days,  but  I  can't  say  's  ever 
I  knowed  jes'  the  marks  would  put  ye 
onto  Betty  Moody's  Lot,  there,  though  I 
would  n't  wonder  but  that  there  's  folks 
here  to  the  Cove  that 's  got  'em  yit,  but 
you  come  to  take  the  Bo's'n  Hill,  an' 
seem  's  ef  the  marks  was  gone  from  here 
clip  an'  clean !  That  is.  there  's  jes'  one 
man  knows  'em,  fur  's  I  can  make  out, 
an'  he's  so  blame'  mean  he  won't  tell 
'em  to  nobody,  so  there  we  be  hung  up, 
ye  see." 

"  Who  is  it  knows  'em  ?  "  cried  Miss 
Mercy.  "  Guess  I  can  think,  though, 
who  it  must  be !  "  she  added. 

"  You  would  n't  have  to  travel  fur  to 
run  foul  on  him  !  "  said  Jason,  as  he 
clumsily  turned  the  old  book's  yellow 
pages.  "  Oho  !  "  he  soon  exclaimed. 
"  Here  we  have  it,  so  quick  !  Here 's 
the  whole  bus'niss  wrote  on  a  piece  o' 
paper,  an'  pasted  in  here  plain  's  can 
be  !  '  Marks  for  the  Boatswain's  Hill 
Ground.  Brandon's  Cove,  November  5, 


1822.  Scant  eight  fathoms  at  low  wa- 
ter. Hard  bottom.'  See,  Miss  Mercy  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Can't  make  out  a 
word  without  my  specs,  but  you  take  an' 
read  it  out  loud,  Jase." 

"  Wai,  't  ain't  so  ter'ble  plain  's  what 
I  thought  for,  come  to  look  right  at  it," 
said  he.  "  The  ink  's  eat  chock  through 
the  paper  in  spots,  so  's  't  the  words  kind 
o'  run  together  like  ;  then  here  's  'nother 
place  where  it  seem  's  though  somebody 
'd  spilt  fire  outen  his  pipe,  from  the 
looks  on  't.  Beginnin'  starts  off  con- 
sid'ble  plain  though,  ef  only  a  feller  could 
make  out  to  git  holt  o'  the  res'  part. 
Lemme  see  now,  how  doos  she  read,  any- 
ways ?  '  Bring  the  steeple  of  Ole  York 
meetin'-house  to  bear  eggsac'ly  over  the 
sou' west  dry  ledge  o'  the  Hue  an'  Cry,' 
—  that 's  plain  'nough  so  fur,  but  't  ain't 
right,  I  know !  Never  was  so  in  God's 
world  !  That  range  would  fetch  ye  clean 
away  to  the  east'ard,  way  off  here  on 
the  Big  Bumpo,  I  sh'd  cal'late !  " 

"  Well,  but  Jase !  "  interrupted  Miss 
Mercy,  "  prob'ly  it  means  the  big  ole 
yaller  meetin'-house  use  to  set  there  on 
the  post  ro'd  'most  up  to  the  Corners, 
you  rec'lec',  or  was  that  'fore  your  time, 
though  ?  Burnt  chock  to  the  ground  she 
was,  one  time  when  ole  Elder  Roundturn 
was  preachin'  into  her,  oh,  years  ago." 

"  I  jes'  barely  rec'lec'  her,  an'  that 's 
all,"  said  Jason,  "  but  ef  that 's  the  style, 
we  're  all  adrift  ag'in  on  gittin'  them 
marks !  Le'  's  see,  though,  what  it  goes 
on  to  say  'bout  t'other  range.  *  Bring 
the  dark  strake  in  the  woods  on  the 
no'therly  side  of  Bo's'n  Hill  to  bear  in 
range  '  —  Wai,  it  jes'  happens  there 
don't  make  out  to  be  no  woods  up  there, 
not  a  blamed  stick  !  Stripped  ri'  down 
to  the  bare  rock,  she  is  !  Now  where  was 
I  to  ?  Oh,  here,  I  guess  !  '  To  bear  in 
range  with  the  eastern  c-h '  —  What  in 
blazes  is  it  ?  C-h-i-  oh,  chimbly,  that 's 
it !  The  eastern  chimbly  on  the  —  what 
house?  Set -fire  ef  I  can  make  that 
out,  noways  !  The  ink 's  eat  the  paper 
all  to  flinders  right  here !  Now  don't 


The  jBo's'n  Hill   Ground. 


75 


that  make  out  to  be  some  aggravating 
you! 

"  Still,  I  dunno  's  it  makes  no  great 
odds,  neither,  for  I  cal'late  't  would  puz- 
zle the  ole  boy  hisself  to  take  an'  put  a 
bo't  on  the  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  from 
them  marks  to  -  day,  'lowin'  we  could 
make  out  to  spell  'em  out !  'S  too  bad, 
I  swan  to  man !  Jes'  much  obliged  to 
you,  though,  Miss  Mercy,  o'  course,  for 
the  trouble." 

"  Not  a  mite  o'  trouble,  Jase  !  Not  a 
speck !  Sorry  you  can't  git  no  sense  out 
o'  the  thing,  I  'm  sure  !  It  doos  seem  's 
ef  there 'd  ought  to  be  some  ways  to 
git  holt  o'  them  marks  though,  as  many 
years  as  what  folks  has  been  fishin'  on 
that  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  !  " 

"  Wai,"  replied  Jason,  "  the  thing  of 
it  is,  the  Bo's'n  Hill  ain't  been  fished 
o'  late  years,  an'  that 's  jes'  where  the 
trouble  comes  in.  'Cordin'  to  tell,  them 
ole  fellers  used  to  git  the  biggest  kind 
o'  fishin'  out  there  in  the  spring  an'  fall 
o'  the  year,  but  nigh  's  I  can  make  out, 
it  fin'lly  come  to  be  fished  pooty  much 
dry,  ye  see,  an'  folks  got  in  the  way  o' 
goin'  furder  to  the  west'ard,  or  else  out 
to  them  grounds  way  off  shore  there,  till 
bimeby  'most  the  whole  o'  them  ole  fel- 
lers that  knowed  the  Bo's'n  Hill  marks 
was  un'neath  the  sod,  or  else  drownded, 
so  come  to  take  it  at  this  day  o'  the 
world,  seem  's  ef  the  only  man  left  here 
to  this  Cove  that 's  got  'em  yit  is  ole 
Loop-eye  Kentall,  an'  you  know  what 
he  is,  prob'ly  !  " 

"  Sakes  alive !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Mer- 
cy. "It's  likely  we  ain't  lived  next 
door  neighbors  all  these  years  for  no- 
thin'  !  I  guess  if  't  depends  on  him,  — 
but  there  !  He 's  all  the  nigh  neighbor 
I  've  got,  an'  I  s'pose  it  don't  look  jes' 
right  my  sayin'  no  great,  anyways.  Don't 
he  never  go  out  there  fishin'  into  his 
bo't,  so  's  't  you  could  kind  o'  watch  him 
like,  or  else  make  out  to  f  oiler  him  some- 
ways?" 

"Oh,  he's  fishin'  there  right  along, 
this  spring,"  answered  Jason.  "  It 's 


seldom  ever  he  '11  miss  ary  decent  chance 
to  git  onto  the  ground  now'days,  for 
there  's  fish  there  ag'in  an'  no  mistake ! 
Commenced  goin'  out  there  some  time 
last  fall,  the  fust  I  knowed  on  't,  but 
it 's  no  sense  tryin'  to  f  oiler  him,  'cause 
you  might  jes'  soon  try  trackin'  a  blame' 
loon  to  her  nest  as  to  ketch  that  ole  rat 
on  the  Bo's'n  Hill !  Ye  see  he  won't 
never  leggo  his  killick  out  there  at  all  ef 
there  's  ary  one  o'  the  other  bo'ts  'round 
anywheres,  an'  you  come  to  take  it  after 
he  doos  git  hisself  settled  on  the  ground, 
quick 's  ever  ary  other  bo't  shows  up 
'most  anywheres  in  sight  he  '11  up  killick 
an'  put  sail  on  her  for  all  he 's  wuth ! 
Seem  's  ef  you  can't  rig  it  so  's  to  ketch 
him  nappin'  noways,  for  there 's  quite  a 
few  on  us  this  spring  has  tried  to  work 
it  all  manner  o'  ways  to  git  the  marks 
for  the  Bo's'n  Hill  outen  him,  but  set-fire 
ef  he  ain't  made  out  to  beat  us  so  fur, 
ev'ry  dog-gone  time  ! 

"  One  thing,  you  see,  there  ain't  no 
size  to  the  ground  anyways  ;  it 's  nothin' 
only  a  little  mite  of  a  shoal  spot,  the 
Bo's'n  Hill  ain't,  with  consid'ble  deep 
water  chock  up  to  her  on  ev'ry  side,  so 's 't 
you  might  liken  her  to  a  sort  o'  chimbly- 
shaped  rock  that  them  big  overgrowed 
steakers  loves  to  play  round,  an'  feed 
off'n,  but  you  can  see  for  yourself,  with- 
out a  feller  's  extry  well  posted,  it 's  a 
ter'ble  blind  job  tryin'  to  git  on  to  the 
thing. 

"  Brother  Sam  he  did  make  out  one 
time  to  stumble  right  atop  on  't  into  his 
drag-bo't,  but  as  luck  would  have  it, 
't  was  so  thick  an'  hazy  like,  he  could  n't 
see  the  main  to  git  holt  on  ary  marks 
at  all.  He  took  an'  stopped  right  out 
there  till  past  sundown  hopin'  she  'd 
scale  so  's 't  he  'd  be  able  to  see  sumpin', 
but  the  way  it  worked,  in  room  o'  scalin', 
it  jes'  turned  to  an'  shet  in  thick  o'  fog 
on  him,  an'  the  wind  breezened  up  out 
here  to  the  east'ard  so  spiteful  that 
fin'lly  it  growed  so  dinged  hubbly  he 
had  to  give  it  up,  an'  p'int  her  for  the 
turf !  But  he  'lowed  how  the  whole 


76 


The  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground. 


bus'niss  wa'ii't  much  bigger  over  'n  the 
Odd  FeUers'  HaU  there  to  the  Cove, 
anyways,  an'  right  atop  on 't  you  'd  have 
'bout  eight  fathom  o'  water  at  half  tide, 
but  he  said  come  to  shift  your  berth  not 
more  'n  mebbe  a  couple  o'  bo't's  lengths, 
an'  like  's  not  the  lead  would  run  out 
thirty  odd  fathom  o'  line  so  quick 't  would 
make  your  head  swim  !  " 

"  For  the  laud's  sakes !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Mercy.  "  You  don't  tell !  Why, 
't  is  a  reg'lar-built  chimbly-rock,  ain't  it 
though !  I  do  r'ally  hope  you  '11  make 
out  to  git  them  marks  so  's  to  find  it 
ag'in,  declare  I  do !  'T  ain't  I  wish  no 
hurt  to  my  neighbor  here,  but  it  doos 
kind  o'  seem 's  though  an  ole  man  that 's 
got  as  much  of  it  laid  by  as  what  he 
has,  an'  all  soul  alone  in  the  world,  too, 
I  must  say  it  doos  'pear  as  if  he  might 
quit  goin'  bo't-fishin',  an'  sort  o'  lay  back 
a  little  for  the  rest  part  o'  the  time  he 's 
got  to  stop  'round  here  yit !  " 

"  There !  That 's  me  too,  ev'ry  time ! " 
cried  Jason  Fairway.  "  That 's  jes' 
eggsac'ly  how  I  look  at  it,  Miss  Mercy  ! 
Why,  ef  only  I  was  quarter  part 's  well 
heeled  as  what  ole  Loop-eye  Kentall  is, 
do  you  cal'late  I  'd  ever  bother  to  set 
'nother  gang  o'  lobster-traps,  or  bait  up 
'nother  tub  o'  trawls  long 's  I  lived  ? 
Guess  not,  no  great !  I  sh'd  jes'  turn 
to  an'  buy  me  a  nice  snug  little  place  up 
back  here  somewheres,  an'  git  me  a 
good  cow,  an'  a  couple  dozen  hens,  an' 
then  I  sh'd  figger  on  takin'  of  it  good 
an'  easy !  Prob'ly  'nough  I  sh'd  want 
me  a  fresh  haddick  now  an'  then,  an' 
when  I  done  so,  I  sh'd  slip  off  here  in  my 
bo't  an'  ketch  me  one  without  sayin'  by 
your  leaf  to  nobody,  but  this  here  actin' 
same  's  a  tormented  ole  hog  "  — 

"  S-h  !  Jase  !  "  sibilated  Miss  Mercy. 
"  Remember  he  's  "  — 

"  Can't  help  it !  "  persisted  Jason. 
"  Sich  works  as  them  he  's  up  to  is  fit 
to  turn  a  feller's  poke,  swan  ef  they 
hain't !  Why,  ef  I  was  to  set  to  an'  go 
into  the  snide  tricks  ole  Loop-eye  allus 
an'  forever 's  been  a-tryin'  on,  I  dunno, 


but  seem  's  though  I  sh'd  be  skeered  to 
turn  in  when  it  come  night-time,  for 
fear  God  A'mighty  'd  up  an'  shet  off 
my  wind  afore  mornin' !  " 

"  Why  Jason  Fairway,  you  !  "  began 
Miss  Mercy  again. 

"  He 's  went  to  work  an'  got  a  mort- 
gage on  half  the  places  to  the  Cove,  I 
was  goin'  to  say,"  continued  Jason,  "  an' 
'twa'n't  but  only  last  week  he  turned 
to  an'  took  away  the  bo't  from  pore  ole 
Uncle  Isr'il  Spurshoe  way  down  on  the 
Neck  there  !  Did  n't  you  never  hear  tell 
o'  that  yit  ?  Wai,  that 's  what  he  done, 
an'  them  two  was  boys  together,  mind 
ye;  went  to  the  Bay  together,  an' 
growed  right  up  together  you  may  say, 
but  Uncle  Isr'il  there,  he  'd  up  an'  slat 
the  clo'es  off'n  his  back  any  day  ef  he 
seen  a  man  needed  'em  wuss  'n  what  he 
done ;  that 's  Isr'il  Spurshoe  all  over, 
that  is,  but  you  take  ole  Loop-eye,  an' 
he  'd  allus  rob  ye  in  room  o'  givin'  ye 
nothin'  ef  he  see  a  chance  to  git  in  his 
work  unbeknownst,  an'  as  for  lyin',  why 
I  would  n't  b'lieve  him  no  furder  'n  what 
I  could  take  an'  sling  a  four  year  ole 
bull  by  the  tail!" 

"  There  !  There,  Jase  !  "  cried  Miss 
Mercy  once  more.  "  Don't  take  on  so, 
son !  Ole  Loop-eye,  —  er,  that  is,  ole  Mr. 
Kentall  here  is  jest  what  the  Lord  made 
him"  — 

"Got  my  doubts  'bout  the  Lord's 
havin'  ary  hand  in  the  job  't  all ! "  in- 
terrupted Jason,  with  a  grin.  "  But  I 
must  be  joggin'  down  'long.  Do  drop 
in  an'  see  us,  Miss  Mercy,  won't  ye, 
when  you  're  our  ways  ?  " 

Not  long  after  this  talk  between  Jason 
Fairway  and  Miss  Mercy,  the  dogfish 
"  struck  "  on  the  coast,  and  as  Was  ex- 
pected, almost  at  the  same  time,  sum- 
mer boarders  "  struck "  in  the  Cove. 
Now  however  beneficial  these  latter  may 
be  accounted  in  other  places,  in  the 
Cove  the  question  of  which  were  the 
greater  nuisance,  dogfish  or  boarders, 
was  often  discussed.  According  to  the 
popular  idea,  both  were  to  be  looked  for 


The  So's'n  Hill  Ground. 


77 


at  about  the  same  date,  and  while  dog- 
fish were  certain  to  drive  all  other  fish 
from  the  shore  during  their  stay,  so  the 
boarders  were  credited  with  driving  all 
business  from  the  Cove,  and  were  even 
accused  of  attempting  to  drive  the  na- 
tive population  back  into  the  woods. 

At  any  rate,  after  dogfish  and  board- 
ers were  in  full  possession,  fishing  as  a 
business  was  abandoned  outright,  and 
though  occasionally  a  party  of  boarders 
was  taken  out  and  afforded  the  mild  ex- 
citement of  hooking  a  beggarly  scrod  or 
two  from  among  the  kelps  at  the  har- 
bor's mouth,  yet  the  regular  boat-fisher- 
men as  a  rule  laid  their  craft  on  the 
moorings  for  a  season,  and  began  pre- 
paring their  gear  for  the  fall  fishing. 

After  this  was  well  under  way,  Loop- 
eye  Kentall,  though  sorely  beset  by 
rheumatism,  started  in,  as  he  said,  to 
get  his  winter's  fish,  but  his  leaky  old 
lapstreak  boat  was  almost  daily  to  be 
seen  discharging  its  trip  of  fish  at  the 
wharf  in  the  village,  while  the  few  that 
found  their  way  to  the  moss-grown  flakes 
in  his  own  yard  were  invariably  of  a 
sort  that  could  not  be  disposed  of  on 
any  terms. 

Fish  were  scarce  this  fall,  and  as  a 
rule  the  boats  were  obliged  to  go  a  long 
distance  offshore  to  find  them,  starting 
away  from  the  Cove  long  before  day- 
light, and  frequently  not  returning  until 
far  into  the  night. 

But  this  state  of  things  was  exactly 
to  the  mind  of  Loop-eye  Kentall,  and 
he  improved  the  opportunity  by  making 
use  of  his  secret  marks  to  the  utmost. 
Judging  from  the  number  of  great 
"  steak  "  cod  repeatedly  landed  from  his 
crazy  old  craft,  there  was  no  dearth  of 
fish  on  the  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground  this  sea- 
son at  any  rate,  and  Jason  Fairway  soon 
determined  to  make  still  another  effort 
at  getting  a  share  of  them ;  so  one  clear 
morning,  instead  of  running  his  boat 
broad  offshore  toward  the  distant  grounds 
he  and  the  others  had  lately  been  com- 
pelled to  seek,  he  headed  her  several 


miles  to  the  eastward,  and  then  hove  to 
until  sunrise. 

It  proved  just  such  a  day  as  he  had 
hoped  for.  There  was  no  haze  to  dim 
the  sun's  brightness,  and  the  sea  was  ruf- 
fled by  a  brisk  morning  breeze,  so  that 
to  a  person  looking  eastward  toward  the 
sun,  its  blaze  upon  the  dancing  waters 
was  almost  blinding. 

By  aid  of  the  old  canvas-covered  spy- 
glass Jason  had  brought  with  him,  Loop- 
eye  Kentall  was  presently  discovered 
stealing  out  from  under  the  high  land 
in  his  black -sailed  old  boat,  and  in 
course  of  time  dropping  killick  upon 
what  was  presumably  the  Bo's'n  Hill 
Ground. 

Then  Jason  put  his  tiller  up,  and 
keeping  as  nearly  as  he  could  judge 
directly  in  the  wake  of  the  dazzling  sun 
blaze,  attempted  to  put  to  the  test  his 
latest  plan  for  stealing  a  march  upon 
the  foxy  old  fisherman. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  under  the 
freshening  breeze  he  was  then  at  a  dis- 
tance when  Loop-eye  Kentall  would 
commonly  have  taken  the  alarm  and 
left  posthaste,  for  he  usually  allowed 
no  boat  to  approach  within  a  mile  or 
two.  Nearer  and  nearer  drew  the  trim 
little  jigger,  and  the  dark  object  ahead 
rapidly  grew  larger,  till  Jason  chuckled 
to  himself  at  the  apparent  success  of  his 
scheme. 

"  Ef  our  bird  won't  rise  for  another 
five  minutes,"  said  he  to  his  boy,  "  I  '11 
resk  but  that  we  '11  be  able  to  sound  out 
that  ground  'fore  noontime,  anyways  !  " 

Five  minutes,  ten  minutes  more,  and 
still  no  movement  of  the  lone  figure  in 
the  boat  ahead. 

"  Guess  he  must  be  gaftin'  'em  in  solid 
this  mornin' !  "  said  the  boy.  "  Can't 
see  him  movin*  no  great,  though,  neither. 
'Pears  to  be  settin'  there  takin'  his  com- 
fort !  " 

"I  see  he  doos,"  said  his  father. 
"  Prob'ly  cal'lates  ev'ry  blessed  hooker 
to  the  Cove's  chock  out  on  the  Sou'- 
west  Ridge  by  this  time  o*  day!  It 


78 


Spider-  Web. 


looks  to  me  as  ef  we  'd  scored  on  him  at 
last !  Ef  he 's  on  the  Bo's'n  Hill,  I  '11 
have  the  marks  this  mornin'  sure,  for  it 
never  made  out  to  be  no  clearer !  " 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do,  dad  ?  "  asked 
the  boy.  "  Goin'  to  hail  him,  or  jes'  let 
her  go  clean  down  onto  him,  till  he 
looks  'round  ?  " 

"  Guess  we  might 's  well  run  down  to 
loo'ard  a  grain,  an'  shoot  her  up  'long- 
side,  ef  he  don't  twig  us  fust.  What 
you  s'pose  ails  the  ole  divil  that  makes 
him  set  there  humped  up  sideways,  so 
fashion  ?  Would  n't  wonder  but  that 
he  's  sick,  or  sumpin !  " 

The  next  moment  Jason's  boat  shot 
up  close  to  the  side  of  the  other,  and  a 
quick  look  at  its  silent  occupant  showed 
unmistakably  that  he  had  dropped  his 
killick  for  the  last  time.  In  the  boat's 


bottom  lay  an  immense  cod  wound  up 
in  a  snarl  of  wet  line,  and  as  yet  hardly 
through  its  gasping. 

"My  God!  Elishy  Ken  tall !"  mut- 
tered Jason  Fairway.  "  Ef  you  hain't 
made  out  to  git  snubbed  up  some  short !  " 

Without  another  word  he  reached  for 
the  sounding  lead,  and  let  it  run  the 
line  swiftly  over  the  boat's  side.  Then 
he  began  hauling  it  up  again,  measuring 
the  fathoms  with  his  arms  as  he  did  so. 

« Is  it  the  Bo's'n  Hill  Ground,  dad  ?  " 
asked  the  white-faced  boy  anxiously. 

"  Six  —  seven  —  eight  fathom,  an* 
rocky  bottom.  It  lacks  an  hour  to  low 
water  yit.  Yas,  son,  I  sh'd  say  't  was  !  " 

In   this  way  Loop-eye  Kentall   gave 
away  his  cherished  secret,  and  the  Bo's'n 
Hill    Ground    again    became    common 
property  of  the  fishermen  at  the  Cove. 
George  S.  Wasson. 


SPIDER-WEB. 

A  SLENDER  filament  is  yon 
Bright  bit  of  gossamer  whereon 
The  sunlit  spider  swings  —  what  if  he  fall? 
A  couch  of  grass  is  all. 

A  daring  architect,  he  lays 
His  skillful  courses  on  my  ways  — 
But  see  how  idly !     For  with  one  light  blow 
I  lay  his  rafters  low. 

Yet  he'll  go  building  still,  as  I, 
Whose  castles  oft  in  ruins  lie, 
Begin  and  spin  anew  my  filament 
By  some  vast  Being  rent. 

Mayhap,  because  I  choose  to  lay 
My  daring  rafters '  on  His  way, 
He  sweeps  His  vexed  forehead  with  a  frown 
And  strikes  my  castles  down  ! 

James  Herbert  Morse. 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


79 


THE  PLAYS   OF  EUGENE   BRIEUX. 


A  DOZEN  years  ago,  when  M.  Eugene 
Brieux  was  plying  the  managers  of  Paris 
theatres  of  all  grades  with  his  plays,  most 
of  them  were  not  even  read.  In  1879, 
Bernard  Palissy,  a  one-act  play  in  verse 
written  in  collaboration  with  M.  Gaston 
Salandri,  had  had  a  hearing  at  one  of 
the  experimental  performances  then  and 
now  so  common  at  certain  small  theatres 
of  Paris,  but  between  that  first  night  and 
the  acceptance  of  Manages  d' Artistes  by 
M.  Antoine  of  the  Theatre  Libre  lay 
eleven  years.  In  1892,  two  years  later, 
M.  Antoine  produced  Blanchette,  a  genu- 
ine success  that  has  become  one  of  the 
stock  pieces  of  the  Theatre  Antoine,  the 
successor  of  the  Theatre  Libre.  After 
the  favorable  reception  of  this  comedy, 
plays  of  M.  Brieux  appeared  in  rapid  suc- 
cession :  L'Engrenage,  La  Rose  Bleue, 
L'Evasion,  Les  Bienfaiteurs,  LeBerceau, 
Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont,  L'Ecole 
des  Belles  -  Meres,  Le  R^sultat  des 
Courses,  La  Robe  Rouge,  Les  Rempla- 
§antes,  and  Les  Avarie's.  To  these  should 
be  added  Monsieur  de  Re'boval,  which 
has  not  been  printed.  These  plays  have 
had  their  first  nights  at  the  Vaudeville, 
the  Gymnase,  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  the 
Antoine,  and  the  Frangais,  that  is,  at  the 
leading  Paris  theatres ;  several,  when 
published,  have  gone  into  a  number  of 
editions  and  are  still  selling ;  and  two, 
L'Evasion  and  La  Robe  Rouge,  have  been 
crowned  by  the  Academy.  Surely,  plays 
which  could  produce  within  a  decade  so 
marked  a  change  toward  their  author 
must  have  unusual  merit. 

Two  of  them,  La  Rose  Bleue  and 
L'Ecole  des  Belles-Meres,  are  one-act 
ingenious  trifles,  but  all  the  others  are 
for  one  reason  or  another  of  decided  in- 
terest, and  three  or  four  are  masterly 
studies  of  French  life  to-day.  Manages 
d' Artistes  treats,  with  much  amusing 
satire  on  the  affectations  of  would  be 


literary  people,  the  selfishness  of  the 
type  of  artist  whose  ambition  much  ex- 
ceeds his  powers.  Blanchette  paints  the 
misery  that  may  result  from  giving  a 
peasant  girl  an  education  which,  even  if 
not  elaborate,  puts  her  completely  out  of 
sympathy  with  the  home  to  which  she 
must  return  when  her  studies  are  finished 
and  her  chance  to  teach  does  not  come 
promptly.  L'Engrenage  satirizes  the 
wheels  within  wheels  of  modern  French 
political  life.  Of  course,  the  subject  is 
not  new  even  to  the  stage,  and,  as  a 
whole,  L'Engrenage  cannot  be  classed 
among  the  best  plays  of  M.  Brieux.  Les 
Bienfaiteurs  mocks  at  modern  systema- 
tized charity  and  the  pretended  interest 
in  it  of  the  fashionable  world.  The  con- 
flicts in  authority,  the  petty  jealoisies, 
the  blindness  to  facts  in  absorption  in 
theories,  the  frequent  cruelty  of  this  sys- 
tematized charity,  are  treated  with  in- 
dignant irony.  L'Evasion  has  a  dou- 
ble purpose  :  to  gird  with  almost  Molier- 
esque  intensity  at  the  self-sufficiency  of 
fashionable  physicians  and  modern  medi- 
cal science  ;  and  to  represent  the  tragedy 
sure  to  result  if  young  men  and  wo- 
men come  into  maturity  believing  them- 
selves as  unalterably  doomed  by  the  acts 
of  their  forbears  as,  in  the  Greek  trage- 
dy, were  the  heroes  whom  the  gods  had 
banned.  Le  Berceau  treats  the  power- 
lessness  of  human  theoretical  law  when 
it  conflicts  with  human  natural  law.  Ray- 
mond and  Laurence,  estranged  by  the 
folly  of  Raymond,  have  been  divorced. 
Laurence,  thinking  herself  perfectly  free, 
has  yielded  to  her  father's  entreaties  and 
married  again.  But  when  Raymond  and 
Laurence  meet  over  the  cradle  of  the 
dangerously  ill  boy  whom  they  both  love 
passionately,  they  come  to  realize  that, 
whatever  the  laws  of  man  may  say,  na- 
ture provides  a  bond  in  their  common 
love  for  the  child  which  makes  it  impos- 


80 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Bneux. 


sible  for  their  lives  to  be  wholly  separate. 
Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont  shows 
the  tragedies  of  three  lives  caused  by  the 
absolute  control  of  French  parents  over 
their  daughters.  Le  Re'sultat  des  Courses 
is  a  very  varied  study  of  the  life  of  the 
men  employed  in  the  large  workshop  of 
a  caster  in  bronze,  and  finds  its  trage- 
dy in  the  evil  effects  on  this  class  of  the 
betting  mania.  Two  of  the  best  of  M. 
Brieux's  plays  follow :  La  Robe  Rouge 
and  Les  Remplagantes.  The  first,  with  a 
breadth  of  human  sympathy,  a  keenness 
of  insight,  and  a  mercilessness  of  satire 
which  again  remind  one  of  Moliere,  ex- 
poses the  way  in  which  personal  ambi- 
tion, and  politics  interfering  with  law, 
may  blind  and  deprave  French  justice. 
Les  Rempla§antes,  probably  M.  Brieux's 
masterpiece  thus  far,  paints,  with  evident 
complete  knowledge  of  the  conditions 
used,  the  gradual  depraving  of  certain 
French  districts  because  their  chief  sup- 
port has  come  to  be  supplying  wet  nurses 
for  the  babies  of  Parisian  women  of  fash- 
ion. Just  before  the  last  play,  Les  Ava- 
rie's, was  to  have  its  first  night  at  the 
Antoine  last  autumn,  the  Censure  re- 
fused to  allow  it  to  be  given.  The  logic 
of  the  Censor  is  a  little  hard  to  follow  : 
apparently  a  French  dramatist  may  treat 
what  he  likes  so  long  as  he  is  suggestive- 
ly nasty  or  wrings  from  his  material 
every  bit  of  impropriety  there  is  in  it ; 
but  when  he  treats  a  subject,  undoubted- 
ly scabrous,  with  intention  to  make  his 
public  cry  out  against  the  conditions 
shown,  modesty  forbids —  in  the  Censor's 
office.  However,  though  one  must  be 
grateful  to  M.  Brieux  for  the  insight 
with  which  he  has  discerned  the  exact 
causes  of  the  evils  he  treats,  and  for  the 
courage  with  which  he  says  what  should 
be  more  generally  understood,  one  can- 
not say  much  for  the  play  as  a  play.  In 
the  first  place  the  subject  —  the  tragedy 
of  the  introduction  of  disease  into  the 
family  by  the  husband  —  is  not  fit  for 
the  stage.  Secondly,  so  completely  has 
the  indignant  student  of  French  manners 


swamped  the  dramatist,  that  Les  Ava- 
rie's is  a  twentieth-century  morality  :  for, 
though  Act  II.  does  contain  action  and 
characterization,  Act  I.  is  but  a  dialogue, 
and  Act  III.  is  little  more  than  a  long 
lecture.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  in  the 
plays  preceding  Les  Avarie's  M.  Brieux 
broadened  the  choice  of  topics  for  the 
modern  drama,  but  here  he  has  gone  too 
far.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  in  the  play 
now  in  rehearsal  at  the  Theatre  Franjais, 
Petite  Amie,  the  dramatist  will  once  more 
guide  and  control  the  social  reformer. 

From  this  summary  it  must  be  clear 
that  there  is  no  more  up  to  date  drama- 
tist than  M.  Brieux  :  his  plays  of  the 
last  twelve  years  treat  French  life  in 
those  years.  Nor  does  he  seek  particular- 
ly what  is  permanently  comic  or  tragic  : 
he  is  quite  as  much  interested  in  dra- 
matic crises  which  can  occur  only  as 
long  as  conventions  and  habits  at  present 
deep  rooted  have  not  yielded  in  their 
hopeless  struggle  against  more  enlight- 
ened ideals  and  customs.  The  changing 
present  is  his  field.  Do  not  suppose, 
however,  that  you  will  find  in  the  list 
only  thirteen  theses  on  social  questions 
thinly  disguised  as  plays.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Les  Avarie's,  these  plays  are 
full  of  interesting  dramatic  situations  de- 
veloped by  admirable  characterization. 
Nor  is  the  chief  quality  of  the  work 
brutal  realism.  The  plays  show  tender- 
ness, remarkable  range  of  sympathy  with 
human  nature,  and  a  strong  underlying 
belief  in  the  good  in  man  when  he  is  not 
blinded  by  convention  or  driven  astray 
by  the  insistent  theories  of  self-consti- 
tuted leaders  of  society.  The  humor  of 
M.  Brieux,  usually  quiet,  appears  most 
often  in  swift,  final  touches  of  character- 
ization such  as  mark  the  domino  game 
in  Blanchette  (Act  I.,  Sc.  13)  between 
the  suspicious,  wily,  and  obstinate  pea- 
sants, Morillon  and  Rousset.  The  por- 
trait, in  Les  Bienfaiteurs,  of  Clara,  the 
maid  whom  the  charitable  Landrecys  en- 
dure because  they  know  she  will  not  be 
able,  if  dismissed,  to  get  another  place, 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


81 


must  thoroughly  amuse  any  one  who  has 
suffered  from  impudent  stupidity  in  ser- 
vants. Often  this  humor  of  M.  Brieux 
has  an  admixture  of  irony  or  satire,  for 
naturally  both  are  among  his  principal 
weapons.  The  following  from  Scene  1, 
Act  I.,  of  L'Evasion  shows  his  gayer 
irony :  Dr.  La  Belleuse  asks  the  advice 
of  his  famous  chief,  Dr.  Bertry,  as  to 
which  are  worrying  him. 


La  Belleuse.  There  is  one  case  that 
I  can't  succeed  in  relieving. 

The  Doctor.    That  will  happen. 

La  Bell.  Of  course,  but  —  he  wants 
to  go  to  Lourdes. 

The  Doc.   Let  him  go. 

La  Bell,  (dismayed) .  You  don't  mean 
that  ?  What  if  he  should  be  cured  ? 

The  Doc.  You  can  always  find  a  sci- 
entific explanation. 

La  Bell.   Suggestion  ? 

The  Doc.  Certainly,  —  it  answers  for 
everything.  Anything  else  ? 

La  Bell.  There  is  Probard,  the  pa- 
tient of  whom  I  spoke  to  you.  He  can't 
last  more  than  a  week. 

The  Doc.  Call  a  colleague  in  consul- 
tation. That  will  divide  the  responsi- 
bility. 

La  Bell.  But  Probard  is  almost  a 
celebrity. 

The   Doc.    Call  in  two. 

La  Bell.  Yes.  At  the  hospital,  Num- 
ber Four  in  the  St.  Theresa  room  is  still 
in  the  same  condition. 

The  Doc.    Have  you  tried  everything  ? 

La  Bell.    Everything. 

The  Doc.   Even  doing  nothing  ? 

La  Bell.  Even  doing  nothing.  Not 
one  of  us  can  tell  what  is  the  matter  with 
her. 

The  Doc.  (after  a  sigh).  We  shan't 
know  till  the  autopsy.  Let  us  wait. 

La  Bell.    Stopping  all  treatment  ? 

The  Doc.  No.  One  must  never  seem 
to  lose  interest  in  a  case.  That  would 
be  a  mistake  —  a  regrettable  mistake. 
Do  —  no  matter  what,  but  do  something. 
That  is  all? 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  6 


La  Bell,  (consulting  his  memoranda). 
I  don't  see  anything  more. 

The  biting  quality  of  the  following, 
from  Les  Bienfaiteurs,  results  from  its 
close,  indignant  observations  of  methods 
not  confined  to  France.  Escaudin  calls  on 
Pauline  Landrecy  at  the  office  of  one  of 
the  charities  she  has  founded  through  the 
bounty  of  her  brother,  Valentin  Salviat. 

Pauline.  We  were  talking,  my  brother 
and  I,  —  this  is  M.  Escaudin,  of  whom 
I  spoke  to  you,  —  we  were  talking  of  the 
difficulty  there  is  in  dispensing  charity. 
I  have  been  robbed,  M.  Escaudin,  I  have 
been  robbed  by  pretended  poor. 

Escaudin.  Ah,  that 's  it !  You,  you 
want  to  mix  charity  and  sentiment :  you 
will  always  be  deceived.  Now  I,  you 
see,  have  been  for  ten  years  the  head  of 
a  charitable  committee  ;  that  toughens  a 
man,  that  does.  I  scent  a  fraud  two 
miles  and  a  half  away.  The  time  is  past 
when  they  could  trick  me. 

Pau.    How  do  you  manage  ? 

Esc.  I  don't  know.  It 's  a  matter  of 
instinct.  You  women  let  yourselves  feel 
pity.  In  practicing  charity  you  must 
use  the  same  common  sense  and  the  same 
coolness  as  in  business.  I  who  made  my 
fortune  in  business  —  Look  here,  you 
have  still  some  clients,  —  I  call  them  my 
'  clients,  —  you  have  still  some  clients  in 
the  waiting-room.  Would  you  like  to 
have  me  receive  them  in  your  presence  ? 
Then  you  will  see. 

Pau.    Most  willingly. 

Esc.  I  must  place  myself  there  (des- 
ignating the  table  at  the  left). 

Pau.    Why? 

Esc.  You  must  always  have  a  desk,  — 
a  table  between  you  and  your  client,  — 
that  keeps  you  from  contact  with  him 
and  insures  respect.  (Laughing.)  Ah, 
ah,  ah  !  That 's  one  of  my  tricks !  (He 
establishes  himself.)  Now  you  can  let 
them  come  in.  (Enter  Rosa  Mag loir e.) 
Come  forward.  Your  name  —  Christian 
name  —  your  address  ? 


82 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


Rosa.  Magloire,  Rosa,  14  M^nard 
Square. 

Esc.  (after  writing).    Married  ? 

Rosa.   Yes,  sir. 

Esc.    What  do  you  want  ? 

Rosa.   A  little  aid ;  I  have  a  sick  child. 

Esc.  Send  him  to  the  hospital.  The 
hospitals  are  n't  built  for  dogs,  you  know. 
What  more  ? 

Rosa.    I  am  very  unhappy. 

Esc.  Yes  (insinuatingly).  You  have 
a  very  hard  time  bringing  up  your  chil- 
dren ? 

Rosa.   Yes,  sir. 

Esc.  (False  good-fellowship.)  You 
work  hard,  and  your  husband,  when  he 
comes  home  drunk,  beats  you  ? 

Rosa.   Yes,  sir. 

Esc.  Exactly  :  you  can  go,  my  good 
woman.  We  can't  do  anything  for  you. 
If  we  should  give  you  aid,  it  would  be 
the  liquor  dealer  who  would  get  the  bene- 
fit of  it.  We  don't  foster  intemperance. 
When  your  husband  stops  getting  drunk, 
you  can  come  back.  The  next.  (Rosa 
goes  out.)  (Laughing.)  Ah,  ah  !  That 
did  n't  take  long,  eh  ?  You  saw  how  I 
sent  her  packing.  Now  for  a  look  at 
this  one.  (Enter  Michel  Moutier,  neat- 
ly dressed.) 

Michel.    Good-day,  sir. 

Esc.  Come  forward.  Name  —  Chris- 
tian name  —  address  ? 

Mic.   Moutier,  Michel,  22  rue  Basse. 

Esc.    What  do  you  want  ? 

Mic.    Some  aid. 

Esc.   You  are  a  beginner,  are  n't  you  ? 

Mic.    Sir? 

Esc.  You  are  not  a  professional,  eh  ? 
This  is  the  first  time  you  have  begged  ? 

Mic.   Almost. 

Esc.  (to  Pauline  and  Salviat) .  You 
see  ;  I  am  not  to  be  fooled.  (To  Michel.) 
If  you  were  a  professional,  you  would  not 
come  in  an  overcoat  on  which  you  could 
get  sixty  cents  from  the  pawnbroker,  nor 
with  a  wedding-ring  on  which  you  could 
easily  raise  a  dollar.  We  cannot  aid 
any  except  the  genuinely  poor.  Ex- 
tremely sorry,  sir. 


Mic.   But  sir  —  that  ring  — - 

Esc.  I  beg  your  pardon,  there  are 
others  waiting.  Good -day,  sir.  The 
next.  (Michel  goes  out.  Leon  Chenu  en- 
ters.) Come  forward.  Name  —  Chris- 
tian name  —  address  ?j 

Leon.    Le'on  Chenu. 

Esc.   Address? 

Leon.  I  have  n't  one.  They  can  write 
to  me  at  4  Benoit  Alley.  My  former 
landlord,  who  kept  my  furniture  for  the 
rent,  is  willing  to  pass  on  my  letters. 

Esc.   You  want  aid  ? 

Leon.    No,  sir,  I  want  work. 

Esc.  (laugh).  Ah,  ah!  You  want 
work ;  very  well,  some  shall  be  given 
you,  my  friend.  Kindly  take  the  trou- 
ble to  go  to  this  address.  Good-day. 
(Leon  goes  out.)  The  next. 

Pan.    There  is  no  one  else. 

Esc.  (laugh).  Ha,  ha  !  That  did  n't 
take  long,  did  it  ? 

Salviat  (restraining  himself}.  My 
compliments !  And  what  are  you  going  to 
make  that  one  do  to  whom  you  promised 
work  ? 

Esc.  Ah  that,  that  is  one  of  my  fine 
little  tricks.  It  is  assistance  through 
work  —  in  my  manner.  I  have  sent  him 
to  my  house  with  a  special  card  which  my 
man  will  recognize.  There  is  a  pump  in 
my  garden.  The  man  who  wants  work 
will  be  invited  to  pump  for  an  hour. 

Sal.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  all  that  water  ? 

Esc.  Nothing ;  it  will  run  off  in  the 
gutter.  When  the  man  has  pumped  an 
hour,  he  will  be  given  ten  cents.  Will 
you  believe  it,  sir,  there  was  one  of  them 
who  in  return —  Do  you  know  what 
he  did  ?  When  he  had  pumped  his 
hour  and  had  pocketed  his  money,  he 
took  a  bucket  he  found  there,  filled  it, 
and  flung  it  hit  or  miss  into  the  kitchen, 
upon  the  range  on  which  the  dishes  for 
my  dinner  were  cooking,  saying  to  the 
cook,  "  Take  that ;  the  water  I  have 
pumped  shall  at  least  be  of  that  use." 
Yes,  sir,  there  was  one  who  insulted  me. 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


83 


Sal.  (from  a  distance).    Pauline  ! 

Pan.  (going  to  him).   What  is  it  ? 

Sal.  Will  you  politely  tell  that  gen- 
tleman to  clear  out,  for  if  I  listen  to  him 
for  another  ten  minutes,  I  won't  answer 
for  myself,  or  for  him.  (Act  III.,  Sc. 
6-10.) 

This  is  severe,  but  it  is  by  no  means 
M.  Brieux  at  his  sternest.  Yet  his  love 
for  even  erring  human  nature  keeps  him, 
on  the  one  hand,  from  the  caricature 
which  deprived  Ben  Jonson's  satire  of 
moral  significance,  and,  on  the  other, 
guards  him,  even  when  his  satire  is  most 
mordant,  from  the  savageness  of  Swift. 

Nor  is  the  work  sordid.  In  the  first 
place,  M.  Brieux  does  not,  to  use  a 
phrase  of  Mr.  Meredith,  "fiddle  har- 
monics on  the  strings  of  sensualism." 
His  plays  are  far  removed  from  the 
comedy  of  the  Restoration  and  from  the 
modern  drama  of  intrigue.  Sex  as  sex 
has  no  fascination  for  him :  he  treats  it 
only  when  it  must  be  faced  in  order  to 
make  clear  the  central  idea  which  binds 
together  the  parts  of  his  play.  Even 
then  there  is  no  lingering  on  the  scene  for 
its  own  sake  :  he  moves  with  the  swift 
frankness,  even  with  the  daring  of  the 
scientific  demonstrator,  and  for  the  same 
reason, — because  the  facts  and  their 
exact  significance  must  be  grasped  if  the 
truth  is  not  to  be  missed.  When  he  does 
treat  sex,  he  pleads  for  what  must  win  him 
hearty  sympathy,  — for  less  sentimental- 
ity and  more  honesty  in  initiating  youth 
into  the  responsibilities  of  its  maturing 
powers ;  for  emancipation  of  French  girls 
from  parental  absolutism  in  the  matter 
of  marriage,  that  is,  for  love  as  the  best 
basis  of  selection  ;  for  a  fuller  recogni- 
tion by  the  fashionable  world  of  the  beau- 
ty of  fatherhood  and  motherhood,  and 
of  the  duties  of  parents  to  their  children. 
It  is  even  one  of  M.  Brieux's  chief  rights 
to  consideration  that,  when  the  sex  ques- 
tion is  absorbing  the  attention  of  serious 
dramatists  everywhere,  he  has  made  it 
central  in  few  of  his  plays,  and,  while 


recognizing  with  exactness  its  importance 
as  a  cause  of  tragedy,  has  found  in  French 
life  many  other  absorbingly  dramatic  and 
genuinely  tragic  subjects. 

The  plays  are  not  depressing.  One 
leaves  them  surer  that  the  virtues  belong 
to  no  one  class,  and  with  fresh  evidence 
that  there  are  abidingly  in  life  self-sac- 
rifice, devoted  love,  honest  men,  and  gen- 
tle, good  women.  M.  Brieux  is  very 
fond  of  the  hard-working  and  ill-paid 
country  doctors  who  devote  their  lives  to 
their  patients.  He  may  almost  be  called 
the  dramatist  of  passionate  mother  love, 
for  both  Le  Berceau  and  Les  Rempla- 
cantes  are  full  of  it.  He  has  a  genius 
for  discerning  and  presenting  convincing- 
ly the  good  even  in  his  vicious  charac- 
ters. He  is  no  pessimist :  he  paints  ex- 
isting evils,  not  for  themselves,  not  de-  ' 
spairing  of  solution,  but  that  he  may 
hasten  the  solution.  What  could  be  more 
optimistic  than  his  defiance  in  L'Evasion 
of  the  present  cult  of  Heredity  ?  In  the 
story  of  Jean  and  Lucienne  he  insists 
that  the  greatest  force  in  so-called  he- 
redity is  the  self -mesmerism  of  those  who 
give  themselves  up  as  doomed.  Struggle 
and  you  can  break  free,  —  if  indeed  you 
really  were  ever  bound.  Compare  that 
attitude  with  Ibsen's  in  A  Doll's  House, 
or  in  Ghosts. 

This,  then,  is  no  ordinary  drame  a 
these,  which  treats  sex  as  the  most  in- 
teresting factor  in  life,  revels  in  sordid 
realism,  and  argues  a  case  to  a  solution 
or  ends  with  a  pistol  shot.  M.  Brieux 
is  a  realist  because  he  deals  with  the  life 
about  him,  but  he  does  not  select  realis- 
tic details  for  their  own  sake.  In  read- 
ing his  work,  one  should  never  forget 
that  the  central  idea  of  his  play  is  his 
lodestone.  Approach  La  Robe  Rouge 
as  a  character  study,  or  as  a  plot  in  the 
usual  sense,  and  the  interest  seems  to 
shift  from  the  Yagret  family  to  Mouzon, 
and  again  to  Yanetta,  the  peasant.  Con- 
sequently the  play,  read  in  either  of  these 
ways,  is  confusing.  Read  it,  however, 
as  an  exemplification  of  the  ways  in 


84 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


which  politics  and  personal  ambition  may 
corrupt  French  justice,  and  each  part 
will  be  seen  to  be  in  its  proper  place. 
His  plays  find  their  unity,  then,  not  in 
a  central  character  or  group  of  charac- 
ters, but  in  an  idea.  Yet  M.  Brieux  does 
not  first  find  a  theory  of  life,  and  then 
mould  his  characters  by  it  in  order  to  ex- 
ploit his  theory  cleverly.  Instead,  clear- 
eyed,  broadly  sympathetic,  he  watches 
the  life  about  him.  Complications,  trage- 
dies rivet  his  attention.  He  does  not  rest 
till  he  thinks  he  has  found  the  causes. 
Then  he  studies  minutely  the  people  in 
whom  these  causes  and  results  manifest 
themselves.  By  careful  selection  of  the 
moments  in  their  lives  which  best  show 
these  causes  and  results,  by  remarkably 
accurate  and  interpretative  characteriza- 
tion, he  puts  the  story  before  us.  In 
reading  Le  Re'sultat  des  Courses,  Les 
Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont,  and  Les  A  va- 
ried, it  is  easy  to  conclude  that  M.  Brieux 
finds  a  solution  for  all  existing  evils  in 
forgiveness,  pardon.  For  instance,  Dr. 
Mossiac,  in  Le  Berceau  cries  :  "  Forgive, 
always  forgive.  Not  a  single  one  of  us 
is  perfect.  Therefore,  each  of  us  does 
some  wrong.  Consequently,  marriage 
is  possible  only  by  dint  of  constant  for- 
giveness on  one  side  or  the  other."  But 
M.  Brieux  cannot  believe  in  either  the 
advisability  or  the  adequacy  of  a  solu- 
tion which  exacts  most  from  those  who 
have  already  suffered  most  and  provides 
no  guarantee  that  the  sinner  will  not  fall 
again.  M.  Brieux  offers  a  sedative,  not 
a  cure.  He  must  intend  that  readers, 
seeing  that  the  only  present  way  out  of 
the  evils  he  portrays  is  so  unjust  and  has 
so  little  finality,  shall  cry  that  the  con- 
ditions making  such  a  sedative  inevitable 
must  and  shall  be  changed.  Indeed,  his 
work  as  a  whole  shows  his  conviction 
that  not  one  but  two  plays  are  needed  to 
present  the  solution  of  a  problem  in  life  : 
one  to  state  the  problem,  the  other  to 
show  the  working  of  the  solution.  There- 
fore, he  is  content  to  arouse  active  sym- 
pathetic thought. 


His  right  to  serious  consideration 
comes  from  four  sources :  his  swift,  ac- 
curate characterization  ;  his  remarkably 
judicial  attitude  toward  his  dramatis  per- 
sonae;  his  power  of  discerning  in  the 
life  of  the  day  its  own  distinctive  trage- 
dy ;  and  his  skill  in  writing  plays  inter- 
esting not  only  as  drama,  but  as  sugges- 
tion and  comment.  The  people  of  M. 
Brieux,  whether  they  come  from  the 
fashionable  world  or  elsewhere  in  the 
social  scale,  are  always  real.  His  keen 
sympathy  for  poverty  is  the  result  of  his 
own  bitter  experience,  for  until  recently 
he  was  very  poor.  In  earlier  days  he 
has  often  read  beneath  the  lamp-post 
outside  his  door  because  he  could  not 
afford  the  necessary  light.  A  Parisian 
by  birth,  he  knows  the  bourgeois  in- 
timately, and,  as  editor  for  some  years 
of  a  Rouen  newspaper,  he  has  had  a 
chance  to  study  the  peasant  class  closely. 
Indeed,  he  is  at  his  best  in  painting  pea- 
sants. 

What,  in  large  part,  makes  M.  Brieux's 
portraiture  of  permanent  value  is  his 
judicial  fairness,  his  refusal  to  idealize. 
Think  over  the  plays  of  the  day  and 
note  that  it  is  an  axiom  of  the  current 
playwright  that,  in  order  to  keep  an  au- 
dience in  sympathy  with  the  hero  or  he- 
roine, he  must  be  to  his  or  her  faults  so 
very  kind  as  to  put  a  blinder  on  the 
mind  —  and  pretend  he  or  she  has  none. 
Qne  finds  the  fullest  exemplification  of 
this  in  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  melo- 
drama. In  even  so  early  a  play  as  Blan- 
chette,  the  heroine,  though  attractive,  is 
so  in  spite  of  her  petty  vanity,  selfish- 
ness, and  sentimentality,  which  are  plain- 
ly shown,  and  the  obstinate,  hot-tem- 
pered Rousset,  father  of  Blanchette,  is 
so  painted  that  you  cannot  dismiss  him 
with  execration  and  centre  your  affec- 
tions on  the  heroine.  The  finest  thing 
in  the  play,  indeed,  is  the  way  in  which 
you  are  made  to  recognize  sympatheti- 
cally what  natural  developments  from 
their  different  educations  are  Rousset 
and  Blanchette,  and  how  impossible  it 


The  Plays  of  Eugene  Brieux. 


85 


is  that  either  should  understand  the  oth- 
er. Read  Le  Berceau  and  see  how  com- 
pletely you  are  made  to  understand  and 
sympathize  with  M.  de  Girieu,  the  sec- 
ond husband,  as  well  as  with  Laurence, 
and  with  Raymond  the  divorced  hus- 
band. Most  dramatists  would  not  only 
be  content  with  our  sympathy  for  the 
last  two,  but  would  even  fear  that  sym- 
pathy for  M.  de  Girieu  might  lessen  our 
esteem  for  the  other  two.  Read  the  tre- 
mendous scene  of  Julie  and  Antonin  in 
Act  III.  of  Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Du- 
pont,  and  be  swept  on  in  sympathetic  un- 
derstanding and  approval  of  Julie,  only 
to  realize,  as  Antonin  answers,  that  he 
too  has  genuine  grievances,  that,  as  is 
always  the  case  in  life,  but  rarely  in  fic- 
tion, there  are  two  sides  to  any  wrong. 
How  much  nearer  life  the  drama  comes 
here,  in  making  it  difficult  to  take  sides. 
M.  Brieux  sees  clearly  that  in  the  life 
of  the  day  tragedy  results,  not  simply 
from  sex,  but  from  the  maladjustment 
of  human  laws  and  standards  to  the  un- 
alterable sweep  of  nature's  laws.  The 
century  just  closed  has  been  a  time  of 
incompleted  readjusting  of  our  ideals, 
even  of  our  common  habitudes,  to  the 
multifold  discoveries  of  the  period.  It 
is  because  men  and  women,  instead  of 
studying  their  own  characters,  play  at 
being  what  nature  never  meant  them  to 
be,  because  they  blindly  follow  laws  and 
standards  which  are  the  results  of  the- 
orizing, not  of  fearless  study  of  na- 
ture's workings,  that  there  is  tragedy  all 
about  us.  In  Blanchette,  Le  Berceau, 
Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont,  La  Robe 
Rouge,  and  Les  Remplacantes,  recogni- 
tion of  these  facts  has  carried  M.  Brieux 
to  tragedies  specially  characteristic  of 
the  period  just  closed.  Mark  the  re- 
straint, the  simplicitj',  of  this  represen- 
tation of  the  powerlessness  of  human 
law  when  in  conflict  with  everlasting 
laws  of  human  emotion.  Laurence  and 
Raymond,  her  first  husband,  meet  by 
chance  by  the  sick  bed  of  their  little  boy. 
M.  de  Girieu,  the  second  husband,  who 


is  madly  jealous  of  Raymond,  and  of 
Laurence's  love  for  her  boy,  has  just 
refused  Raymond's  request  to  be  allowed 
to  watch  by  the  child  till  he  is  out  of 
danger.  Resting  confidently  on  the  con- 
trol over  Laurence  and  the  boy  which 
the  laws  give  him,  M.  de  Girieu  is  sure 
he  can  keep  his  wife  and  her  former 
husband  apart. 

(Long  silent  scene.  The  door  of  lit- 
tle Julien's  room  opens  softly.  Lau- 
rence appears  with  a  paper  in  her  hand. 
The  two  men  separate,  watching  her  in- 
tently. She  looks  out  for  a  long  time, 
then  shuts  the  door,  taking  every  pre- 
caution not  to  make  a  noise.  After  a 
gesture  of  profound  grief,  she  comes 
forward,  deeply  moved,  but  tearless. 
She  makes  no  more  gestures.  Her  face 
is  grave.  Very  simply,  she  goes  straight 
to  Raymond.) 

Raymond  (very  simply  to  Laurence). 
Well? 

Laurence  (in  the  same  manner).  He 
has  just  dropped  asleep. 

Ray.   The  fever  ? 

Lau.    Constant. 

Ray.  Has  the  temperature  been 
taken? 

Lau.   Yes. 

Ray.    How  much  ? 

Lau.    Thirty-nine. 

Ray.    The  cough? 

Lau.  Incessant.  He  breathes  with 
difficulty. 

Ray.    His  face  is  flushed  ? 

Lau.   Yes. 

Ray.  The  doctor  gave  you  a  pre- 
scription ? 

Lau.  I  came  to  show  it  to  you.  I 
don't  thoroughly  understand  this. 

(They  are  close  to  each  other,  exam- 
ining the  prescription  which  Raymond 
holds.) 

Ray.  (reading).  "  Keep  an  even  tem- 
perature in  the  sick  room." 

Lau.   Yes. 

Ray.  "  Wrap  the  limbs  in  cotton  wool, 
and  cover  that  with  oiled  silk."  I  am 


86 


The  Plays  of 'Eugene  Brieux. 


going  to  do  that  myself  as  soon  as  he 
wakes.  Tell  them  to  warn  me. 

Lau.  What  ought  he  to  have  to 
drink  ?  I  forgot  to  ask  that,  and  he  is 
thirsty. 

Ray.    Mallow. 

Lau.   I  'm  sure  he  does  n't  like  it. 

Ray.  Yes,  yes.  You  remember  when 
he  had  the  measles. 

Lau.  Yes,  yes.  How  anxious  we 
were  then,  too ! 

Ray.  He  drank  it  willingly.  You 
remember  perfectly  ? 

Lau.  Yes,  of  course  I  remember. 
Some  mallow  then.  Let  us  read  the 
prescription  again.  I  have  n't  forgot- 
ten anything  ?  Mustard  plasters.  The 
cotton  wool,  you  will  attend  to  that. 
And  I  will  go  have  the  drink  made. 
"  In  addition  —  every  hour  —  a  coffee- 
spoonful  of  the  following  medicine." 

(The  curtain  falls  slowly  as  she  con- 
tinues to  read.  M.  de  Girieu  has  gone 
out  slowly  during  the  last  words.) 

Though  it  must  be  clear  from  what 
has  been  said  that  the  work  of  M.  Brieux 
is  less  varied  than  that  of  some  other 
dramatists  of  the  day,  it  is,  when  at  its 
best  in  its  chosen  field,  masterly.  Per- 
haps more  than  any  other  he  may  be 
called  the  scientific  dramatist,  for  he 
finds  his  tragedies  mainly  in  the  crises 
resulting  from  the  shifting  in  social 
ideals  which  scientific  discovery  has 
caused,  and  his  approach  to  his  work 
is  that  of  the  gentle-minded  scientist. 
With  the  same  broad  sympathy  for  his 
fellows,  he  has  the  same  passion  for 
truth,  the  same  judicially,  the  same 


fearlessness  in  the  face  of  facts,  and  the 
same  daring  in  stating  them,  no  matter 
what  their  effect  on  ill-based  conven- 
tions or  habits.  With  him,  when  the 
social  reformer  does  not  prove  too  much 
for  the  dramatist,  —  and  there  is  only 
one  marked  instance  of  this,  Les  Ava- 
rie's,  —  we  have  a  drama  of  ideas  that 
is  really  drama. 

Are  there  any  results  of  all  his  dra- 
matic demonstration  ?  It  is  extreme- 
ly difficult,  of  course,  to  trace  the  influ- 
ence of  a  play  so  complicated  as  it  is 
with  other  influences,  but  I  am  credi- 
bly informed  that  Les  Remplagantes  has 
decidedly  decreased  the  evil  which  it 
scourged.  I  suspect,  however,  that  be- 
fore M.  Brieux  wins  the  general  recog- 
nition —  especially  outside  France  — 
which  he  deserves,  he  must  feel  the  full 
force  of  Philistia  in  its  enthusiastic  ac- 
ceptance of  the  words  of  his  fellow  dra- 
matist, M.  Paul  Hervieu  :  "  He  who 
is  not  like  his  fellows  is  necessarily 
wrong."  But  M.  Brieux  evidently  ac- 
cepts, and  wisely,  the  old  French  pro- 
verb, "  Tout  vient  a  point  a  qui  sait  at- 
tendre,"  for  he  could  persevere  through 
ten  years  of  indifference  to  his  work, 
and  he  quotes  approvingly  before  Les 
Bienfaiteurs  the  words  of  his  philoso- 
pher friend,  Jean-Marie  Guyot :  "  I  am 
very  sure  that  what  is  best  in  me  will 
survive.  Even,  it  may  be,  not  one  of 
my  dreams  will  be  lost ;  others  will  take 
them  up  and  dream  them  after  me  until 
one  day  they  shall  come  true.  By  the 
dying  waves  the  sea  succeeds  in  fashion- 
ing its  shore,  in  shaping  the  vast  bed  in 
which  it  dies." 

George  P.  Baker. 


The  Marsh. 


87 


THE   MARSH. 


IT  was  a  late  June  day  whose  break- 
ing found  me  upon  the  edge  of  the  great 
salt  marshes  which  lie  behind  East  Point 
Light,  as  the  Delaware  Bay  lies  in  front 
of  it,  and  which  run  in  a  wide,  half-land, 
half-bay  border  down  the  cape. 

I  followed  along  the  black  sandy  road 
which  goes  to  the  Light  until  close  to 
the  old  Zane's  Place,  —  the  last  farm- 
house of  the  uplands,  —  when  I  turned 
off  into  the  marsh  toward  the  river. 
The  mosquitoes  rose  from  the  damp 
grass  at  every  step,  swarming  up  around 
me  in  a  cloud,  and  streaming  off  behind 
like  a  comet's  tail,  which  hummed  in- 
stead of  glowed.  I  was  the  only  male 
among  them.  It  was  a  cloud  of  females, 
the  nymphs  of  the  salt  marsh ;  and  all 
through  that  day  the  singing,  stinging, 
smothering  swarm  danced  about  me, 
rested  upon  me,  covered  me  whenever  I 
paused,  so  that  my  black  leggings  turned 
instantly  to  a  mosquito  brown,  and  all 
my  dress  seemed  dyed  alike. 

Only  I  did  not  pause  —  not  often,  nor 
long.  The  sun  came  up  blisteringly  hot, 
yet  on  I  walked,  and  wore  my  coat,  my 
hands  deep  down  in  the  pockets  and  my 
head  in  a  handkerchief.  At  noon  I  was 
still  walking,  and  kept  on  walking  till  I 
reached  the  bay  shore,  when  a  breeze 
came  up,  and  drove  the  singing,  stinging 
fairies  back  into  the  grass,  and  saved  me. 

I  left  the  road  at  a  point  where  a  low 
bank  started  across  the  marsh  like  a 
long  protecting  arm  reaching  out  around 
the  hay  meadows,  dragging  them  away 
from  the  grasping  river,  and  gathering 
them  out  of  the  vast  undrained  tract  of 
coarse  sedges,  to  hold  them  to  the  up- 
land. Passing  along  the  bank  until  be- 
yond the  weeds  and  scrub  of  the  higher 
borders,  I  stood  with  the  sky-bound, 
bay-bound  green  beneath  my  feet.  Far 


across,  with  sails  gleaming  white  against 
the  sea  of  sedge,  was  a  schooner,  beat- 
ing slowly  up  the  river.  Laying  my 
course  by  her,  I  began  to  beat  slowly  out 
into  the  marsh  through  the  heavy  sea  of 
low,  matted  hay-grass. 

There  is  no  fresh  water  meadow,  no 
inland  plain,  no  prairie  with  this  rainy, 
misty,  early  morning  freshness  so  con- 
stant on  the  marsh ;  no  other  reach  of 
green  so  green,  so  a-glitter  with  seas  of 
briny  dew,  so  regularly,  unfailingly 
fed:  — 

"  Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  chan- 
nels that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have   flooded   the   uttermost 

creeks  and  the  low-lying  lanes, 
And    the    marsh    is   meshed  with  a  million 
veins !  " 

I  imagine  a  Western  wheatfield,  half- 
way to  head,  could  look,  in  the  dew  of 
morning,  somewhat  like  a  salt  marsh. 
It  certainly  would  have  at  times  the  pur- 
ple distance  haze,  that  atmosphere  of  the 
sea  which  hangs  across  the  marsh.  The 
two  might  resemble  each  other  as  two 
pictures  of  the  same  theme,  upon  the  same 
scale,  one  framed  and  hung,  the  other 
not.  It  is  the  framing,  the  setting  of 
the  marsh  that  gives  it  character,  vari- 
ety, tone,  and  its  touch  of  mystery. 

For  the  marsh  reaches  back  to  the 
higher  lands  of  fences,  fields  of  corn, 
and  ragged  forest  blurs  against  the  hazy 
horizon  ;  it  reaches  down  to  the  river  of 
the  reedy  flats,  coiled  like  a  serpent 
through  the  green ;  it  reaches  away  to 
the  sky  where  the  clouds  anchor,  where 
the  moon  rises,  where  the  stars,  like  far- 
off  lighthouses,  gleam  along  the  edge  ; 
and  it  reaches  out  to  the  bay,  and  on, 
beyond  the  white  surf  line  of  meeting, 
on,  beyond  the  line  where  the  bay's  blue 
and  the  sky's  blue  touch,  on,  far  on. 


88 


The  Marsh. 


Here  meet  land  and  river,  sky  and 
sea ;  here  they  mingle  and  make  the 
marsh. 

A  prairie  rolls  and  billows  ;  the  marsh 
lies  still,  lies  as  even  as  a  sleeping  sea. 
Yet  what  moods !  What  changes ! 
What  constant  variety  of  detail  every- 
where !  In  The  Marshes  of  Glynn 
there  was 

"  A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist- 
high,  broad  in  the  blade, 

Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with 
a  light  or  a  shade," 

but  not  in  these  Maurice  River  marshes. 
Here,  to-day,  the  sun  was  blazing,  kin- 
dling millions  of  tiny  suns  in  the  salt-wet 
blades ;  and  instead  of  waist-high  grass, 
there  lay  around  me  acres  and  acres  of 
the  fine  rich  hay-grass,  full  grown,  but 
without  a  blade  wider  than  a  knitting 
needle  or  taller  than  my  knee.  It  cov- 
ered the  marsh  like  a  deep,  thick  fur, 
like  a  wonderland  carpet  into  whose 
elastic^  velvety  pile  my  feet  sank  and 
sank,  never  quite  feeling  the  floor. 
Here  and  there  were  patches  of  higher 
sedges,  green,  but  of  differing  shades, 
which  seemed  spread  upon  the  grass- 
carpet  like  long-napped  rugs. 

Ahead  of  me  the  even  green  broke 
suddenly  over  a  shoal  of  sand  into  tall, 
tufted  grasses,  into  rose,  mallow,  and 
stunted  persimmon  bushes,  foaming,  on 
nearer  view,  with  spreading  dogbane 
blossoms.  Off  toward  the  bay  another 
of  these  shoals,  mole-hill  high  in  the  dis- 
tance, ran  across  the  marsh  for  half  a 
mile,  bearing  a  single  broken  file  of 
trees,  —  sentinels  they  seemed,  some  of 
them  fallen,  others  gaunt  and  wind- 
beaten,  watching  against  the  sea. 

These  were  the  lookouts  and  the  rest- 
ing places  for  passing  birds.  During 
the  day,  whenever  I  turned  in  their  di- 
rection, a  crow,  a  hawk,  or  some  smaller 
bird  was  seen  upon  their  dead  branches. 

Naturally  the  variety  of  bird  life  upon 
the  marsh  is  limited  ;  but  there  is  by  no 
means  the  scarcity  here  which  is  so  often 
noted  in  the  forests  and  wild  prairies  of 


corresponding  extent.  Indeed  the  marsh 
was  birdy  —  rich  in  numbers  if  not  in 
species.  Underfoot,  in  spots,  sang  the 
marsh  wrens ;  in  larger  patches  the 
sharp-tailed  sparrows ;  and  almost  as 
widespread  and  constant  as  the  green 
was  the  singing  of  the  seaside  sparrows. 
Overhead  the  fishhawks  crossed  fre- 
quently to  their  castle-nest  high  on  the 
top  of  a  tall  white  oak  along  the  land- 
edge  of  the  marsh ;  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  sentinel  trees  a  pair  of  crows 
were  busy  trying  (it  seemed  to  me)  to 
find  an  oyster,  a  crab,  —  something  big 
enough  to  choke,  for  just  one  minute, 
the  gobbling,  gulping  clamor  of  their 
infant  brood.  But  the  dear  devour- 
ing monsters  could  not  be  choked ; 
though  once  or  twice  I  thought  by  their 
strangling  cries  that  father  crow,  in 
sheer  desperation,  had  brought  them 
oysters  with  the  shells  on.  Their  awful 
gaggings  died  away  at  dusk.  Beside 
the  crows  and  fishhawks  a  harrier  would 
now  and  then  come  skimming  close 
along  the  grass.  Higher  up,  the  turkey 
buzzards  circled  all  day  long ;  and  once, 
setting  my  blood  leaping  and  the  fish- 
hawks  screaming,  there  sailed  over  far 
away  in  the  blue,  a  bald-headed  eagle, 
his  snowy  neck  and  tail  flashing  in  the 
sunlight  as  he  careened  among  the 
clouds. 

In  its  blended  greens  the  marsh  that 
morning  offered  one  of  the  most  satis- 
fying drinks  of  color  my  eyes  ever 
tasted.  The  areas  of  different  grasses 
were  often  acres  in  extent,  so  that  the 
tints,  shading  from  the  lightest  pea  green 
of  the  thinner  sedges  to  the  blue  green 
of  the  rushes,  to  the  deep  emerald  green 
of  the  hay-grass,  merged  across  their 
broad  bands  into  perfect  harmony. 

As  fresh  and  vital  as  the  color  was 
the  breath  of  the  marsh.  There  is  no 
bank  of  violets  stealing  and  giving  half 
so  sweet  an  odor  to  my  nostrils,  out- 
raged by  a  winter  of  city  smells,  as  the 
salty,  spray-laden  breath  of  the  marsh. 
It  seems  fairly  to  line  the  lungs  with 


The  Marsh. 


89 


ozone.  I  know  how  grass-fed  cattle 
feel  at  the  smell  of  salt.  I  have  the 
concentrated  thirst  of  a  whole  herd 
when  I  catch  that  first  whiff  of  the 
marshes  after  a  winter,  a  year  it  may 
be,  of  unsalted  inland  air.  The  smell 
of  it  stampedes  me.  I  gallop  to  meet 
it,  and  drink,  drink,  drink  deep  of  it, 
my  blood  running  redder  with  every 
draught. 


II. 


I  had  waded  out  into  the  meadow 
perhaps  two  hundred  yards,  leaving  a 
dark  bruised  trail  in  the  grass,  when  I 
came  upon  a  nest  of  the  long-billed 
marsh  wren.  It  was  a  bulky  house,  and 
so  overburdened  its  frail  sedge  supports 
that  it  lay  almost  upon  the  ground  with 
its  little  round  doorway  wide  open  to 
the  sun  and  rain.  They  must  have  been 
a  young  couple  who  built  it,  and  quite  in- 
experienced. I  wonder  they  had  not 
abandoned  it ;  for  a  crack  of  light  into 
a  wren's  nest  would  certainly  addle  the 
eggs.  They  are  such  tiny,  dusky,  tucked 
away  things,  and  their  cradle  is  so  deep 
and  dark  and  hidden.  There  were  no 
fatalities,  I  am  sure,  following  my  efforts 
to  prop  the  leaning  structure,  though  the 
wrens  were  just  as  sure  that  it  was  all 
a  fatality  —  utterly  misjudging  my  mo- 
tives. As  a  rule  I  have  never  been  able 
to  help  much  in  such  extremities.  Either 
I  arrive  too  late,  or  else  I  blunder. 

I  thought,  for  a  moment,  that  it  was 
the  nest  of  the  long-billed's  cousin,  the 
short -billed  marsh  wren,  that  I  had 
found,  —  which  would  have  been  a  gem 
indeed,  with  pearly  eggs  instead  of  choc- 
olate ones.  Though  I  was  out  for  the 
mere  joy  of  being  out,  I  had  really  come 
with  a  hope  of  discovering  this  mousy 
mite  of  a  wren,  and  of  watching  her 
ways.  It  was  like  hoping  to  watch  the 
ways  of  the  "  wunk."  Several  times  I 
have  been  near  these  little  wrens ;  but 
what  chance  has  a  pair  of  human  eyes 
with  a  skulking  four  inches  of  brownish 


streaks  and  bars  in  the  middle  of  a 
marsh  !  Such  birds  are  the  everlasting 
despair  of  the  naturalist,  the  salt  of  his 
earth.  The  belief  that  a  pair  of  them 
dwelt  somewhere  in  this  green  expanse, 
that  I  might  at  any  step  come  upon  them, 
made  me  often  forget  the  mosquitoes. 

When  I  reached  the  ridge  of  rose  and 
mallow  bushes,  two  wrens  began  mutter- 
ing in  the  grass  with  different  notes  and 
tones  from  those  of  the  long-billed.  I 
advanced  cautiously.  Soon  one  flashed 
out  and  whipped  back  among  the  thick 
stems  again,  exposing  himself  just  long 
enough  to  show  me  stellaris,  the  little 
short-billed  wren  I  was  hunting. 

I  tried  to  stand  still  for  a  second 
glimpse  and  a  clue  to  the  nest ;  but  the 
mosquitoes !  Things  have  come  to  a 
bad  pass  with  the  bird-hunter,  whose 
only  gun  is  an  opera-glass,  when  he  can- 
not stand  stock  still  for  an  hour.  His 
success  depends  upon  his  ability  to  take 
root.  He  needs  light  feet,  a  divining 
mind,  and  many  other  things,  but  most 
of  all  he  needs  patience.  There  are  few 
mortals  however  with  mosquito-proof 
patience,  —  one  that  would  stand  the  test 
here.  Remembering  a  meadow  in  New 
England  where  stellaris  nested,  I  con- 
cluded to  wait  till  chance  took  me  thith- 
er, and  passed  on. 

This  ridge  of  higher  ground  proved 
to  be  a  mosquito  roost,  —  a  thousand 
here  to  one  in  the  deeper,  denser  grass. 
As  I  hurried  across  I  noted  with  great 
satisfaction  that  the  pink-white  blos- 
soms of  the  spreading  dogbane  were 
covered  with  mosquito  carcasses.  It 
lessened  my  joy  somewhat  to  find,  upon 
examination,  that  all  the  victims  were 
males.  Either  they  had  drunk  poison 
from  the  flowers,  or  else,  and  more  like- 
ly, they  had  been  unable  to  free  their 
long-haired  antennae  from  the  Sticky 
honey  into  which  they  had  dipped  their 
innocent  beaks.  Several  single  flowers 
had  trapped  three,  and  from  one  blos- 
som I  picked  out  five.  If  we  could 
bring  the  dogbane  to  brew  a  cup  which 


90 


The  Marsh. 


would  be  fatal  to  the  females,  it  might 
be  a  good  plant  to  raise  in  our  gardens 
along  with  the  Eucalyptus  and  the  castor- 
oil  plants. 

Everywhere  as  I  went  along,  from 
every  stake,  every  stout  weed  and  top- 
ping bunch  of  grass  trilled  the  seaside 
sparrows,  —  a  weak,  husky,  monotonous 
s'ong,  of  five  or  six  notes,  a  little  like  the 
chippie's,  more  tuneful,  perhaps,  but  not 
so  strong.  They  are  dark,  dusky  birds, 
grayish  olive-green  close  to,  with  a  con- 
spicuous yellow  line  before  the  eye,  and 
yellow  upon  the  shoulder. 

There  seems  to  be  a  sparrow  of  some 
kind  for  every  variety  of  land  between  the 
poles.  Mountain  tops,  seaside  marshes, 
inland  prairies,  swamps,  woods,  pastures, 
—  everywhere,  from  Indian  River  to  the 
Yukon,  a  sparrow  nests.  Yet  one  can 
hardly  associate  sparrows  with  marshes, 
for  they  seem  out  of  place  in  houseless, 
treeless,  half-submerged  stretches.  These 
are  the  haunts  of  the  shyer,  more  secre- 
tive birds.  Here  the  ducks,  rails,  bit- 
terns, coots,  —  birds  that  can  wade  and 
swim,  eat  frogs  and  crabs,  —  seem  natu- 
rally at  home.  The  sparrows  are  perch- 
ers,  grain  eaters,  free  flyers,  and  singers ; 
and  they,  of  all  birds,  are  the  friends  and 
neighbors  of  man.  This  is  no  place  for 
them.  The  effect  of  this  marsh  life  upon 
the  flight  and  song  of  these  two  species 
was  very  marked.  Both  showed  unmis- 
takable vocal  powers  which  long  ago 
would  have  been  developed  under  the 
stimulus  of  human  listeners  ;  and  during 
all  my  stay  (so  long  have  they  crept  and 
skulked  about  through  the  low  marsh 
paths)  I  did  not  see  one  rise  a  hundred 
feet  into  the  air,  nor  fly  straight  away 
for  a  hundred  yards.  They  would  get 
up  just  above  the  grass,  and  flutter  and 
drop,  —  a  puttering,  short-winded,  apo- 
plectic struggle,  very  unbecoming  and 
unworthy. 

By  noon  I  had  completed  a  circle  and 
recrossed  the  lighthouse  road  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  bay.  A  thin  sheet  of  luke- 
warm water  lay  over  all  this  section. 


The  high  spring  tides  had  been  rein- 
forced by  unusually  heavy  rains  during 
April  and  May,  giving  a  great  area  of 
pasture  and  hay  land  back,  for  that  sea- 
son, to  the  sea.  Descending  a  copsy 
dune  from  the  road  I  surprised  a  brood 
of  young  killdeers  feeding  along  the  drift 
at  the  edge  of  the  wet  meadow.  They 
ran  away  screaming,  leaving  behind  a 
pair  of  spotted  sandpipers,  "  till-tops," 
that  had  been  wading  with  them  in  the 
shallow  water.  The  sandpipers  teetered 
on  for  a  few  steps,  then  rose  at  my  ap- 
proach, scaled  nervously  out  over  the 
drowned  grass,  and,  circling,  alighted 
near  where  they  had  taken  wing,  con- 
tinuing instantly  with  their  hunt,  and 
calling  tweet-tweet,  tweet-tweet,  and  tee- 
tering, always  teetering,  as  they  tiptoed 
along. 

If  perpetual  motion  is  still  a  dream 
of  the  physicist,  he  might  get  an  idea 
by  carefully  examining  the  way  the  body 
of  till-top  is  balanced  on  its  needle  legs. 
If  till-tops  have  not  been  tilting  forever, 
and  shall  not  go  on  tilting  forever,  it  is 
because  something  is  wrong  with  the 
mechanism  of  the  world  outside  their 
little  spotted  bodies.  Surely  the  easiest, 
least  willed  motion  in  all  the  universe 
is  this  sandpiper's  teeter,  teeter,  teeter, 
as  it  hurries  peering  and  prying  along 
the  shore. 

Killdeers  and  sandpipers  are  noisy 
birds  ;  and  one  would  know,  after  half 
a  day  upon  the  marsh,  even  if  he  had 
never  seen  these  birds  before,  that  they 
could  not  have  been  bred  here.  For 
however 

"candid  and  simple  and  nothing -withhold- 
ing and  free  " 

the  marsh  may  seem  to  one  coming  sud- 
denly from  the  wooded  uplands,  it  will  not 
let  one  enter  far  without  the  conscious- 
ness that  silence  and  secrecy  lie  deeper 
here  than  in  the  depths  of  the  forest 
glooms.  The  true  birds  of  the  marsh, 
those  that  feed  and  nest  in  the  grass,  have 
the  spirit  of  the  great  marsh-mother.  The 
sandpiper  is  not  her  bird.  It  belongs  to 


The  Marsh. 


91 


the  shore,  living  almost  exclusively  along 
sandy,  pebbly  margins,  the  margins  of 
any,  of  almost  every  water,  from  Del- 
aware Bay  to  the  tiny  bubbling  spring  in 
some  Minnesota  pasture.  Neither  is  the 
killdeer  her  bird.  The  upland  claims  it, 
plover  though  it  be.  A  barren  stony 
hillside,  or  even  a  last  year's  cornfield 
left  fallow,  is  a  .better  loved  breast  to 
the  killdeer  than  the  soft  brooding  breast 
of  the  marsh.  There  are  no  grass  birds 
so  noisy  as  these  two.  Both  of  them 
lay  their  eggs  in  pebble  nests  ;  and  both 
depend  largely  for  protection  upon  the 
harmony  of  their  colors  with  the  general 
tone  of  their  surroundings. 

I  was  still  within  sound  of  the  bleating 
killdeers  when  a  rather  large,  greenish 
gray  bird  flapped  heavily  but  noiselessly 
from  a  muddy  spot  in  the  grass  to  the 
top  of  a  stake  and  faced  me.  Here  was 
a  child  of  the  marsh.  Its  bolt  upright 
attitude  spoke  the  watcher  in  the  grass  ; 
then  as  it  stretched  its  neck  toward  me, 
bringing  its  body  parallel  to  the  ground, 
how  the  shape  of  the  skulker  showed ! 
This  bird  was  not  built  to  fly  nor  to 
perch,  but  to  tread  the  low  narrow  paths 
of  the  marsh  jungle,  silent,  swift,  and 
elusive  as  a  shadow. 

It  was  the  clapper  rail,  the  "  marsh- 
hen."  One  never  finds  such  a  combina- 
tion of  long  legs,  long  toes,  long  neck 
and  bill,  with  this  long,  but  heavy  hen- 
like  body,  outside  the  meadows  and 
marshes.  The  grass  ought  to  have  been 
alive  with  the  birds.  It  was  breeding 
time ;  but  I  think  the  high  tides  must 
have  delayed  them  or  driven  them  else- 
where ;  for  I  did  not  find  an  egg,  nor 
hear  at  nightfall  their  colony-cry,  so  com- 
mon at  dusk  and  dawn  in  the  marshes 
just  across  on  the  coast  about  Town- 
send's  Inlet.  There  at  sunset  in  nesting 
time  one  of  the  rails  will  begin  to  call,  — 
a  loud,  clapping  roll ;  a  neighbor  takes 
it  up,  then  another  and  another,  the  cir- 
cle of  cries  widening  and  swelling  until 
the  whole  marsh  is  a-clatter. 

Heading  my  way  with  a  slow  labored 


stroke  came  one  of  the  fishhawks.  She 
was  low  down  and  some  distance  away, 
so  that  I  got  behind  a  post  before  she 
saw  me.  The  marsh-hen  spied  her 
first,  and  dropped  into  the  grass.  On 
she  came,  her  white  breast  and  belly 
glistening,  and  in  her  talons  a  big  glis- 
tening fish.  It  was  a  magnificent  catch. 
"  Bravo  !  "  I  should  have  shouted  — 
rather  I  should  n't  ;  but  here  she  was 
right  over  me,  and  the  instinct  of  the 
boy,  of  the  savage,  had  me  before  I 
knew,  and  leaping  out,  I  whirled  my 
cap  and  yelled  to  wake  the  marsh.  The 
startled  hawk  jerked,  keeled,  lifted  with 
a  violent  struggle,  and  let  go  her  hold. 
Down  fell  the  writhing,  twisting  fish  at 
my  feet.  It  was  a  splendid  striped  bass, 
weighing  at  least  four  pounds,  and  still 
live  enough  to  flop. 

I  felt  mean  as  I  picked  up  the  useless 
thing  and  looked  far  away  to  the  great 
nest  with  its  hungry  young.  I  was  no 
better  than  the  bald  eagle,  the  lazy 
robber-baron,  who  had  stolen  the  dinner 
of  these  same  young  hawks  the  day  be- 
fore. 

Their  mother  had  been  fishing  up  the 
river  and  had  caught  a  tremendous  eel. 
An  eel  can  hold  out  to  wiggle  a  very 
long  time.  He  has  no  vitals.  Even 
with  talon-tipped  claws  he  is  slippery  and 
more  than  a  clawful ;  so  the  old  hawk 
took  a  short  cut  home  across  the  railroad 
track  and  the  corner  of  the  woods  where 
stands  the  eagle  tree. 

She  could  barely  clear  the  treetops, 
and,  with  the  squirming  of  the  eel  about 
her  legs,  had  apparently  forgotten  that 
the  eagle  lived  along  this  road,  or  else 
in  her  struggle  to  get  the  prize  home,  she 
was  risking  the  old  dragon's  being  away. 
He  was  not  away.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  had  been  watching  her  all  the 
time  from  some  high  perch,  and  just  as 
she  reached  the  open  of  the  railroad 
track,  where  the  booty  would  not  fall 
among  the  trees,  he  appeared.  His 
first  call,  mocking,  threatening,  com- 
manding, shot  the  poor  hawk  through 


92 


The  Marsh. 


with  terror.  She  screamed,  she  tried 
to  rise  and  escape ;  but  without  a  sec- 
ond's parley  the  great  king  drove  down 
upon  her.  She  dropped  the  fish,  dived, 
and  dodged  the  blow,  and  the  robber, 
with  a  rushing^swoop  that  was  glorious 
in  its  sweep,  in  its  speed  and  ease,  caught 
the  eel  within  a  wing's  reach  of  me  and 
the  track. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  my 
spoil.  Somewhat  relieved,  upon  looking 
around,  to  find  that  even  the  marsh-hen 
had  not  been  an  eye-witness  to  my 
knightly  deed,  I  started  with  the  fish, 
and  my  conscience,  toward  the  distant 
nest,  determined  to  climb  into  it  and 
leave  the  catch  with  the  helpless,  dinner- 
less  things  for  whom  it  was  intended. 

I  am  still  carrying  that  fish.  How 
seldom  we  are  able  to  restore  the  bare 
exaction,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fourfold  ! 
My  tree  was  harder  to  climb  than  Zac- 
chaeus's.  It  was  an  ancient  white  oak, 
with  the  nest  set  directly  upon  its  dead 
top.  I  had  stood  within  this  very  nest 
twelve  years  before ;  but  even  with  the 
help  of  my  conscience  I  could  not  get 
into  it  now.  Not  that  I  had  grown 
older  or  larger.  Twelve  years  do  not 
count  unless  they  carry  one  past  forty. 
It  was  the  nest  that  had  grown.  Gazing 
up  at  it  I  readily  believed  the  old  farm- 
er in  the  Zane's  house  who  said  it 
would  take  a  pair  of  mules  to  haul  it. 
He  thought  it  larger  than  one  that  blew 
down  in  the  marsh  the  previous  winter, 
which  made  three  cartloads. 

One  thinks  of  Stirling  and  of  the 
castles  frowning  down  upon  the  Rhine 
as  he  comes  out  of  the  wide,  flat  marsh 
beneath  this  great  nest,  crowning  this 
loftiest  eminence  in  all  the  region.  But 
no  chateau  of  the  Alps,  no  beetling 
crag-lodged  castle  of  the  Rhine,  can 
match  the  fishhawk's  nest  for  sheer  bold- 
ness and  daring.  Only  the  eagles'  nests 
upon  the  fierce  dizzy  pinnacles  in  the 
Yosemite  surpass  the  home  of  the  fish- 
hawk  in  unawed  boldness.  The  eyrie 
of  the  Yosemite  eagle  is  the  most  sub- 


limely defiant  of  things  built  by  bird,  or 
beast,  or  man. 

A  fishhawk  will  make  its  nest  upon 
the  ground,  or  a  hummock,  a  stump,  a 
buoy,  a  chimney,  —  upon  anything  near 
the  water,  that  offers  an  adequate  plat- 
form ;  but  its  choice  is  the  dead  top  of 
some  lofty  tree  where  the  pathway  for 
its  wide  wings  is  open  and  the  vision 
range  is  free  for  miles  around. 

How  dare  the  bird  rear  such  a  pile 
upon  so  slight  and  towering  a  support ! 
How  dare  she  defy  the  winds,  which, 
loosened  far  out  on  the  bay,  come  driving 
across  the  cowering,  unresisting  marsh ! 
She  is  too  bold  sometimes.  I  have  known 
more  than  one  nest  to  fall  in  a  wild  May 
gale.  Many  a  nest,  built  higher  and 
wider  year  after  year,  while  all  the  time 
its  dead  support  has  been  rotting  and 
weakening,  gets  heavy  with  the  wet  of 
winter,  and  some  night,  under  the  weight 
of  an  ice  storm,  comes  crashing  to  the 
earth. 

Yet  twelve  years  had  gone  since  I 
scaled  the  walls  and  stood  within  this 
nest;  and  with  patience  and  hardihood 
enough  I  could  have  done  it  again  this 
time,  no  doubt.  I  remember  one  nest 
along  Maurice  River,  perched  so  high 
above  the  gums  of  Garrens  Neck  swamp 
as  to  be  visible  from  my  home  across  a 
mile  of  trees,  that  has  stood  a  landmark 
for  the  oystermen  this  score  of  years. 

The  sensations  of  my  climb  into  this 
fishhawk^s  nest  of  the  marsh  are  vivid 
even  now.  Going  up  was  comparatively 
easy.  When  I  reached  the  forks  hold- 
ing the  nest  I  found  I  was  under  a  bulk 
of  sticks  and  cornstalks  which  was  about 
the  size  of  an  ordinary  haycock,  or  an 
unusually  large  washtub.  By  pulling  out, 
pushing  aside,  and  breaking  off  the  sticks, 
I  worked  a  precarious  way  through  the 
four  feet  or  more  of  debris  and  scrambled 
over  the  edge.  There  were  two  eggs. 
Taking  them  in  my  hands,  so  as  not  to 
crush  them,  I  rose  carefully  to  my  feet. 
Upright  in  a  hawk's  nest!  Sixty 
feet  in  the  air,  on  the  top  of  a  gaunt  old 


The  Marsh. 


93 


white  oak,  clean  and  above  the  highest 
leaf,  with  the  screaming  hawks  about  my 
head,  with  marsh  and  river  and  bay  ly- 
ing far  around !  It  was  a  moment  of 
exultation  ;  and  the  thrill  of  it  has  been 
transmitted  through  the  years.  My  body 
has  been  drawn  to  higher  places  since ; 
but  my  soul  has  never  quite  touched  that 
altitude  again,  for  I  was  a  boy  then. 

Nor  has  it  ever  shot  swifter,  deeper 
into  the  abyss  of  mortal  terror  than  fol- 
lowed with  my  turning  to  descend.  I 
looked  down  into  empty  air.  Feet  fore- 
most I  backed  over  the  rim,  clutching 
the  loose  sticks  and  feeling  for  a  foot- 
hold. They  snapped  with  any  pressure ; 
slipped  and  fell  if  I  pushed  them,  or 
stuck  out  into  my  clothing.  Suddenly 
the  sticks  in  my  hands  pulled  out,  my 
feet  broke  through  under  me,  and  for  an 
instant  I  hung  at  the  side  of  the  nest  in 
the  air,  impaled  on  a  stub  that  caught 
my  blouse  as  I  slipped. 

There  is  a  special  Providence  busy 
with  the  boy. 

This  huge  nest  of  the  fishhawks  was 
more  than  a  nest,  it  was  a  castle  in  very 
truth,  in  the  sheltering  crevices  of  whose 
uneven  walls  a  small  community  of  pur- 
ple grackles  lived.  Wedged  in  among 
the  protruding  sticks  was  nest  above 
nest,  plastering  the  great  pile  over, 
making  it  almost  grassy  with  their  loose 
flying  ends.  I  remember  that  I  counted 
more  than  twenty  of  these  crow-blacks' 
nests  the  time  I  climbed  the  tree,  and 
that  I  destroyed  several  in  breaking  my 
way  up  the  face  of  the  structure. 

Do  the  blackbirds  nest  here  for  the  pro- 
tection afforded  by  the  presence  of  the 
hawks  ?  Do  they  come  for  the  crumbs 
which  fall  from  these  great  people's  ta- 
ble ?  Or  is  it  the  excellent  opportunity 
for  social  life  offered  by  this  convenient 
apartment  house  that  attracts  ? 

The  purple  grackles  are  a  garrulous, 
gossipy  set,  as  every  one  knows.  They 
are  able  bodied,  not  particularly  fond  of 
fish,  and  inclined  to  seek  the  neighbor- 
hood of  man,  rather  than  to  come  out 


here  away  from  him.  They  make  very 
good  American  rooks.  So  I  am  led  to 
think  it  is  their  love  of  "  neighboring  " 
that  brings  them  about  the  hawks'  nest. 
If  this  surmise  is  correct,  then  sthe  pre- 
sence of  two  families  of  English  sparrows 
among  them  might  account  for  there  be- 
ing only  eight  nests  now,  where  a  decade 
ago  there  were  twenty. 

I  was  amused  —  no  longer  amazed  — 
at  finding  the  sparrows  here.  The  seed 
of  these  birds  shall  possess  the  earth.  Is 
there  even  now  a  spot  into  which  the 
bumptious,  mannerless,  ubiquitous  little 
pleb  has  not  pushed  himself?  If  you 
look  for  him  in  the  rainpipes  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  mansions,  he  is  there  ;  if 
you  search  for  him  in  the  middle  of  the 
wide,  silent  salt  marsh,  he  is  there ;  if 
you  take  —  but  it  is  vain  to  take  the 
wings  of  the  morning,  or  of  anything 
else,  in  the  hope  of  flying  to  a  spot  where 
the  stumpy  little  wings  of  the  English 
sparrow  have  not  already  carried  him. 

There  is  something  really  admirable 
in  the  unqualified  sense  of  ownership, 
the  absolute  want  of  diffidence,  the  abid- 
ing self-possession  and  coolness  of  these 
birds.  One  cannot  measure  it  in  the 
city  streets  where  everybody  jostles  and 
stares.  It  can  be  appreciated  only  in 
the  marsh :  here  in  the  silence,  the  se- 
crecy, the  withdrawing,  where  even  the 
formidable-looking  fiddler  crabs  shy  and 
sidle  into  their  holes  as  you  pass,  here, 
where  the  sparrows  may  perch  upon  the 
rim  of  a  great  hawk's  nest,  twist  their 
necks,  ogle  you  out  of  countenance,  and 
demand  what  business  brought  you  to  the 
marsh. 

I  hunted  round  for  a  stone  when  one 
of  them  buttonh6led  me.  He  wasn't 
insolent,  but  he  was  impertinent.  The 
two  hawks  and  the  blackbirds  flew  off 
as  I  came  up ;  but  the  sparrows  stayed. 
They  were  the  only  ones  in  possession 
as  I  moved  away ;  and  they  will  be  the 
only  ones  in  possession  when  I  return. 
If  that  is  next  summer,  then  I  shall  find 
a  colony  of  twenty  sparrow  families 


94 


The  Marsh. 


around  the  hawks'  nest.  The  purple 
grackles  will  be  gone.  And  the  fish- 
hawks  ?  Only  the  question  of  another 
year  or  so  when  they,  too,  shall  be  dis- 
possessed and  gone.  But  where  will  they 
go  to  escape  the  sparrows  ? 


III. 

From  a  mile  away  I  turned  to  look 
back  at  the  "  cripple  "  where  towered  the 
tall  white  oak  of  the  hawks.  Both  birds 
were  wheeling  about  the  castle-nest,  their 
noble  flight  full  of  the  freedom,  their 
piercing  cries  voicing  the  wildness  of  the 
marsh.  And  how  free,  how  wild,  how 
untouched  by  human  hands  the  wide 
plain  seemed  !  Sea-like  it  lay  about  me, 
circled  southward  from  east  to  west  with 
the  rim  of  the  sky. 

I  moved  on  toward  the  bay.  The  sun 
had  dropped  to  the  edge  of  the  marsh, 
its  level -lined  shafts  splintering  into 
golden  fire  against  the  curtained  win- 
dows of  the  lighthouse.  It  would  soon  be 
sunset.  For  some  time  there  had  been 
a  quiet  gurgling  and  lisping  down  in  the 
grass,  but  it  had  meant  nothing,  until, 
of  a  sudden,  I  heard  the  rush  of  a  wave 
along  the  beach :  the  tide  was  coming  in. 
And  with  it  came  a  breeze,  a  moving, 
briny,  bay-cooled  breeze  that  stirred  the 
grass  with  a  whisper  of  night. 

Once  more  I  had  worked  round  to  the 
road.  It  ran  on  ahead  of  me,  up  a  bushy 
dune,  and  forked,  one  branch  leading  off 
to  the  lighthouse,  the  other  straight  out 
to  the  beach,  out  against  the  white  of  the 
breaking  waves. 

The  evening  purple  was  deepening 
on  the  bay  when  I  mounted  the  dune. 
Bands  of  pink  and  crimson  clouded  the 
west,  a  thin  cold  wash  of  blue  veiled  the 
east ;  and  overhead,  bay  ward,  landward, 
everywhere,  the  misting  and  the  shadow- 
ing of  the  twilight. 

Between  me  and  the  white  wave  bars 
at  the  end  of  the  road  gleamed  a  patch 
of  silvery  water  —  the  returning  tide. 


As  I  watched,  a  silvery  streamlet  broke 
away  and  came  running  down  the  wheel 
track.  Another  streamlet,  lagging  a 
little,  ran  shining  down  the  other  track, 
stopped,  rose,  and  creeping  slowly  to  the 
middle  of  the  road,  spread  into  a  second 
gleaming  patch.  They  grew,  met  —  and 
the  road  for  a  hundred  feet  was  covered 
with  the  bay. 

As  the  crimson  paled  into  smoky  pearl, 
the  blue  changed  green  and  gold,  and 
big  at  the  edge  of  the  marsh  showed  the 
rim  of  the  moon. 

Weird  hour  !  Sunset,  moonrise,  flood- 
tide,  and  twilight  together  weaving  the 
spell  of  the  night  over  the  wide  wak- 
ing marsh.  Mysterious,  sinister  almost, 
seemed  the  swift  stealthy  creeping  of  the 
tide.  It  was  surrounding  and  crawling 
in  upon  me.  Already  it  stood  ankle- 
deep  in  the  road,  and  was  reaching  to- 
ward my  knees,  a  warm  thing,  quick  and 
moving.  It  slipped  among  the  grasses 
and  into  the  holes  of  the  crabs  with  a 
smothered  bubbling ;  it  disturbed  the 
seaside  sparrows  sleeping  down  in  the 
sedge  and  kept  them  springing  up  to 
find  new  beds.  How  high  would  it  rise  ? 
Behind  me  on  the  road  it  had  crawled 
to  the  foot  of  the  dune.  Would  it  let 
me  through  to  the  mainland  if  I  waited 
for  the  flood  ? 

It  would  be  high  tide  at  nine  o'clock. 
Finding  a  mound  of  sand  on  the  shore 
that  the  water  could  hardly  cover  I  sat 
down  to  watch  the  tide  miracle  ;  for  here, 
surely,  I  should  see  the  wonder  worked, 
so  wide  was  the  open,  so  full,  so  frank 
the  moon. 

In  the  yellow  light  I  could  make  out 
the  line  of  sentinel  trees  across  the  marsh, 
and  off  on  the  bay,  a  ship  looming  dim 
in  the  distance  coming  on  with  wind  and 
current.  There  were  no  sounds  except 
the  long  regular  wash  of  the  waves,  the 
stir  of  the  breeze  in  the  chafing  sedges, 
and  the  creepy  stepping  of  the  water 
weaving  everywhere  through  the  hidden 
paths  of  the  grass.  Presently  a  night- 
hawk  began,  to  flit  about  me,  then  an- 


Miss  Petrie's  Avocation. 


95 


other  and  another,  skimming  just  above 
the  marsh  as  silent  as  the  shadows. 
What  was  that  ?  Something  moved 
across  the  moon.  In  a  moment,  bat- 
like  and  huge,  against  the  great  yellow 
disk,  appeared  a  marsh  owl.  He  was 
coming  to  look  at  me.  What  was  I  that 
dared  remain  abroad  in  the  marsh  after 
the  rising  of  the  moon  ?  that  dared  in- 
vade this  eerie  realm,  this  night-spread, 
tide-crept,  half-sealand  where  he  was 
king  ?  How  like  a  goblin  he  seemed !  I 
thought  of  Grendel,  and  listened  for  the 
splash  of  the  fen-monster's  steps  along 
the  edge  of  the  bay.  But  only  the  owl 
came.  Down,  down,  down  he  bobbed, 
till  I  could  almost  feel  the  fanning  of  his 


wings.  How  silent  !  His  long  legs  hung 
limp,  his  body  dangled  between  those 
soft  wide  wings  within  reach  of  my  face. 
Yet  I  heard  no  sound.  Mysterious  crea- 
ture !  I  was  glad  when  he  ceased  his 
ghostly  dance  about  me  and  made  off. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  The  waves  had 
ceased  to  wash  against  the  sand,  for  the 
beach  was  gone  ;  the  breeze  had  died 
away  ;  the  stir  of  the  water  in  the  grass 
was  still.  Only  a  ripple  broke  now  and 
then  against  my  little  island.  The  bay 
and  the  marsh  were  one. 


the  plains  of  the  waters  be  ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height  : 
And  it  is  night." 

Dallas  Lore  Sharp. 


MISS  PETRIE'S  AVOCATION. 


NECESSITY,  not  choice,  was  primarily 
the  cause  of  the  adoption  by  Miss  Petrie 
of  the  profession  of  teaching.  Carpentry, 
which  her  father  followed  under  the 
more  euphonious  name  of  contracting, 
was  not  largely  remunerative  in  the  town 
of  Enterprise,  and  when  Miss  Petrie, 
robed  in  white  swiss  muslin,  had  de- 
claimed with  many  gestures  her  graduat- 
ing "  oration  "  on  "  Who  would  be  free, 
himself  must  strike  the  blow,"  and  faced 
the  cold  world,  she  found  herself  faced 
in  turn  by  the  alternative  of  "  doing 
something"  outside,  or  washing  dishes 
and  darning  stockings  for  the  well-filled 
house  of  Petrie. 

Either  fired  by  ambition  or  stimulated 
by  a  distaste  for  dishwashing,  Miss 
Petrie  took  her  first  step  up  the  ladder 
of  fame  by  choosing  pedagogy  as  her 
profession.  In  other  words,  she  applied 
to  the  township  trustee  for  a  country 
school,  and  asked  her  father  for  five 
dollars  with  which  to  pay  her  tuition  in 
the  summer  "  Normal "  held  in  Enter- 
prise each  vacation  by  the  county  su- 


perintendent and  the  superintendent  of 
the  Enterprise  schools  for  the  purpose 
of  increasing  their  insufficient  incomes. 

As  the  county  teachers  had  long  since 
learned  that  patrons  of  the  Normal  had 
no  difficulty  in  securing  licenses  to  teach, 
the  attendance  was  large,  and  Miss  Pe- 
trie found  herself  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  the  pedagogical  talent,  male  and 
female,  of  every  township  in  the  county. 

The  road  through  the  new  country 
opened  to  Miss  Petrie  by  this  gate  of 
instruction,  while  not  a  royal  one,  was 
at  least  level  and  easy  to  travel.  By  a 
study  of  the  monthly  examination  ques- 
tions prepared  by  the  State  Board  of 
Education  (these  published  each  month, 
with  answers,  in  the  State  School  Edu- 
cator, which  thus  assured  itself  of  a  bona 
fide  circulation  of  as  many  paid  sub- 
scribers as  there  were  teachers  in  the 
state) ,  one  soon  became  familiar  with  the 
Board's  manner  of  questioning  and  was 
prepared  therefor.  In  arithmetic,  for 
instance,  the  applicant  was  so  unfailingly 
required  to  calculate  the  capacity  of  a 


96 


Miss  Petrie's  Avocation. 


square  cistern,  that  had  one  of  the  school 
patrons  asked  his  teacher  to  tell  him  the 
capacity  of  his  own  (round)  cistern,  the 
said  pedagogue  would  have  been  subject- 
ed to  much  embarrassment  and  confusion. 
In  grammar,  the  only  strain  on  the  in- 
tellect was  the  committing  to  memory  of 
the  entire  volume  prescribed  by  the  law 
for  state  use ;  and  in  geography,  he  or 
she  who  could  trace  the  wanderings  of  a 
bushel  of  wheat  from  Duluth  to  Arch- 
angel, name  the  capital  of  Alaska,  and 
bound  Indiana,  was  assured  of  a  grade 
of  one  hundred  per  cent.  History  was 
likewise  simple.  The  dates  of  the  four 
colonial  wars  alternated  from  month  to 
month  with  the  great  battles  of  the  Civil 
War  ;  while  a  description  of  the  battle  of 
New  Orleans  was  sure  to  follow  a  ques- 
tion on  the  Alien  and  Sedition  Laws, 
and  these  to  be  followed  by  a  list  of  the 
Presidents  of  the  United  States,  in  or- 
der. In  reading,  the  most  stupid  teacher 
could  make  up  six  questions  on  such 
lines  as 

"  I  take  my  little  porringer 
And  eat  my  supper  there." 

For  example,  "  What  is  a  porringer  ? 
What  is  a  little  porringer  ?  Who  is 
speaking  ?  What  did  she  have  in  her 
little  porringer  ?  What  time  in  the  day 
is  it?  Where  is  'there'?"  And  a 
perusal  of  a  thin  volume  on  The  Prin- 
ciples and  Practice  of  Teaching  assured 
moderately  correct  answers  on  the  Sci- 
ence of  Teaching. 

The  instruction  in  the  Normal  along 
the  lines  suggested  by  the  Board  of 
Education,  and  the  manner  and  vocabu- 
lary attained  by  six  weeks'  constant  as- 
sociation with  the  county  teachers,  so 
fully  equipped  Miss  Petrie  that  she 
passed  successfully  the  examination  held 
on  the  Saturday  following  the  close  of 
the  Normal,  and  received  the  six  months' 
license  granted  to  beginners.  . 

The  township  school  in  which  Miss 
Petrie  began  her  labors  (the  township 
trustee  was  a  friend  of  old  John  Petrie 
and  had  not  hesitated  when  asked  to 


give  the  girl  a  school,  as  he  and  John 
were  juggling  a  bridge  contract  in  which 
he  expected  a  rake-off)  was  the  average 
country  school  in  which  the  teacher 
taught  twelve  or  more  classes  a  day  in 
everything  from  A  B  C's  to  United  States 
history,  and  in  which  she  had  to  look 
sharp,  or  the  older  boys  who  had  "  fig- 
ured clear  through  "  Ray's  Higher  Arith- 
metic for  several  seasons  would  catch  her 
in  some  mistake.  Miss  Petrie  was  rea- 
sonably conscientious,  and  being  moder- 
ately bright,  her  work  was  sufficiently 
successful  to  assure  her  of  a  school  in 
town  the  next  year.  The  town  mer- 
chant had  been  elected  a  member  of  the 
School  Board,  and  he  reasoned  that  if 
the  girl  had  a  school  in  town  she  would 
not  only  be  able  to  pay  the  bill  old  John 
owed  him,  but  would  see  the  necessity 
of  so  doing  if  she  expected  to  keep  her 
place. 

As  a  "  city  "  teacher,  Miss  Petrie  be- 
gan better  to  realize  the  importance  of 
her  calling.  She  still  attended  the  Nor- 
mal because  licenses  were  indispensable, 
and  she  sat  in  the  Institutes  while  various 
county  and  state  educational  lights  made 
diagrams  of  "  John  is  good  "  and  sub- 
divided the  mind  into  Intellect,  Sensi- 
bilities, and  the  Will.  And  having  ac- 
quired a  remarkable  facility  in  computing 
the  capacity  of  square  cisterns,  and  in 
tracing  the  wanderings  of  a  bushel  of 
wheat  over  the  universe,  and  her  labors 
in  the  schoolroom  (she  had  the  primary 
grade  under  the  then  prevailing  theory 
that  that  was  the  place  to  "  break  in  " 
new  teachers)  being  limited  to  teaching 
her  pupils  to  print,  to  count  to  ten,  to 
read  at  concert  pitch  from  a  large  chart, 
and  to  sing  "  by  ear  "  various  simple  and 
innocuous  melodies,  her  evenings  and 
Sundays  were  free  for  other  amusements. 

These  were  naturally  very  mild,  pub- 
lic opinion  in  Enterprise  not  countenan- 
cing any  great  gayety  on  the  part  of  its 
educators.  She  could  not,  therefore,  play 
cards,  but  she  might  go  boat  riding  and 
picnicking;  and  attend  Sunday-school, 


Miss  Petrie's  Avocation. 


97 


where  she  taught  a  class  ;  and  prayer 
meeting,  and  have  beaux,  of  whose  calls 
the  neighbors  kept  account  with  a  view 
toward  complaining  to  the  trustees,  if 
they  seemed  too  frequent. 

Among  these  callers  was  the  new 
county  superintendent,  an  unmarried 
man  of  middle  age,  attracted  apparently 
by  Miss  Petrie's  devotion  to  her  school 
work. 

Miss  Petrie,  however,  gave  him  little 
encouragement,  although  she  accepted 
his  attentions  at  the  Reading  Circle,  re- 
cently organized,  and  had  received  from 
him,  as  presents,  several  volumes  which 
the  teachers  of  the  state  had  been  ordered 
by  the  Board  of  Education  to  "  review." 

This  book  reviewing  was  regarded  by 
the  State  Board  of  Education  as  a  step 
forward,  a  progression  toward  higher 
ideals  in  the  noble  profession  of  teaching, 
by  taking  which  the  candidate  would  be 
better  fitted  for  leading  the  youth  of  the 
state  into  the  broad  fields  of  literature. 
The  applicant  for  license  was  given  the 
choice  of  David  Copperfield,  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  or  Vanity  Fair,  and  because  re- 
viewing was  heretofore  unheard  of  in 
Enterprise  and  vicinity,  the  county  su- 
perintendent was  soon  overwhelmed  with 
bulky  manuscripts  in  pale  ink,  in  which 
the  writer  endeavored  to  condense  the 
whole  story  into  several  thousand  words, 
and  failed  ignominiously,  or  had  copied 
several  chapters  word  for  word  and  add- 
ed the  last  chapter,  evidently  trusting 
that  the  superintendent  would  look  only 
at  the  first  page  and  the  last.  The  In- 
stitute instructors  who  had  droned  away 
heretofore  for  the  week  on  "John  is 
good  "  now  found  a  new  field  in  talking 
on  book  reviews,  and  in  outlining  the 
newly  prescribed  Reading  Circle  work. 

This  Reading  Circle  work,  so  Miss 
Petrie  soon  learned,  was  not  compulsory, 
but  the  teacher  who  took  the  four  years' 
course,  passing  each  year  the  examina- 
tions, received  a  diploma  which  exempted 
her  forever  from  answering  the  questions 
on  the  Science  of  Teaching,  when  pass- 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  7 


ing  the  examination  for  license.  As  the 
questions  on  the  Science  of  Teaching  were 
taken  each  month  from  some  book  in  the 
Reading  Circle  course,  those  teachers 
who  saw  no  escape  through  the  loophole 
of  matrimony  perceived  the  wisdom  of 
having  the  agony  over  in  four  years,  and 
hastened  to  buy  the  books  at  prices  pre- 
scribed by  the  Reading  Circle  Board, 
places  on  which  were  eagerly  sought  by 
"  leading  "  state  educators. 

Miss  Petrie,  who  by  this  time  was 
beginning  to  feel  some  pride  in  the  pro- 
fession which  seemed  destined  to  be  her 
life  work,  was  giving  up  moonlight  boat 
rides,  picnics,  and  other  small  frivolities, 
and  bore  the  distinction  of  being  the  first 
teacher  in  the  county  to  adopt  the  new 
word  method  of  teaching  reading, 
plunged  into  the  Reading  Circle  work 
with  great  zeal.  She  attended  the  meet- 
ings of  the  city  circle,  whose  member- 
ship decreased  in  the  course  of  the  first 
year  from  twelve  to  three,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  the  county  superintendent, 
still  unmarried,  was  chairman  ex  officio, 
and  read  in  the  four  years  Watts's  On 
the  Mind,  Hailman's  Lectures  on  Edu- 
cation, Sully's  Handbook  of  Psychology, 
and  Boone's  Education  in  the  United 
States,  varied  by  such  lighter  works  as 
Green's  England,  and  The  Lights  of 
Two  Centuries. 

By  the  practice  of  rigid  economy  she 
was  enabled  to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  Bay 
View  one  summer,  and  to  attend  a  ses- 
sion of  a  summer  school  at  a  college  in 
the  state,  and  this,  her  Reading  Circle 
diploma,  and  her  high  standing  at  home, 
enabled  her  to  secure  a  position  in  the 
schools  of  a  neighboring  city.  She  was 
further  assisted  to  this  end  by  her  mail' 
ner,  which  was  a  happy  combination  of 
the  severe  style  of  address  in  vogue  at 
the  time  of  her  entrance  into  the  work 
with  the  melting  sweetness  of  the  present 
day,  and  the  correctness  of  her  speech. 
Never  in  the  most  exciting  discussion 
did  Miss  Petrie  drop  into  the  colloquial 
"  have  n't,"  «  did  n't,"  or  "  could  n't ;  " 


Miss  Petrie's  Avocation. 


her  "  has  nots  "  and  her  "  could  nots  " 
were  never  elided,  and  her  articulation 
and  accent  of  the  final  syllable  of  "  chil- 
dren "  would  have  aroused  envy  even  in 
the  breast  of  the  president  of  the  Na- 
tional Association  of  Teachers  had  he 
chanced  to  hear  her  speak. 

And  now  Miss  Petrie,  who  had  started 
out  rather  aimlessly,  with  no  higher  aim 
than  to  avoid  dishwashing,  and  in  whose 
breast  were  finally  kindled  some  sparks 
of  true  ambition  to  succeed  in  her  call- 
ing, was  caught  by  the  strong  current  of 
modern  education  and  swept  forward  re- 
sistlessly. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  she 
must  be  in  the  schoolroom  to  write  on 
the  board  the  lessons  for  the  day,  be- 
cause the  superintendent's  fad  was  to 
avoid  the  use  of  text-books  whenever 
possible.  After  school  there  was  more 
of  the  same  work,  varied  by  correcting 
papers,  because  the  superintendent  de- 
manded that  all  the  children's  work  be 
written.  She  must  also  find  time  to  take 
country  rides  in  search  of  flowers  and 
shrubs  in  their  season,  and  of  rabbits, 
owls,  and  other  beasts,  birds,  and  insects, 
of  which  the  children  were  to  write  their 
impressions. 

On  Saturday  mornings  the  superin- 
tendent thoughtfully  provided  recrea- 
tion for  his  teachers  in  the  form  of  lec- 
tures by  celebrated  apostles  of  Child 
Study  and  Nature  Study,  which  Miss 
Petrie,  with  the  others,  was  required  to 
attend.  She  also  found  it  necessary  to 
take  several  courses  of  private  study  in 
drawing,  painting,  music,  science,  and 
calisthenics,  as  the  supervisors  of  these 
subjects  came  infrequently,  and  the  in- 
struction rested  principally  in  her  hands. 
In  her  spare  time,  there  were  entertain- 
ments to  be  prepared  for,  that  teacher 
whose  pupils  could  present  portions  of  a 
Wagner  opera  or  a  Shakesperean  play 
being  considered  of  much  higher  profes- 
sional rank  than  her  fellows  who  confined 
their  efforts  to  stereopticon  lectures  and 
recitations  from  the  American  poets. 


In  the  summer,  those  teachers  who 
could  keep  out  of  a  sanitarium  were  ex- 
pected to  refresh  their  minds  and  elevate 
the  standard  of  their  professional  work 
by  attending  the  summer  school  of  some 
university. 

After  five  years  of  this  work,  Miss 
Petrie  suddenly  reappeared  in  Enter- 
prise, where  she  spent  the  first  entire 
summer  with  her  family  since  the  second 
year  of  her  professional  career.  When 
autumn  came  and  the  bell  in  the  old 
schoolhouse  across  the  street  announced 
the  opening  of  the  school  year,  she  still 
remained  at  home.  To  the  county  su- 
perintendent, still  unmarried,  who  called 
shortly  after  her  return,  Miss  Petrie  ex- 
plained herself. 

"I  took  a  pride  in  my  profession," 
said  she,  "  and  while  many  younger  girls 
broke  down,  I  was  able  to  keep  on,  on 
the  principle,  I  suppose,  of  the  man  who 
began  to  carry  the  calf  in  its  infancy.  I 
entered  upon  my  career  in  the  days  when 
the  work  was  simple,  and  assumed  the 
new  burdens  one  by  one,  so  I  was  better 
able  to  bear  them.  If  I  had  undertaken 
to  lift  them  all  at  once  I  might  have  failed 
like  some  of  the  others.  As  it  was,  I 
never  had  to  go  to  a  sanitarium,  even 
once! 

"  No,  it  was  not  that  which  brought 
me  back  here.  I  taught  my  primary 
grades  carefully.  I  began,  as  you  know, 
with  the  old  A  B  C  method  in  the 
country  school.  I  taught  printing  first. 
I  taught  the  word  method  and  the  sen- 
tence method.  I  taught  writing,  Oh, 
John  !  I  taught  Spencerian  writing,  and 
I  taught  vertical  writing,  and  I  taught 
reformed  vertical  writing,  and  I  hear 
that  this  year  they  are  going  back  to 
Spencerian.  I  taught  those  babies  to 
sew,  to  paint  in  water  colors,  and  to 
write  compositions  on  the  Greek  gods. 
I  had  them  make  original  nature  investi- 
gations, and  I  never  was  sorry  for  them, 
not  once.  But  when,  last  spring,  our 
superintendent  told  us  that  he  wanted  to 
introduce  the  new  object  method,  and 


Loss. 


99 


gave  us  preliminary  instruction,  and  I 
learned  that  after  I  had  written  « jump ' 
on  the  blackboard,  and  printed  it,  and 
spelled  it,  I  was  to  stand  up  on  the  plat- 
form and  jump,  as  an  illustration,  I  felt 
that  the  last  straw  had  been  placed  on 
the  camel's  back.  Maybe  I  had  been 
breaking,  gradually.  Anyway,  I  have 
saved  a  little  money,  and  I  decided  to 
come  back  to  Enterprise  to  rest.  It  may 
be  by  the  time  I  am  rested  they  will  have 
returned  to  the  old  methods,  as  they 
have  in  writing,  and  I  can  begin  over 
again." 

She  said  this  resolutely,  but  the  coun- 
ty superintendent  was  nevertheless  em- 
boldened to  put  the  question  that  had  for 
years  been  trembling  on  his  lips,  and 
Miss  Petrie  accepted  him  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction. 


"  I  have  loved  you  all  this  time,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  am  sure  I  can  make  you 
happy.  I,  too,  have  my  troubles.  The 
examinations  are  becoming  so  severe 
that  it  is  very  difficult  to  answer  the  ques- 
tions. You  have  got  to  use  your  reason 
these  days,  and  work  out  psychological 
problems  even  in  arithmetic  and  gram- 
mar, while  the  geography  and  history 
examinations  are  all  taken  out  of  the 
newspapers.  'When  was  Tolstoi  ban- 
ished ? ' '  Write  a  brief  biography  of  Agui- 
naldo  5 '  *  How  old  is  Queen  Wilhelmi- 
na  ? '  '  Give  the  population  of  Luzon.' 
I  certainly  need  a  helpmate,  and  with 
your  advantages  you  can  be  of  great  as- 
sistance to  me  in  grading  the  papers." 

Miss  Petrie  smiled  a  wintry  smile. 
Even  in  Cupid's  toils  she  was  not  alto- 
gether to  escape  from  the  new  education. 
Kate  Milner  Rabb. 


LOSS. 

WHO  that  hath  lost  some  dear-beloved  friend 
But  knoweth  how  —  when  the  wild  grief  is  spent 
That  tore  his  soul  with  agony,  and  did  lend 
E'en  to  the  splendor-beaming  firmament 
The  blighting  darkness  of  his  shadowed  heart  — 
There  surely  follows  peace  and  quiet  sorrow 
That  lead  his  spirit,  by  divinest  art, 
Past  the  drear  present  to  that  glorious  morrow 
Where  parting  is  not,  neither  grief  nor  fear ! 
But  how  shall  he  find  comfort,  who  sees  die, 
Not  the  one  presence  that  he  held  most  dear  ; 
But  from  his  heart  a  hope  as  Heaven  high, 
And  from  his  life  a  wish  as  Truth  sublime, 
And  from  his  soul  a  love  that  mocked  at  Time? 

Hildegarde  Hawthorne. 


100 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


RACE  PREJUDICE  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES. 


WE  Americans  like  to  call  ourselves 
the  most  democratic  people  on  earth,  but 
the  boast  requires  extensive  qualification 
before  it  can  be  made  applicable  to  our 
social  habits.  Every  one  recognizes  the 
all-exclusiveness  with  us  of  the  term 
"  white  man."  Nor  should  "  white  "  be 
emphasized  rather  than  "  man ; "  the 
phrase  might  properly  be  written  as  a 
hyphenated  noun.  Whether  fetich  or 
philosophy,  it  predicates  to  us  the  high- 
est common  multiple  of  intelligence  and 
virtue.  We  make  it  our  synonym  for 
"  civilization." 

Nor  is  this  merely  an  indication  of  our 
share  in  that  theory  of  racial  superiority 
which  talks  responsibility  and  thinks  in 
terms  of  commercial  supremacy.  Amer- 
icans are  not  proof  against  the  flattering 
unction  of  a  doctrine  which  sings  Chris- 
tianity while  it  means  inequality.  But 
until  recently  we  have  been  comparative- 
ly untouched  by  this  contagion,  have,  in 
fact,  rather  been  inclined  to  adopt  a  cyn- 
ical attitude  with  reference  to  it.  Our 
social  prejudices  have  been  provincial. 
Excuses  are  readily  to  be  found  for  a  peo- 
ple so  sorely  tried  as  we  have  been  by  the 
negro  problem.  Mere  intolerance  of  col- 
or, however,  is  much  less  noticeable  than 
unreasoning  and  unrestrained  impatience 
with  any  and  all  who  do  not  at  once  ac- 
knowledge the  superiority  of  our  institu- 
tions and  customs,  and  hasten  to  adopt 
them.  We  are  proud  of  our  reputation 
as  an  asylum  of  the  oppressed,  and  yet  it 
may  be  doubted  if  we  should  have  been 
so  tolerant  of  immigration  from  Europe 
had  the  immigrants  been  less  ready  of  as- 
similation. Here,  to  be  sure,  prejudice 
may  create  a  natural  and  proper  national 
safeguard ;  yet,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
as  a  people  we  are  only  a  blend,  the  na- 
tive American,  be  his  nativity  but  two 
generations  strong,  has  for  his  neighbor 
of  another  country  a  sort  of  pity  that  es- 


capes being  ignorant  prejudice  only  by 
its  real  kindliness. 

Our  provincial  assumption  of  superi- 
ority has  been  ridiculed  by  Mr.  Kipling, 
but  it  is  different  in  degree  only,  and  not 
in  kind,  from  that  which,  as  the  white 
man's  poet,  he  exploits.  There  is  no 
difference  in  quality  between  the  phari- 
saism  of  a  rustic  and  the  pharisaism  of  a 
world  power. 

Many  people  find  in  our  occupation  of 
the  Philippine  Islands  the  threat  of  a 
radical  change  in  American  character 
and  ideals.  Even  if  we  look  only  on  the 
evil  side  of  things,  it  is  hard  to  see  how 
American  character  and  social  ideas  can 
thus  be  radically  altered.  That  it  is  a 
step  of  transcendent  importance,  involv- 
ing new  and  various  political  difficulties, 
is  true.  But  it  draws  us  into  a  field 
in  which  ultimately  our  prejudices  may 
broaden  out,  and  in  which  our  provincial- 
isms must  disappear. 

Meanwhile,  however,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, the  prospect  of  such  beneficent 
results  seems  spoiled  by  two  untoward 
phases  of  our  new  venture  :  we  have  car- 
ried into  the  Philippines  a  petty  race  pre- 
judice, the  offspring  of  past  provincial- 
ism and  the  inheritance  of  slavery  with 
its  residue  of  unsettled  problems;  and 
we  are  betraying  a  tendency  to  swagger 
under  the  "  white  man's  burden,"  some- 
times in  the  garb  of  commercialism, 
sometimes  in  the  raiment  of  science. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  petty  pre- 
judices are  first  to  exhibit  themselves, 
and  are  also,  just  at  present,  the  more 
serious  obstacles  to  a  general  good  un- 
derstanding in  the  Philippines.  Relying 
upon  the  common  sense  of  the  reader  not 
to  draw  any  hysterical  conclusions  of  gen- 
eral "  oppression  "  in  the  Philippines, 
it  may  be  worth  while  to  cite  instances 
and  facts  to  show  how  race  prejudice  has 
been  doing  us  harm  in  the  islands.  Only 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


101 


instances  for  which  I  can  personally 
vouch  will  be  employed. 

That  the  color  line  would  be  drawn  by 
some  Americans  who  had  to  do  with  af- 
fairs in  the  islands  could  readily  have 
been  predicted.  The  extent  to  which 
it  has  been  held  in  veneration  is,  how- 
ever, far  from  complimentary  either  to 
the  intelligence  and  general  information 
or  to  the  breadth  and  charity  of  Ameri- 
cans. This  tendency  to  shy  at  a  darker 
skin,  no  matter  who  or  what  the  wearer, 
is  doubtless  a  minor  reason  for  English 
cynicism  at  our  talk  of  Philippine  self- 
government.  But  we  need  not  go  to  In- 
dia, nor  learn  that  there  are  dark-skinned 
branches  of  the  Caucasian  family,  to  ap- 
preciate how  small  is  the  significance  of 
color  alone  in  connection  with  mankind. 
Without  in  the  least  justifying  the  pre- 
judice against  the  negroes  in  the  United 
States,  what  possible  excuse  does  that 
afford  for  proceeding  on  the  "  nigger  " 
theory  among  a  people  largely  Malayan  ? 
The  typical  Filipino  is  every  whit  as  dis- 
tinct from  the  Negro  as  he  is  from  the 
European.  Yet  it  is  the  usual  thing 
among  Americans  who  have  been  in  the 
Philippines,  and  imbibed  a  contempt  or 
dislike  for  the  people,  to  betray  in  their 
conversation  the  fact  that  their  theories 
of  the  situation  are  based  upon  popular 
notions  at  home  as  to  negro  shortcomings 
and  incapacity.  They  prejudge  the  peo- 
ple before  they  have  even  seen  them,  and 
they  come  away  without  ever  having 
made  a  single  honest  effort  to  find  out 
what  they  really  are  like. 

Before  the  arrival  of  the  second  Phil- 
ippine Commission  at  Manila  and  the 
inauguration  by  Judge  Taf  t  and  its  other 
members  of  social  gatherings  in  which 
the  natives  were  in  the  majority,  prac- 
tically nothing  had  been  done  in  the  way 
of  providing  an  informal  meeting  ground 
for  representative  Filipinos  and  Ameri- 
cans. The  first  Philippine  Commission 
had  given  a  ball  in  1899,  which  was  a 
landmark  for  Filipino  matrons  and 
belles  in  their  discussions  and  misappre- 


hensions as  to  what  Americans  were  like 
socially.  With  two  or  three  very  nota- 
ble exceptions,  officers  whose  wives  had 
joined  them  did  not  think  of  meeting  any 
residents  but  some  of  the  wealthy  Span- 
ish *'  left-overs  "  on  anything  like  terms 
of  social  equality.  Eight  months  after 
Judge  Taf  t  and  his  colleagues  had  begun 
a  new  policy  in  this  respect,  General 
MacArthur  gave  a  distinctly  successful 
reception  in  the  governor's  palace  in 
Malacanan.  Of  course,  it  is  not  intended 
to  imply  that  it  was  incumbent  upon 
army  officers  to  incur  the  expense  and 
trouble  incident  to  such  affairs,  nor  that 
those  charged  with  the  burden  of  mili- 
tary administration  in  the  islands  could 
or  should  have  spared  time  in  the  midst 
of  active  fighting  to  inaugurate  a  social 
campaign  in  Manila.  What  it  is  desired 
to  point  out  is  that  some  cultivation  of 
the  social  amenities,  some  willingness 
to  meet  the  natives  halfway,  was  quite 
worth  the  while.  When  it  is  considered 
that  there  are  in  Manila  many  wealthy 
and  well-educated  mestizos,  some  of 
whom  have  polished  their  minds  and 
manners  in  Madrid  and  Paris,  who  hold 
themselves  quite  as  good  as  any  man, 
and  who,  in  fact,  were  imbued  with  some 
of  the  Latin-European  contempt  for 
Americans  as  uncultured  meney-makers, 
the  folly  of  such  aloofness  is  doubly  evi- 
dent. That  most  of  this  class  had  for- 
merly sought  to  identify  themselves  so- 
cially with  the  Spaniards,  and  had  been 
virtually  of  the  Spanish  contingent,  did 
not  alter  the  fact  that  nearly  all  had  their 
following  among  the  people  ;  nor  did  our 
knowledge  of  their  contributions  to  the 
insurgent  cause,  whether  made  volunta- 
rily or  through  prudence,  render  it  either 
politic  or  patriotic  to  assume  an  air  of 
superiority. 

Force  of  circumstances  has  from  the 
first,  through  the  necessarily  closer  con- 
tact and  the  lack  of  other  society,  brought 
about  more  social  mingling  in  the  pro- 
vincial towns.  In  general,  however, 
the  attitude  of  the  army  women  in  the 


102 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


islands  is  typified  by  that  one  in  Manila 
who,  in  discussing  affairs  in  her  first 
call  on  the  wife  of  a  member  of  the  Com- 
mission, exclaimed  in  horror  :  "  Why, 
surely  you  don't  propose  to  visit  these 
people  and  invite  them  to  your  own  home 
just  the  same  as  you  would  white  peo- 
ple !  "  Time  has  perhaps  brought  a  lit- 
tle more  catholicity,  at  any  rate  the  cus- 
tom of  entertaining  natives  has  come  to 
be  received  without  a  shock  ;  but  few 
army  women  in  Manila  have  Filipinas 
on  their  calling  list,  and  in  the  provinces 
they  often  take  it  on  themselves  to  cau- 
tion American  women  sent  out  as  teachers 
against  mingling  with  the  people  of  their 
towns.  This  attitude  is  also  that  of  the 
great  majority  of  officers  in  the  army, 
though  the  men,  like  men  everywhere, 
are  less  formal  about  a  social  rule  and 
less  rigid  in  their  likes  and  dislikes  of 
persons. 

An  instance  of  this  attitude  was  the 
attempt  to  exclude  from  the  Woman's 
Hospital  at  Manila  (founded  by  a  dona- 
tion of  Mrs.  Whitelaw  Reid)  all  Filipi- 
nos as  patients,  as  well  as  to  keep  off  the 
list  of  patronesses  the  names  of  Filipino 
women.  At  about  the  same  time  the 
board  of  ladies  to  whose  energy  the  Amer- 
ican Library  of  Manila  was  due  asked 
to  have  it  made  a  public  library,  to  be 
helped  out  by  funds  from  the  Philippine 
treasury,  and  made  very  strenuous  pro- 
tests against  having  it  also  thrown  open 
to  Filipinos  for  a  share  in  its  manage- 
ment and  use.  They  contended  that  it 
had  been  established  as  a  monument  to 
American  soldiers  who  lost  their  lives  in 
the  Philippines,  and  that  it  was  unfitting 
that  Filipinos  should  have  anything  to 
do  with  it,  though  Philippine  taxes  might 
support  it. 

At  a  ball  given  to  various  American 
authorities  by  the  native  residents  of  a 
provincial  capital,  an  American  officer 
stopped  the  band  after  it  began  a  dance 
at  the  direction  of  the  Filipino  who  was 
master  of  ceremonies,  and  ordered  it  to 
start  a  two-step.  When  interrogated,  he 


announced  that  the  military  were  in  com- 
mand of  that  town,  thus  insulting  the 
Filipino  who  had  charge  of  affairs,  and 
incidentally  also  a  number  of  American 
ladies  whose  partners  had  brought  them 
on  the  floor  for  the  Philippine  quadrille. 
The  American  officer  was  a  graduate  of 
one  of  our  leading  universities,  and  for- 
merly occupied  a  responsible  position  in 
one  of  the  largest  American  cities.  The 
Filipino,  as  perhaps  the  officer  knew, 
had  finished  his  education  in  Madrid  and 
Paris,  had  resided  for  some  years  in  the 
latter  city,  had  published  a  number  of 
scientific  treatises,  and  was  a  member  of 
various  learned  societies  of  Europe. 

This  and  the  other  instances  do  not, 
of  course,  reveal  a  prejudice  grounded 
entirely  on  color,  yet  this  is  the  chief 
factor.  It  may  be  worth  while  remark- 
ing that,  judging  by  one  man's  personal 
observation,  this  attitude  of  contempt  is 
less  noticeable  among  officers  from  the 
South  than  among  those  from  the  North. 
Doubtless  this  is  due  to  their  having  had 
closer  contact  with  people  of  another 
color,  and  to  a  greater  tolerance  through 
the  staling  of  custom,  although  the  con- 
viction of  the  other's  inferiority  may  yet 
be  deeper  bred. 

On  the  other  hand,  an  experience  to 
be  remembered  was  hearing  some  South- 
ern as  well  as  Northern  officers  rate  the 
Filipino  higher  than  the  American  negro, 
greatly  to  the  indignation  of  a  colored 
chaplain  of  the  army  who  overheard  them. 
And  these  officers  were  rather  more  tol- 
erant of  the  presence  among  the  first- 
class  passengers  of  an  army  transport  of 
a  Filipino  mestizo  from  the  Visayan  is- 
lands than  of  the  same  chaplain,  who 
was  finally  given  a  seat  by  himself  be- 
cause some  very  important  young  lieu- 
tenants would  not  sit  next  him. 

Something  more  than  mere  color  pre- 
judice must  be  invoked  to  explain  the 
actions  of  a  major  who  put  sentries  out 
under  unprecedentedly  strict  orders  in 
the  capital  of  a  province  where  civil  gov- 
ernment had  lately  been  established,  and 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


103 


then  backed  them  against  the  civil  au- 
thorities in  overriding  the  rights  of  na- 
tives and  in  shooting  down  a  peaceable 
citizen  in  the  streets.  Again,  an  ex-in- 
surgent general,  whom  many  of  our  of- 
ficers denounced  as  having  been  respon- 
sible for  assassinations  by  the  men  un- 
der him,  was  set  at  liberty  by  General 
Chaffee,  but  a  young  lieutenant  who  hap- 
pened at  the  time  to  be  in  command  of 
the  military  prison  where  he  was  confined 
ignored  the  order  of  release  till  compelled 
by  appeal  to  recognize  it.  Meanwhile  he 
set  the  ex-insurgent  officer,  a  man  of 
standing  and  education,  to  cleaning  out 
stables.  One  has  to  appeal  to  a  strain 
of  meanness  and  to  a  brutal  pleasure  in 
the  exercise  of  the  power  over  one's  fel- 
lows that  circumstances  have  temporarily 
conferred,  to  explain  these  and  similar  in- 
stances. The  details  of  the  China  cam- 
paign, not  really  well  known,  show  how 
such  instances  might  be  multiplied,  and 
our  national  pride  suffers  when  we  find 
that,  after  all,  they  were  not  all  confined 
to  Russians,  Germans,  and  Frenchmen. 
The  writer  was  one  of  a  group  of 
American  civilians  halted  in  the  street 
of  a  Philippine  town  by  an  ugly  sentinel 
and  ordered,  in  gruff  terms  at  the  bayo- 
net's point,  to  salute  a  minute  Ameri- 
can flag  on  the  top  of  a  fifty-foot  pole. 
Not  one,  of  course,  had  seen  it.  The 
pole  had  purposely  been  set  some  hun- 
dreds of  feet  from  the  barracks,  almost 
in  the  street  itself,  and  the  order  was 
enforced  against  every  one  who  passed. 
A  protest  to  the  officer  in  command,  a 
gray-haired  captain,  brought  the  reply 
that  he  was  "  teaching  the  niggers  a  les- 
son." This  province  was  a  leader  in  the 
revolt  against  Spain,  first  because  of  the 
friars,  and  second  because  of  the  abuses 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  Spanish  civil 
guard.  One  need  not  add  that  the  ha- 
tred felt  toward  our  troops  is  intense. 
One  of  our  young  officers  there  had  ac- 
quired the  genial  habit  of  imbibing  to 
the  point  of  mischief,  then  ordering  out 
a  corporal's  guard  and  raiding  Filipino 


houses  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  He 
finally  raided  the  house  where  the  Fili- 
pino judge  of  that  circuit  was  staying, 
which  put  an  end  to  this  particular  form 
of  amusement  for  him.  When  this  same 
judge,  a  Filipino  educated  in  Paris,  of 
unusually  solid  character  and  attain- 
ments, opened  court  in  this  town,  the 
provincial  capital,  he  was  obliged  to  be- 
gin by  requesting  that  an  American  of- 
ficer —  not  a  youngster  either  —  remove 
his  hat  from  his  head  and  his  feet  from 
the  table.  The  province  is  under  civil  gov- 
ernment, and  the  officer  took  this  means 
of  expressing  his  contempt  of  the  civil 
government  idea  in  general  and  of  this 
Filipino's  court  in  particular.  No  fight- 
ing has  occurred  in  the  province  for 
some  months,  yet  so  sure  were  high  mil- 
itary authorities  of  trouble  brewing  that 
they  saw  rifles  in  their  sleep,  and  the 
Chinese  rival  in  business  of  an  ex-insur- 
gent officer  was  able  to  get  him  into  jail 
by  dropping  in  the  street  a  letter  pur- 
porting to  contain  the  latter's  plans  for 
an  uprising.  This  method  of  denuncia- 
tion of  one's  enemies  became  very  com- 
mon after  Spain  began  her  deportations 
on  suspicion. 

The  ex-insurgent-appointed  governor 
of  a  neighboring  province  did  not  see  fit 
to  salute  the  officers  of  the  garrison  in  a 
town  under  his  jurisdiction,  and  the  latter 
started  a  newspaper  campaign  against 
him  in  Manila,  charging  him  with  all 
sorts  of  treachery  and  plotting.  Simi- 
larly, the  garrisoning  force  at  Cebu  was 
put  in  such  a  state  of  mind  by  the  re- 
storation of  civil  control  there  that  even 
the  privates  felt  called  upon  to  stop  the 
officers  of  the  native  police  in  the  streets 
and  make  them  salute.  Abuses  of  a  rath- 
er more  serious  nature  led  a  Spanish 
newspaper  in  Manila  to  recall  to  the 
Americans  that  the  people  of  Cebii  never 
really  turned  against  Spain  until  the  lat- 
ter power  had  let  some  Moro  troops  loose 
in  their  streets  to  run  things  to  their  lik- 


ing. 


These  instances  do  not  afford  ground 


104 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


for  a  general  indictment  of  the  army  in 
the  Philippines.  Like  other  organiza- 
tions, the  army  has  its  share  of  all  sorts 
of  men  ;  and,  were  it  in  point  here,  the 
testimony  of  various  Filipinos  themselves 
to  utterly  unexpected  generosity  at  the 
hands  of  officers  and  privates,  and  ex- 
amples of  unselfish  efforts  to  get  into 
touch  with  the  people  and  to  better  their 
condition,  could  readily  be  adduced.  Re- 
cent revelations  have  focused  attention 
on  the  conduct  of  the  army  in  the  Philip- 
pines, and  some  have  tried  to  make  out 
that  downright  brutality  was  the  rule  of 
campaign  there.  Cases  of  actual  inhu- 
manity have  been,  I  am  convinced,  the  ex- 
ceptional ones.  It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
ever, by  any  one  who  really  knows  things 
as  they  now  are  in  the  islands,  that  at  least 
three  fourths  of  the  army,  rank  and  file, 
entertain  a  more  or  less  violent  dislike 
for  the  Filipinos  and  a  contempt  for  their 
capacity,  moral  and  intellectual.  This 
feeling  in  the  army  has  grown  during 
the  past  two  years.  Perhaps  it  may  be 
dated  back  to  the  early  days  of  1900, 
when  guerrilla  warfare  had  begun,  and 
our  troops  had  to  contend  with  ambushes 
and  a  foe  who  was  an  excellent  masquer- 
ader,  and  who  practiced  the  art  of  assas- 
sination on  his  own  fellow  countrymen  in 
forms  of  the  most  refined  cruelty.  The 
American  soldier  has  something  of  the 
mediaeval  warrior's  love  of  an  out  and 
out,  decisive  test  of  strength,  and  wants 
his  opponent  to  come  out  into  the  open 
and  slay  or  be  slain.  He  is  disposed  to 
underrate  the  bravery  and  the  capacity 
of  a  foe  whose  very  circumstances  drove 
him  to  employ  methods  which  nature  and 
his  talents  gave  him,  while  secret  assassi- 
nation can  find  excuse  with  none  of  us. 

Then,  too,  the  loss  of  power  through 
the  merging  of  military  into  civil  govern- 
ment has  increased  the  hostility  of  nar- 
row-minded army  officers  to  the  native. 
The  atmosphere  of  army  life  is  undemo- 
cratic. It  was  sometimes  amazing  to  find 
how  large  some  ordinary  American  citi- 
zens could  become  in  their  own  eyes, 


when,  thousands  of  miles  from  home, 
they  gained  absolute'control  over  five  to 
twenty  thousand  or  more  people,  with  no 
white  man  at  hand  who  could  venture  to 
question  their  dictates.  Such  men  — 
and  some  were  in  high  place  and  some 
in  low  —  let  go  of  a  newly  tasted  power 
with  ill  grace,  and  promptly  became  con- 
vinced that  civil  government  was  a  mis- 
take. One  present  in  the  Philippines  dur- 
ing this  transfer  of  governing  power 
could  see  a  bitterness  against  the  natives 
crop  out  that  had  not  been  expressed,  and 
often  not  felt  before. 

This  contempt  and  ill  feeling  grew 
apace,  as  one  following  the  American 
press  of  Manila  could  note,  until  many 
would  not  concede  to  the  native  the  pos- 
session of  a  single  good  quality.  Offi- 
cers stationed  in  pacified  provinces  might 
often  have  been  judged  by  their  actions 
as  being  really  desirous  of  provoking  an- 
other outbreak,  while  in  the  main  their 
conduct  was  due  to  mere  thoughtless  pre- 
judice, spurred  into  activity  by  the  con- 
stant iteration  in  the  mouths  of  all  around 
them  of  charges  against  the  native  in- 
habitants. An  illustrative  case  is  that 
of  a  young  lieutenant,  whom  I  once  over- 
heard telling  an  American  lady  how  he 
and  a  fellow  officer  used  to  go  up  and 
down  the  streets  of  a  Cavite  town  shoot- 
ing water  buckets  out  of  the  hands  of 
startled  natives  and  otherwise  keeping 
up  revolver  practice.  It  was  done  to 
"  keep  the  gugus  in  a  proper  frame  of 
mind,"  he  commented.  This  was  in  a 
province  for  some  time  pacified,  and  in  a 
garrison  where  time  doubtless  hung  rath- 
er heavy.  Yet  subsequent  conversation 
with  this  officer  revealed  that  he  had  no 
deep-seated  prejudice,  despite  an  ugly 
bolo  wound  he  carried,  but  was  thought- 
lessly classing  all  Filipinos  together  as 
bad,  incapable,  and  in  general  not  much 
entitled  to  consideration. 

This  is  not  the  attitude  solely  of  the 
army,  though  it  is  the  attitude  of  a  majori- 
ty in  the  army.  American  civilians,  both 
those  in  the  employ  of  the  civil  govern- 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


105 


ment  and  the  smaller  element  not  so  em- 
ployed, often  feel  the  same.  Naturally, 
as  the  success  of  the  civil  government 
must  rest  upon  conciliation,  while  in  the 
last  resort  military  success  always  de- 
pends upon  force,  the  employees  of  the 
civil  government  are  obliged  to  consult 
native  feelings  and  native  interests,  no 
matter  what  may  be  their  personal  pre- 
judices. But  among  the  subordinates 
one  finds  petty  prejudice  cropping  out  in 
many  different  ways,  such  as  striding  ma- 
jestically along  the  middle  of  a  crowded 
sidewalk  and  shoving  natives  right  and 
left,  while  violent  and  ill-considered  opin- 
ions are  often  expressed. 

Allusion  has  been  made  to  the  attitude 
of  the  American  press  in  Manila.  Two 
of  the  three  American  dailies  there  are 
characterized  by  intemperance  and  inde- 
cency of  expression  and  a  general  cheap- 
ness. They  are  the  mouthpieces  of  an 
element  which  loudly  proclaims  that  it 
represents  American  commercial  inter- 
ests in  the  Orient.  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  say  that,  while  there  are  a  few  very 
praiseworthy  pioneers  of  our  industry  in 
the  Philippines,  really  substantial  busi- 
ness interests  have  very  generally  held 
aloof,  because  of  active  insurrection,  and 
because  Senator  Hoar's  amendments  to 
the  "  Spooner  Bill "  postponed  invest- 
ments of  capital  until  Congress  had 
taken  further  action.  But  adventur- 
ers, army  camp-followers,  schemers,  and 
shyster  lawyers  have  of  course  not  been 
held  back  by  any  such  considerations. 
With  no  desire  to  belittle  the  few  who 
are  honestly  seeking  a  foothold  there, 
and  who  do  us  credit,  it  is  nevertheless 
true  —  could  not,  in  fact,  be  otherwise 
under  the  circumstances  —  that  the  great 
bulk  of  Philippine  business  remains  in 
the  hands  of  the  Spanish,  British,  and 
other  European  firms.  Some  American 
firms  there,  which  rejoice  in  high-sound- 
ing names  as  commercial  companies, 
have  headquarters  greatly  resembling 
"  sample  rooms,"  and  their  stock,  other 
than  liquid  goods,  is  largely  carried  in 


catalogues.  Beer-agents  often  "roll 
high  "  in  Manila,  and  assume  a  dignity 
and  importance  as  "  captains  of  indus- 
try "  that  would  merely  be  amusing  were 
it  not  that  newspapers  backed  by  them 
and  others  of  like  faith  pose  before  the 
natives  as  representative  of  Americans 
and  American  sentiment.  They  furnish 
the  Spanish  journalists  of  Manila,  who, 
almost  without  exception,  are  eager  to  do 
us  mischief,  with  many  a  text  for  insinu- 
ating columns  about  "  exploitation,"  the 
fear  of  which  is  very  present  with  the 
Filipino. 

Loud  talk  of  patriotism  and  the  flag 
characterizes  this  element,  and  the  motto 
"  America  for  Americans  "  also  signifies 
to  them  "the  Philippines  for  Americans." 
Quite  naturally,  a  policy  which  consults 
principally  the  interests  of  the  Filipinos 
is  not  to  their  liking.  This  is  the  real 
reason  for  the  attacks  on  Senors  Tavera 
and  Legarda,  two  of  the  three  Filipinos 
who  were  added  to  the  Philippine  Com- 
mission in  September  last,  these  calum- 
niations being  based  on  the  charges  of 
a  Spanish  journalist  since  convicted  of 
libel.  Commissioner  Luzuriaga  has  so 
far  escaped  the  mud-slinging,  as  he  was 
drafted  into  service  from  Negros,  and 
had  not  been  entangled  in  affairs  at  the 
capital. 

Attacks  on  the  natives  constantly 
grew  in  bitterness  last  fall.  The  mas- 
sacre in  Sa"mar  afforded  excuse  for  all 
sorts  of  rumors  and  even  circumstantial 
accusations  of  revolts  in  Manila  itself, 
in  its  environs,  and  in  some  of  the  paci- 
fied provinces.  Sometimes  these  were 
merely  the  product  of  reportorial  inven- 
tion and  lack  of  copy ;  in  other  cases, 
they  could  be  traced  to  an  attack  of 
hysteria  on  the  part  of  some  army  or 
constabulary  subordinate.  A  fearful 
"  Katipunan  rising  "  in  Tarlac,  which 
occupied  Manila  papers  for  several  days, 
and  which  reached  the  United  States  as 
dignified  cable  news,  resolved  itself  upon 
investigation  into  a  lovers'  quarrel.  A 
Filipino  maiden  whose  favors  had  been 


106 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


transferred  to  an  American  sergeant  was 
called  to  account  by  her  former  lover,  a 
native,  and  she  denounced  him  to  the  ser- 
geant as  connected  with  a  big  revolt.  Ar- 
rests were  prompt,  and  the  story  grew  in 
size  and  details  every  mile  of  the  way  to 
Manila. 

The  meetings  of  the  Federal  party  in 
Manila  for  the  purpose  of  drawing  up 
a  petition  to  Congress  were  at  times 
amusingly  turbulent,  but  they  were 
grossly  misreported  with  a  view  to  com- 
ment on  the  ridiculousness  of  conferring 
any  degree  of  self-government  upon  the 
Filipinos.  A  press  but  lately  freed  from 
the  censorship  of  an  army  officer  began 
to  cry  for  the  restoration  of  military 
government  and  a  "  thorough  "  policy, 
by  which,  apparently,  they  meant  a  pol- 
icy of  extermination.  Typical  of  these 
almost  daily  outbreaks  are  these  quota- 
tions from  a  Manila  Freedom  editorial 
of  last  October :  — 

"  Every  Filipino  is  an  insurgent  at 
heart,  and  every  Filipino  hates  the 
Americans  if  the  truth  was  known. 
They  take  our  money,  and  they  smile 
to  our  faces,  but  in  their  hearts  they 
have  no  use  for  us  or  our  government. 
Incapable  of  gratitude,  they  view  our 
generosity  in  the  light  of  a  weakness, 
and  at  the  first  favorable  moment  be- 
tray the  trust  reposed  in  them.  We 
deny  that  there  are  Filipinos  who  favor 
us,  or  who  appreciate  what  we  have  done 
or  wish  to  do  for  them." 

The  Spanish  editors  always  see  to  it 
that  the  reading  Filipinos  do  not  miss 
such  things  for  want  of  a  translation. 
They  have  inspired  frequent  indignant 
protests  from  the  Filipino  press  and  the 
demand  that  loyalty  be  met  with  loyal- 
ty. These  instances  may  help  to  shed 
light  on  the  passage  of  the  libel  and  se- 
dition laws  in  Manila.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  there  is  no  such  organ- 
ized public  opinion  to  deal  with  newspa- 
per extravagances  in  the  Philippines  as 
with  us  at  home,  while  these  American 
papers  are  taken  much  more  seriously 


by  the  Filipinos  than  by  Americans.  As 
bearing  on  the  reason  for  enacting  a  se- 
dition law,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  Phil- 
ippine government  has  invoked  this  law 
so  far  only  against  American  editors  in 
Manila.  In  the  month  of  March  last, 
vituperation  of  the  natives  on  the  part 
of  two  American  publications  exceeded 
even  anything  said  last  fall. 

Race  prejudice,  like  any  other  preju- 
dice, cannot,  simply  as  such,  be  logically 
explained.  Even  its  defenders  admit 
this  when  they  appeal  to  "  an  innate 
sense  of  superiority,"  or  preach  of  "  the 
limits  assigned  by  God  to  the  different 
tribes  of  men."  Gentlemen  who  would 
scorn  to  admit  being  bound  to  the  an- 
cient and  outgrown  Jewish  system  of 
political  philosophy  are  often  very  glib 
with  such  phrases.  But  when  race  pre- 
judice descends  from  its  pedestal  of  su- 
pernaturalism  and  seeks  to  -justify  itself 
by  human  argument,  it  subjects  itself  to 
ordinary  rules  of  logic. 

Attacks  on  the  character  of  the  native 
are  usually  made  the  basis  of  the  white 
man's  plea  in  the  Philippines.  For  this 
purpose  the  natives  are  all  treated  as 
identical  in  kind  and  character,  grouped 
into  one,  as  it  were.  Upon  such  a  hy- 
pothesis one  can  argue  that,  because 
one  native  known  to  him  was  deficient 
morally  and  seemed  incapable  mentally, 
therefore  the  Filipinos  are  a  dishonest 
and  inefficient  race.  But  thus  baldly 
stated,  the  proposition  seems  too  ridicu- 
lous to  emanate  from  any  educated  per- 
son ;  yet  it  is  remarkable  how  common- 
ly it  is  set  forth  by  persons  who  consider 
themselves  very  well  educated.  We  all 
know  how  indignant  we  become  when  a 
European  writer  of  short  experience 
among  us  proceeds  to  cut  one  suit  of 
clothes  to  fit  us  all ;  yet  the  Filipinos 
are  hardly  a  more  homogeneous  people 
than  we,  and  there  are  just  as  strongly 
marked  individual  types  in  the  East  as 
in  the  West. 

I  do  not  seek  to  gloss  over  Filipino 
defects.  No  one  who  knows  them  as 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


107 


they  really  are  to-day  will  undertake  the 
t'ask  of  deification.  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  there  is  no  real  translation  into 
English  of  Rizal's  novels,  Noli  Me  Tan- 
gere  and  El  Filibusterismo.  The  idea 
is  prevalent  that  Rizal  was  a  political 
revolutionist.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
primary  object  of  his  books  was  to  ex- 
hibit to  his  own  countrymen  their  short- 
comings. No  such  exposition  of  the 
character  and  conditions  of  the  Filipi- 
nos, truthful  yet  sympathetic,  can  be  ob- 
tained elsewhere. 

Though  awake  to  their  failings,  yet 
Rizal,  from  the  heights  of  his  German 
university  training  and  his  contact  with 
European  civilization,  did  not  look  down 
on  his  people  as  "savages  with  a  thin 
veneer  of  civilization,"  as  one  of  our 
Congressmen  very  considerately  pro- 
nounced them  to  be  to  their  faces.  A  pro- 
duct of  wider  opportunities  himself,  Ri- 
zal believed  in  wider  opportunities  for 
all  his  countrymen.  The  "  savages " 
contention  has  had  of  late  some  very 
ardent  advocates  among  the  Spanish 
friars,  though  the  early  missionaries  of 
the  very  orders  that  now  turn  and  rend 
the  Filipino  people  have  left  much  de- 
tailed testimony  to  show  that  their 
charges  were  by  no  means  savages  when 
the  Spaniards  first  came  that  way.  To  get 
at  the  truth  as  to  the  state  of  civilization 
of  the  Filipinos  at  the  time  of  the  Span- 
ish conquest  one  must  carefully  weigh' 
the  evidences  of  an  accumulation  of 
mainly  useless  and  unreliable  documents, 
and  the  history  of  the  Philippines  has 
yet  to  be  written  in  the  modern  spirit ; 
but  it  is  sufficient  for  this  discussion  to 
say  that  there  is  no  place  for  the  notion 
that  the  Filipinos  are  savages  held  in 
check  by  religious  awe  and  superstition. 
Here,  as  throughout  the  discussion,  no 
reference  is  had  to  the  Moros,  the  Indo- 
nesian hill  tribes  of  Mindanao,  or  the 
mountain  wild  people  of  Luzdn  and  a 
few  other  islands.  The  Negritos  remain- 
ing are  a  negligible  quantity. 

There  are  cruelty  and  indifference  to 


suffering,  often  to  a  shocking  degree. 
These  are  due  to  an  ever  present  fatalism, 
which  the  little  real  religious  teaching 
the  people  have  received  has  built  upon 
rather  than  sought  to  eliminate,  and  to 
the  absolute  lack  of  an  appeal  to,  or  of 
an  attempt  to  educate,  higher  feelings. 
If  it  is  to  be  assumed  at  the  outset  that 
these  people  are  forever  incapable  of 
such  higher  feelings,  then  it  ought  also 
to  have  been  assumed  that  they  were  in- 
capable of  Christianity.  Water  torture, 
which  has  in  some  cases  been  resorted  to 
on  our  side,  is  one  of  the  forms  of  torture 
to  which  these  people  are  accustomed. 
The  list  of  victims  buried  alive  by  order 
of  guerrilla  chiefs,  the  maiming,  mutila- 
tions, and  secret  assassinations  certainly 
make  up  an  appalling  and  shocking  chap- 
ter. War  stirs  up  the  darkest  passions 
among  the  most  advanced  peoples,  how- 
ever, and  it  was  in  a  degree  to  be  ex- 
pected that  a  people  untrained  in  modern 
international  usages,  and  never  in  the 
past  treated  as  though  they  belonged  to 
the  brotherhood  of  man,  or  were  respon- 
sible to  humanity  for  humaneness,  would 
not  exhibit  an  entirely  refined  code  of 
slaying.  The  "  ethics  of  warfare,"  —  af- 
ter all,  is  that  not  a  rather  paradoxical 
phrase  ? 

That  instances  of  real  brutality  on  the 
part  of  our  troops  have  been  the  excep- 
tion has  been  stated  to  be  the  opinion  of 
the  writer.  On  the  confession  of  the  of- 
ficer who  conducted  it,  the  campaign  in 
the  island  of  Sa"mar  from  October  to 
March  last  must  be  excepted  from  this 
general  statement.  He  has  met  the 
charge  of  violating  the  rules  of  civilized 
warfare  with  the  counter-charge  that  the 
people  of  S£mar  are  savages,  and  that  it 
was  necessary  to  suspend  many  of  these 
rules  in  order  to  restore  peace  and  quiet 
to  that  part  of  the  archipelago.  By  in- 
ference, it  then  became  a  war  of  exter- 
mination till  one  side  or  the  other  should 
cry  quits.  It  is  hard  to  deal  with  this 
matter  as  yet  in  a  strictly  impartial 
spirit,  and  full  knowledge  is  one  of  the 


108 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


first  requisites.  One  thing  can  at  least 
be  asserted,  namely,  that  the  classification 
of  all  the  people  of  Sdmar  in  one  lump 
as  savages  will  bear  close  scrutiny.  How 
differentiate  the  bulk  of  them,  living  in 
Christianized  towns  on  the  coasts  or  up 
some  of  the  more  important  rivers,  from 
their  close  neighbors  and  kinsmen  in  the 
island  of  Leyte  ?  The  rough  and  moun- 
tainous character  of  much  of  the  interior 
of  Sdmar,  with  its  primitive  wild  people 
and  a  proportion  of  "  Kemontados  "  (as 
the  friars  denominated  those  who  refused 
Christianity,  who  became  fugitives  from 
the  law,  or  who,  for  other  reasons,  "  re- 
mounted "  the  hills),  must,  of  course,  be 
taken  into  account.  But  the  people  of 
the  towns  were,  at  least  in  the  main, 
those  who  were  engaged  against  us.  The 
statement  that  the  Spanish  friars  and  offi- 
cials never  got  any  foothold  in  Samaras 
utterly  without  foundation,  while  yet 
their  failure  to  penetrate  the  interior  has 
been  noted. 

This  much  may  be  said  with  certitude 
of  the  S^mar  campaign  of  General  Jacob 
Smith :  The  expeditions  which  went 
down  there  from  Manila,  on  the  heels  of 
the  Balangiga  massacre,  went  in  a  spirit 
of  revenge.  No  one  who  appreciated 
how  that  massacre  caused  those  in  all 
the  islands  who  wished  us  ill  to  exult  and 
to  lift  their  heads  again  will  underesti- 
mate the  importance  of  having  just  retri- 
bution dealt  promptly  to  the  offenders  ; 
but  to  make  no  distinction  between 
friend  and  foe,  and  to  voice  the  cry  of 
blood  for  blood's  sake,  —  "  an  eye  for  an 
eye,"  not  discriminating  whose,  —  was 
to  lower  ourselves  to  the  plane  of  those 
wretches  who  treacherously  slew  our  men 
at  Balangiga.  The  writer  has  not  the 
first-hand  knowledge  to  enable  him  to  as- 
sert that  indiscriminate  slaughtering  took 
place  in  S£mar  ;  but  he  was  assured  by 
the  representative  of  one  of  our  leading 
newspapers,  who  was  there  during  Oc- 
tober and  November,  that  there  was  "  no 
regard  for  friend  or  foe,"  and  he  remem- 
bers the  unofficial  statements  in  Manila 


papers  of  those  months  that  the  orders 
were  out  to  "  take  no  prisoners  "  and 
to  "  spare  only  women  and  children," 
while  the  recrudescence  at  that  time  of 
native  hatred  in  Manila  and  throughout 
the  islands  has  been  noted  above.  The 
people  of  Leyte,  neighboring  island  to 
Sa"mar,  and  the  officers  of  Leyte's  civil 
provincial  government,  both  Americans 
and  Filipinos,  were  sorely  tried  at  the 
time  by  the  arbitrary  actions  of  General 
Smith  and  the  men  under  him.  All  na- 
tives came  in  for  condemnation  just  then, 
and  officers  of  the  American  army  be- 
haved in  peaceful  Leyte  in  most  lawless 
disregard  of  law  established  by  authority 
of  the  President,  their  commander  in 
chief. 

For  General  Smith,  it  can  at  least  be 
said  that  he  was  logical.  The  Ssirnar 
campaign  represents  the  military  view 
of  the  natives  and  the  military  theory  as 
to  rule  over  them  carried  to  their  legiti- 
mate extreme.  Yet,  again  it  must  be 
said  that  this  campaign  is  to  be  treated 
by  itself,  and  the  belief  reiterated  that,  on 
the  whole,  inhumane  conduct  has  been 
the  exception.  No  one  who  knows  the 
two  men,  or  the  circumstances  of  the 
campaigns,  will  think  of  putting  General 
James  F.  Bell's  reconcentration  and 
similar  measures  in  Batangas  and  Lagu- 
na  side  by  side  with  the  conduct  of  af- 
fairs in  Sa"mar. 

This  digression  as  to  matters  of  recent 
controversy  will  have  been  worth  while 
if  it  shall  serve  to  induce  to  a  saner  con- 
sideration of  army  conduct  in  the  islands, 
and  if  it  shall  also  emphasize  the  fact 
that  the  generally  contemptuous  attitude 
of  army  men  and  other  Americans  to- 
ward the  natives  —  that  feeling  which 
gives  itself  vent  in  the  term  "  niggers  " 
—  is  what  does  us  greatest  harm.  The 
Filipinos  have  grown,  by  hard  experi- 
ence, somewhat  callous  to  measures  that 
seem  to  us  extreme,  if  not  actually 
brutal.  We  do  not  make  enemies  for 
ourselves  half  so  much  by  the  occasional 
administration  of  the  water  cure  or  other 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


109 


forms  of  torture  and  barbarity  as  by  a 
studied  attitude  of  contempt,  an  assump- 
tion of  racial  and  individual  superiority, 
and  the  constant  disregard  of  their  petty 
personal  rights  and  of  the  little  amenities 
which  count  for  so  much  with  them. 
Nor  is  it  true  that  the  water  cure  has 
been  very  commonly  applied,  nor  that 
our  officers  and  men  are,  as  a  body,  given 
to  that  sort  of  thing.  The  recent  riot  of 
exaggeration  was  regrettable,  in  this : 
that  it  has  tended  to  produce  a  reaction, 
to  lead  people  to  feel  that  it  was  all,  not 
partly,  partisan  hue  and  cry,  and  thus  to 
make  easier  a  "  whitewash  "  of  those 
particular  men  who  need  punishment, 
wherever,  in  the  circles  of  their  fellow 
subordinate  officers,  there  may  be  a  dis- 
position to  whitewash. 

Lack  of  capacity  to  develop  mentally 
is  a  frequent  charge  against  the  Fili- 
pinos. It  is  forever  put  forward  by  friar 
writers  ;  one  comes  to  believe  finally  that 
this  is  to  excuse  the  failure  to  advance 
the  natives  further.  Just  how  deficient 
the  past  education  of  the  Filipinos  has 
been,  just  how  narrow  and  mediaeval  has 
been  the  atmosphere  of  thought,  one  can- 
not realize  until  he  has  come  into  direct 
contact  with  its  evidences.  Often  the 
best  educated  Filipinos  cannotthemselves 
realize  it.  The  fact  is,  no  one  has  the 
right  gratuitously  to  assume  that  the 
Filipino  is  purely  imitative,  that  he  lacks 
the  logical,  mathematical  qualities  of 
mind,  and  that,  while  bright  when  young, 
he  soon  reaches  his  limit  and  can  go  no 
farther.  He  is  entitled  to  an  honest 
trial,  and  the  entire  deficiency  of  past  in- 
struction is  summed  up  when  it  is  said 
that  he  has  never  yet  had  it.  Pending 
a  thorough  trial  of  the  new  system  of 
education,  beginning,  as  it  does,  at  the 
bottom  and  working  up  gradually,  no 
one  has  the  right  to  be  positive  as  to  the 
capacity  or  incapacity  of  the  Filipino.  I 
have  in  mind  one  Filipino  who,  though 
in  other  lines  exhibiting  perfectly  his 
Manila  college  training  in  circumlocu- 
tion and  scholastic  chop-logic,  will,  on 


economic  matters  within  his  scope,  rea- 
son as  closely  and  with  as  great  a  devo- 
tion to  practical  examples  as  any  devotee 
of  the  research  method.  He  certainly 
never  got  this  quality  from  his  training. 
In  fact,  real  acquaintance  with  Filipinos 
and  frank  exchange  of  sentiments  will 
correct  various  preconceived  notions.  It 
is  frequently  asserted,  for  instance,  that 
the  Tagalog  has  no  sense  of  humor ; 
quite  the  reverse  is  true. 

We  should  also  be  honest  with  the 
Filipino  in  the  matter  of  laziness.  Ameri- 
can "  get-up-and-get  "  is  not  the  product 
of  life  in  the  tropics,  and  to  a  consider- 
able extent  is  not  compatible  with  it. 
But,  before  American  contractors  are  al- 
lowed to  flood  the  islands  with  contract 
coolie  labor,  the  Filipino  has  a  right  to 
a  fair  trial,  and  such  a  fair  trial  will  in- 
volve a  considerable  number  of  years. 
Development  of  the  country  may  not  be 
quite  so  rapid,  but  it  will  proceed  on  a 
sounder  basis  if  the  rights  of  its  people 
to  the  first  share  in  it  are  consulted.  In 
fact,  the  success  of  our  political  venture 
in  the  Philippines  depends  in  large  mea- 
sure on  the  extent  to  which  we  can  arouse 
in  the  people  a  desire  for  better  homes, 
better  towns,  and  better  surroundings. 
There  are  evidences  that,  as  he  awakened 
to  European  civilization,  the  Filipino  did 
not  settle  back  idle  wholly  through  the 
lack  of  a  desire  for  greater  comforts  and 
conveniences,  but  in  part  at  least  because 
of  the  all  but  hopelessness  of  an  effort  to 
rise  above  a  certain  place  in  the  hard 
and  fast  industrial  society  the  Spaniards 
found  and  continued.  So  far  higher 
wages  in  Manila  have  generally  meant 
patent  leathers  and  diamonds,  but  even 
that  is  encouraging.  Perhaps,  too,  we 
shall  learn  some  things  to  our  advantage 
from  the  Filipino.  Ordinarily  our  su- 
perior in  courtesy,  something  for  which 
many  Americans  have  not  the  time,  why 
may  he  not  inspire  in  us  a  greater  re- 
spect for  repose,  dignity,  and  lack  of 
nervousness  while  we  are  arousing  him 
to  a  rather  more  strenuous  existence  ? 


110 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


Filth  and  unsanitary  ways  of  living, 
again,  are  urged  against  the  Filipinos. 
They  are  certainly  not  unclean  by  na- 
ture, as  the  daily  bath  and  the  scrupu- 
lously white  clothes  testify.  Ignorance 
of  the  most  primary  hygienic  principles 
is,  however,  nearly  universal.  It  will  be 
recalled  that  the  Spaniards,  so  far  be- 
hind in  this  respect,  could  give  them  lit- 
tle modern  teaching  or  example.  The 
general  character  of  the  education  at  the 
friar-conducted  college  in  Manila,  which 
turned  out  practically  all  the  physicians 
in  the  Philippines,  may  be  inferred  from 
such  facts  as  that  its  text  -  books  and 
library  in  important  subjects  date  back 
over  sixty  years,  that  bacteriology  has 
been  introduced  only  within  the  past 
three  years,  and  there  are  no  microscopes. 
Female  cadavers  are  never  dissected, 
while  the  course  in  anatomy,  like  most 
of  the  others,  is  very  much  of  a  farce. 

Honest  differences  of  opinion  may  ex- 
ist as  to  the  points  already  discussed, 
but  there  can  be  no  honest  objection  to 
giving  the  Filipinos  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt  until  they  prove  themselves  unde- 
serving. Perhaps  no  public  utterance 
of  the  late  President  has  received  less 
general  attention  than  his  instructions 
of  April  7,  1900,  to  the  present  Philip- 
pine Commission.  Yet,  as  time  goes  by, 
it  will  not  be  strange  if  the  fame  of  Wil- 
liam McKinley  shall  rest  mainly  on  that 
document,  whether  penned  by  him  or 
penned  by  Secretary  Root  and  author- 
ized by  him.  In  it  he  said :  — 

"  In  all  forms  of  government  and  ad- 
ministrative provisions  which  they  are 
authorized  to  prescribe,  the  Commission 
should  bear  in  mind  that  the  government 
which  they  are  establishing  is  designed 
not  for  our  satisfaction  or  for  the  ex- 
pression of  our  theoretical  views,  but  for 
the  happiness,  peace,  and  prosperity  of 
the  people  of  the  Philippine  Islands,  and 
the  measures  adopted  should  be  made  to 
conform  to  their  customs,  their  habits, 
and  even  their  prejudices,  to  the  fullest 
extent  consistent  with  the  accomplish- 


ment of  the  indispensable  requisites  of 
just  and  effective  government." 

And  again  :  "  Upon  all  officers  and 
employees  of  the  United  States,  both 
civil  and  military,  should  be  impressed 
a  sense  of  duty  to  observe  not  merely  the 
material  but  the  personal  and  social 
rights  of  the  people  of  the  islands,  and 
to  treat  them  with  the  same  courtesy 
and  respect  for  their  personal  dignity 
which  the  people  of  the  United  States 
are  accustomed  to  require  from  each 
other." 

These  instructions  are  based  on  the  be- 
lief that  it  is  not  the  white  man  alone  who 
possesses  "  certain  inalienable  rights." 
Science  has  progressed  far  since  the  hu- 
man rights  movement  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  But  it  has  not  reached  its 
final  postulates,  and  it  is  still  somewhat 
safer  to  follow  the  promptings  of  hu- 
manity than  some  of  the  over-positive 
dicta  of  the  science  of  man.  Like  politi- 
cal economy  and  other  non-absolute  sci- 
ences, ethnology  suffers  from  a  present 
tendency  to  employ  the  evolutionary 
method  of  reasoning  in  a  one-sided  fash- 
ion. Heredity  is  invoked  wherever  pos- 
sible, and  environment  considered  only 
where  it  cannot  be  overlooked.  If  the 
equality  of  man  was  often  preached  in 
fantastic  or  Utopian  form  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  so  has 
the  inequality  of  man  met  with  a  most 
superficial  extension  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  Ethnology  and 
anthropology  are  sciences  yet  too  young 
and  undeveloped  to  justify  very  positive 
assertions  being  based  on  them.  More- 
over, if  any  one  great  truth  has  been 
made  evident  by  them,  it  is  this,  that 
man  has  in  all  ages  been  wonderfully 
responsive  to  his  surroundings,  that  he 
is  to  a  remarkable  degree  the  product 
of  his  environment.  Physically,  men, 
of  all  colors,  the  world  over,  are  of  one 
species ;  in  psychic  equipment,  in  all 
that  goes  to  make  up  social  life,  the  va- 
rious divisions  of  men  often  present  dif- 
ferences as  great  as  the  physical  differ- 


Race  Prejudice  in  the  Philippines. 


Ill 


ences  on  which  genera  or  even  fami- 
lies are  outlined  among  other  animals. 
Evolutionary  science  developed  its  pro- 
cesses in  connection  with  facts  and  fea- 
tures essentially  physical  ;  entrancing 
as  the  results  may  be,  is  it  necessarily 
certain  that  these  processes  should  be 
applied  literally  and  in  detail  to  phe- 
nomena of  other  sorts  ? 

It  is  wearisome  to  note  how  uniformly 
writers  on  the  peoples  of  the  Orient  as- 
sume that  they  are  inherently  different 
from  us  in  every  respect,  —  that  the  ordi- 
nary Western  ways  of  reasoning  have  no 
place  in  the  East,  must  in  fact  be  re- 
versed. The  familiar  saying  that  the 
Chinese  do  everything  backward  is  in 
point.  Now,  John  seems  to  me  one  of 
the  most  unsparingly  logical  human  be- 
ings in  the  world.  Kipling's  jingles  are 
responsible  for  much  of  that  feeling  that 
the  Oriental  is  a  wholly  mysterious  be- 
ing, not  given  to  be  understood  by  other 
men,  a  curious  psychological  phenome- 
non. "Half -devil  and  half -child"  comes 
trippingly  to  the  tongue  of  many  Ameri- 
cans in  the  Philippines,  and  their  phi- 
losophy of  the  Filipino  is  thus  summed 
up  for  them  before  their  study  of  him 
has  ever  begun.  What  is  less  creditable, 
the  same  stock  theory  and  a  few  facts, 
more  or  less,  constitute  the  equipment  of 
various  university  economists  and  world 
problem  specialists. 

The  writer  can  lay  no  claim  to  world 
specialism  or  globe  trotting,  but  he  has 
been  more  than  anything  else  impressed 
with  the  feeling  that,  after  all,  the  differ- 
ences in  the  races  of  men  are  much  fewer 
and  less  important  than  their  points  of  re- 
semblance. Great  and  sometimes  amaz- 
ing as  are  the  former  at  times,  they  strike 
our  notice  first,  while  the  impression  that 
lingers  with  us  is  the  unity  of  man. 

More  important  than  the  theories,  sci- 
entific or  unscientific,  are  the  practical 
political  problems  facing  us,  a  nation  to 
whose  one  long-standing  and  yet  unset- 
tled race  problem  have  now  been  added 
others.  The  Atlantic's  editor  has  al- 


ready noted  that  one  of  the  first  results 
of  our  new  venture  in  the  oceans  has 
been  the  complication  of  the  negro  ques- 
tion at  home  ;  so  likewise  our  failures 
wifch  the  black  people  in  the  United 
States  are  often  urged  against  us  among 
the  Filipinos,  and  "  lynch  law  "  is  held 
before  them  by  those  who  like  us  not. 
For  the  moment,  it  is  no  reproach  to 
preach  inequality,  and  more  or  less  open- 
ly pity  is  expressed  for  the  narrowness 
of  the  promulgators  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  Jefferson  had  no  in- 
kling of  the  evolutionary  theory,  it  is 
true ;  neither  had  the  laws  of  selection 
and  survival  been  stated  in  Christ's  time. 
But  the  divinely  human  love  he  incul- 
cated and  exemplified  met  with  a  real 
revival  in  the  crusade  for  equality  among 
men,  and  the  true  tenets  of  evolution 
have  to-day  no  higher  trend  than  this. 

The  fact  is,  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence is  acquiring  with  time  a  range 
of  truth  uncomprehended  by  its  authors, 
and  in  ways  incomprehensible  to  their 
times.  While,  on  the  one  side,  well- 
meaning  Americans  are  sure  that  we  are 
engaged  in  swashbuckler  imperialism, 
our  British  critics,  whom  we  have  always 
with  us,  are  equally  confident  of  our  fail- 
ure through  undue  idealism.  One  of 
these  has  just  finished  cautioning  us  that 
we  must  not  attempt  any  "  Jeffersonian- 
ideals  "  foolishness  in  the  Philippines, 
and  advises  us  to  pattern  after  the  Brit- 
ish in  the  Straits  Settlements.  The  peo- 
ple of  the  latter  are  strictly  comparable 
to  the  Moros,  but  not  at  all  to  the  civil- 
ized Filipinos.  In  a  book  just  published, 
another  British  writer,  one  of  the  few 
who  have  been  on  the  ground  and  know 
what  is  really  going  on  in  the  Philip- 
pines, has  recognized  that  we  are  at- 
tempting there  something  new  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  and,  despite  a  cock- 
sureness  as  to  the  superiority  of  British 
methods  that  will  crop  out,  has  thought 
best  to  reserve  judgment.  But  he  is  an 
exception  ;  his  fellow  countrymen  in  the 
Orient  are  laughing  in  their  sleeves  at 


112 


Walter  Pater. 


the  simple  Americans  who  believe  that 
self-government  can  exist  in  that  atmos- 
phere. Even  to  call  into  question  the 
validity  of  the  theory  that  some  men  are 
made  to  rule  and  some  to  obey  is  to  jar 
most  inconsiderately  the  complacency  of 
those  men  who  have  landed  on  the  ruling 
side. 

The  answer  to  the  fearsome  at  home 
is  that,  when  they  doubt  our  doing  jus- 
tice in  the  Philippines,  they  themselves 
call  into  question  government  by  the  peo- 
ple. The  answer  to  our  outside  critics 
can  only  be  given  by  time.  It  surely  is 
no  sin  to  hope  and  believe  that  the  Ori- 


ent is  not  impermeable  to  progress  ;  and 
it  surely  is  better  to  strive  to  that  end 
until  it  is  proved  to  be  an  impossible  one, 
if  it  shall  be  so  proved.  As  for  our  pre- 
judices, may  we  not  learn  to  shed  them 
as  we  mingle  more  with  the  men  of  the 
world  and  think  less  of  our  cherished 
isolation  ?  For  the  way  to  a  broader  so- 
cial vision  and  a  truer  and  nobler  Chris- 
tianity —  real  humanity  —  lies  through 
experience  of  our  own  limitations,  hear- 
ing our  shortcomings  from  the  tongues 
of  other  peoples,  acquiring  charity  in  the 
stress  of  temptation,  knowing  our  fellows 
on  the  earth. 

James  A.  LeEoy. 


WALTER  PATER. 


LET  us  imagine  to  ourselves  a  boy  born 
some  ten  years  before  the  middle  of  the 
last  century,  of  a  family  originally  Dutch, 
a  family  with  the  home-loving,  reserved 
temper  of  the  Dutch,  and  that  slow-mov- 
ing mind  of  Holland  which  attaches  it- 
self so  closely,  so  intimately  to  things 
real  and  concrete,  not  tempted  away  from 
As  beloved  interiors  and  limited  prospects 
by  any  glories  of  mountain  heights  or 
wide-spreading  and  radiant  horizons ;  a 
family  settled  for  long  in  the  low-lying, 
slow-moving  Olney  of  Buckinghamshire, 
—  Cowper's  Olney,  which  we  see  in  the 
delicate  vignettes  of  The  Task,  and  in 
the  delightful  letters,  skilled  in  making 
so  much  out  of  so  little,  of  the  half-play- 
ful, half-pathetic  correspondent  of  John 
Newton  and  Lady  Hesketh.  Dutch,  but 
of  mingled  strains  in  matters  of  reli- 
gion, the  sons,  we  are  told,  always,  until 
the  tradition  was  broken  in  the  case  of 
Walter  Pater,  brought  up  as  Roman 
Catholics,  the  daughters  as  members  of 
the  Anglican  communion.  Walter  Pa- 
ter's father  had  moved  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  and  it  was  at  Enfield, 
where  Lamb,  about  whom  the  critic  has 


written  with  penetrating  sympathy, 
Lamb  and  his  sister  Mary,  had  lately 
dwelt,  that  Pater  spent  his  boyhood. 
"  Not  precocious,"  writes  his  friend  of 
later  years,  Mr.  Grosse,  "  he  was  always 
meditative  and  serious."  Yes,  we  can- 
not think  of  him  at  any  time  as  other 
than  serious  ;  withdrawn  from  the  bois- 
terous sports  of  boyhood  ;  fed  through 
little  things  by  the  sentiment  of  home,  — 
that  sentiment  which  was  nourished  in 
Marius  at  White  Nights  by  the  duteous 
observances  of  the  religion  of  Numa  ;  in 
Gaston  at  the  Chateau  of  Deux-Manoirs 
with  its  immemorial  associations  and  its 
traditional  Catholic  pieties  ;  in  Emerald 
Uthwart  at  Chase  Lodge,  with  its  per- 
fumes of  sweet  peas,  the  neighboring 
fields  so  green  and  velvety,  and  the  church 
where  the  ancient  buried  Uthwarts  slept, 
that  home  to  which  Emerald  came  back 
to  die,  a  broken  man  ;  in  Florian  Deleal 
by  "  the  old  house,"  its  old  staircase, 
its  old  furniture,  its  shadowy  angles,  its 
swallow's  nest  below  the  sill,  its  brown 
and  golden  wall-flowers,  its  pear  tree  in 
springtime,  and  the  scent  of  lime-flowers 
floating  in  at  the  open  window. 


Walter  Pater. 


113 


And  with  this  nesting  sense  of  home 
there  comes  to  the  boy  from  neighbor- 
ing London,  from  rumors  of  the  outer 
world,  from  the  face  of  some  sad  way- 
farer on  the  road,  an  apprehension  of 
the  sorrow  of  the  world,  and  the  tears 
in  mortal  things,  which  disturbs  him 
and  must  mingle  henceforth  with  all  his 
thoughts  and  dreams.  He  is  recognized 
as  "the  clever  one  of  the  family,"  but  it 
is  not  a  vivacious  cleverness,  not  a  con- 
tentious power  of  intellect,  rather  a  shy, 
brooding  faculty,  slow  to  break  its  sheath, 
and  expand  into  a  blossom,  a  faculty  of 
gradual  and  exact  receptiveness,  and  one 
of  which  the  eye  is  the  special  organ. 
This,  indeed,  is  a  central  fact  to  remem- 
ber. If  Pater  is  a  seeker  for  truth,  he 
must  seek  for  it  with  the  eye,  and  with 
the  imagination  penetrating  its  way 
through  things  visible  ;  or  if  truth  comes 
to  him  in  any  other  way,  he  must  project 
the  truth  into  color  and  form,  since  other- 
wise it  remains  for  him  cold,  loveless, 
and  a  tyranny  of  the  intellect,  like  that 
which  oppressed  and  almost  crushed  out 
of  existence  his  Sebastian  van  Storck. 
We  may  turn  elsewhere  to  read  of  "  the 
conduct  of  the  understanding."  We 
learn  much  from  Pater  concerning  the 
conduct  of  the  eye.  Whatever  his  reli- 
gion may  hereafter  be,  it  cannot  be  that 
of  Puritanism,  which  makes  a  breach  be- 
tween the  visible  and  the  invisible.  It 
cannot  be  reached  by  purely  intellectual 
processes;  it  cannot  be  embodied  in  a 
creed  of  dogmatic  abstractions.  The 
blessing  which  he  may  perhaps  obtain 
can  hardly  be  that  of  those  who  see  not 
and  yet  have  believed.  The  evidential 
value  of  a  face  made  bright  by  some  in- 
ner joy  will  count  with  him  for  more  than 
any  syllogism  however  correct  in  its 
premises  and  conclusions.  A  life  made 
visibly  gracious  and  comely  will  testify 
to  him  of  some  hidden  truth  more  de- 
cisively than  any  supernatural  witnessing 
known  only  by  report.  If  he  is  im- 
pressed by  any  creed  it  will  be  by  virtue 
of  its  living  epistles,  known  and  read  of 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  8 


all  men.  He  will  be  occupied  during 
his  whole  life  with  a  study  not  of  ideas 
apart  from  their  concrete  embodiment, 
not  of  things  concrete  apart  from  their 
inward  significance,  but  with  a  study  of 
expression,  —  expression  as  seen  in  the 
countenance  of  external  nature,  expres- 
sion in  Greek  statue,  mediaeval  cathedral, 
Renaissance  altar-piece,  expression  in  the 
ritual  of  various  religions,  and  in  the 
visible  bearing  of  various  types  of  man- 
hood, in  various  exponents  of  tradition, 
of  thought,  and  of  faith. 

His  creed  may  partake  somewhat  of 
that  natural  or  human  Catholicism  of 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  which  reveals  the 
soul  in  things  of  sense,  which  is  indeed, 
as  Pater  regards  it,  a  kind  of  finer,  spir- 
itual sensuousness.  But  why  stop  where 
Wordsworth  stopped  in  his  earlier  days  ? 
Why  content  ourselves  with  expression 
as  seen  in  the  face  of  hillside  and  cloud 
and  stream,  and  the  acts  and  words  of 
simple  men,  through  whom  certain  primi- 
tive elementary  passions  play  ?  Why 
not  also  seek  to  discover  the  spirit  in 
sense  in  its  more  complex  and  subtler 
incarnations,  —  in  the  arts  and  crafts,  in 
the  shaping  of  a  vase,  the  lines  and 
colors  of  a  tapestry,  the  carving  of  a 
capital,  the  movements  of  a  celebrant  in 
the  rites  of  religion,  in  a  relief  of  Delia 
Robbia,  in  a  Venus  of  Botticelli,  in  the 
mysterious  Gioconda  of  Lionardo  ?  Set- 
ting aside  the  mere  dross  of  circum- 
stances in  human  life,  why  not  vivify  all 
amidst  which  we  live  and  move  by  trans- 
lating sense  into  spirit,  and  spirit  into 
sense,  thus  rendering  opaque  things  lumi- 
nous, so  that  if  no  pure  white  light  of 
truth  can  reach  us,  at  least  each  step  we 
tread  may  be  impregnated  with  the  stains 
and  dyes  of  those  colored  morsels  of 
glass,  so  deftly  arranged,  through  which 
such  light  as  we  are  able  to  endure  has 
its  access  to  our  eyes  ? 

If  such  thoughts  as  these  lay  in  Pater's 
mind  during  early  youth  they  lay  un- 
folded and  dormant.  But  we  can  hard- 
ly doubt  that  in  the  account  of  Emerald 


114 


Walter  Pater. 


Uth wart's  schooldays  he  is  interpreting 
with  full-grown  and  self-conscious  imagi- 
nation his  experiences  as  a  schoolboy  at 
Canterbury,  where  the  cathedral  was  the 
presiding  element  of  the  genius  loci  : 
"  If  at  home  there  had  been  nothing 
great,  here,  to  boyish  sense,  one  seems 
diminished  to  nothing  at  all,  amid  the 
grand  waves,  wave  upon  wave,  of  pa- 
tiently wrought  stone ;  the  daring  height, 
the  daring  severity,  of  the  innumerable 
long,  upward  ruled  lines,  rigidly  bent  just 
at  last  in  one  place  into  the  reserved 
grace  of  the  perfect  Gothic  arch." 
Happy  Emerald  Uthwart  in  those  early 
days,  and  happy  Walter  Pater  with  such 
noble,  though  as  yet  half-conscious,  dis- 
cipline in  the  conduct  of  the  eye !  If 
Pater  thought  of  a  profession,  the  mili- 
tary profession  of  his  imagined  Emerald 
would  have  been  the  last  to  commend  it- 
self to  his  feelings.  His  father  was  a 
physician,  but  science  had  no  call  for 
the  son's  intellect,  and  we  can  hardly 
imagine  him  as  an  enthusiastic  student  in 
the  school  of  anatomy.  He  felt  the  attrac- 
tions of  the  life  and  work  of  an  English 
clergyman,  and  when  a  little  boy,  Mr. 
Gosse  tells  us,  he  had  seen  the  benign 
face  of  Keble  during  a  visit  to  Hurs- 
ley,  and  had  welcomed  Keble's  paternal 
counsel  and  encouragement.  Had  Pater 
lived  some  years  longer  it  is  quite  possi- 
ble that  his  early  dream  might  have  been 
realized,  but  Oxford,  as  things  were,  dis- 
solved the  dream  of  Canterbury. 

Two  influences  stood  over  against  each 
other  in  the  Oxford  of  Pater's  under- 
graduate days.  There  was  the  High 
Church  movement,  with  which  the  name 
of  the  University  has  been  associated. 
The  spell  of  Newman's  personal  charm 
and  the  echoes  of  his  voice  in  the  pulpit 
of  St.  Mary's  were  not  yet  forgotten. 
The  High  Church  movement  had  made 
the  face  of  religion  more  outwardly  at- 
tractive to  such  a  spirit  as  Pater's  ;  there 
had  been  a  revival,  half  serious,  half 
dilettante,  of  ecclesiastical  art.  But  the 
High  Church  movement  was  essentially 


dogmatic ;  the  body  of  dogma  had  to 
some  extent  hardened  into  system,  and 
Pater's  mind  was  always  prone  to  regard 
systems  of  thought  —  philosophical  or 
theological  —  as  works  of  art,  to  be  ex- 
amined and  interpreted  by  the  historical 
imagination ;  from  which,  when  inter- 
preted aright,  something  might  be  re- 
tained, perhaps,  in  a  transposed  form, 
but  which  could  not  be  accepted  and 
made  one's  own  en  bloc.  On  the  other 
hand  there  was  a  stirring  critical  move- 
ment, opening  new  avenues  for  thought 
and  imagination,  promising  a  great  en- 
franchisement of  the  intellect,  and  claim- 
ing possession  of  the  future.  Jowett  was 
a  nearer  presence  now  at  Oxford  than 
Newman,  and  Pater  had  already  come 
under  the  influence  of  German  thinkers 
and  had  discovered  in  Goethe  —  greatest 
of  critics  —  a  master  of  the  mind.  Art, 
to  which  he  had  found  access  through 
the  Modern  Painters  of  an  illustrious 
Oxford  graduate,  had  passed  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  ecclesiastical  revival,  and, 
following  a  course  like  that  of  the  mediae- 
val drama,  was  rapidly  secularizing  it- 
self. We  see  the  process  at  work  in  the 
firm  of  which  William  Morris  was  the 
directing  manager,  at  first  so  much  oc- 
cupied with  church  decoration,  and  by 
and  by  extending  its  operations  to  the 
domestic  interiors  of  the  wealthier  lay- 
folk  of  England.  Pater's  dream  of  oc- 
cupying an  Anglo-Catholic  pulpit  re- 
shaped itself  into  the  dream  of  becoming 
an  Unitarian  minister,  and  by  degrees 
it  became  evident  that  the  only  pulpit 
which  he  could  occupy  was  that  of  the 
Essayist,  who  explores  for  truth,  and 
ends  his  research  not  without  a  sense 
of  insecurity  in  his  own  conclusions,  or 
rather  who  concludes  without  a  conclu- 
sion, and  is  content  to  be  fruitful  through 
manifold  suggestions. 

We  can  imagine  that  with  a  somewhat 
different  composition  of  the  forces  within 
him  Pater's  career  might  have  borne 
some  resemblance  to  that  of  Henri  Amiel, 
"  in  wandering  mazes  lost."  But  the 


Walter  Pater. 


115 


disputants  in  Amiel's  nature  were  more 
numerous  and  could  not  be  brought  to  a 
conciliation.  One  of  them  was  forever 
reaching  out  toward  the  indefinite,  which 
Amiel  called  the  infinite,  and  the  Maia 
of  the  Genevan  Buddhist  threw  him  back 
in  the  end  upon  a  world  of  ennui.  Pa- 
ter was  saved  by  a  certain  "  intellectual 
astringency,"  by  a  passion  for  the  con- 
crete, and  by  the  fact  that  he  lived 
much  in  and  through  the  eye.  He  had 
perhaps  learnt  from  Goethe  that  true  ex- 
pansion lies  in  limitation,  and  he  never 
appreciated  as  highly  as  did  Amiel  the 
poetry  of  fog.  His  boyish  faith,  such  as 
it  was,  had  lapsed  away.  How  was  he 
to  face  life  and  make  the  best  of  it  ? 
Something  at  least  could  be  gained  by 
truth  to  himself,  by  utter  integrity,  by 
living,  and  that  intensely,  in  his  best  self 
and  in  the  highest  moments  of  his  best 
self,  by  detaching  from  his  intellectual 
force,  as  he  says  of  Winckelmann,  all 
flaccid  interests.  If  there  was  in  him 
any  tendency  to  mystic  passion  and  re- 
ligious reverie  this  was  checked,  as  with 
his  own  Marius,  by  a  certain  virility  of 
intellect,  by  a  feeling  of  the  poetic  beau- 
ty of  mere  clearness  of  mind.  Is  no- 
thing permanent  ?  Are  all  things  melt- 
ing under  our  feet  ?  Well,  if  it  be  so, 
we  cannot  alter  the  fact.  But  we  need 
not  therefore  spend  our  few  moments  of 
life  in  listlessness.  If  all  is  passing  away, 
let  the  knowledge  of  this  be  a  stimulus 
toward  intenser  activity,  let  it  excite 
within  us  the  thirst  for  a  full  and  per- 
fect experience. 

And  remember  that  Pater's  special 
gift,  his  unique  power,  lay  in  the  eye  and 
in  the  imagination  using  the  eye  as  its 
organ.  He  could  not  disdain  the  things 
of  sense,  for  there  is  a  spirit  in  sense, 
and  mind  communes  with  mind  through 
color  and  through  form.  He  notes  in 
Marcus  Aurelius,  the  pattern  of  Stoical 
morality,  who  would  stand  above  and 
apart  from  the  world  of  the  senses,  not, 
after  all,  an  attainment  of  the  highest 
humanity,  but  a  mediocrity,  though  a 


mediocrity  for  once  really  golden.  He 
writes  of  Pascal  with  adequate  know- 
ledge and  with  deep  sympathy,  but  he 
qualifies  his  admiration  for  the  great 
friend  of  Jansenism  by  observing  that 
Pascal  had  little  sense  of  the  beauty  even 
of  holiness.  In  Pascal's  "  sombre,  trench- 
ant, precipitous  philosophy,"  and  his 
perverse  asceticism,  Pater  finds  evidence 
of  a  diseased  spirit,  a  morbid  tension  like 
that  of  insomnia.  Sebastian  van  Storck, 
with  the  warm  life  of  a  rich  Dutch  in- 
terior around  him,  and  all  the  play  of 
light  and  color  in  Dutch  art  to  enrich  his 
eye,  turns  away  to  seek  some  glacial 
Northwest  passage  to  the  lifeless,  color- 
less Absolute.  Spinoza  appears  to  Pa- 
ter not  as  a  God-intoxicated  man,  but  as 
climbing  to  the  barren  pinnacle  of  ego- 
istic intellect.  Such,  at  all  events,  could 
not  possibly  be  his  own  way.  There  is 
something  of  the  true  wisdom  of  humility 
in  modestly  remembering  that  we  are 
not  pure  intelligence,  pure  soul,  and  in 
accepting  the  aid  of  the  senses.  How 
reassuring  Marius  finds  it  to  be,  after 
assisting  at  a  long  debate  about  rival 
criteria  of  truth,  "  to  fall  back  upon  di- 
rect sensation,  to  limit  one's  aspiration 
after  knowledge  to  that."  To  live  in- 
tensely in  the  moment,  "  to  burn  with  a 
gemlike  flame,"  to  maintain  an  ecstasy, 
is  to  live  well,  with  the  gain,  at  least 
for  a  moment,  of  wisdom  and  of  joy. 
"  America  is  here  and  now  —  here  or 
nowhere,"  as  Wilhelm  Meister,  and,  after 
him,  Marius  the  Epicurean  discovered. 

There  is  no  hint  in  Pater's  first  vol- 
ume of  the  fortifying  thought  which  af- 
terwards came  to  him,  that  some  vast 
logic  of  change,  some  law  or  rhythm  of 
evolution,  may  underlie  all  that  is  transi- 
tory, all  the  pulsations  of  passing  mo- 
ments, and  may  bind  them  together  in 
some  hidden  harmony.  Looking  back 
on  the  period  of  what  he  calls  a  new 
Cyrenaicism,  he  saw  a  most  depressing 
theory  coming  in  contact,  in  his  own  case 
as  in  that  of  Marius,  with  a  happy  tem- 
perament, —  happy  though  subject  to 


116 


Walter  Pater. 


moods  of  deep  depression,  and  he  saw 
that  by  virtue  of  this  happy  temperament 
he  had  converted  his  loss  into  a  certain 
gain.  Assuredly  he  never  regarded  that 
view  of  life  which  is  expressed  in  the 
Conclusion  to  Studies  in  the  History  of 
the  Renaissance  as  mere  hedonism,  as 
a  mere  abandonment  to  the  lust  of  the 
eye,  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  and  the  pride 
of  life.  No  :  looking  back,  he  perceived 
that  his  aim  was  not  pleasure,  but  full- 
ness and  vividness  of  life,  a  perfection 
of  being,  an  intense  and,  as  far  as  may 
be,  a  complete  experience  ;  that  this  was 
not  to  be  attained  without  a  discipline, 
involving  some  severity ;  that  it  demand- 
ed a  strenuous  effort ;  that  here,  too,  the 
loins  must  be  girt  and  the  lamp  lit ;  that 
for  success  in  his  endeavor  he  needed 
before  all  else  true  insight,  and  that  in- 
sight will  not  come  by  any  easy  way,  or, 
as  we  say,  by  a  royal  road  ;  that  on  the 
contrary  it  must  be  sought  by  a  culture, 
which  may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  joyous, 
but  which  certainly  must  be  strict.  The 
precept  "  Be  perfect  in  regard  to  what 
is  here  and  now  "  is  one  which  may  be 
interpreted,  as  he  conceived  it,  into  lofty 
meanings.  A  conduct  of  the  intellect 
in  accordance  with  this  precept,  in  its 
rejection  of  many  things  which  bring 
with  them  facile  pleasures,  may  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  be  called  a  form  of  asceticism. 
The  eye  itself  must  be  purified  from  all 
grossness  and  dullness.  "  Such  a  man- 
ner of  life,"  writes  Pater  of  the  new 
Cyrenaicism  of  his  Marius,  "might  it- 
self even  come  to  seem  a  kind  of  re- 
ligion. .  .  .  The  true  '  aesthetic  culture ' 
would  be  realizable  as  a  new  form  of  the 
1  contemplative  life,'  founding  its  claim 
on  the  essential '  blessedness  '  of  '  vision,' 
—  the  vision  of  perfect  men  and  things." 
At  the  lowest  it  is  an  impassioned  ideal 
life. 

Such  is  Pater's  own  apologia  pro  vita 
sua  —  that  is,  for  life  during  his  earlier 
years  of  authorship  —  as  given  in  Ma- 
rius the  Epicurean.  But  the  best  apo- 
logia is,  indeed,  the  outcome  of  that  life, 


the  volume  of  Studies  in  the  History  of 
the  Renaissance,  and  later  essays,  which 
are  essentially  one  with  these  in  kind. 
The  richness  of  color  and  delicacy  of 
carving  in  some  of  Pater's  work  have 
concealed  from  many  readers  its  intel- 
lectual severity,  its  strictness  of  design, 
its  essential  veracity.  A  statue  that  is 
chryselephantine  may  be  supposed  to  be 
less  intellectual  than  the  same  statue  if 
it  were  worked  in  marble  ;  yet  more  of 
sheer  brainwork  perhaps  is  required  for 
the  design  which  has  to  calculate  effects 
of  color.  There  are  passages  in  Pater's 
writing  which  may  be  called,  if  you  like, 
decorative,  but  the  decoration  is  never 
incoherent  ornament  of  papier  mache 
laid  on  from  without ;  it  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  genuine  outgrowth  of  structure, 
always  bringing  into  relief  the  central 
idea. 

This  central  idea  he  arrives  at  only 
through  the  process  of  a  steadfast  and 
strenuous  receptiveness,  which  has  in  it 
something  of  the  nature  of  fortitude. 
Occasionally  he  gives  it  an  express  defi- 
nition, naming  it,  not  perhaps  quite  hap- 
pily, the  formula  of  the  artist  or  author 
who  is  the  subject  of  his  study.  Thus, 
the  formula  of  Raphael's  genius,  if  we 
must  have  one,  is  this :  "  The  transfor- 
mation of  meek  scholarship  into  genius 
—  triumphant  power  of  genius."  The 
essay  on  Raphael  is  accordingly  the  re- 
cord of  a  series  of  educations,  from  which 
at  last  emerge  works  showing  a  synoptic 
intellectual  power,  and  large  theoretic 
conceptions,  but  these  are  seen  to  act  in 
perfect  unison  with  the  pictorial  imagi- 
nation and  a  magic  power  of  the  hand. 
The  formula,  to  turn  from  pictorial  art 
to  literature,  of  Prosper  Me'rime'e,  who 
met  the  disillusion  of  the  post-Revolution 
period  by  irony,  is  this  :  "  The  enthusi- 
astic amateur  of  rude,  crude,  naked  force 
in  men  and  women  wherever  it  could  be 
found  ;  himself  carrying  ever,  as  a  mask, 
the  conventional  attire  of  the  modern 
world  —  carrying  it  with  an  infinite  con- 
temptuous grace,  as  if  that  too  were  an 


Walter  Pater. 


Ill 


all-sufficient  end  in  itself."  Nothing 
could  be  more  triumphantly  exact  and 
complete  than  Pater's  brief  formula  of 
Me'rime'e.  But  perhaps  his  method  is 
nowhere  more  convincingly  shown  than 
in  the  companion  studies  of  two  French 
churches,  Notre  Dame  of  Amiens,  pre- 
eminently the  church  of  a  city,  of  a  com- 
mune, and  the  Madeleine  of  Vdzelay, 
which  is  typically  the  church  of  a  mon- 
astery. Here  the  critic  does  not  for  a 
moment  lose  himself  in  details  ;  in  each 
case  he  holds,  as  it  were,  the  key  of  the 
situation  ;  he  has  grasped  the  central 
idea  of  each  structure  ;  and  then  with 
the  aid  of  something  like  creative  im- 
agination, he  assists  the  idea  —  the  vital 
germ  —  to  expand  itself  and  grow  be- 
fore us  into  leaf  and  tendril  and  blossom. 
In  such  studies  as  these  we  perceive 
that  the  eye  is  itself  an  intellectual,  a 
spiritual  power,  or  at  least  the  organ  and 
instrument  of  such  a  power.  And  this 
imaginative  criticism  is  in  truth  con- 
structive; But  the  creative  work  of  im- 
agination rises  from  a  basis  of  adequate 
knowledge  and  exact  perception.  To 
see  precisely  what  a  thing  is,  —  what,  be- 
fore all  else,  it  is  to  me  ;  to  feel  with  en- 
tire accuracy  its  unique  quality  ;  to  find 
the  absolutely  right  word  in  which  to  ex- 
press the  perception  and  the  feeling,  - — 
this  indeed  taxes  the  athletics  of  the 
mind.  Sometimes,  while  still  essential- 
ly a  critic,  Pater's  power  of  construc- 
tion and  reconstruction  takes  the  form 
of  a  highly  intellectual  fantasy.  Thus 
A  Study  of  Dionysus  reads  like  a  fan- 
tasia suggested  by  the  life  of  the  vine 
and  the  "  spirit  of  sense  "  in  the  grape  ; 
yet  the  fantasia  is  in  truth  the  tracing 
out,  by  a  learned  sympathy,  of  strange 
or  beautiful  sequences  of  feeling  or  im- 
agination in  the  Greek  mind.  In  Denys 
F  Auxerrois  and  Apollo  in  Picardy,  which 
should  be  placed  side  by  side  as  com- 
panion pieces,  the  fancy  takes  a  freer 
range.  They  may  be  described  as  trans- 
positions of  the  classical  into  the  roman- 
tic. Apollo  —  now  for  mediaeval  con- 


temporaries bearing  the  ill-omened  name 
Apollyon  —  appears  in  a  monkish  frock 
and  wears  the  tonsure  ;  yet  he  remains 
a  true  Apollo,  but  of  the  Middle  Age, 
and,  in  a  passage  of  singular  romance, 
even  does  to  death  the  mediaeval  Hy- 
acinthus.  Denys,  that  strange  flaxen 
and  flowery  creature,  the  organ-builder 
of  Auxerre,  has  all  the  mystic  power 
and  ecstatic  rage  of  Dionysus.  Are 
these  two  elder  brothers  of  Goethe's 
Euphorion,  earlier -born  children  of 
Faust  and  Helena  ? 

Even  these  fantasies  are  not  without 
an  intellectual  basis.  For  Pater  recog- 
nizes in  classical  art  and  classical  liter- 
ature a  considerable  element  of  romance 
—  strangeness  allied  with  beauty ;  and 
to  refashion  the  myths  of  Dionysus  and 
even  of  Apollo  in  the  romantic  spirit  is 
an  experiment  in  which  there  is  more 
than  mere  fantasy.  Very  justly  and 
admirably  he  protests  in  writing  of 
Greek  sculpture  against  a  too  intellec- 
tual or  abstract  view  of  classical  art. 
Here  also  were  color  and  warmth  and 
strange  ventures  of  imaginative  faith, 
and  fears  and  hopes  and  ecstasies,  which 
we  are  apt  to  forget  in  the  motionless 
shadow  or  pallid  light  of  our  cold  muse- 
ums. Living  himself  at  a  time,  as  we 
say,  of  "  transition,"  when  new  and  old 
ideas  were  in  conflict,  and  little  interest- 
ed in  any  form  of  action  except  that  of 
thought  and  feeling,  he  came  to  take  a 
special  interest  in  the  contention  and 
also  in  the  conciliation  of  rival  ideals. 
Hence  the  period  of  the  Renaissance  — 
from  the  auroral  Renaissance  within  the 
Middle  Age  to  the  days  of  Ronsard  and 
Montaigne,  with  its  new  refinements  of 
mediaevalism,  —  seen,  for  example,  in 
the  poetry  of  the  Pleiad,  —  its  revival  in 
an  altered  form  of  the  classical  temper, 
and  the  invasions  of  what  may  be 
summed  up  under  the  name  of  "  the 
modern  spirit "  —  had  a  peculiar  attrac- 
tion for  him.  His  Gaston  de  Latour, 
as  far  as  he  is  known  to  us  through 
what  is  unhappily  a  fragment,  seems 


118 


Walter  Pater. 


almost  created  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  be  a  subject  for  the  play  of  contend- 
ing influences.  The  old  pieties  of  the 
Middle  Age  survive  within  him,  leaving 
a  deep  and  abiding  deposit  in  his  spirit ; 
but  he  is  caught  by  the  new  grace  and 
delicate  magic  of  Ronsard's  verse,  of 
Ronsard's  personality  ;  he  is  exposed  to 
all  the  enriching,  and  yet  perhaps  disin- 
tegrating forces  of  Montaigne's  undulant 
philosophy,  —  the  philosophy  of  the  re- 
lative ;  and  he  is  prepared  to  be  lifted 

—  lifted,  shall  we  say,  or  lowered  ?  — 
from  his  state  of   suspended  judgment 
by  the  ardent  genius  of  that  new  knight 
of   the   Holy  Ghost,  Giordano   Bruno, 
with  his  glowing  exposition  of  the  Low- 
er Pantheism. 

His  Marius,  again,  cannot  rest  in  the 
religion  of  Numa,  which  was  the  pre- 
siding influence  of  his  boj'hood.  His 
Cyrenaicism  is  confronted  by  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Stoics,  —  sad,  gray,  depress- 
ing, though  presented  with  all  possible 
amiability  in  the  person  of  Marcus  Au- 
relius.  And  in  the  Christian  house  of 
Cecilia,  and  among  the  shadowy  cata- 
combs of  Rome,  his  eyes  are  touched  by 
the  radiance  of  a  newer  light,  which 
thrills  him  with  the  sense  of  an  unap- 
prehended  joy,  a  heroic  —  perhaps  a 
divine — hope.  In  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury Pater's  Watteau,  creating  a  new 
and  delicate  charm  for  the  society  of  his 
own  day,  is  yet  ill  at  ease,  half  detached 
from  that  society,  and  even  —  saddening 
experience !  —  half  detached  from  his 
own  art,  for  he  dreams,  unlike  his  age, 
of  a  better  world  than  the  actual  one ; 
and  by  an  anachronism  which  is  hardly 
pardonable  (for  it  confuses  the  chrono- 
logy of  eighteenth  -  century  moods  of 
mind)  the  faithful  and  tender  diarist  of 
Valenciennes,  whose  more  than  sisterly 
interest  in  young  Antoine  has  left  us 
this  Watteau  myth,  becomes  acquainted 

—  and  through  Antoine  himself  —  with 
the  Manon  Lescaut  of  many  years  later, 
in  which  the  ardent  passion  of  the  pe- 
riod of  Rousseau  is  anticipated.     And, 


again,  in  that  other  myth  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  Duke  Carl  of  Rosenmold, 

—  myth  of  a  half-rococo  Apollo,  —  the 
old  stiff  mediaevalism  of  German  courts 
and   the    elegant   fadeurs   of    French 
pseudo-classicism  are  exhibited  in  reve- 
lation to  a  throng  of  fresher  influences, 

—  the  classical  revival  of  which  Winck- 
elmann  was  the  apostle,  the  revival  of 
the  Middle  Age  as  a  new   and   living 
force,  the  artistic  patriotism  which  Leas- 
ing preached,  the  "  return  to  nature  " 
of  which  a  little  later  the  young  Goethe 

—  he,  a  true  Apollo  —  was  the  herald, 
and   that    enfranchisement   of    passion 
and  desire,  which,  now  when  Rousseau 
is  somewhere    in   the  world,  brooding, 
kindling,    about   to    burst    into   flame, 
seems  no  anachronism. 

I  cannot  entirely  go  along  with  that 
enthusiastic  admirer  who  declared  — 
surely  not  without  a  smile  of  ironic  in- 
telligence —  that  the  trumpet  of  doom 
ought  to  have  sounded  when  the  last 
page  of  Studies  in  the  History  of  the 
Renaissance  was  completed.  Several 
copies  of  the  golden  book  in  its  first  edi- 
tion, containing  the  famous  Conclusion, 
would  probably  have  perished  in  the 
general  conflagration ;  and  Pater  was 
averse  to  noise.  But  a  memorable  vol- 
ume it  is,  and  one  which  testifies  to  the 
virtue  of  a  happy  temperament  even 
when  in  the  presence  of  a  depressing 
philosophy.  Too  much  attention  has 
been  centred  on  that  Conclusion ;  it 
has  been  taken  by  many  persons  as  if  it 
were  Pater's  ultimate  confession  of  faith, 
whereas,  in  truth,  the  Conclusion  was  a 
prologue.  Pater's  early  years  had  made 
a  home  for  his  spirit  among  Christian 
pieties  and  the  old  moralities.  When 
Florian  Deleal,  quitting  for  the  first 
time  the  house  of  his  childhood,  runs 
back  to  fetch  the  forgotten  pet  bird,  and 
sees  the  warm  familiar  rooms  "  lying  so 
pale,  with  a  look  of  meekness  in  their 
denudation,"  a  clinging  to  the  cherished 
home  comes  over  him.  And  had  Pater 
in  his  haughty  philosophy  of  manhood 


Walter  Pater. 


119 


in  like  manner  dismantled  and  dese- 
crated the  little  white  room  of  his  early 
faith?  The  very  question  seemed  to 
carry  with  it  something  of  remorse  ;  but 
Pater's  integrity  of  mind,  his  intellec- 
tual virility,  could  not  permit  itself  to 
melt  in  sentiment.  In  the  essay  on  Au- 
cassin  and  Nicolette,  he  had  spoken  of 
the  rebellious  antinoraian  spirit  connect- 
ed with  the  outbreak  of  the  reason  and 
imagination,  with  the  assertion  of  the 
liberty  of  heart,  in  the  Middle  Age. 
"  The  perfection  of  culture,"  he  knew, 
"  is  not  rebellion,  but  peace ; "  yet  on  the 
way  to  that  end,  he  thought,  there  is 
room  for  a  noble  antinomianism.  Now, 
like  his  own  Marius,  he  began  to  think 
that  in  such  antinomianism  there  might 
be  a  taint,  he  began  to  question  whether 
it  might  not  be  possible  somehow  to  ad- 
just his  new  intellectual  scheme  of  things 
to  the  old  morality.  His  culture  had 
brought  with  it  a  certain  sense  of  isola- 
tion, like  that  of  a  spectator  detached 
from  the  movement  of  life  and  the  great 
community  of  men.  His  Cyrenaic  the- 
ory was  one  in  keeping  with  the  proud 
individualism  of  youth.  From  the  Stoic 
Fronto  his  Marius  hears  of  an  august 
community,  to  which  each  of  us  may 
perchance  belong,  "hulnanity,  an  uni- 
versal order,  the  great  polity,  its  aristo- 
cracy of  elect  spirits,  the  mastery  of  their 
example  over  their  successors."  But 
where  are  these  elect  spirits  ?  Where 
is  this  comely  order  ?  The  Cyrenaic 
lover  of  beauty  begins  to  feel  that  his 
conception  of  beauty  has  been  too  nar- 
row, too  exclusive  ;  not  positively  un- 
sound perhaps,  for  it  enjoined  the  prac- 
tice of  an  ideal  temperance,  and  involved 
a  seriousness  of  spirit  almost  religious, 
so  that,  as  Marius  reflects,  "  the  saint 
and  the  Cyrenaic  lover  of  beauty  would 
at  least  understand  each  other  better 
than  either  would  understand  the  mere 
man  of  the  world."  His  pursuit  of  per- 
fection was  surely  not  in  itself  illegiti- 
mate, but  by  its  exclusiveness  of  a  more 
complete  ideal  of  perfection  it  might  al- 


most partake  of  the  nature  of  a  heresy. 
Without  rejecting  his  own  scheme  of 
life,  might  it  not  be  possible  to  adjust  it 
to  the  old  morality  as  a  part  to  a  whole  ? 
Viewed  even  from  a  purely  egoistic 
standpoint  had  not  such  attainments  as 
were  his  —  and  the  attainments  wore 
unquestionably  precious  —  been  secured 
at  a  great  sacrifice  ?  Was  it  a  true 
economy  to  forfeit  perhaps  a  greater 
gain  for  the  less?  The  Stoical  ideal, 
which  casts  scorn  upon  the  body,  and 
that  visible  beauty  in  things  which  for 
Marius  was  indeed  a  portion  of  truth,  as 
well  as  beauty,  he  must  needs  reject. 
But  might  there  not  be  a  divination  of 
something  real,  an  imperfect  vision  of  a 
veritable  possibility  in  the  Stoical  con- 
ception of  an  ordered  society  of  men,  a 
Celestial  City,  Uranopolis,  Callipolis? 
And  what  if  the  belief  of  Marcus  Au- 
relius  in  the  presence  of  a  divine  com- 
panion, a  secret  Providence  behind  the 
veil,  contained  some  elevating  truth  ? 
What  if  the  isolated  seeker  for  a  nar- 
row perfection  could  attach  himself  to 
some  venerable  system  of  sentiment  and 
ideas,  and  so  "  let  in  a  great  tide  of  ex- 
perience, and  make,  as  it  were,  with  a 
single  step,  a  great  experience  of  his 
own ;  with  a  great  consequent  increase 
to  his  own  mind,  of  color,  variety,  and 
relief,  in  the  spectacle  of  men  and 
things  "  ? 

There  are  two  passages  of  rare  spirit- 
ual beauty  in  Marius  the  Epicurean : 
one  is  that  which  tells  of  Marius  wander- 
ing forth  with  such  thoughts  as  these  — 
keeping  all  these  things  in  his  heart  — 
to  one  of  his  favorite  spots  in  the  Alban 
or  the  Sabine  hills  ;  the  other  is  the  de- 
scription of  the  sacred,  memorial  cele- 
bration in  the  Christian  house  of  Cecilia. 
After  a  night  of  perfect  sleep  Marius 
awakes  in  the  morning  sunlight,  with 
almost  the  joyful  waking  of  childhood. 
As  he  rides  toward  the  hills  his  mood  is, 
like  the  season's,  one  of  flawless  seren- 
ity ;  a  sense  of  gratitude  —  gratitude  to 
what  ?  —  fills  his  heart,  and  must  over- 


120 


Walter  Pater. 


flow ;  he  leans,  as  it  were,  toward  that 
eternal,  invisible  Companion  of  whom 
the  Stoic  philosopher  and  emperor  spoke. 
Might  he  not,  he  reflects,  throw  in  the 
election  of  his  will,  though  never  falter- 
ing from  the  truth,  on  the  side  of  his 
best  thought,  his  best  feeling,  and  per- 
haps receive  in  due  course  the  justifica- 
tion, the  confirmation  of  this  venture  of 
faith  ?  What  if  the  eternal  companion 
were  really  by  his  side  ?  What  if  his 
own  spirit  were  but  a  moment,  a  pulse, 
in  some  great  stream  of  spiritual  energy  ? 
What  if  this  fair  material  universe  were 
but  a  creation,  a  projection  into  sense  of 
the  perpetual  mind  ?  What  if  the  new 
city,  let  down  from  heaven,  were  also  a 
reality  included  in  the  process  of  that 
divine  intelligence  ?  Less  through  any 
sequence  of  argument  than  by  a  discov- 
ery of  the  spirit  in  sense,  or  rather  of  the 
imaginative  reason,  Marius  seems  to  live 
and  move  in  the  presence  of  the  Great 
Ideal,  the  Eternal  Reason,  nay,  the  Fa- 
ther of  men.  A  larger  conception  as- 
suredly of  the  reasonable  Ideal  than  that 
of  his  Cyrenaic  days  has  dawned  for 
him,  every  trace  or  note  of  which  it 
shall  henceforth  be  his  business  to  gath- 
er up.  Paratum  cor  meum,  Deus  !  pa- 
ratum  cor  meum ! 

It  is  a  criticism  of  little  insight  which 
represents  Marius  as  subordinating  truth 
to  any  form  of  ease  or  comfort  or  spir- 
itual self-indulgence ;  an  erroneous  criti- 
cism which  represents  him  as  only  extend- 
ing a  refined  hedonism  so  as  to  include 
within  it  new  pleasures  of  the  moral 
sense  or  the  religious  temper.  For  Ma- 
rius had  never  made  pleasure  his  aim 
and  end ;  his  aim  and  end  had  been  al- 
ways perfection,  but  now  he  perceives 
that  his  ideal  of  perfection  had  been  in- 
complete and  inadequate.  He  discovers 
the  larger  truth,  and  the  lesser  falls  into 
its  due  place.  His  experiences  among 
the  Sabine  hills,  which  remind  one  of 
certain  passages  in  Wordsworth's  Ex- 
cursion, may  have  little  evidential  value 
for  any  other  mind  than  his  own  ;  even 


for  himself  they  could  hardly  recur  in 
like  manner  ever  again.  But  that  such 
phenomena  —  however  we  may  interpret 
their  significance  —  are  real  cannot  be 
doubted  by  any  disinterested  student  of 
human  nature.  What  came  to  Marius 
was  not  a  train  of  argument,  but  what  we 
may  call  a  revelation ;  it  came  as  the 
last  and  culminating  development,  under 
favoring  external  conditions,  of  many 
obscure  processes  of  thought  and  feeling. 
The  seed  had  thrust  up  its  stalk,  which 
then  had  struggled  through  the  soil ;  and 
at  last  sunlight  touches  the  folded  blos- 
som, which  opens  to  become  a  flower  of 
light.  ^ 

Marius  had  already  seen  in  Cornelius 
the  exemplar  of  a  new  knighthood,  which 
he  can  but  imperfectly  understand.  En- 
tirely virile,  Cornelius  is  yet  governed  by 
some  strange  hidden  rule  which  obliges 
him  to  turn  away  from  many  things  that 
are  commonly  regarded  as  the  rights  of 
manhood;  he  has  a  blitheness,  which 
seems  precisely  the  reverse  of  the  tem- 
per of  the  Emperor,  and  yet  some  veiled 
severity  underlies,  perhaps  supports,  this 
blitheness.  And  in  the  gathering  at 
Cecilia's  house,  where  the  company  — 
and  among  them,  children  —  are  sing- 
ing, Marius  recognizes  the  same  glad 
expansion  of  a  joyful  soul,  "  in  people 
upon  whom  some  all-subduing  experience 
had  wrought  heroically."  A  grave  dis- 
cretion ;  an  intelligent  seriousness  about 
life ;  an  exquisite  courtesy ;  all  chaste 
affections  of  the  family,  and  these  under 
the  most  natural  conditions  ;  a  temperate 
beauty,  all  are  here  ;  the  human  body, 
which  had  been  degraded  by  Pagan  vo- 
luptuousness and  dishonored  by  Stoic  as- 
ceticism, is  here  reverenced  as  something 
sacred,  or  as  something  sanctified ;  and 
death  itself  is  made  beautiful  through  a 
new  hope.  Charity  here  is  not  painful- 
ly calculated,  but  joyous  and  chivalrous 
in  its  devotion ;  peaceful  labor  is  re- 
habilitated and  illumined  with  some  new 
light.  A  higher  ideal  than  Marius  had 
ever  known  before  —  higher  and  glad- 


Walter  Pater. 


121 


der  —  is  operative  here,  ideal  of  woman, 
of  the  family,  of  industry,  including  all 
of  life  and  death.  And  its  effects  are 
visible,  addressing  themselves  even  to 
the  organ  of  sight,  which  with  Marius  is 
the  special  avenue  for  truth ;  so  that  he 
has  only  to  read  backward  from  effects 
to  causes  in  order  to  be  assured  that  some 
truth  of  higher  import  and  finer  efficacy 
than  any  previously  known  to  him  must 
be  working  among  the  forces  which  have 
created  this  new  beauty.  What  if  this 
be  the  company  of  elect  souls  dreamed  of 
by  the  rhetorician  Fronto?  And  with 
the  tenderest  charity  in  this  company  of 
men  and  women  a  heroic  fortitude  —  the 
fortitude  of  the  martyrs,  like  those  of 
Lyons  —  is  united.  What  if  here  be 
Uranopolis,  Callipolis,  the  City  let  down 
from  heaven  ?  For  Marius  in  the  house 
of  Cecilia  the  argument  is  irrefragable 
—  rather  the  experience  is  convincing. 
Possibly  in  the  light  of  a  more  extended 
survey  of  history  new  doubts  and  ques- 
tions may  arise  ;  but  these  were  days  of 
purity  and  of  love,  the  days  of  the  minor 
peace  of  the  church. 

Yet  even  in  the  end  Marius  is  brought 
only  to  his  Pisgah,  —  the  mount  of  vi- 
sion. He  does  not  actually  set  foot  within 
the  promised  land.  Even  that  act  of 
surrender,  by  which  Cornelius  is  de- 
livered and  Marius  goes  to  his  death,  is 
less  an  act  of  divine  self-sacrifice  than 
the  result  of  an  impulse,  half  careless, 
half  generous,  of  comradeship.  His  spir- 
it —  anima  naturaliter  Christiana  — 
departs  less  in  assured  hope  than  with 
the  humble  consolation  of  memory  — 
tristem  neminem  fecit ;  he  had  at  least 
not  added  any  pang  to  the  total  sum  of 
the  world's  pain. 

And  although  the  creator  of  Marius 
had  arrived,  by  ways  very  different  from 
those  of  Pascal,  at  some  of  Pascal's  con- 
clusions, and  had  expressed  these  with 
decisiveness  in  a  review  of  Amiel's  Jour- 
nal, we  cannot  but  remember  that  essen- 
tially his  mind  belonged  to  the  same  or- 
der as  the  mind  of  Montaigne  rather 


than  to  the  order  of  the  mind  of  Pascal. 
We  can  imagine  Pater,  had  he  lived 
longer,  asking  himself,  as  part  of  that 
endless  dialogue  with  self  which  consti- 
tuted his  life,  whether  the  deepest  com- 
munity with  his  fellows  could  not  be 
attained  by  a  profound  individuality 
without  attaching  himself  to  institutions. 
Whether,  for  example,  the  fact  of  hold- 
ing a  fellowship  at  Brasenose,  or  the 
fact  of  knowing  Greek  well,  bound  him 
the  more  intimately  to  the  society  of 
Greek  scholars.  We  can  imagine  him 
questioning  whether  other  truths  might 
not  be  added  to  those  truths  which  made 
radiant  the  faces  in  Cecilia's  house. 
Whether  even  those  same  truths  might 
not,  in  a  later  age,  be  capable  of,  might 
not  even  require,  a  different  conception, 
and  a  largely  altered  expression. 

While  in  the  ways  indicated  in  Ma- 
rius the  Epicurean  Pater  was  departing 
from  that  doctrine  of  the  perpetual  flux, 
—  with  ideals  of  conduct  corresponding 
to  that  doctrine,  —  or  was  at  least  subor- 
dinating this  to  a  larger,  really  a  more 
liberal  view  of  things,  his  mind  was  also 
tending,  and  now  partly  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Plato,  away  from  the  brilliant- 
ly colored,  versatile,  centrifugal  Ionian 
temper  of  his  earlier  days  toward  the 
simpler,  graver,  more  strictly  ordered, 
more  athletic  Dorian  spirit. 

Plato  and  Platonism,  in  noticing  which 
I  shall  sometimes  use  Pater's  own  words, 
is  distinguished  less  by  color  than  by 
a  pervasive  light.  The  demand  on  a 
reader's  attention  is  great,  but  the  de- 
mand is  not  so  much  from  sentence  to 
sentence  as  from  chapter  to  chapter.  If 
we  may  speak  of  the  evolution  or  devel- 
opment of  a  theme  by  literary  art,  such 
evolution  in  this  book  is  perhaps  its 
highest  merit.  No  attempt  is  made  to 
fix  a  dogmatic  creed,  or  to  piece  together 
an  artificial  unity  of  tessellated  opinions. 
Philosophies  are  viewed  very  much  as 
works  of  art,  and  the  historical  method 
is  adopted,  which  endeavors  to  deter- 
mine the  conditions  that  render  each 


122 


Walter  Pater. 


philosophy,  each  work  of  art,  and  espe- 
cially this  particular  work  of  art,  the 
Platonic  philosophy,  possible.  And  there 
is  something  of  autobiography,  for  those 
who  can  discern  it,  below  the  surface  of 
the  successive  discussions  of  ideas,  which 
yet  are  often  seemingly  remote  from 
modern  thought. 

The  doctrine  of  the  Many,  of  the  per- 
petual flux  of  things,  which  was  so  con- 
sonant to  the  mobile  Ionian  temper,  is 
set  over  against  the  doctrine  of  the  One, 
for  which  all  that  is  phenomenal  be- 
comes null,  and  the  sole  reality  is  pure 
Being,  colorless,  formless,  impalpable. 
It  was  Plato's  work  to  break  up  the  form- 
less unity  of  the  philosophy  of  the  One 
into  something  multiple,  and  yet  not 
transitory,  —  the  starry  Platonic  ideas, 
Justice,  Temperance,  Beauty,  and  their 
kindred  luminaries  of  the  intellectual 
heaven.  Platonism  in  one  sense  is  a 
witness  for  the  unseen,  the  transcen- 
dental. Yet,  austere  as  he  sometimes  ap- 
pears, who  can  doubt  that  Plato's  aus- 
terity, his  temperance  is  attained  only 
by  the  'control  of  a  richly  sensuous  na- 
ture ?  Before  all  else  he  was  a  lover  ; 
and  now  that  he  had  come  to  love  invisi- 
ble things  more  than  visible,  the  invisible 
things  must  be  made,  as  it  were,  visible 
persons,  capable  of  engaging  his  affec- 
tions. The  paradox  is  true  that  he  had 
a  sort  of  sensuous  love  of  the  unseen. 
And  in  setting  forth  his  thoughts,  he  is 
not  a  dogmatist  but  essentially  an  essay- 
ist, —  a  questioning  explorer  for  truth, 
who  refines  and  idealizes  the  manner  of 
his  master  Socrates,  and  who,  without 
the  oscillating  philosophy  of  Montaigne, 
anticipates  something  of  Montaigne's 
method  as  a  seeker  for  the  knowledge  of 
things. 

At  this  point  in  Pater's  long  essay,  a 
delightful  turn  is  given  to  his  treatment 
of  the  subject  by  that  remarkable  and 
characteristic  chapter  in  which  he  at- 
tempts to  revive  for  the  eye,  as  well  as 
for  the  mind,  the  life  of  old  Lacedae- 
mon  —  Lacedaemon,  the  highest  con- 


crete embodiment  of  that  Dorian  tem- 
per of  Greece,  that  Dorian  temper  of 
which  his  own  ideal  Republic  would 
have  been  a  yet  more  complete  develop- 
ment. Those  conservative  Lacedaemo- 
nians, "  the  people  of  memory  preemi- 
nently," are  made  to  live  and  move 
before  us  by  creative  imagination  work- 
ing among  the  records,  too  scanty,  of 
historical  research.  There  in  hollow 
Laconia,  a  land  of  organized  slavery 
under  central  military  authority,  the 
genius  of  conservatism  was  enthroned. 
The  old  bore  sway ;  the  young  were 
under  strict,  but  not  un joyous  discipline. 
Every  one,  at  every  moment,  must  strive 
to  be  at  his  best,  with  all  superfluities 
pruned  away.  "  It  was  a  type  of  the 
Dorian  purpose  in  life  —  a  sternness,  like 
sea-water  infused  into  wine,  overtaking 
a  matter  naturally  rich,  at  the  moment 
when  fullness  may  lose  its  savor  and 
expression."  There  in  clear  air,  on  the 
bank  of  a  mountain  torrent,  stands  Lace- 
dsemon  ;  by  no  means  a  "  growing " 
place,  rather  a  solemn,  ancient  moun- 
tain village,  with  its  sheltering  plane 
trees,  and  its  playing-fields  for  youthful 
athletes,  all  under  discipline,  who  when 
robed  might  almost  have  seemed  a 
company  of  young  monks.  A  city  not 
without  many  venerable  and  beautiful 
buildings,  civic  and  religious,  in  a  grave 
hieratic  order  of  architecture,  while  its 
private  abodes  were  simple  and  even 
rude.  The  whole  of  life  is  evidently 
conceived  as  matter  of  attention,  pa- 
tience, fidelity  to  detail,  like  that  of 
good  soldiers  or  musicians.  The  Helots, 
who  pursue  their  trades  and  crafts  from 
generation  to  generation  in  a  kind  of 
guild,  may  be  indulged  in  some  illiberal 
pleasures  of  abundant  food  and  sleep ; 
but  it  is  the  mark  of  aristocracy  to  en- 
dure hardness.  And  from  these  half- 
military,  half-monastic  modes  of  life  are 
born  the  most  beautiful  of  all  people  in 
Greece,  in  the  world.  Everywhere  one 
is  conscious  of  reserved  power,  and  the 
beauty  of  strength  restrained,  —  a  male 


Walter  Pater. 


123 


beauty,  far  remote  from  feminine  ten- 
derness. Silent  these  men  can  be,  or, 
if  need  arise,  can  speak  to  the  point,  and 
with  brevity.  With  them  to  read  is  al- 
most a  superfluity,  for  whatever  is  essen- 
tial has  become  a  part  of  memory,  and  is 
made  actual  in  habit ;  but  such  culture 
in  fact  has  the  power  to  develop  a  vigor- 
ous imagination.  Their  music  has  in  it 
a  high  moral  stimulus  ;  their  dance  is  not 
mere  form,  but  full  of  subject ;  they 
dance  a  theme,  and  that  with  absolute 
correctness,  a  dance  full  of  delight,  yet 
with  something  of  the  character  of  a  li- 
turgical service,  something  of  a  military 
inspection.  And  these  half-monastic  peo- 
ple are  also —  as  monks  may  be  —  a  very 
cheerful  people,  devoted  to  a  religion  of 
sanity,  worshipers  of  Apollo,  sanest  of 
the  national  gods ;  strong  in  manly  com- 
radeship, of  which  those  youthful  demi- 
gods, the  Dioscuri,  are  the  patrons.  Why 
all  this  strenuous  task-work  day  after 
day?  An  intelligent  young  Spartan 
might  reply,  "  To  the  end  that  I  myself 
may  be  a  perfect  work  of  art." 

It  is  this  Dorian  spirit  which  inspires 
the  Republic  of  Plato.  He  would,  if 
possible,  arrest  the  disintegration  of 
Athenian  society,  or  at  least  protest 
against  the  principle  of  flamboyancy  in 
things  and  thoughts,  —  protest  against 
the  fluxional,  centrifugal,  Ionian  ele- 
ment in  the  Hellenic  character.  He 
conceives  the  State  as  one  of  those  dis- 
ciplined Spartan  dancers,  or  as  a  well- 
knit  athlete  ;  he  desires  not  that  it  shall 
be  gay,  or  rich,  or  populous,  but  that  it 
shall  be  strong,  an  organic  unity,  entirely 
self-harmonious,  each  individual  occu- 
pying his  exact  place  in  the  system  ;  and 
the  State  being  thus  harmoniously  strong, 
it  will  also  be  of  extreme  aesthetic 
beauty,  —  the  beauty  of  a  unity  or  har- 
mony enforced  on  highly  disparate  ele- 


ments, unity  as  of  an  army  or  an  order 
of  monks,  unity  as  of  liturgical  music. 

It  could  hardly  happen  that  Pater's 
last  word  in  this  long  study  should  be 
on  any  other  subject  than  art.  It  is  no 
false  fragment  of  traditional  Platonism 
which  insists  on  the  close  connection  be- 
tween the  aesthetic  qualities  of  things 
and  the  formation  of  moral  character ; 
on  the  building  of  character  through 
the  eye  and  ear.  And  this  ethical  in- 
fluence of  art  resides  even  more  in  the 
form  —  its  concision,  simplicity,  rhythm 
—  than  in  the  matter.  In  the  ideal  Re- 
public the  simplification  of  human  na- 
ture is  the  chief  affair ;  therefore  art 
must  be  simple  and  even  austere.  The 
community  will  be  fervently  aesthetic, 
but  withal  fervent  renunciants  as  well, 
and,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word 
ascetic,  will  be  fervently  ascetic.  "  The 
proper  art  of  the  Perfect  City  is  in 
fact  the  art  of  discipline."  In  art,  in 
its  narrower  meaning,  in  literature, 
what  the  writer  of  the  Republic  would 
most  desire  is  that  quality  which  solicits 
an  effort  from  the  reader  or  spectator, 
"  who  is  promised  a  great  expressiveness 
on  the  part  of  the  writer,  the  artist,  if 
he  for  his  part  will  bring  with  him  a 
great  attentiveness."  Temperance  su- 
perinduced on  a  nature  originally  rich 
and  impassioned,  —  this  is  the  supreme 
beauty  of  the  Dorian  art.  Plato's  own 
prose  is,  indeed,  a  practical  illustration 
of  the  value  of  intellectual  astringency. 
He  is  before  all  else  a  lover,  and  infinite 
patience,  quite  as  much  as  fire,  is  the 
mood  of  all  true  lovers.  It  is,  indeed, 
this  infinite  patience  of  a  lover  which 
in  large  measure  gives  to  Pater's  own 
studies  of  art  and  literature  their  pecu- 
liar value.  The  bee,  that  has  gone  down 
the  long  neck  of  a  blossom,  is  not  more 
patient  in  collecting  his  drop  of  honey. 
Edward  Dowden. 


124  Balm.  —  On  Heading  Books  through  faeir  Backs. 


BALM. 

AFTER  the  heat  the  dew, 

and  the  tender  touch  of  twilight; 
The  unfolding  of  the  few 

Calm  stars. 
After  the  heat  the  dew. 

After  the  Sun  the  shade, 

and  beatitude  of  shadow ; 
Dim  aisles  for  memory  made, 

And  thought. 
After  the  Sun  the  shade. 

After  all  there  is  balm ; 

from  the  wings  of  dark  there  is  wafture 
Of  sleep,  —  night's  infinite  psalm,  — 

And  dreams. 
After  all  there  is  balm. 

Virginia  Woodward  Cloud. 


ON  READING  BOOKS  THROUGH  THEIR  BACKS. 


i. 

I  HAVE  a  way  every  two  or  three  days 
or  so,  of  an  afternoon,  of  going  down  to 
our  library,  sliding  into  the  little  gate  by 
the  shelves,  and  taking  a  long  empty 
walk  there.  I  have  found  that  nothing 
quite  takes  the  place  of  it  for  me,  —  wan- 
dering up  and  down  the  aisles  of  my  ig- 
norance, letting  myself  be  loomed  at, 
staring  doggedly  back.  I  always  feel 
when  I  go  out  the  great  door  as  if  I  had 
won  a  victory.  I  have  at  least  faced  the 
facts.  I  swing  off  to  my  tramp  on  the 
hills  where  is  the  sense  of  space,  as  if  I 
had  faced  the  Bully  of  the  World,  the 
whole  assembled  world,  in  his  own  den, 
and  he  had  given  me  a  license  to  live. 

Of  course  it  only  lasts  a  little  while. 
One  soon  feels  a  library  nowadays  pull- 
ing on  him.  One  has  to  go  back  and  do 
it  all  over  again,  but  for  the  time  being 


it  affords  infinite  relief.  It  sets  one  in 
right  relations  to  the  universe,  to  the  Ori- 
ginal Plan  of  Things.  One  suspects  that 
if  God  had  originally  intended  that  men 
on  this  planet  should  be  crowded  off  by 
books  on  it,  it  would  not  have  been  put 
off  to  the  twentieth  century. 

I  was  saying  something  of  this  sort 
to  the  Presiding  Genius  of  the  State  of 
Massachusetts  the  other  day,  and  when 
I  was  through  he  said  promptly,  "  The 
way  a  man  feels  in  a  library  (if  any  one 
can  get  him  to  tell  it)  lets  out  more  about 
a  man  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

It  did  not  seem  best  to  make  a  reply 
to  this.  I  did  n't  think  it  would  do  either 
of  us  any  good. 

Finally,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  spoke  up 
and  allowed  that  I  felt  as  intelligent  in  a 
library  as  anybody. 

He  did  not  say  anything. 

When  I  asked  him  what  he  thought 


On  Reading  Books  through  their  Backs. 


125 


being  intelligent  in  a  library  was,  he  took 
the  general  ground  that  it  consisted  in 
always  knowing  what  one  was  about 
there,  in  knowing  exactly  what  one 
wanted. 

I  replied  that  I  did  not  think  that  that 
was  a  very  intelligent  state  of  mind  to  be 
in,  in  a  library. 

Then  I  waited  while  he  told  me  (fif- 
teen minutes)  what  an  intelligent  mind 
was  anywhere  (nearly  everywhere,  it 
seemed  to  me).  But  I  did  not  wait  in 
vain,  and  at  last  when  he  had  come 
around  to  it,  and  had  asked  me  what  I 
thought  the  feeling  of  intelligence  con- 
sisted in,  in  libraries,  I  said  it  consisted 
in  being  pulled  on  by  the  books. 

I  said  quite  a  little  after  this,  and  of 
course  the  general  run  of  my  argument 
was  that  I  was  rather  intelligent  myself. 
The  P.  G.  S.  of  M.  had  little  to  say  to 
this,  and  after  he  had  said  how  intelligent 
he  was  awhile,  the  conversation  was 
dropped. 

The  question  that  concerns  me  is,  what 
shall  a  man  do,  how  shall  he  act,  when 
he  finds  himself  in  the  hush  of  a  great 
library,  —  opens  the  door  upon  it,  stands 
and  waits  in  the  midst  of  it,  with  his  poor 
outstretched  soul  all  by  himself  before 
IT,  —  and  feels  the  books  pulling  on 
him  ?  I  always  feel  as  if  it  were  a  sort 
of  infinite  Cross  Roads.  The  last  thing 
I  want  to  know  in  a  library  is  exactly 
what  I  want  there.  I  am  tired  of 
knowing  what  I  want.  I  am  always 
knowing  what  I  want.  I  can  know  what 
I  want  almost  anywhere.  If  there  is  a 
place  left  on  God's  earth  where  a  mod- 
ern man  can  go  and  go  regularly  and  not 
know  what  he  wants  awhile,  in  Heaven's 
name  why  not  let  him  hold  on  to  it  ?  I 
am  as  fond  as  the  next  man,  I  think,  of 
knowing  what  I  am  about,  but  when  I 
find  myself  ushered  into  a  great  library 
I  do  not  know  what  I  am  about  any 
sooner  than  I  can  help.  I  shall  know 
soon  enough  —  God  forgive  me  !  When 
it  is  given  to  a  man  to  stand  in  the  As- 


sembly Room  of  Nations,  to  feel  the 
ages,  all  the  ages,  gathering  around  him, 
flowing  past  his  life,  to  listen  to  the  im- 
mortal stir  of  Thought,  to  the  doings  of 
The  Dead,  why  should  a  man  interrupt 

—  interrupt  a  whole  world  —  to  know 
what  he  is  about  ?     I  stand  at  the  junc- 
tion of  all  Time  and  Space.     I  am  the 
three  tenses.     I  read  the  newspaper  of 
the  universe. 

It  fades  away  after  a  little,  I  know.  I 
go  to  the  card  catalogue  like  a  lamb  to 
the  slaughter,  poke  my  head  into  Know- 
ledge —  somewhere  —  and  am  lost,  but 
the  light  of  it  on  the  spirit  does  not  fade 
away.  It  leaves  a  glow  there.  It  plays 
on  the  pages  afterward. 

There  is  a  certain  fine  excitement  about  ' 
taking  a  library  in  this  fashion,  a  sense 
of  spaciousness  of  joy  in  it,  which  one  is 
almost  always  sure  to  miss  in  libraries 

—  most  libraries  —  by  staying  in  them. 
The  only  way  one  can  get  any  real  good 
out  of  a  modern  library  seems  to  be  by 
going  away  in  the  nick  of  time.     If  one 
stays  there  is  no  help  for  it.     One  is  soon 
standing  before  the  card  catalogue  sort- 
ing one's  wits  out  in  it,  filing  them  away, 
and  the  sense  of  boundlessness  both  in 
one's  self  and  everybody  else  —  the  thing 
a  library  is  for  —  is  fenced  off  forever. 

At  least  it  seems  fenced  off  forever. 
One  sees  the  universe  barred  and  pat- 
terned off  with  a  kind  of  grating  before 
it.  It  is  a  card  catalogue  universe. 

I  can  only  speak  for  one,  but  I  must 
say,  for  myself,  that  as  compared  with 
this  feeling  one  has  in  the  door,  this  feel- 
ing of  standing  over  a  library  —  mere 
reading  in  it,  sitting  down  and  letting 
one's  self  be  tucked  into  a  single  book  in 
it  —  is  a  humiliating  experience. 

ii. 

I  am  not  unaware  that  this  will  seem 
to  some  —  this  empty  doting  on  infinity, 
this  standing  and  staring  at  All-know- 
ledge —  a  mere  dizzying  exercise,  whirl- 
ing one's  head  round  and  round  in  No- 
thing, for  Nothing.  And  I  am  not  una- 


126 


Books  New  and  Old. 


ware  that  it  would  be  unbecoming  in  me 
or  in  any  other  man  to  feel  superior  to 
a  card  catalogue. 

A  card  catalogue,  of  course,  as  a  de- 
vice for  making  a  kind  of  tunnel  for  one's 
mind  in  a  library  —  for  working  one's 
way  through  it  —  is  useful  and  necessary 
to  all  of  us.  Certainly,  if  a  man  insists 
on  having  infinity  in  a  convenient  form 

—  infinity  in  a  box  —  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  anything  better  to  have  it  in  than 
a  card  catalogue. 

But  there  are  times  when  one  does 
not  want  infinity  in  a  box.  He  loses  the 
best  part  of  it  that  way.  He  prefers  it 
in  its  natural  state.  All  that  I  am  con- 
tending for  is,  that  when  these  times 
come,  the  times  when  a  man  likes  to  feel 
infinite  knowledge  crowding  round  him, 

—  feel  it  through  the  backs  of  unopened 
books,  and  likes  to  stand  still  and  think 
about  it,  worship  with  the  thought  of  it, 

—  he  ought  to  be  allowed  to  do  so.     It 


is  true  that  there  is  no  sign  up  against 
it  (against  thinking  in  libraries).  But 
there  might  as  well  be.  It  amounts  to 
the  same  thing.  No  one  is  expected  to. 
People  are  expected  to  keep  up  an  ap- 
pearance, at  least,  of  doing  something 
else  there.  I  do  not  dare  to  hope  that 
the  next  time  I  am  caught  standing  and 
staring  in  a  library,  with  a  kind  of  blank, 
happy  look,  I  shall  not  be  considered  by 
all  my  kind  intellectually  disreputable 
for  it.  I  admit  that  it  does  not  look  in- 
telligent —  this  standing  by  a  door  and 
taking  in  a  sweep  of  books  —  this  read- 
ing a  whole  library  at  once.  I  can  ima- 
gine how  it  looks.  It  looks  like  listen- 
ing to  a  kind  of  cloth  and  paper  chorus 
—  foolish  enough,  but  if  I  go  out  of  the 
door  to  the  hills  again,  refreshed  for 
them  and  lifted  up  to  them,  with  the 
strength  of  the  ages  in  my  limbs,  great 
voices  all  around  me,  flocking  on  my 
solitary  walk  —  who  shall  gainsay  me  ? 
Gerald  Stanley  Lee. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


LANDOR'S  POETRY. 


IT  is  not  easy  to  admit  a  great  liking 
for  Landor  without  ranging  one's  self 
with  the  Landorians,  however  desirous 
one  may  be  to  avoid  the  special  plead- 
'  ing  of  a  sectarian  for  the  god  of  his 
fancy.  And  indeed  our  natural  sympa- 
thy for  the  under-god  may  readily  put 
us  in  the  way  of  conversion  to  the  right 
Landorian  sect,  or  to  any  other.  We 
begin  by  sticking  up  for  somebody,  and 
end  by  falling  fairly  under  his  spell,  or 
under  the  spell  which  our  assiduity  has 
woven  about  him.  We  are  aware  that 
no  greatness  needs  sticking  up  for,  that 
in  the  end  it  must  get  what  it  deserves. 
But  in  the  meantime  we  may  say  what 
we  can  in  the  interest  of  our  friends  ; 
for  Landor,  certainly,  the  end  is  not  yet. 


The  existence  of  his  poetry  is  suspect- 
ed by  many  persons  who  have  a  nodding 
acquaintance  with  the  gilt  backs  of  his 
Imaginary  Conversations  :  in  some  such 
way  the  case  still  stands  against  the 
reading  public,  even  perhaps  against  the 
minor  part  of  it  which  may  not  more 
properly  be  called  the  buying  and  bor- 
rowing public.  In  prose  he  has  at  least 
won  the  success  of  esteem,  —  the  sort  of 
success  which  is  often  in  itself  enough 
to  keep  one  from  being  really  read  much. 
An  invisible  but  real  barrier  rises  like 
an  exhalation  between  the  common  hu- 
man being  and  the  possessor  of  that  mys- 
terious quality,  "style."  If  we  could 
only  forget  that  Burke  and  Landor  and 
De  Quincey  had  style,  we  might  find 


Books  New  and  Old. 


127 


them  more  humanly  approachable ;  as  it 
is,  let  us  make  our  salaams  and  pass  on. 
Landor's  prose  is  read  by  many,  if  not 
by  the  many,  and  is  greatly  deferred  to. 

It  would  hardly  be  true  to  say  as  much 
of  his  verse,  which,  though  it  comes  high- 
ly recommended,  appeals  to  a  surpris- 
ingly small  audience.  This  is  easy  to 
account  for  on  superficial  grounds  alone. 
Its  serenity  of  tone,  its  purity  of  outline, 
its  lack  of  ornateness  in  detail,  are  pre- 
cisely the  qualities  with  which  modern 
poetry  is  inclined  to  dispense.  Pentelic 
marble  is  good,  but  we  of  to-day  prefer, 
secretly  or  otherwise,  the  glowing  if  per- 
ishable canvases  of  our  Titians,  or  even 
of  our  Bouguereaus.  These  at  least  are 
full  of  warmth  and  feeling  ;  we  may  do 
very  well  without  the  severity  of  form 
which  seemed  paramount  to  an  earlier 
and,  after  all,  a  ruder  age.  Purity  of  form 
is  certainly  the  most  salient  characteris- 
tic of  Landor's  verse ;  no  modern  writer 
has  possessed  it  in  the  same  measure. 
Milton  was  pure,  but,  if  we  except  the 
sonnets,  rarely  in  English ;  his  wonders 
were  done  in  a  hybrid  medium.  Words- 
worth was  pure,  but  only  in  his  finest 
moments,  and  never  at  any  considerable 
remove  from  baldness.  An  austere  puri- 
ty is  Landor's  native  air  ;  and  though  it 
blew  from  Parnassus,  he  breathed  it  on 
the  banks  of  Avon. 

But  Milton  and  Wordsworth  possessed 
a  quality  his  lack  of  which  accounts  less 
obviously  for  Landor's  failure  to  gain 
the  larger  public.  They  were  dead  in 
earnest,  and  their  earnestness  sprang 
from  a  profound  sense  of  moral  respon- 
sibility. "The  poet's  message  to  his 
time  "  has  become  something  of  a  catch- 
phrase  in  criticism.  The  fact  that  a  great 
poet  has  had  a  particular  thesis  to  pre- 
sent to  his  own  generation  is  historically 
interesting,  but  hardly  accountable  for 
his  greatness.  For  it  is  not  likely  to  be 
in  the  exercise  of  his  highest  gift  as  a 
poet  that  he  has  directly  influenced  the 
opinion  or  behavior  of  his  neighbors  in 
time  or  place.  He  has  made  practical 


use  of  an  instrument  the  highest  use  of 
which  is  not  immediate  or  practical.  Yet 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  habit  of  moral 
conviction  and  settledness  of  mind,  which 
in  its  direct  application  is  likely  to  pro- 
duce poetry,  if  real,  of  an  inferior  order, 
must  by  indirection  enrich  even  the  sort 
of  poetry  that  seems  most  spontaneous 
and  unfortified  with  opinion.  This  would 
apply  even  to  the  work  of  the  dramatic 
poet,  who  is  supposed  to  have  his  being 
in  a  chronic  process  of  self-effacement. 
As  for  the  lyric  poet,  since  it  is  his  affair 
to  express  only  himself,  we  inevitably 
feel  the  invisible  moral  atmosphere  in 
which  that  self  moves.  To  say  that  such 
a  poet  has  no  message  should  mean  not 
that  he  fails  to  say  things,  but  simply  that 
the  total  impression  of  his  personality  in- 
ferred from  his  utterance  is  in  some  way 
inharmonious  or  incomplete.  The  infer- 
ence from  the  lyrical  verse  of  Milton  or 
Wordsworth  is  an  inference  of  suppressed 
moral  zeal ;  the  Muse  has  forced  them 
for  the  moment  to  an  expression  of  pure 
feeling,  though  they  would  have  liked, 
perhaps,  to  be  at  their  favorite  business 
of  preaching.  Landor's  suppression,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  of  a  weakness,  or,  more 
fairly  perhaps,  of  a  limitation.  He  can- 
not fitly  utter  the  whole  of  his  personal- 
ity in  verse,  for  his  life,  rich  in  the  ma- 
terials of  poetry,  was  not  a  poem.  A 
certain  instability  of  moral  temper  is  to 
be  hidden,  not  dishonestly,  but  decent- 
ly and  in  the  name  of  art.  Unfortu- 
nately for  this  poet,  the  more  nearly  man 
and  artist  are  fused,  the  stronger  a  poet's 
hold  is  upon  general  sympathy.  We  are 
not  satisfied  to  be  admitted  to  one  cor- 
ner of  a  man's  heart,  or  to  a  single  cham- 
ber of  his  brain,  even  if  we  have  reason  to 
think  the  rest  of  the  house  is  given  over 
to  cobwebs  and  skeleton  closets.  There 
is  something  disconcerting  in  the  admir- 
able manners  of  a  person  about  whom 
things  are  rumored ;  we  do  not  know 
which  way  to  look  in  his  presence. 

One  of  the  most  comfortable  ways  of 
disposing  of  Laridor  has  been  by  the  re- 


128 


Books  New  and  Old. 


sort  to  paradox.  What  an  unaccount- 
able creature  he  was,  —  hot-headed  and 
gentle,  dreamy  and  disputatious,  stub- 
bornly proud  and  the  sport  of  every 
whim,  a  sort  of  literary  ruffian  and  an 
apostle  of  peace.  "  I  strove  with  none, 
for  none  was  worth  my  strife,"  he  writes 
with  lofty  serenity,  after  threescore  and 
ten  years  of  quarreling  with  everybody. 
What  are  we  to  make  of  such  a  person 
as  that? 

But  nothing  is  easier  to  manage  than 
a  paradox  if  one  takes  the  trouble  to 
humor  it.  Admitted  that  Landor  was 
a  dare-devil  student,  an  irascible  hus- 
band, an  ungovernable  subject,  and  that 
he  wrote  much  of  the  serenest  prose,  the 
most  delicately  urbane  verse  in  the  lan- 
guage; and  there  is  still  nothing  con- 
fused or  irrelevant  in  the  story  of  his 
life  and  work,  nothing  even  to  suggest 
him  as  a  "  case "  for  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research.  His  personality 
was  by  no  means  a  patchwork  of  stray 
entities  ;  given  the  flesh  and  blood,  every- 
thing else  is  congruous  and  germane. 
To  so  turbulent  and  exuberant  a  nature 
there  could  be  only  one  literary  salva- 
tion :  the  guiding  instinct  of  the  artist, 
to  impose  here  and  restrain  there,  so  that 
of  the  multitude  of  impressions  by  which 
the  poet  is  besieged,  each  may  find  its 
allotted  place,  —  may  be  discarded  as 
unworthy  of  expression,  or  given  the 
expression  which  is  fit.  The  irresponsi- 
ble rude  vigor  which  marked  Landor's 
daily  conduct  and  habit  of  mind  was 
somehow  precipitated  by  the  act  of  art, 
taking  on  a  form  of  dignity  and  grace, 
as  some  cloudy  chemical  virtue  assumes 
the  lucid  firmness  of  the  crystal.  Here, 
then,  is  the  true  Landorian  paradox  : 
precisely  because  he  was  all  compact  of 
ungovernable  will  and  romantic  feeling, 
his  art  must  subject  itself  to  classical 
line  and  precept ;  his  fluid  nature  crys- 
tallizing, that  it  might  not  diffuse  itself 
in  ineffective  vapor,  and  the  poetic  me- 
dium of  expression  become  "  a  limbeck 
only." 


Restless  vigor  of  mind,  rather  than 
productive  intellectual  energy,  would 
seem  to  mark  much  of  his  prose  work. 
He  bristled  with  opinions,  and  delighted 
to  give  them  a  sonorous  utterance  of 
which  he  only  was  capable.  But  we  do 
not  feel  sure  of  the  fundamental  princi- 
ples upon  which  he  grounds  them ;  we 
are  troubled  by  a  lurking  doubt,  not  of 
his  sincerity,  but  of  his  responsibility, 
and  we  come  to  take  each  of  his  good 
things  with  a  pinch  of  reservation.  In 
his  lyrical  mood,  fortunately,  this  is  of 
less  consequence.  We  do  not  want  him 
to  reason,  we  want  him  to  feel ;  and  if 
his  confidences  are  kept  within  measure, 
we  may  be  sure  that  he  is  observing  a 
principle  which  not  even  romantic  poe- 
try can  safely  ignore.  "  The  great  and 
golden  rule  of  art,  as  well  as  of  life," 
says  William  Blake,  in  one  of  his  remark- 
able prose  fragments,  "  is  this  —  that  the 
more  distinct,  wiry,  and  sharp  the  bound- 
ing line,  the  more  perfect  the  work  of 
art."  Landor's  life  suffers  from  the  ap- 
plication of  this  rule,  but  it  is  exactly  the 
merit  of  his  art.  And  it  is  the  posses- 
sion of  this  merit  which  distinguishes 
him  from  a  popular  poet  like  Byron. 
Byron  had  apparently  much  in  common 
with  him ;  he,  too,  was  turbulent,  diffi- 
cult, irresponsible,  a  republican  in  theo- 
ry and  an  aristocrat  in  taste,  a  rebel 
against  society,  and  an  exile  from  re- 
spectable England.  Yet  Byron's  verse 
expresses  all  that  was  in  him,  for  good 
or  ill.  It  is  as  romantic  and  unrestrained 
in  form  as  in  feeling,  now  lofty,  now 
sensational,  now  sentimental,  now  cyn- 
ical. Why  could  not  Landor  have  writ- 
ten himself  like  that  ? 

The  two  poets  met  only  once,  at  a  per- 
fumer's, where  Landor  was  buying  attar 
of  roses,  and  Byron,  scented  soap.  There 
is  a  whimsical  suggestion  in  the  incident 
of  the  difference  between  them  :  the  re- 
fined artist,  with  his  power  of  concentrat- 
ing and  purifying  emotion,  at  some  cost 
of  popularity,  and  the  coarsish  amateur, 
with  his  constant  and  successful  appeal 


Books  New  and  Old. 


129 


to  "  the  gallery  "  by  the  exaggeration  of 
what  he  believed  himself  to  feel.  A  very 
little  perfume  will  go  a  long  way  —  in 
soap.  Of  course  one  cannot  get  rid  of 
Byron  in  any  such  summary  way  ;  but 
the  real  power  in  him  was  obscured  by 
the  very  quality  which  made  him  popu- 
lar ;  so  much  at  least  is  true.  The  fash- 
ionable improvisatore  was  understood  to 
be  beyond  the  common  law  ;  his  work 
is  unconscious  of  the  "  bounding  line  "  in 
thought  or  expression  ;  and  it  has  not 
stood.  Landor  had  Byron's  habit  of 
producing  his  verse  at  a  heat,  and  of  giv- 
ing it  little  or  no  revision,  but  a  glance 
is  enough  to  show  how  different  the  pro- 
duct of  rapid  workmanship  is  from  the 
product  of  improvisation. 

But,  one  perhaps  thinks,  Landor  has 
so  little  human  interest.  What  a  pic- 
ture of  English  society  lies  open  in  By- 
ron's verse.  Here  was  a  man  who  knew 
the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  conse- 
quently left  his  mark  upon  it.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  Landor,  too,  was  absorbingly 
interested  in  the  life  about  him,  an  eager 
radical,  ready  to  see  the  world  move  for- 
ward, and  to  help  it  as  far  as  he  could. 
His  youthful  mind  was  deeply  stirred, 
as  all  noble  minds  were,  by  the  liberty 
and  equality  propaganda  ;  and  not  mere- 
ly to  opinion,  as  his  personal  enlistment 
in  the  Spanish  cause  presently  showed. 
Nor  was  his  interest  in  the  problem  of 
the  hour  less  intense  in  later  life.  All 
this  zest  in  practical  matters  finds  outlet 
in  his  prose  ;  he  had  other  uses  for  his 
verse,  though  none  in  the  least  remote 
from  human  interest.  For  the  greatest 
human  interests  are  beyond  those  which 
are  born  of  emergency  or  fashion,  and  it 
is  these  interests  above  all  others  which 
the  poet  is  bound  to  interpret  for  us. 
Some  deep  concerns  of  life  left  Landor 
unmoved,  as  we  have  seen.  He  has  the 
unmorality  of  the  healthy  pagan.  He 
lacks  the  subdued  religious  fervor  which 
gives  its  tone,  for  better  or  worse,  to  the 
poetry  of  Christendom  ;  but  he  knew  his 
own  heart,  and  it  was  greater  than  most. 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  537.  9 


It  was  only  in  his  art  that  he  stood 
consciously  aloof  from  his  contempora- 
ries, owing  nothing,  as  he  rightly  boasted, 
to  any  man  or  school  of  them  all.  Nor 
was  he  the  founder  of  a  school,,  though 
even  his  earliest  work  contains  a  sure 
presage  of  the  greatest  Victorian  poetry, 
and  all  later  poets  have  been  subtly  in 
his  debt.  His  influence  exerted  itself 
upon  the  method  rather  than  upon  the 
manner  of  their  work.  English  verse 
gained  from  him  a  new  sense  of  chastity 
and  proportion,  not  as  a  desired  quality, 
—  imported  direct  from  the  Mediterra- 
nean or  filtered  through  this  or  that 
Latin  source,  and  in  either  case  carry- 
ing with  it  much  foreign  baggage  of  dic- 
tion and  syntax,  —  but  as  a  native  virtue, 
obviously  inseparable  from  the  simplest 
and  purest  English  idiom.  Landor's  per- 
sonal manner  was  incommunicable.  No- 
body has  successfully  imitated  even  his 
trifles ;  it  is  harder  to  build  a  bubble  to 
order  than  a  palace. 

It  is  almost  a  pity  to  have  connected 
the  word  trifle  with  his  shorter  lyrics, 
for  only  what  is  imperfect  is  trifling  in 
art,  and  in  these  poems  Landor's  art 
has  attained  its  pure  perfection.  The 
opinion  is  common  that  his  real  power 
lay  in  the  direction  of  the  drama:  I 
think  it  mainly  lyrical.  His  plays  are 
not  mere  JEschylean  elaborations  in  dia- 
logue of  lyrical  motives ;  nor  are  they 
root-bound  by  the  utter  subjectivity  of 
Byron.  But  they  are  barren  of  action, 
and  of  rapid  dramatic  speech.  Above 
all,  they  lack  the  passionate  interplay  of 
circumstance  and  temperament,  the  in- 
finitely varied  illumination  of  character, 
which  mark  the  creative  drama.  Lan- 
dor does  not  create,  he  discerns.  Human 
nature  he  knew  in  the  large,  because  he 
knew  himself.  He  knew,  too,  certain 
striking  types  of  character,  the  scholar, 
the  priest,  the  libertine,  the  king,  the  wo- 
man ;  but  he  could  not  differentiate  them, 
as  examples  of  the  same  general  type  are 
given  distinct  personalities  by  Shake- 
speare or  Miss  Austen.  His  characters 


130 


Books  New  and  Old. 


speak  according  to  his  opinion  of  what 
such  characters  would  say  rather  than  of 
their  own  accord,  because  they  are  what 
they  are.  The  Imaginary  Conversations 
are  properly  named  ;  only  two  or  three 
of  them  have  even  the  semblance  of  dra- 
matic dialogue.  Yet  to  make  one's  char- 
acters speak  according  to  one's  opinion 
of  what  they  would  say  still  leaves  much 
leeway  for  excellence.  If  Landor  lacks 
the  power  to  create  persons,  to  set  the 
breath  of  life  in  motion  and  let  flesh  and 
blood  take  care  of  itself  and  its  own,  he 
possesses  a  faculty  of  only  secondary 
value  to  the  poet.  He  is  able  to  divine 
the  significance  of  types,  and  to  give  them 
humanity,  if  not  personality.  His  per- 
sons are  as  much  more  concrete  than 
Ben  Jonson's  as  they  are  less  convincing 
than  Shakespeare's.  In  short,  he  car- 
ries the  objective  process  as  far  as  it 
will  go  ;  that  he  came  so  near  dramatic 
achievement  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  not  merely  intellectually,  but  sym- 
pathetically objective. 

Very  early  in  life  he  conceived  an  am- 
bition to  express  himself  in  the  more 
formal  and  sustained  poetic  modes,  which 
resulted,  in  those  two  superb  efforts  of  his 
'prentice  hand,  Gebir  and  Count  Julian. 
One  might  be  inclined  to  say  of  such 
work  that  it  fulfills  its  own  promise.  In 
its  merely  technical  aspect  it  was  very 
remarkable ;  there  had  been  no  such 
blank  verse  written  since  Milton.  But 
the  public  was  deaf  to  that  sounding 
music,  and  the  poet,  independent  as  he 
professed  himself,  rather  than  be  ignored, 
gave  up  an  effort  in  which  mere  hostility 
might  have  confirmed  him.  "  I  confess 
to  you,"  he  said  quietly,  many  years  af- 
ter, "  if  even  foolish  men  had  read  Gebir, 
I  should  have  continued  to  write  poetry  ; 
there  is  something  of  summer  in  the  hum 
of  insects."  But  it  is  easily  possible  to 
exaggerate  the  world's  loss  from  his  fail- 
ure to  develop  a  faculty  for  formal  epic 
and  dramatic  composition.  Baffled  by 
the  silence  with  which  his  first  great 
bursts  of  song  were  met,  the  poet  must 


still  be  in  some  manner  expressing  him- 
self. Noble  as  are  those  majestic  tours 
de  force,  we  can  hardly  doubt  that  he 
found  a  more  fitting  utterance  in  the  less 
pretentious  lyrical  forms  in  which  his 
genius  took  refuge.  If  he  can  no  longer 
dream  of  rearing  massy  shafts  to  the  level 
of  cloud-capped  Ilium,  or  sounding  the 
depths  of  passionate  experience,  there 
are  still  the  delicate  flowers  of  human 
sentiment,  over  which  he  may  lean  and 
smile  a  moment  as  he  passes.  He  has 
not  torn  them  from  their  root  in  his 
heart ;  let  the  world  do  with  them  what 
it  will. 

The  world  has  done  very  little  with 
them,  as  it  did  very  little  with  that  other 
poetry  of  his.  Why  should  one  halt  in 
the  sober  journey  of  life  to  dwell  upon 
a  mere  prettiness  of  four  or  a  dozen 
lines  like  Dirce  or  Rose  Aylmer  ?  What 
if  it  is  perfect  in  its  way,  —  so  is  the 
symbol  for  nothing.  A  half  thought, 
a  dainty  sentiment  tricked  in  graceful 
verse,  —  how  is  the  conscientious  student 
of  literature  to  find  a  criticism  of  life  in 
such  poetry  as  this  ?  Now  and  then  the 
question  strikes  home  upon  some  honest 
Landorian,  and  a  table  of  the  master's 
solid  excellences  is  produced,  to  the  con- 
fusion of  his  critics,  and  of  the  question 
in  point.  For  the  lover  of  Landor  some- 
times fails  to  see  the  superior  value  of 
his  lighter  work.  He  is  praised  for  his 
dignity  rather  than  for  his  grace,  for  his 
vigor  of  conception  rather  than  for  his 
delicate  human  ness  of  feeling.  Yet 
grace  and  sympathy,  not  gravity  and 
force,  constitute  the  main  charm  of  his 
verse. 

As  the  poet  of  refined  sentiment  Lan- 
dor stands  quite  alone  in  English  ;  that, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  his  distinction.  It  is 
not  at  all  the  popular  sort  of  sentiment ; 
its  serenity  and  subtlety  are  doubtless 
irritating  to  the  patron  of  literary  vaude- 
ville. You  are  not  in  the  least  danger 
of  laughing  one  moment  and  crying  the 
next ;  humor  and  sentiment  are  not  set 
off  against  each  other,  they  simply  have 


Books  New  and  Old. 


131 


no  separate  existence.  It  is  an  inner 
quality  which  quite  as  distinctly  as  his 
outward  manner  marks  Landor's  kinship 
with  the  poets  of  the  old  world.  Yet  no 
poetry  has  been  written  which  is  more 
free  from  the  taint  of  the  lamp.  He 
was  a  Greek  in  nothing  more  truly  than 
in  his  daily  dependence  upon  the  spir- 
itual elbow-room  of  field  and  sky.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  composing  out  of 
doors.  His  atmosphere  is  always  quiet- 
ly in  motion.  Love  of  nature  was  a 
trait  of  his,  not  a  virtue.  He  has  no- 
thing of  the  mystical  worshiping  attitude 
which  Wordsworth  and  his  disciples 
have  imposed  upon  us  almost  as  a  duty. 
He  breathed  freer  in  the  open,  that  was 
all.  A  wild  flower  was  more  to  him 
than  a  mountain  peak.  The  daily  round 
may  do  very  well  without  grandeur,  but 
hardly  without  its  objects  of  chivalry  and 
affection.  And  upon  human  nature,  ac- 
cordingly, he  looks  with  tenderness  ra- 
ther than  with  the  passionate  yearning 
of  romantic  poets.  The  world  has  its 
tragedies,  but  there  are  many  pleasant 
things  in  it  for  a  healthy  man  to  take 
delight  in. 

The  shorter  lyrics  of  Landor,  then, 
constitute  a  poetry  of  urbanity,  a  sort  of 
sublimated  vers  de  societe.  With  all  the 
elegance  and  good -breeding  in  the  world, 
it  is  never  artificial;  the  smirk  of  the 
courtier  is  never  to  be  detected  under  the 
singer's  wreath.  It  is  urbane,  but  least 
of  all  urban.  It  deals  unostentatiously 
with  the  kindlier  human  sentiments : 
personal  affection  for  places,  employ- 
ments, living  things ;  friendship  without 
its  exactions,  hope  without  suspense, 
memory  without  bitterness  ;  love  with- 
out its  reactions  and  reverses.  It  belongs 
to  the  healthy  life  which  is  aware  of 
conditions  rather  than  problems.  In 
certain  buoyant  and  full-blooded  moods, 
the  mysteries  of  existence  do  not  trouble 
one  ;  there  is  a  straight  road  to  every- 
thing. Doubt  of  one's  self  or  the  world  is 
a  sort  of  treason,  sorrow  and  suffering 
are  morbid  affections  of  the  brain.  Any 


extravagant  feeling  seems  hysterical, 
even  extravagant  joy.  The  body  is  ac- 
tive, the  mind  ruminates,  quietly  con- 
scious of  e very-day  relations  and  experi- 
ences. This  golden  mood  is  habitual 
with  Landor,  and  it  is  this  mood  to 
which  he  gives  utterance  in  poetry  not 
less  rich  because  it  is  confined  for  the 
most  part  to  the  middle  register. 

The  quality  of  his  work  in  this  vein 
is  nowhere  better  illustrated  than  in  his 
poetic  treatment  of  a  single  cherished 
sentiment,  the  tenderness  of  a  strong 
man  for  womanhood.  For  flowers  and 
for  women  he  had  the  same  fondness, 
touched  sometimes  with  humor,  but 
never  with  hard  analysis  ;  he  was  not  a 
botanist  nor  an  anatomist.  In  an  early 
letter  to  Southey  he  owns  a  weakness 
for  the  study  of  feminine  character,  and 
it  must  have  been  very  early  that  he 
gained  the  perception  of  a  real  type  of 
womanhood  to  which  he  is  never  tired 
of  paying  tribute.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  think  of  laying  the  finger  upon  this  or 
that  feminine  creature  of  Shakespeare's 
and  saying, u  This  is  the  woman  of  Shake- 
speare." The  woman  of  Landor,  on  the 
contrary,  is  as  distinct  a  type  as  —  to 
compare  great  things  with  small  —  the 
Du  Maurier  woman.  She  is,  like  most 
of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  in  the  first 
blossoming  of  youth  and  grace.  Her 
delicate  purity,  her  little  petulances,  her 
womanish  lights  and  shadows  of  mood 
and  mind,  arouse  in  the  poet  an  infi- 
nite delight.  He  has  the  reverence  of  a 
lover  for  her  subtle  charm,  and  a  good- 
humored  cousinly  indulgence  for  her  foi- 
bles. The  feeling  of  his  Epicurus  for 
Ternissa,  or  of  his  ^Esop  for  Rhodope, 
leaves  nothing  to  regret  for  those  of  us 
who  think  none  the  less  of  human  life 
because  it  does  not  habitually  wear  the 
buskin.  Brutus's  Portia  or  the  mother 
of  the  Gracchi  Landor  may  admire  ;  but 
his  little  lanthe  stands  for  the  sex  in 
his  eyes.  "God  forbid  that  I  should 
ever  be  drowned  in  any  of  these  butts  of 
malmsey !  "  he  said  of  Oriental  poetry. 


132 


Books  New  and  Old. 


"  It  is  better  to  describe  a  girl  getting  a 
tumble  over  a  skipping-rope  made  of  a 
wreath  of  flowers." 

Here  and  there  throughout  the  varied 
volume  of  his  work  this  dainty  creature 
is  continually  making  her  exits  and  her 
entrances.  The  nymph  in  Gebir  embod- 
ies her  human  self  :  — 

"She  smiled,  and  more  of  pleasure  than  dis- 
dain 

Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 
And  eyes  that  languisht,  lengthening,  just  like 
love." 

And  in  the  Hellenics,  written  fifty  years 
later,  she  again  speaks  through  the  half- 
divine  lips  of  the  Hamadryad  :  — 

"Hamadryad.    Go  ...  rather  go,  than  make 

me  say  I  love. 

Phaicos.  .  .  .  Nay,  turn  not  from  me  now, 
I  claim  my  kiss. 

Hamadryad.  Do  men  take  first,  then  claim  ? 
Do  thus  the  seasons  run  their  course  with 

them? 
.  .  .  Her  lips  were  seal'd,  her  head  sank  on  his 

breast, 
'T  is  said  that  laughs  were  heard  within  the 

wood, 
But  who  should  hear  them  ?  .  .  .  and  whose 

laughs,  and  why  ?  " 

But  these  are  only  hints  of  sweetness  ; 
it  is  in  Landor's  shorter  lyrics  that  she 
chiefly  lives.  There  is  no  pretty  caprice 
or  evanescent  cloud  of  temper  which  he 
allows  to  escape  the  airy  fetters  of  his 
verse.  Now  it  is  merely  the  sweet  play- 
fulness of  girlhood  :  — 

"  Come,  Sleep !  but  mind  ye  !  if  you  come  with- 
out 

The  little  girl  that  struck  me  at  the  rout, 
By  Jove  !  I  would  not  give  you  half-a-crown 
For    all    your    poppy  -  heads    and    all    your 
down." 

Now  it  is  her  buoyant  good  humor  :  — 

"  Your  pleasures   spring   like   daisies  in  the 
grass, 

Cut  down,  and  up  again  as  blithe  as  ever  ; 
From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 

Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river." 
Perhaps  it  is  the  momentary  shifting  of 
her  moods :  — 

"  Pyrrha !  your  smiles  are  gleams  of  sun 
That  after  one  another  run 
Incessantly,  and  think  it  fun. 


"  Pyrrha !  your  tears  are  short  sweet  rain 
That  glimmering  on  the  flower-lit  plain 
Zephyrs  kiss  back  to  heaven  again. 

"  Pyrrha !  both  anguish  me :  do  please 
To  shed  but  (if  you  wish  me  ease) 
Twenty  of  those,  and  two  of  these." 

Or  it  is  her  sheer  charm,  to  be  wondered 

at,  not  phrased  about :  — 

"  Fair  maiden,  when  I  look  at  thee, 
I  wish  I  could  be  young  and  free ; 
But  both  at  once,  ah  !  who  could  be  ?  " 

Sometimes,  too,  he  touches  a  deeper 
string,  though  still  without  overstepping 
the  bound  between  sentiment  and  pas- 
sion :  — 

"  Artemia,  while  Orion  sighs, 
Raising  her  white  and  taper  finger, 
Pretends  to  loose,  yet  makes  to  linger, 

The  ivy  that  o'ershades  her  eyes. 

" '  Wait,  or  you  shall  not  have  the  kiss,' 
Says  she  ;  but  he,  on  wing  to  pleasure, 
'  Are  there  not  other  hours  for  leisure  ? 
For  love  is  any  hour  like  this  ?  ' 

"  Artemia,  faintly  thou  respoudest, 
As  falsely  deems  that  fiery  youth  ; 
A  God  there  is  who  knows  the  truth, 
A  God  who  tells  me  which  is  fondest." 

lanthe  in  absence  still  gives  color  to  his 
mood :  — 

"  Only  two  months  since  you  stood  here  ! 

Two  shortest  months  !  then  tell  me  why 
Voices  are  harsher  than  they  were, 
And  tears  are  longer  ere  they  dry  ?  " 

Or,  with  a  more  characteristic  lightness 
of  touch,  he  is  uttering  one  of  the  finest 
things  ever  said  by  man  to  absent  maid : 

"  Summer  has  doft  his  latest  green, 

And  Autumn  ranged  the  barley-mows. 
So  long  away  then  have  you  been  ? 
And  are  you  coming  back  to  close 
The  year  ?  it  sadly  wants  repose." 

She  is  real  to  him  ;  though  delicately 
idealized,  not  conventionalized,  as  is  often 
true  of  the  darlings  of  the  lighter  muse. 
Not  less  remarkable  than  this  sure- 
ness  of  conception  is  the  perfection  of 
the  medium  employed  ;  its  simple  dic- 
tion, its  subtle  variations  of  rhythm, 
giving  even  to  the  baldest  of  verse  forms, 
the  quatrain  in  ballad  metre,  a  high  dis- 


The   Columbia  Studies  in   Comparative  Literature.  133 


tinction;  its  elusive  power  of  sugges- 
tion; the  curious  fillip  to  fancy  and 
feeling  often  given  in  the  final  verse. 
One  does  not  feel  that  there  has  been  a 
process  of  adjustment  between  thought 
and  expression ;  neither  could  exist 
without  the  other.  Who  can  really  con- 
ceive a  mute  inglorious  Landor  —  or 
Milton  ?  But  we  may  avoid  a  nearer 
approach  to  that  Serbonian  bog,  the 
question  of  style.  Landor's  light  verse 
is  society  verse  without  the  exclusions  of 
caste,  occasional  verse  without  its,  mouth- 
ing and  ornamentation  ;  a  pure  type  of 
lyrical  comedy.  Such  poetry  has  its 
serious  uses.  Delicacy  of  sentiment  and 
austerity  of  form  may  well  command 


attention  from  an  over-intense,  ornate 
period  like  ours.  Surely  we  are  not 
grown  too  serious  to  turn  at  times  from 
the  agony  of  Lear  or  the  titanic  petu- 
lance of  Satan  to  a  consideration  of 
"  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  "  ?  It 
would  be  a  pity  if  the  habit  of  listening 
virtuously  to  any  variety  of  poetic  thun- 
der, even  stage  thunder,  should  have  un- 
fitted us  to  enjoy  —  and  not  be  ashamed 
—  poetry  of  pure  sentiment,  poetry  like 
this :  — 

"  There  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 
But  not  unless  first  worn  by  you  .  .  . 

Heart's-ease  ...  of  all  earth's  flowers  most 

rare; 
Bring  it ;  and  bring  enough  for  two." 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


THE  COLUMBIA   STUDIES  IN  COMPARATIVE  LITERATURE.1 


"  THE  criticism  which  alone  can  much 
help  us  for  the  future,"  wrote  Mr.  Arnold 
in  his  luciferous  manner,  "  is  a  criticism 
which  regards  Europe  as  being,  for  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  purposes,  one 
great  confederation,  bound  to  a  joint  ac- 
tion and  working  to  a  common  result." 

It  is  the  hope  of  attaining  such  con- 
structive thought  as  this,  which,  in  a  day 
when  the  artfully  phrased  gustation  of 
bookish  flavors  too  often  passes  under 
the  name  of  criticism,  can  best  justify 
single-minded  devotion  to  the  tenth 
Muse.  To  many  it  is  a  pleasure  to  ob- 
serve how  the  saner  manifestations  of 

1  A  History  of  Literary  Criticism  in  the  Re- 
naissance. With  special  reference  to  the  influ- 
ence of  Italy  in  the  formation  and  direction  of 
modern  classicism.  By  JOEL  ELLAS  SPINGARN. 
New  York :  The  Columbia  University  Press. 
The  Macmillan  Co.  1899. 

Spanish  Literature  in  the  England  of  the 
Tudors.  By  JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL. 
New  York  :  The  Columbia  University  Press. 
The  Macmillan  Co.  1899. 

Romances  of  Roguery.  An  episode  in  the 
history  of  the  novel.  By  FRANK  WADLEIGH 


the  study  of  comparative  literature  are 
tending  to  the  realization  of  this  ideal. 
The  name  comparative  literature  may 
be  new,  but  the  thing  is  old.  In  its  best 
contemporary  form  it  is  quite  in  the 
genial  English  tradition  of  humane  schol- 
arship. Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learn- 
ing was  perhaps  its  first  important  docu- 
ment, and,  despite  the  alleged  insularity 
of  English  taste,  it  has  nowhere  been 
more  finely  exhibited  than  in  the  work  of 
such  scholars  as  Bowles,  Southey,  Hal- 
lam,  and  Pater,  or  in  that  of  their  Amer- 
ican cousins,  Ticknor  and  Lowell.  It 
has,  indeed,  been  advanced  by  influences 

CHANDLER.  Part  I.  The  Picaresque  Novel  in 
Spain.  New  York  :  The  Columbia  University 
Press.  The  Macmillan  Co.  1899. 

The  Classical  Heritage  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
By  HENRY  OSBORNE  TAYLOR.  New  York: 
The  Columbia  University  Press.  The  Mac- 
millan Co.  1901. 

The  Italian  Renaissance  in  England.  Stud- 
ies. By  LEWIS  EINSTEIN.  Illustrated.  New 
York:  The  Columbia  University  Press.  The 
Macmillan  Co.  1902. 


134 


The   Columbia  Studies  in   Comparative  Literature. 


from  the  Continent,  by  the  synoptic 
idealism  of  the  German  philosophers 
and  critics  of  the  romantic  period,  by 
the  indefatigable  delving  of  German 
students,  and  by  the  keen  Gallic  dis- 
criminations of  the  school  of  Sainte- 
Beuve  ;  it  has  caught  something  of  penin- 
sular enthusiasm  from  Italy  and  Spain  ; 
yet  at  its  best,  English  scholarship  in 
this  kind  has  been  distinguished  by  flex- 
ibility of  sympathy  and  a  just  perspec- 
tive. It  has  been  notably  free  from  the 
apoplectic  erudition,  the  excessive  pre- 
occupation with  dusty  detail,  the  logom- 
achies, and  fractious  arietations,  which 
elsewhere  have  drawn  upon  such  studies 
the  reproach  of  vanity. 

At  Columbia  University,  under  the 
inspiration  and  editorial  control  of  Pro- 
fessor Woodberry,  there  has  grown  a 
series  of  books  which  illustrates  admira- 
bly that  minute  and  careful  research  is 
not  inconsistent  with  sound  taste  and  a 
wide  horizon.  Taken  as  a  whole,  in- 
•deed,  these  Studies  in  Comparative  Liter- 
ature constitute  a  singularly  substantial 
and  important  contribution  to  literature 
in  the  wider  sense,  and  an  unusually  in- 
teresting chapter  in  the  World's  Cultur- 
geschichte.  Viewed  in  the  round  they 
summarize  many  of  the  more  important 
and  significant  aspects  of  European  lit- 
erature and  intellectual  life  from  the  de- 
cadence of  paganism  to  that  flooding  of 
literary  lowlands  which  was  consecutive 
upon  the  Renaissance.  Withal  they  con- 
stantly regard  Europe  as  "  bound  to  a 
joint  action  and  working  to  a  common 
result,"  and  they  resume  the  inter-action 
of  the  various  European  national  liter- 
atures in  a  way  little  seen  in  the  run  of 
Einfluss  studies  where  the  form  of  know- 
ledge is  too  often  divorced  from  its  sub- 
stantial body. 

Mr.  Taylor's  Classical  Heritage  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  though  one  of  the  latest 
volumes  in  the  series,  is  logically  its  be- 
ginning. It  traces  the  passing  over  of  the 
pagan  man  into  his  mediaeval  character 
with  commendable  lucidity  and  sugges- 


tiveness.  and  with  copious  evidence  of 
full-bodied  research.  Any  one  who  has 
seen  the  league -long  set  of  Migne's 
Patrologise  Cursus  Completus  will  have 
some  faint  notion  of  the  character  of 
Mr.  Taylor's  wide  and  inarable  field. 
That  he  has  educed  from  it  such  a  wealth 
of  informing  criticism  is  the  more  to  his 
praise.  To  the  literary  student  the  chief 
interest  of  the  book  lies  in  its  account  of 
the  growth  of  the  more  poignant  emo- 
tions of  Christianity  in  the  controlled 
pagan  heart,  —  resigned  to  order,  —  and 
the  consequent  merging  of  law-abiding 
classical  literature  in  the  rhymed  exuber- 
ance, the  unction  and  raysticity,  of  me- 
diaeval poetry.  This  was  the  outgrowth 
of  that  aspiration  of  the  Christian  soul, 
which,  as  Mr.  Taylor  says  finely,  "  will 
produce  at  last  on  one  hand  the  Roman 
de  la  Rose,  and  on  the  other  the  Divina 
Commedia ;  while  as  it  were  between 
these  two,  swing  and  waver,  or  circle 
like  starlings,  strange  tales  of  sinful  love 
and  holy  striving,  whereof  Arthur's 
knights  shall  be  the  heroes,  and  wherein 
across  the  stage  pass  on  to  final  purity 
Lancelot  and  Guinevere  as  well  as  Gala- 
had and  Parcival." 

The  tonic  chord  of  the  series  is  struck 
in  Dr.  Spingarn's  History  of  Literary 
Criticism  in  the  Renaissance.  Here  the 
problem  was  to  show  how  the  men  of 
the  Renaissance  justified  imaginative  lit- 
erature, which  to  the  mediaeval  mind 
with  its  rigors  and  beatific  visions  had 
come  to  seem  a  light  and  vain  thing. 
The  interest  for  us  lies  in  the  fact  that 
the  justification  was  grounded  upon  those 
ever  memorable  generalizations  of  Aris- 
totle about  the  universal  in  art,  warmed 
and  vitalized  by  the  breath  of  Platonic 
idealism.  Dr.  Spingarn's  learned  and 
skillful  account  of  the  rise  of  Aristotelian 
canons  of  criticism  will  perform  a  double 
service  to  most  students  of  literature.  It 
will  remind  them  of  the  truth,  too  often 
forgotten,  that  modern  classicism  which 
they  sometimes  decry  as  formal  and  un- 
inspired, or  at  best  praise  for  its  lucid 


The   Columbia  Studies  in   Comparative  Literature. 


135 


order  and  labor  of  the  file,  did,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  draw  inspiration  from  the 
perennial  springs  of  ideal  art.  Further- 
more it  should  impress  many  with  a 
fresh  sense  of  the  debt  owing  to  Italy 
for  the  spread  of  just  and  pregnant  no- 
tions concerning  the  essential  nature  of 
the  art  they  love.  The  frequent  pre- 
sence in  Dr.  Spingarn's  pages  of  such 
poetic  and  engaging  figures  as  Sidney, 
.best  of  poet-courtiers,  and  golden-haired 
Pico  della  Mirandola  imparts  to  them 
a  humane  charm  not  common  in  such 
treatises. 

Mr.  Einstein  has  taken  up  the  torch 
and  pursued  still  further  the  story  of 
Italian  influence  on  the  world's  culture 
in  his  studies  of  The  Italian  Kenaissance 
in  England.  This  minute  account  of  cer- 
tain strains  in  the  life  of  Italianate  Eng- 
land contains  much  of  interest  and  novel- 
ty drawn  from  rare  and  hardly  accessible 
manuscripts,  and  it  is,  we  believe,  the 
first  attempt  to  present  a  complete  con- 
spectus of  the  singular  relations  between 
Italy  and  England  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. By  virtue  of  its  subject  Mr.  Ein- 
stein's book  has  something  of  the  subtle 
romantic  appeal  which  inheres  in  the 
close  study  of  an  age  of  transition  and 
complex  development,  like  the  peculiar 
interest  we  feel  in  Hellenizing  Rome 
during  the  second  and  third  centuries  of 
this  era,  or  in  Gallicizing  Germany  dur- 
ing the  eighteenth.  This  volume  is  fur- 
ther notable  for  the  rare  and  striking 
portraits  of  old  worthies  by  which  it  is 
embellished. 

Not  the  least  interesting  of  the  series 
are  the  two  books  which  deal  with  some 
of  the  literary  influences  flowing  from 
the  Spanish  peninsula.  There  is  no  rich- 
er and  fresher  field  for  the  pursuit  of 
genial  learning  than  the  literatures  which 
boast  the  great  names  of  Cervantes,  Cal- 
deron,  and  Camoens,  which  have,  too,  an 
incomparable  store  of  picturesque  songs 
and  fables  of  the  people.  There  is  at 
the  root  of  all  this  peninsular  literature 
an  intense,  esoteric,  indigenous  quality, 


a  profound  racial  idealism,  which  will 
elude  all  but  the  most  patient  and  sym- 
pathetic study ;  yet  when  once  the  scholar 
has  realized  this  he  will  have  his  reward, 
for  Spanish  Literature  will  then  stand 
to  him  as  perhaps  the  clearest  and  most 
coherent  type  of  a  national  literature 
playing  its  part  with  others  in  joint  ac- 
tion toward  one  result. 

Dr.  Underbill's  Spanish. Literature  in 
the  England  of  the  Tudors  is  informed 
by  this  fructifying  idea.  He  presents 
for  the  first  time  a  comprehensive  view 
of  political,  social,  and  literary  relations 
between  Spain  and  England  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  and  traces  the  part  played 
by  Spanish  pride,  worldly  wisdom,  mys- 
ticism, and  high-flown  courtesy  in  form- 
ing the  ideals  and  manner  of  English 
writers  in  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean 
periods.  The  book  is  notable  for  the 
wealth  of  evidence  other  than  literary 
which  is  adduced,  and  for  the  intimacy 
of  the  comparisons  of  English  and  Span- 
ish authors.  Herein  the  work  is  exem- 
plary for  the  comparative  student,  who 
is  too  often  lamentably  deficient  in  his 
knowledge  of  the  authors  compared, 
while  he  is  long,  so  to  say,  on  their  re- 
lation. 

The  ever  delightful  picaro,  that  glad, 
extra -moral  personage,  through  whom 
we  enjoy  vicariously  rich  pleasure  of 
knavery  and  robustious  horse-play,  all 
the  rare,  old-world  adventures  of  the  life 
of  the  road,  is  made  the  subject  of  Dr. 
Chandler's  readable  and  suggestive  trea- 
tise of  Romances  of  Roguery,  of  which 
mention  has  already  been  made  in  the 
pages  of  the  Atlantic. 

As  an  episode  in  the  development  of 
the  modern  novel  the  history  of  the  Span- 
ish picaresque  romances  is  of  very  con- 
siderable importance.  It  was  with  the 
rogue  —  the  anti-hero  —  that  story-tell- 
ers first  learned  the  trick  of  realism,  of 
embodying  the  result  of  nice  observation 
in  the  portrayal  of  character,  and  thus 
these  rollicking  human  stories,  pur  gee,,  as 
Le  Sage  has  it,  des  moralitez  superflues, 


136 


The   Contributors'1   Club. 


came  to  be  of  incalculable  moment  in 
forming  the  robust  English  art  of  Field- 
ing and  Smollett.  All  this  is  presented 
by  Dr.  Chandler  clearly  and  cogently, 
with  a  reticulation  of  roguish  narrative 
which  makes  excellent  reading. 

We  remember  the  typical  story  of  the 
youthful  savant  who  laid  as  a  love-gift 
at  the  feet  of  his  sweetheart  "an  im- 
pertinency  in  folio,"  a  fat  and  learned 
Latin  dissertation,  De  Levitate  Femina- 
rum.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  while 
three  of  the  five  volumes  of  the  series 
under  review  were  composed  for  doctoral 
purposes,  they  are  all  as  singularly  free 
from  this  distortion  of  perspective  as 
from  the  arid  parvitude  of  style  which  we 
associate  with  the  academic  dissertation. 
They  show,  indeed,  throughout,  a  fresh 
and  lively  enthusiasm  for  orderly  and 
humane  learning  that  gives  them  a  lit- 
erary quality  almost  equivalent  to  tem- 
perament. In  the  images  and  old  thoughts 
which  they  have  transferred  from  scarce 
and  cryptic  pages  is  preserved  the  es- 


sence of  humanism,  "  that  belief,"  as 
Pater  said,  "  that  nothing  which  has  ever 
interested  living  men  and  women  can 
wholly  lose  its  vitality,  —  no  oracle  be- 
side which  they  have  hushed  their  voices, 
no  dream  which  has  once  been  enter- 
tained by  actual  human  minds,  nothing 
about  which  they  have  been  passionate  or 
expended  time  or  zeal."  Furthermore  it 
is  in  the  constructive  conclusions  to  which 
these  five  volumes  lead  that  they  are 
representative  of  the  best  contemporary 
literary  study,  which  is  more  and  more 
leaving  the  primrose  way  of  lyrical  and 
personal  writing  to  study  literature  as 
the  cumulative  record  of  the  life  of  so- 
ciety. Hence  it  is  a  pious  and  particular 
pleasure  to  notice  these  earnest  studies 
which  contrive  to  unite  something  of  the 
range  of  the  literary  Darwinians  with 
the  generous  flexibility  of  the  older  schol- 
arship, so  to  pave  a  little  portion  of  the 
way  to  wider  and  juster  views  of  that 
large  life  of  which  the  finest  vision  is  seen 
through  the  spectacles  of  books.  F.  G. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


rica< 


SOUTH  AFRICA  changes,  chameleon- 
A  Briton's  like,  as  one  approaches.  A 
man  mav  reach  Pretoria  in 
three  weeks  from  London,  but 
the  geographical  distance  is  no  index 
to  the  difference  in  mental  perspective 
between  the  theorist  at  home  and  the 
worker  on  the  spot.  For  two  years  the 
English  papers  have  hurled  South  Afri- 
can impressions  at  their  readers  :  Johan- 
nesburg has  become  as  familiar  a  name 
as  Birmingham  :  few  families  have  not 
sent  a  relative  to  the  war.  And  yet  the 
traveler,  however  learned  he  may  be  in 
the  book-  work  of  his  subject,  is  singu- 
larly unprepared  for  the  reality  which 
begins  to  dawn  upon  an  observant  man 
after  a  few  months'  experience.  He  be- 


gins to  realize  the  geographical  vastness, 
the  curious  absence  of  natural  means  of 
communication,  the  paradoxes  of  the 
climate  and  the  soil ;  but  even  then  he 
is  only  on  the  brink  of  discovery.  The 
race  problem,  too  often  talked  of  at 
home  as  the  ordinary  question  which  has 
faced  Britain  in  all  her  colonies,  begins 
to  reveal  itself  as  an  apparently  insoluble 
enigma.  The  rural  Boer,  the  most  dog- 
matic individualist  in  the  world,  was 
shaped  by  judicious  management  from 
Pretoria  into  some  momentary  semblance 
of  a  nation  and  a  very  formidable  reality 
of  an  army.  The  war  is  over,  and  he 
is  returning  to  his  home,  beaten,  angry, 
but  still  unconvinced.  His  sombre  God 
has  chastened  him  for  his  sins  —  that  is 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


137 


all :  some  day  doubtless  He  will  lift  from 
him  the  cloud  of  his  displeasure.  To  this 
people,  without  culture,  without  enter- 
prise, wholly  un-modern  and  un-political, 
the  so-called  lessons  of  the  war  mean 
nothing,  and  side  by  side  with  them 
there  lives  in  the  towns  a  race  modern 
of  the  moderns.  The  old  mining-camp, 
California-cum-Ballarat  character  of  the 
gold  industry  in  South  Africa  has  utterly 
passed  away.  Gold-mining  has  ceased 
to  be  a  speculation,  and  has  become  a 
vast  and  complicated  industry,  employ- 
ing at  high  salaries  the  first  engineering 
talent  of  the  world.  The  great  mine- 
owner  is  frequently  a  man  of  education, 
almost  invariably  a  man  of  extreme 
ability.  In  few  places  can  you  find  men 
of  such  mental  vigor,  so  eagerly  recep- 
tive of  new  ideas,  so  keenly  awake  to 
every  change  of  the  financial  and  politi- 
cal worlds  of  Europe.  It  is  as  if  in  the 
seventeenth  century  in  Scotland,  when 
the  Covenanters  were  hiding  in  the  hills, 
the  towns  had  been  filled  with  French 
intellectuels  and  modern  scientists. 

In  this  fact  lies  the  intricacy  of  the 
South  African  problem.  The  twentieth 
century  and  the  seventeenth  exist  side 
by  side,  and  must  be  harmonized.  The 
common  false  impression  pictures  South 
Africa  as  a  clean  slate,  without  history, 
institutions,  or  race  tradition.  It  would 
be  more  exact  to  describe  it  as  permeated 
in  a  large  part  with  the  most  conserva- 
tive of  memories,  the  most  bigoted  and 
intolerant  of  traditions.  So  far  it  is 
plain  that  there  is  no  common  meeting 
ground  of  Boer  and  Uitlander.  If 
things  are  allowed  to  drift,  the  towns 
will  grow  in  population  and  wealth,  the 
Rand  will  occupy  itself  with  exploiting 
its  two  thousand  millions'  worth  of  un- 
discovered gold ;  and  meanwhile  at  the 
back  of  it  all  will  be  the  country  districts, 
stagnant,  poor,  with  long,  bitter  memo- 
ries and  an  irreconcilable  race  hatred. 
It  is  not  a  pleasant  picture,  but  it  is 
inevitable  unless  the  problem  is  recog- 
nized and  boldly  met.  If  a  meeting 


ground  does  not  exist,  it  must  be  created. 
In  my  opinion  the  most  hopeful  solution 
is  to  be  found  in  the  schemes  of  land 
settlement  which  it  seems  certain  will 
soon  be  put  into  execution.  It  is  pro- 
posed to  buy  great  tracts  of  land,  and 
settle  on  them  selected  British  colonists, 
who  will  be  at  once  exponents  of  scien- 
tific agriculture  and  a  country  police 
force.  Model  government  farms  will  be 
started  which  will  serve  as  agricultural 
bureaus  and  training  colleges.  Such  a 
scheme  will  fulfill  many  purposes.  It 
will  encourage  South  African  farming, 
and  exploit  some  of  the  vast  agricultural 
riches  which  lie  dormant  in  the  soil ;  it 
will  provide  a  civilizing  agency  for  re- 
mote districts  ;  it  will  increase  the  British 
stock  in  the  new  colonies  by  the  influx 
of  the  best  class  of  colonists ;  and  it  will 
provide  the  most  effective  of  forces  for 
local  defense.  It  is  in  such  a  policy  alone 
that  we  can  find  hope  of  some  ultimate 
and  permanent  reconciliation.  The  High 
Commissioner  is  the  type  of  administra- 
tor peculiarly  fitted  for  the  intricate 
South  African  problem.  A  common  of- 
ficial would  not  see  the  difficulty ;  a  weak 
man,  if  he  saw  it,  would  shrink  from  it  in 
despair.  Lord  Milner,  with  the  imagi- 
nation and  trained  perceptions  of  the 
scholar,  has  the  direct  practical  vigor 
of  a  great  man  of  affairs.  Where  a 
coarser  or  more  cautious  man  would 
fail,  there  is  every  chance  that  he  may 
succeed. 

"  REMOTE,  unfriended,  solitary,  slow," 
A  Plague  of  I  murmur  reflectively.  "  Re- 
Peddlers.  mote  »  we  certainly  are,  Hea- 
ven be  praised !  from  city  sights  and 
sounds  ;  "  slow,"  yes,  if  you  like,  but 
"  unfriended,  solitary,"  never,  while  the 
unending  procession  of  peddlers  wends 
through  the  summer  land.  Before  our 
doors  lies  the  shining  sea,  "  the  path  of 
the  bold  ;  "  behind  us  the  dusty  highway, 
path  of  the  undefeated,  undismayed  ven- 
der of  small  wares,  mostly  things  which, 
as  Charles  Lamb  said  of  the  treasures  his 
sister  would  transport  from  one  abode  to 


138 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


another,  "the  most  necessitous  person 
could  never  want."  It  is  a  militant  tribe 
early  upon  the  warpath,  and  while  the 
"  top  of  the  morning  "  is  still  making  glad 
our  hearts,  come  the  dark-eyed,  sombre 
Italian  hucksters,  one  following  close 
upon  the  heels  of  another,  and  offering 
in  broken  English  all  known  fruits  and 
vegetables,  except  possibly  the  very  one 
for  which  our  souls  long. 

But  what  has  become  of  the  gayly  clad, 
festa-loving  Italian  peasant  of  song  and 
story  ?  One  meets  him  on  the  sunny 
roads  of  Italy  with  his  white  Tuscan 
oxen,  but  he  drives  no  huckster's  cart  on 
this  side  the  sea.  Once  he  has  crossed 
the  ocean,  the  dolce  far  niente  phase  of 
existence  lies  behind  him,  and  "hus- 
tling "  and  the  "  strenuous  life  "  become 
the  order  of  the  new  day.  We  fall  into 
chat  with  our  peanut  man,  who  is  all 
smiles  and  shrugs,  showing  his  flashing 
white  teeth  as  he  talks.  Near  Napoli 
was  his  home.  "  Were  we  ever  there  ?  " 
"  Yes."  And  he  tells  us  just  the  spot  on 
the  sloping  sides  of  Vesuvio  where  his 
home  lay.  "  Will  he  go  back  ?  "  "  Oh 
no,  America  is  better."  His  peanuts 
seem  to  sell,  and  he  is  not,  apparently, 
in  the  plight  of  his  push-cart  brother, 
whose  bitter  plaint  has  become  a  classic, 
"What  I  maka  on  da  peanut  I  losa  on 
da  dam  banan'." 

Now,  the  morning  being  still  young, 
comes  the  youth  with  strident  voice  who 
puts  us  in  touch  with  what  to  us,  in  our 
uneager  life,  seems  an  insanely  active 
world.  He  is  selling  metropolitan  dailies 
to  eke  out  the  slender  resources  needful 
to  complete  his  Law  School  course.  With 
such  a  voice  must  Macbeth's  raven  have 
croaked  "  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan." 
We  wish  our  embryo  lawyer  well,  but 
hope  that  he  may  never  be  called  to  lift 
up  his  voice  for  the  oppressed.  As  the 
morning  wears  on  appears  a  "  Rever- 
end "  somebody  of  somewhere  peddling, 
Heaven  save  the  mark  !  his  own  poems. 
The  price,  I  say,  is  modest,  five  cents  a 
copy.  "  Wait,"  replies  our  friend  the 


author,  an  author  beloved  on  both  sides  of 
the  sea,  who  is  tarrying  with  us  for  the 
day,  "you  will  not  think  so  when  you 
have  read  his  verse."  I  do  not.  Here 
are  lines,  perhaps  the  worst  of  twenty- 
three  stanzas,  from  In  Memoriam,  com- 
memorating those  who  lost  their  lives 
in  a  trolley  accident.  They  do  not  re- 
motely suggest  Tennyson.  Thus  runs  the 
verse :  — 

"  But  see  !  with  no  note  of  warning  ! 
My  God  I  what  is  this  I  behold  ? 
The  wheels  of  the  trolley  leap  outward. 
Oh  !  How  can  the  story  be  told  !  " 

Would  it  make  any  impression  on  our 
reverend  poet  if  he  knew  that  he  was 
trying  to  dispose  of  his  wares  to  one  of 
the  distinguished  litterateurs  of  the  day  ? 
Probably  not.  The  dauntless  intrepidity 
of  a  poet  who  vends  his  creations  from 
door  to  door  would  hardly  quail  at  such 
a  contretemps.  At  all  events  he  passes 
on  unknowing ;  unknowing,  too,  that  he 
is  adding  to  the  gayety  of  nations. 

Papers  and  poems  having  furnished 
more  or  less  nutriment  for  the  interior 
of  our  heads,  along  comes  a  friendly,  gay 
soul  who  would  like  to  supply  nourishing 
washes  for  their  exterior  improvement. 
Truth  to  tell,  the  Dominie,  one  of  our  in- 
mates and  intimates,  is  a  shining  mark 
for  such  ministrations.  "  Hair  coming 
out  ?  "  says  our  new  peddler,  a  woman 
this  time,  brisk  and  laconic,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  success  won  by  hard  work. 
Her  prices  are  prohibitive,  and  we  tell 
her  so.  But  she  laughs  us  to  scorn  as 
one  who  knows  she  has  a  good  thing. 
"  No,"  she  chirps,  "  I  never  come  down 
on  my  prices.  I'm  not  lugging  this 
heavy  bag  about  all  day  for  only  seven 
dollars."  So  we  part  company,  the  ever 
widening  partings  of  our  unfortunate 
heads  unrefreshed  by  Madame's  hair 
vigor. 

Last  of  all  upon  the  scene,  while  the 
"  moonglade  "  shimmers  across  the 
water,  come  the  wandering  peddlers  of 
music,  whose  playing  seems,  alack,  to 
sensitive  ears, 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


139 


"  To  crack  the  voice  of  melody, 
And  break  the  legs  of  time." 

Their  ministrations  finished  and  paid  for, 
we  sleepily  climb  the  stair,  and  as  we  go 
out  upon  our  upper  balcony  for  a  good- 
night look  at  the  purple-blue  dome  of  the 
sky,  and  a  glance  out  to  the  far  sea 
line,  while  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  fills 
the  air,  we  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  waste 
no  sentimental  regrets  over  Ships  that 
pass  in  the  Night,  if  only  we  might  be 
sure  that  peddlers  would  pass  in  the 
day. 

THE  following  letter  from  Mr.  Emer- 
ThoseRed-  son  was  written  on  receiving 
Eyed  Men.  a  criticism  of  William  Ellery 
Channing's  earlier  writings,  sent  him  by 
a  friend  with  a  view  to  its  being  forward- 
ed to  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  if  found 
worthy  of  being  submitted  to  the  "  red- 
eyed  men  "  for  whom  Mr.  Emerson  ex- 
presses so  warm  a  sympathy.  It  has  an 
especial  interest  for  our  readers  at  the 
present  moment,  as  a  new  and  enlarged 
edition  of  Mr.  Channing's  poems  is  about 
to  appear  in  Philadelphia. 

As  a  bit  of  gentle  sarcasm,  and  as  a 
lesson  on  what  even  then  was  considered 
"  acceptable  "  to  weary  readers  of  end- 
less manuscripts,  it  could  hardly  be  ex- 
celled. The  Yankee  wit  and  shrewd- 
ness, the  generous  encouragement  and 
consideration  given  the  efforts  of  a  be- 
ginner which  this  letter  shows  are  inter- 
estingly characteristic  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
kindly  nature.  But  the  criticism  in 
question  never  saw  the  light ! 

CONCORD,  26  May,  1858. 
DEAR  FRIEND,  —  It  is  a  piece  of  char- 
acter, and,  as  every  piece  of  character  in 
writing  is,  a  stroke  of  genius  also,  to 
praise  Channing's  poems  in  this  cordial 
way,  and  I  read  the  manuscript  with 
thankful  sympathy.  But  you  will  print  it. 
It  is  by  no  means  character  and  genius 
that  are  good  to  print,  but  something 
quite  different,  —  namely,  tact,  talent, 
sparkle,  wit,  humor,  select  anecdote,  and 
Birmingham  lacker,  and  I  have  kept  the 


paper  for  many  days,  meaning  to  read 
it  later  and  find  whether  it  had  the  glass 
buttons  required.  On  looking  into  it  to- 
day I  hesitate  to  send  it  to  that  sad 
Bench  where  two  judges  or  three  judges 
are  believed  to  sit  and  read  with  red  eyes 
every  scrap  of  paper  that  is  addressed 
to  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  I  know  that 
they  read  four  hundred  papers  to  admit 
ten,  one  time.  I  am  not  of  their  counsel, 
but  some  of  their  cruelties  have  tran- 
spired. Yet  who  but  must  pity  those 
red-eyed  men  ? 

I  can  easily  believe  that  you  have  the 
materials  of  a  good  literary  article.  If 
I  had  the  journal  in  which  you  have  at 
any  time  set  down  detached  thoughts 
on  these  poems  it  might  easily  furnish 
the  needed  details  and  variety  of  criti- 
cism. I  am  not  even  sure  that  this  piece 
as  it  is  will  not  presently  appear  pre- 
sentable to  me.  Nothing  can  be  acuter 
criticism  than  what  you  say  of  "  the  art 
to  say  how  little,  not  how  much,  belong- 
ing to  this  fatal  poet."  Think  a  mo- 
ment and  tell  me,  if  you  can  say  another 
word  as  descriptive  of  his  genius.  The 
selections,  too,  all  have  good  reason.  But 
I  must  have  a  few  more  good  points. 
"  So  saith  the  Grand  Mufti." 
Yours  faithfully, 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 

IN  what  varying  moods  does  the  re- 
A  Singular  jected  contributor  meet  his 
Plurality.  fate  j  There  is  the  self-de- 
preciating writer,  who  falls  at  the  first 
thrust  of  the  editorial  poniard  ;  the  egoist 
who,  as  George  Eliot  says,  "  carries  his 
comfort  about  with  him,"  and  whom  no- 
thing could  convince  that  the  favoritism 
or  obtuseness  of  the  editor  is  not  respon- 
sible for  his  repeated  failures. 

Then  there  are  those  who,  while  recog- 
nizing the  justice  of  the  official  verdict, 
often  philosophically  turn  their  disap- 
pointment into  pleasantry,  as  is  shown 
by  the  number  of  jocose  poems  on  this 
theme  so  frequent  in  newspaper  col- 
umns. 


140 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


Sometimes  our  blithe  genius  turns 
upon  the  editor,  as  did  this  verse-monger 
whose  wares  were  declined  in  bad  gram- 
mar:  — 

The  poet  dreamed,  and  as  he  dreamed  — 

Amazing  strange  !  —  he  slept ; 
The  great  "  Pacific  "  had,  it  seemed, 

Both  of  his  poems  kept, 

And  sent  forthwith  a  goodly  check  — 

Not  on  his  hopes  this  time  — 
With  praise  well  measured,  quite  a  peck, 

And  begged  for  all  his  rhyme. 


The  morning  broke,  the  poet  woke  — 

Alas  for  grief  like  this ! 
One  little  "  slip  "  between  the  lip 

And  Fame's  full  cup  of  bliss. 

But  pause  !  upon  that  type-writ  screed, 
Phrased  with  such  touching  grace, 

That  "  neither  is  of  use  "  we  read, 
But  why  the  "  is  "  erase  ? 

That  blazing  editorial  star, 

Or  one  moved  by  his  law, 
Has  scratched  out  "  is  "  —  that 's  singular !  — 

And  made  it  "  are ;  "  the  awe, 

The  glory  that  doth  hedge  about 

The  great  sanctorum  chair 
Just  one  amended  word  strikes  out  — 

Our  poet  walks  on  air ! 

But  now  no  more  to  that  high  star, 

By  which  he  's  steered  so  long, 
He  hitches  up  his  little  car, 

His  chariot  of  song. 

IT  has  so  often  occurred  to  me  what 
Plots  that  a  delightful  occupation  novel- 
One  Covets.  writing  must  have  been  in  its 
beginnings,  before  the  word  "  stale " 
could  be  applied  to  plots  and  the  most 
delightful  situations  had  not  become 
hackneyed.  One  can  fancy  the  joy  of 
Fanny  Burney  sitting  down  to  write  the 
book  that  turned  out  to  be  Evelina,  with 
a  whole  world  full  of  plots  and  situations 
from  which  to  choose.  This  in  fancy. 
In  fact,  the  story  of  the  much  abused, 
long  suffering  Evelina  was  probably  the 
cause  of  her  writing,  not  the  outcome  of 
a  desire  to  write. 

Nowadays,  on  the  other  hand,  all  the 


most  openly  attractive  plots  and  situations 
are  already  taken  ;  special  phrases,  even, 
have  been  preempted.  You  can't  even 
have  your  hero  clasp  your  heroine  in  his 
strong  young  arms.  And  yet,  to  be 
clasped  in  strong  young  arms  is  such  an 
agreeable  experience  to  which  to  treat 
one's  heroine.  I  have  a  tender  affection 
for  my  heroine  myself.  I  like  to  let 
her  have  the  best  of  everything.  It  is 
with  excessive  reluctance  that  I  give 
her  any  sorrows  but  sentimental  ones, 
which  don't  count,  being  half  a  pleasure 
in  themselves.  Sometimes  I  make  her 
unfortunate  and  unhappy  just  to  height- 
en the  effect  of  the  good  things  that  are 
coming  to  her  in  the  next  chapter  but 
one,  or  to  develop  her  character  so  that 
she  will  be  better  deserving  of  the  good 
fortune ;  but  to  put  her  in  sordid,  unhappy 
surroundings  and  to  keep  her  there  from 
"Chapter  I."  to  "The  End,"  I  really 
don't  see  how  authors  can  make  them- 
selves do  it.  It  may  be  high  art,  but  it 
shows  a  hard  heart.  No  doubt  I  shall 
be  forced  into  playing  her  some  such 
mean  trick  some  day.  People  with  high 
literary  ideals  always  come  to  it  sooner 
or  later,  for  you  don't  get  strength  and 
depth  and  other  desirable  things  in  the 
stories  of  prosperous,  happy  people.  I 
may  even  make  a  book  end  unhappily, 
not  with  mere  sentimental  unhappiness, 
but  with  disgrace,  or  sordid,  bread- 
lacking  poverty,  or  faith  betrayed,  or 
chronic  disease,  —  I  may  do  this,  but  it 
will  be  at  the  expense  of  regret  and 
heartache  to  myself.  I  could  almost  as 
easily  condemn  my  daughter  to  such 
sorrows  as  the  dearly  beloved  child  of 
my  fancy. 

There  were  so  many  delightful  situa- 
tions in  which  to  put  your  heroine  when 
people  first  began  to  write  novels ;  and 
yet,  I  do  not  believe  that  writers  in  those 
days  had  any  keener  realization  of  their 
privileges  than  an  Indian  at  having  the 
forests  of  the  New  World  to  himself. 
Freedom  is  only  understood  by  experi- 
encing the  lack  of  it.  I  am  sure  neither 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


141 


Richardson,  nor  Fielding,  nor  any  of 
those  old  fellows,  ever  once  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  exclaimed,  "  How 
glorious  it  is  to  be  the  first !  "  And, 
doubtless,  those  that  come  after  us  will 
envy  us,  —  freedom,  like  almost  every- 
thing else,  being  relative. 

New  conditions  in  life  make  new  liter- 
ary conditions  and  new  situations,  and 
these  we  have ;  but  the  dear  old  senti- 
mental ones  that  charmed  in  themselves, 
apart  from  the  handling  of  them,  are  all 
used  up.  I  am  perfectly  reconciled  to  the 
fact  that  Homer  should  have  the  Trojan 
War  to  write  about,  and  Dante  the  other 
world,  and  Milton  the  Fall  of  Man.  I 
would  n't  take  these  subjects  away  from 
them  for  my  own  use  if  I  could.  I 
would  n't  deprive  Shakespeare  of  the  mo- 
tives of  Hamlet,  Othello,  or  Lear ;  but  I 
should  like  the  desert  island  situation  of 
Foul  Play.  What  an  opportunity  for 
an  interesting  human  relation  that  gives ! 
The  mere  thought  of  it  is  alluring.  First, 
one  would  have  a  shipwreck,  —  a  nice, 
vague,  ladylike  shipwreck,  without  any 
nasty  details  such  as  drawing  lots  to 
decide  who  shall  furnish  the  next  meal, 
and  with  no  incomprehensible  and  la- 
boriously acquired  (by  the  author)  nauti- 
cal terms,  —  a  shipwreck  in  which  a  rope 
is  called  a  rope  and  not  a  hawser  or  a 
sheet,  and  the  deck  is  always  just  plain 
deck,  no  matter  in  what  part  of  the  ship 
you  find  it.  I  'd  give  the  proper  local 
color  by  calling  the  ship  "  she  "  instead 
of  "it,"  and  by  throwing  in  an  occasion- 
al "  Heave  ahoy !  "  or  "  Man  the  life- 
boats !  "  or  even  "  Shiver  my  timbers !  " 
but  nothing  more  difficult  than  that. 
The  shipwreck  should  be  carefully  en- 
gineered so  that  the  party  on  the  desert 
island  should  be  strictly  a  deux, —  after 
the  manner  of  the  entry  into  the  Ark, 
one  male  and  one  female. 

Reade,  in  his  version,  treats  the  situ- 
ation inadequately.  He  has  no  con- 
ception of  its  literary  possibilities.  I 
don't  remember  it  very  well,  as  I  read 
it  when  I  was  about  fourteen,  but  even 


at  that  innocent  age  I  thought  it  tame. 
Still,  I  may  have  come  to  that  conclu- 
sion (this  thought  has  just  occurred  to 
me)  because  of  that  innocent  age.  I 
might  find  it  quite  different  now.  At 
all  events,  I  know  he  did  n't  put  any 
charm  into  it,  and  charm  is  absolutely 
essential  to  a  desert  island  story. 

I  am  supposing  my  hero  to  be  a  strictly 
well  -  conducted  young  man,  and  my 
heroine  a  virtuous  young  woman,  as 
heroes  and  heroines  should  be.  They 
must  n't  be  too  unconventional  or  too 
advanced,  or  they  would  simply  make  a 
picnic  of  the  occasion  (I  would  supply 
them  plentifully  with  provisions)  and 
forget  all  about  the  impropriety,  and 
that  would  n't  do  at  all.  To  make  the 
proper  atmosphere  for  a  desert  island 
story,  their  feelings  must  be  mixed  dis- 
tress and  delight,  and  the  heroine  must 
be  uncomfortably  apprehensive  as  to 
what  people  will  say  when  they  are 
rescued.  A  heroine  of  mine  would 
know  that  she  was  certain  to  be  rescued. 

If  the  situation  really  were  brand- 
new,  it  would  be  fun  to  have  the  hero 
ask  her  to  marry  him,  and  to  have  her 
refuse  because  she  thinks  he  is  doing  it 
from  a  sense  of  honor,  and  then  all  the 
rest  of  the  book  could  be  spent  in  un- 
deceiving her.  Of  course,  he  really  is 
madly  in  love  with  her,  but  doesn't 
think  it  proper  to  reveal  it  to  her  in  the 
absence  of  a  chaperon.  I  don't  mean 
that  he  would  declare  it  in  the  presence 
of  one  (he  is  n't  as  proper  as  that),  but 
he  would  prefer  to  have  a  chaperon 
tucked  away  behind  the  nearest  banana 
tree. 

Just  think  !  if  nobody  had  ever  done 
it  before,  what  fun  it  would  be  to  have 
them  find  bread-fruit  trees,  and  to  pick 
up  barrels  of  the  luxuries  of  the  sea- 
son which  had  been  cast  up  on  the 
shore.  And  the  hero  could  be  deliciously 
stiff  and  constrained,  because  he  is  so 
much  in  love  and  is  afraid  of  not  being 
proper ;  and  the  heroine  could  imagine 
all  sorts  of  uncomfortable  things  from 


142 


The,   Contributors'    Club. 


his  attitude.  What  a  wealth  of  mis- 
understandings there  would  be  to  choose 
from  !  And  they  would  always  be  look- 
ing for  sails  with  one  eye  and  praying 
that  they  would  n't  come  with  the  other, 
and  neither  of  them  will  own  to  an  un- 
willingness to  leave.  And  he  can  make 
her  a  lodge  of  boughs,  such  as  Nicolette 
makes  herself  (there  is  absolutely  no 
other  parallel  between  the  two  stories), 
and  save  her  from  innumerable  dangers. 
Dear  me !  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  I  am  impressed  with  Charles 
Reade's  selfishness  in  grabbing  so  de- 
lightful a  situation,  especially  when  he 
had  so  little  idea  how  to  handle  it. 

Another  plot  that  I  have  always 
coveted  is  one  that  you  find  in  many 
books.  The  best  specimens  that  I  know 
of  are  a  German  story  called  Gltick 
Auf ,  and  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fen- 
wick.  It  also  appears  in  the  relation 
of  two  of  the  secondary  characters  in 
Molly  Bawn.  Two  people  who  do  not 
know  each  other  contract  a  formal  mar- 
riage, for  some  reason.  They  live  in 
the  same  house,  in  armed  neutrality  for 
a  time,  and  gradually  fall  in  love  with 
each  other,  though  nothing  could  make 
them  acknowledge  it.  The  pride  mo- 
tive is  the  strongest  one  in  this  story. 
One  has  usually  overheard  something 
disparaging  that  the  other  has  said,  and 
each  is  determined,  for  varying  reasons, 
not  to  be  the  first  to  give  in.  The  in- 
terest in  this  situation  is  heightened  by 
the  contrast  between  the  formality  of 
their  private  relations  and  the  absence 
of  conventional  barriers  between  them. 
The  distance  is  entirely  of  their  own 
making.  They  do  not  have  to  consider 
outside  elements,  having  squared  them 
all  in  marrying.  Everything  rests  ab- 
solutely with  themselves,  which  makes 
a  tenser  situation,  by  giving  a  sense  of 
greater  and  more  immediate  possibilities 
than  in  the  ordinary  relations  of  man 
and  woman.  This  is  a  plot  that  has  an 
irresistible  fascination  for  women.  It 
has  suggestions  of  perfectly  proper  im- 


proprieties in  it,  and  that  is  what  women 
like.  They  like  to  hover  on  the  verge 
of  things,  to  have  all  the  excitement,  and 
yet  not  feel  obliged  to  disapprove. 

Another  attractive  husband  and  wife 
story  is  the  one  in  which  they  become 
estranged,  and  are  brought  together  by 
the  serious  illness  of  their  only  child. 
The  jealousy  motive  comes  into  play  in 
this,  though  in  the  end  it  usually  shows 
itself  to  be  without  foundation,  —  a  con- 
venient little  habit  which  I  wish  to  good- 
ness jealousy  in  real  life  would  adopt. 
There  is  so  much  opportunity  for  inter- 
esting scenes  in  the  night  watches  by  the 
child's  bed.  The  two  are  necessarily 
thrown  together  in  an  intimate  way,  and 
find  it  impossible  to  be  stiff  and  polite 
over  hot  water  bottles  and  poultices. 

The  governess  or  companion  story  is 
a  favorite  one  of  mine.  It  is  astonish- 
ing what  a  strong  element  of  romance  it 
has,  when  the  position  of  a  governess  in 
real  life  is  the  most  unromantic  thing  on 
earth.  In  real  life  the  big  man  of  the 
place  whom  all  the  mothers  are  trying 
to  capture  for  their  daughters  does  n't 
fall  in  love  with  the  governess.  Her 
close  connection  with  her  social  superiors 
makes  her  social  disadvantage  too  evi- 
dent, and  it  takes  a  very  big  man  indeed 
to  discover  personal  importance  when  it 
is  overshadowed  by  social  unimportance. 
The  novel  hero  is  more  clear  sighted  or 
more  disinterested.  Besides,  the  novel 
governess  is  a  most  delightful  person, 
demure,  reserved,  and  self-sufficient  on 
the  surface,  but  daring,  piquant,  and 
original  underneath,  —  a  reminiscence 
of  Jane  Eyre,  probably.  She  takes 
pleasure  in  snubbing  the  big  man,  and 
he  finds  it  a  refreshing  contrast  to  the 
flattery  he  meets  on  every  side.  She  re- 
fuses to  admit  that  he  is  of  any  conse- 
quence to  her,  and  in  the  end  he  dis- 
covers the  truth  only  by  some  accident, 
the  truth  being  that  she  is  passionately  in 
love  with  him.  The  Wooing  O't  is  the 
best  instance  of  this  kind  of  story  that  I 
know. 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


143 


There  is  such  a  nice  scene  in  a  gov- 
erness story  by  Beatrice  Whitby,  whose 
name  I  can't  remember.  The  heroine  is 
very  much  in  love  with  the  step-brother 
of  her  little  pupils,  the  heir  to  the  estate, 
but  never  allows  him  to  suspect  it.  One 
day  she  finds  one  of  his  gloves,  and,  the 
temptation  being  strong,  picks  it  up,  and 
hearing  him  coming  hides  it  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  His  dog,  who  has 
been  left  in  charge  of  it,  rushes  fiercely 
at  her;  the  hero  arrives  on  the  scene, 
saves  her  from  the  dog,  and  discovers 
what  she  has  done.  It  is  very  thrilling, 
a  scene  to  be  coveted. 

I  suppose  there  are  infinite  combina- 
tions of  man,  woman,  and  circumstance 
yet  to  be  made,  the  more  that  all  three 
quantities  are  variables.  Our  grand- 
children will  be  finding  plots  in  subjects 
that  are  completely  unsuggestive  to  us 
now.  I  can  imagine  a  great  novel  with 
a  street-cleaning  or  a  plumbing  motive. 
No  doubt  these  will  be  extremely  inter- 
esting, to  their  authors  at  all  events,  but 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  always  be  old-fash- 
ioned enough  to  prefer  the  desert-island 
or  the  wife  in  name  only  motive. 

A  COMMON  and  trivial  excuse  given 
Pace  in  by  those  who  read  little  is 
Reading.  that  they  have  no  time  for 
reading.  One  may  have  no  time  for 
eating  or  sleeping,  but  hardly  no  time 
to  make  love  or  to  read.  It  is  good  will, 
concentration,  and  the  habit  of  dispatch, 
not  leisure  or  unlimited  opportunity, 
which  have  always  performed  the  great- 
est wonders  in  both  of  these  useful  pur- 
suits. Many  persons  in  mature  life  are 
conscious  of  a  gentle  and  luxurious  sen- 
timent in  favor  of  reading,  which  comes 
to  nothing  because  they  do  not  know  how 
to  read.  With  all  the  good  will  in  the 
world,  they  lack  concentration  and  the 
habit  of  dispatch.  The  good  will  was 
not  applied  early  enough,  or  not  applied 
at  all  to  any  other  end  than  the  lazy  di- 
version of  a  moment.  This  naturally 
resulted  in  the  formation  of  the  newspaper 
habit,  by  which  I  do  not  mean  simply 


the  habit  of  reading  newspapers,  but  the 
habit  of  mind  which  makes  it  possible  for 
men  to  spend  an  evening  in  going  through 
motions.  There  is  no  more  reason  for 
spending  two  hours  in  reading  the  news- 
paper than  in  having  one's  boots  blacked. 
Some  people  never  make  their  way  into 
the  great  Establishment  of  Letters  farther 
than  the  vestibule,  where  they  spend 
their  lives  contentedly  playing  marbles 
with  the  hall-boys.  Of  course  we  do  not 
call  the  newspaper  worthless  simply  be- 
cause some  other  things  are  worth  more. 
The  best  reading  is  both  intensive  and 
extensive  ;  one  reads  a  little  of  every- 
thing, and  a  great  deal  of  some  things. 
The  good  reader  takes  all  reading  to  be 
his  province.  Newspapers,  periodicals, 
books  old  and  new,  all  present  them- 
selves to  him  in  their  proper  perspective  ; 
they  are  all  grist  to  his  mill,  but  they  do 
not  go  into  the  same  hopper  or  require 
the  same  process.  On  the  contrary,  one 
of  the  main  distinctions  of  the  clever 
reader  is  that  without  varying  as  to  in- 
tensity, he  varies  almost  indefinitely  as 
to  pace.  This  power  of  reading  flexibly 
comes  mainly,  of  course,  with  practice. 
For  those  who  have  lacked  an  early  ex- 
perience of  books,  the  manipulation  of 
them  is  never  likely  to  become  the  per- 
fect and  instinctive  process  of  adjust- 
ment which  it  should  be.  People  often 
achieve  a  certain  degree  of  education  and 
refinement  late  in  life,  but  seldom,  I 
think,  the  power  of  the  accomplished 
reading  man.  It  is  simply  not  to  be  ex- 
pected. An  adult  who  takes  up  the  vio- 
lin may  get  much  amusement  and  profit 
from  his  instrument,  but  he  cannot  hope 
to  master  it.  A  certain  increase  of  fa- 
cility, however,  the  belated  reader  may 
surely  expect  to  gain  from  some  sort  of 
observance  of  this  simple  principle  of 
adjustment. 

This  anxious  but  unskilled  reader  is 
too  likely  to  have  a  set  gait,  so  many 
words  to  the  minute  or  lines  to  the  hour. 
An  essay,  an  editorial,  a  chapter  in  a 
novel  or  in  the  Bible,  a  scientific  article, 


144 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


a  short  story,  if  they  contain  the  same 
number  of  words,  take  up  just  the  same 
amount  of  this  misguided  person's  time. 
No  wonder  reading  becomes  an  incubus 
to  him,  with  the  appalling  monotony  of 
its  procession  of  printed  words  filing 
endlessly  before  him.  He  really  has 
time  enough,  if  he  knew  how  to  make 
use  of  it.  Eben  Holden  keeps  him  busy 
for  a  week  or  more ;  it  should  be  read 
in  a  few  hours.  He  plods  methodically 
through  Sir  Walter,  and  finds  him  slow  ; 
the  happy  reader  who  can  get  Quentin 
and  his  Isabelle  satisfactorily  married  in 
six  hours  does  not.  The  trained  reader 
readjusts  his  focus  for  each  objective. 
Milton  may  be  read  in  words  or  lines, 
Macaulay  in  sentences,  Thackeray  in 
paragraphs,  Conan  Doyle  in  pages.  The 
eye,  that  is,  readily  gains  the  power  of 
taking  in  words  in  groups  instead  of  sep- 
arately. How  large  a  group  the  glance 
can  manage  varies  with  the  seriousness 
of  the  subject.  With  the  same  degree 
of  concentration,  eye  and  mind  will  take 
care  of  a  page  of  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda 
as  easily  as  they  can  absorb  a  line  of 
Macbeth,  or  one  of  Fitzgerald's  quatrains. 
Of  course  this  disposes  of  the  indolent 
lolling  style  of  reading, — or  rather  makes 
a  rare  indulgence  of  it.  When  one  occa- 
sionally comes  upon  the  novel  of  his  heart, 
or  the  poem  he  has  waited  for,  he  may 
well  afford  to  consider  it  at  his  luxurious 
leisure,  minimizing  labor  by  dilatoriness. 
But  as  a  rule  the  widely  reading  man  is 
not  an  indolent  person.  Not  that  he  is 
to  be  always  keeping  his  nose  in  a  book. 
By  regulating  his  pace,  he  not  only  cov- 


ers an  astonishing  amount  of  ground  in 
reading,  but  makes  room  for  other 
things.  He  knows  how  to  get  the  most 
for  his  time,  that  is  all.  The  bee  does 
not  eat  the  flower  to  get  the  honey  out 
of  it.  The  eye  of  the  skilled  reader  acts 
like  a  sixth  sense,  directing  him  to  the 
gist  of  the  matter,  in  whatever  form  it 
may  appear.  Twenty  minutes  yields  all 
that  there  is  for  him  in  the  book  which 
his  neighbor,  knowing  that  it  would 
mean  a  week's  spare  hours,  is  careful  to 
avoid. 

This,  it  may  be  said,  sounds  very  much 
like  an  advocacy  of  skimming.  Skim- 
ming and  rapid  reading  are  different 
processes,  but  skimming  is  at  times  a 
good  thing,  too  ;  even  skipping  becomes, 
on  occasion,  a  sacred  duty.  We  may 
go  a  step  farther,  for  skimming  implies 
cream,  and  skipping,  a  foothold  some- 
where ;  and  many  books  deserve  neither 
of  these  less  and  least  complimentary 
modes  of  treatment.  The  eye  brushes 
a  page  or  two,  and  the  mind  is  hardly 
called  in  to  assist  in  a  damnatory  ver- 
dict which  is  informal,  but  summary. 
The  experienced  reader,  in  short,  is  an 
artist,  and,  like  other  artists,  attains  his 
highest  powers  only  when  he  has  learned 
what  to  subordinate,  to  slight,  even  to 
omit.  The  poor  fellow  whose  con- 
science will  not  let  him  refuse  an  equal- 
ly deliberate  consideration  to  every  six 
inches  of  black  and  white  which  comes 
in  his  way  may  be  an  excellent  husband 
and  father,  a  meritorious  lawyer  or  mer- 
chant, and  a  model  citizen ;  he  is  cer- 
tainly not  a  good  reader. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
ittaga?ine  of  literature^,  ^cience^  art,  ana  politics, 

VOL.  XO.  —  AUG UST,  1902.  —  No.  DXXXVIII. 


IN  THE  FEAR  OF  THE  LORD. 


LET  it  be  made  plain,  in  the  begin- 
ning, that  the  dear  Lord  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it,  for  the  doors  of  that  poor 
heart  were  fast  closed  against  him,  and 
the  benighted  child  within  trembled, 
ever  trembled,  to  hear  Love's  timid 
knocking:  such,  gentle  reader,  is  the 
teaching  of  gray  seas  and  a  bleak  coast, 
—  the  voice  of  thunder  is  a  voice  of 
warning,  but  the  waving  of  the  new- 
blown  blossom,  where  the  sunlight  falls 
upon  it,  is  a  lure  to  damnation.  It  was 
not  the  dear  Lord:  it  was  the  Lord 
God  A'mighty,  — a  fantastic  miscon- 
ception, the  work  of  the  blind  minds  of 
men,  which  has  small  part  with  mercy 
and  the  high  leading  of  love.  Men's 
imaginations,  being  untutored  and  un- 
confined,  fashion  queer  gods  of  the 
stuff  the  infinite  contains.  When  they 
roam  afar,  — as  from  bleak  places, 
where  no  yellow  fields,  no  broad,  wav- 
ing acres,  yielding  bounteously,  make 
love  manifest  to  the  children  of  men, 
nor  do  vaulted  forests  all  reverberant 
to  the  wind's  solemn  strains  inspire 
souls  to  deeper  longing,  —  when  they 
roam  afar,  it  may  be,  the  gods  they 
fetch  back  are  terrible  gods.  In  Ragged 
Harbor,  which  is  a  cleft  in  the  New- 
foundland upper  shore,  some  men  have 
fashioned  a  god  of  rock  and  tempest  and 
the  sea's  rage,  — a  gigantic,  frowning 
shape,  throned  in  a  mist,  whereunder 
black  waters  curl  and  hiss,  and  are  cold 
and  without  end ;  and  in  the  right  hand 
of  the  shape  is  a  flaming  rod  of  chas- 
tisement, and  on  either  side  of  the 


throne  sit  grim  angels,  with  inkpots  and 
pens,  who  jot  down  the  sins  of  men, 
relentlessly  spying  out  their  innermost 
hearts;  and  behind  the  mist,  far  back 
in  the  night,  the  flames  of  pain,  which 
are  forked  and  writhing  and  lurid,  light 
up  the  clouds  and  form  an  aureole  for 
the  shape,  and  provide  him  with  his 
halo.  No,  it  was  not  the  dear  Lord 
who  had  to  do  with  the  case  of  Naza- 
reth Lute  of  Ragged  Harbor,  —  not  the 
Lord  who  lives  in  melting  hearts  and 
therefrom  compassionately  proceeds  to 
the  aid  and  comfort  of  all  the  sons  of 
men,  even  as  it  is  written :  it  was  mere- 
ly the  Lord  God  A'mighty. 

Now,  the  father  of  this  Lute,  old 
Richard  Lute,  of  the  path  to  Squid 
Cove,  where  it  rounds  the  Man-o'-War, 
called  his  first  -  born,  Nazareth,  and 
changed  his  own  name  to  Jesus  when 
he  was  converted,  believing  it  to  be  no 
sin,  but,  indeed,  a  public  confession  of 
old  transgressions  and  new  faith,  —  a 
deed  of  high  merit,  which  might  coun- 
terbalance even  so  much  as  the  past  un- 
righteousness of  putting  more  sea  water 
than  lobsters  in  the  cans  he  had  traded 
with  Luke  Dart,  and  would  so  be  count- 
ed unto  him  when  he  stood  on  the  waters 
at  the  foot  of  the  throne  and  the  dread 
account  was  put  in  his  hand.  "If  it 
goas  agin  them  lobsters  on  the  Lord  God 
A' mighty 's  bill,"  he  told  the  people, 
"  't  will  do.  If  it  oan'y  goas  agin  the 
lobsters,  b'y, "  he  said  to  young  Solomon 
Stride,  "maybe,  —  maybe,  b'y,  —  I  '11 


146 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


have  a  balance  t'  me  favor,  an'  I  '11  slip 
through  the  pearly  gate.  'T  were  a 
clever  thought,  b'y,  changin'  me  name, 
—  iss,  'twere;  iss,  'twere!"  There- 
after, Jesus  Lute  lived  righteously,  ac- 
cording to  the  commands  of  his  God ; 
but  he  died  mad:  because,  as  it  has 
been  said,  and  I  do  verily  believe,  he 
dwelt  overmuch  on  those  things  which 
are  eternal,  —  wondering,  wondering, 
wondering,  in  sunlight  and  mist  and 
night,  off  shore  in  the  punt,  laboring 
at  the  splitting  table,  spreading  fish  on 
the  flake,  everywhere,  wondering  all  the 
while  whither  souls  took  their  flight. 
So  much  of  Richard  Lute :  and  it  must 
be  said,  too,  that  the  mother  of  this 
Nazareth  was  of  a  piety  exceeding  deep. 
She  was  famed  in  seven  harbors  for  her 
glory  fits,  —  for  her  visions  and  pro- 
phecies and  strange  healings,  —  and 
from  seven  harbors  folk  came  for  to  see, 
when  it  was  noised  abroad  that  a  glory 
fit  was  upon  her  or  at  hand :  to  see  and 
to  hear,  and  to  interrogate  the  Lord 
God  A 'mighty  concerning  the  time  and 
manner  of  death,  for  it  was  believed 
that  the  Lord  God  A 'mighty  spoke  with 
her  lips  at  such  times. 

"But  it  gets  the  weather  o'  me  how 
that  b'y  comes  by  his  wickedness, "  said 
old  Solomon  Stride,  when  Nazareth  had 
grown  to  be  a  man.  "It  do  get  the 
weather  o'  me.  He  've  a  gun'le  load 
of  it  —  sure  he  have. " 

"They  was  nar  a  sinful  hair  to  his 
mother's  head,"  asserted  Priscilla,  Sol- 
omon's wife. 

"Sure,  noa,  dear,"  said  Solomon. 
"Nor  yet  ar  a  one  to  his  fawther's  — 
when  he  had  ar  a  one,  afore  he  cap- 
sized, poor  mortal ;  which  he  had  n't  t' 
the  madhouse  t'  Saint  John's,  they 
says,  'cause  he  just  would  tear  un  out, 
an'  they  was  noa  such  thing  as  his 
heavin*  to." 

"  'T  is  queer,"  replied  Priscilla 
thoughtfully.  "But  they  be  lots  o' 
things  that 's  queer  —  about  religion, " 
she  added,  with  a  sigh,  and  plucking  at 
her  apron.  "An  his  mother  were  oan'y 


here  t'  have  a  glory  fit,  us  might  find 
out  —  find  out  " 

"  What  might  us  find  out,  dear  ?  " 

"Sh-h-h!  They  be  things  about 
Heaven  'tis  not  for  we  t'  know." 

"'Tis  true;  but  the  dear  Lord  is 
wise  —  wise  an'  kind,  noa  matter  what 
some  poor  folk  trys  t'  make  un  out." 

"The  Lord  God's-  the  Lord  God 
A'mighty, "  said  Priscilla  quickly, 
speaking  in  fear. 

"I  'low  he  'm  better  'n  us  thinks," 
added  Solomon,  looking  into  the  depths 
of  the  sunset. 

"Solomon,  b'y, "urged  Priscilla,  "I 
fear  me  you  '11  be  a-sittin'  in  the  seat 
o'  the  scorner  afore  long." 

"Noa,  dear,"  said  Solomon.  "Noa, 
noa!" 

To  be  sure,  the  wickedness  of  Naza- 
reth Lute  was  of  a  most  lusty,  lively 
character:  not  a  dullard,  shiftless 
wickedness,  which  contents  itself  with 
an  unkempt  beard,  a  sleep  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  a  maggoty  punt.  It  was  a 
wickedness  patent  to  all  the  folk  of 
Ragged  Harbor:  so,  only  the  unright- 
eous, who  are  wise  in  a  way,  and  the 
children,  who  are  all-wise,  loved  him; 
and  it  may  be  that  the  little  people 
loved  him  for  one  of  his  sins  —  the  sin 
of  unfailing  jollity,  in  which  he  was 
steeped.  His  beard,  which  was  curly 
and  fair  and  rooted  in  rosy  flesh,  and 
his  voice,  which  was  deep  and  throb- 
bing, and  his  blue  eye,  which  flashed 
fire  in  the  dusk,  were,  each  in  its  way, 
all  wicked:  the  hearts  of  the  maids 
fluttered  and  told  them  so  when  he  came 
near.  The  poise  of  his  head  and  his 
quick,  bold  glance  proclaimed  him  devil- 
may-care  ;  and  his  saucy  wit  and  irrev- 
erence put  the  matter  beyond  all  doubt. 
His  very  gait  —  his  jaunty,  piratical 
roll  down  the  Old  Crow  Road  —  was 
a  flouting  of  the  Lord  God  A'mighty, 
before  whom,  as  Uncle  Simon  Luff  has 
it,  .  men  should  bear  themselves  as 
"  wrigglin'  worms. "  He  wickedly  glo- 
ried in  his  strength, —  in  the  breadth 
and  height  and  might  of  himself :  ever 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


147 


forgetting,  as  Uncle  Simon  said,  that 
the  "grass  withereth,  an'  the  tall  trees 
is  laid  low."  In  boyhood,  his  ambi- 
tions were  all  wicked ;  for  he  longed  to 
live  where  he  could  go  to  the  theatre, 
of  the  glittering  delights  of  which  he 
had  read  in  a  tract,  and  to  win  money 
at  cards,  of  which  he  had  read  in  an- 
other. Later,  his  long  absences  and 
riotous  returns  were  wicked;  his  hip 
pocket  bulged  with  wickedness  for  a 
week  after  he  came  ashore  from  the 
mail  boat,  and  for  the  same  week  his 
legs  wickedly  wabbled,  and  the  air  was 
tainted  with  wickedness  where  he 
breathed.  The  deeds  he  did  on  his 
cruises  were  wicked,  in  truth,  —  ever 
more  deeply  wicked :  wicked  past  con- 
ception to  the  minds  of  men  who  do  not 
know  the  water  fronts  of  cities,  nor 
have  imagined  the  glaring  temptations 
which  there  lie  in  wait. 

"They  's  a  spring  o'  sin  in  the  in- 
nards o'  that  there  b'y,"  said  Uncle 
Simon  Luff,  "an'  'twill  never  run  dry 
'til  the  fires  o'  hell  sap  un  up." 

When  Nazareth  Lute  was  thirty- two 
years  old,  he  came  ashore  from  the  mail 
boat  one  night  in  spring,  after  long 
absence  from  Ragged  Harbor;  and  he 
was  sober,  and  very  solemn.  He  went 
straight  to  his  father's  house,  on  the 
Squid  Cove  path,  where  he  now  lived 
alone ;  and  there  he  remained  until  the 
evening  of  the  next  day,  which  was  the 
Sabbath.  When  Sammy  Arnold  tolled 
the  bell  he  set  out  for  the  meeting-house 
in  his  punt,  observing  which,  many 
people  went  to  church  that  night.  At 
the  after-meeting,  for  which,  curiously, 
everybody  waited,  Nazareth  stood  up, 
the  first  of  all :  whereupon  there  was  a 
rustle,  then  a  strained  hush,  which  filled 
the  little  place,  even  to  the  shadows 
where  the  rafters  were. 

"  O  friends, "  he  began,  in  a  dry,  fal- 
tering voice,  "I  come  here,  the  night, 
—  I  come  here,  where  I  were  barn  an' 
raised,  —  t'  this  here  ha'bor  where  I 
warked  on  me  fawther's  flake,  as  a  wee 


child,  an'  kept  the  head  of  his  punt  up 
t'  the  wind  many  a  day  on  the  Grap- 
plin'  Hook  grounds,  as  a  lad,  an'  jigged 
squid  for  his  bait  many  a  sunset  time 
after  the  capelin  school  was  gone  off 
shore,  —  here,  where  I  were  a  paddle 
punt  fisherman  on  me  own  hook,  as  a 
man,  —  I  come  here,  O  friends,  the 
night, "  his  voice  now  rising  tremulous- 
ly, "f  tell  all  you  folk  how  my  poor 
soul  were  saved  from  the  damnation  o' 
the  Lard  God  A'mighty."  He  stopped 
to  wet  his  lips,  and  to  gulp,  for  lips 
and  throat  were  dried  out ;  then  he  went 
on,  the  light  of  conviction  burning  ever 
brighter  in  his  eyes:  "O  friends,  I  've 
been  standin'  on  the  brink  o'  hell  these 
many  year,  all  afire  o'  the  stinkin' 
flames  o'  sin,  as  you  knows;  an'  the 
warnin's  o'  the  Lard  God  A'mighty, 
hisself,  which  he  sent  me  in  three 
wrecks  an'  the  measles,  was  like  the 
shadow  o'  some  small  cloud,  — like  a 
shadow  a-runnin'  over  the  sea;  for  the 
shadow  passes  quickly,  an'  the  sea  is 
the  same  as  he  were  afore.  (Amen, 
an*  Amen,  O  Lard!)  Likewise,  O 
friends,  was  the  warnin's  o'  God 
A'mighty  t'  my  poor  soul,"  he  went 
on,  his  voice  of  a  sudden  charged  with 
the  tearful  quality  of  humiliation, 
"'til  Toosday,  a  week  gone,  at  six 
o'clock,  or  thereabouts,  in  themarnin'. 
The  day  afore  that,  O  friends,  I  were 
bound  out  from  Saint  John's  t'  Twillin- 
gate,  in  ballast  o'  salt,  along  o'  Skipper 
Peter  Alexander  Bull,  an'  a  crew  o' 
four  hands,  which  is  some 'at  short- 
handed  for  Skipper  Peter  Alexander's 
schooner,  as  you  all  knows.  (O  Lard!) 
When  we  was  two  hours  out  the  skipper 
he  got  drunk;  an'  the  cook,  which  was 
Jonathan  Bluff,  from  this  here  ha'bor, 
he  were  drunk  a 'ready,  as  I  knows,  for 
I  lent  a  hand  t'  stow  un  away  when  he 
come  aboard ;  an'  when  the  skipper  he 
got  drunk,  an'  the  cook  he  were  drunk 
a'ready,  James  Thomson  and  William 
Cole  they  got  drunk,  too,  for  they  was 
half  drunk  an'  knowed  noa  better." 
They  were  now  all  listening  enrapt; 


148 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


and  from  time  to  time  they  broke  into 
exclamations,  as  they  were  moved  by 
Nazareth's  dramatic  recital.  "So  I 
were  the  oan'y  able  hand  aboard  o' 
she,"  the  man  went  on,  speaking 
hoarsely,  as  though  again  in  terror  of 
the  thing  he  did,  "an'  I  says  t'  myself, 
though  I  had  the  wheel,  O  friends 
(Lard,  Lard!),  I  said  t'  myself,  which 
was  sunk  in  iniquity,  an'  knowed  not 
the  heaviness  o'  sin  (Save  un,  O  Lard, 
save  un!),  says  I,  '  I  might  's  well  be 
drunk,  too.'  So  I  goas  down  t'  the 
fo'cas'le,  O  friends,  an'  in  the  fo'cas'le 
I  gets  me  dunnybag  (O  Lard !),  an'  from 
the  dunnybag  I  takes  a  bottle  (0  Lard, 

0  Lard !),  an'  out  o'  the  bottle  I  draws 
the  stopper  (O  Lard  A'mighty!),  an' 

1  raises  the  bottle  t'  me  lips  (Stop  un, 
O  Lard !),  an'  —  an'  —  I  gets  drunk, 
then  an'   there;  so  then  the  schooner 
she  were    in    the    hands  o'   the  wind, 
which  it  were  blowin'  so  light  as  a' most 
nothin'  from  the  sou 'east,  an'  we  was 
well  off  shore." 

Nazareth  paused.  He  raised  his  right 
arm,  and  looked  up,  as  though  in  sup- 
plication. His  head  dropped  over  his 
breast,  and  he  was  still  silent ;  so  the 
old  parson  began  this  hymn :  — 

"  When,  rising  from  the  bed  of  death, 
O'erwhelm'd  with  guilt  and  fear, 
I  see  my  Maker  face  to  face, 
Oh,  how  shall  I  appear  ? 

"  If  yet,  while  pardon  may  be  found 

And  mercy  may  be  sought, 
My  heart  with  inward  horror  shrinks 
And  trembles  at  the  thought, 

"When  thou,  O  Lord,  shalt  stand  disclosed, 

In  majesty  severe, 
And  sit  in  judgment  on  my  soul, 
Oh,  how  shall  I  appear  ?  » 

With  him  all  the  people  sang,  from 
the  shrill- voiced  young  to  the  quaver- 
ing, palsied  old,  —  sang  with  joyful  en- 
thusiasm, as  they  who  have  escaped 
great  terror. 

"In  the  night,"  Nazareth  went  on, 
"I  hears  a  noise;  so  I  said,  '  What 's 
that  ?  '  The  skipper  he  woke  up,  an' 


says,  <  'T  is  a  rat. '  'T  was  n't,  though ; 
but  I  falls  asleep  once  moare,  an'  when 
I  wakes  up  in  the  marnin'  I  be  all 
a-shakin'  and  blinded  by  the  liquor,  an' 
I  sees  queer  streaks  o'  green  an'  yellow 
in  the  air.  So  I  goas  on  deck,  an' 
there  I  sees  that  the  schooner  do  be 
rubbin'  her  nose  fair  agin  Yellow  Rock, 
by  the  tickle  t'  Seldom  Cove;  an' 
she  've  wrecked  her  bowsprit,  an'  she  've 
like  t'  stove  a  hoale  in  her  port  side. 
But  the  sea  is  all  ripplin',  an'  they  is 
hardly  noa  wind ;  so  she  pounds  easy. " 
Nazareth  looked  up  to  the  grimy  rafters 
overhead,  and  the  words  following  he 
addressed  to  the  Lord  his  God,  his 
voice  thrilling  as  his  soul's  exaltation 
increased:  "An'  I  looked  up,  an'  I 
sees  you,  O  Lard  God  A'mighty,  sit- 
tin'  on  the  top  o'  Yellow  Rock;  an' 
your  cloathes  do  be  spun  o'  fog,  an'  your 
face  is  hid  from  me.  Iss,  O  Lard,  you 
was  a-lookin'  down  on  me;  an'  you 
sings  out,  O  Lard,  '  Nazareth  Lute, ' 
you  sings  out,  '  repent !  '  But  behind 
the  cloud  which  hid  your  face,  like  a 
veil,  O  Lard  God  A'mighty,  I  knowed 
you  was  a-frownin' ;  an'  I  were  scared, 
an'  said  nar  a  word.  '  Nazareth  Lute, ' 
you  sings  out  agin,  l  repent  afore 
you  're  lost !  '  But  I  were  still  scared, 
O  Lard  God  A'mighty,  for  the  light  o' 
the  cloud  went  out,  an'  it  were  black, 
like  the  first  cloud  of  a  great  starm. 
Nazareth  Lute, '  you  says  for  the  third 
time,  '  repent  afore  you  're  hove  into 
the  fires  o'  hell !  '  Then  the  cloud  shiv- 
ered, like  when  the  wind  tears  un  t'  bits ; 
an'  my  voice  come  t'  me,  an'  I  says, 
*  Iss,  Lard,  I  will.'  '  Turning  once 
more  to  the  people,  Nazareth  said: 
"Then  I  sings  out,  (  All  hands  on 
deck !  '  But  the  crew  was  drunk  an' 
did  not  come;  an'  when  I  looked  up 
again  t'  Yellow  Rock,  the  Lard  was 
gone  from  that  place.  So  I  soused  the 
hands  with  buckets  o'  water,  O  friends; 
an'  over  the  head  o'  the  skipper  I 
slushed  three  of  un,  for  he  were  the 
drunkest  of  all.  So  when  they  was  so- 
ber agin  we  set  sail,  an'  the  Lard  sent 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


149 


us  a  fair  time,  an'  we  come  safe  t' 
Twillingate.  The  fight  do  be  over  for 
me,  O  friends,  —  the  long,  long  fight- 
I  fought  with  sin.  'Tis  over  now, 
—  all  over;  an'  I've  come  t'  peace. 
For  I  found  the  Lard  God  A 'mighty 
a-sittin'  there  on  Yellow  Rock,  by  the 
tickle  t'  Seldom  Cove,  a-frownin'  in  a 
cloud." 

That  was  the  manner  of  the  conver- 
sion of  Nazareth  Lute ;  and  thereafter 
he  lived  righteously,  even  as  his  father 
had  lived,  according  to  the  commands 
of  the  Lord  God  A' mighty,  his  God, 
whom  he  had  fashioned  of  tempest  and 
rock  and  the  sea's  rage,  with  which  his 
land  had  abundantly  provided  him. 
Thereafter  he  lived  righteously ;  but  his 
eyes  were  blinded  to  all  those  beauties, 
both  great  and  small,  which  the  dear 
Lord  has  strewn  in  hearts  and  places,  in 
love  withholding  not ;  and  his  ears  were 
stopped  against  the  tender  whisperings 
which  twilight  winds  waft  with  them, 
from  the  infinite  to  the  infinite:  for  it 
was  as  though  the  cloud  and  flame  of 
the  wrath  of  his  God,  following  after, 
cast  a  shadow  before  him,  and  filled  the 
whole  earth  with  the  thunder  and  roar 
and  crackling  of  their  pursuit.  There- 
upon, indeed,  he  became  a  fisherman 
again,  and  thereafter  he  lived  right- 
eously: for  he  did  thereafter  not  do 
many  things  which  he  had  been  used  to 
doing.  All  the  maids  with  dimpled 
cheeks  and  all  the  children  knew  that 
he  put  the  sin  of  jollity  far  from  him. 
Also,  it  is  told  to  this  day,  when  men 
speak  of  righteous  lives,  how  that  he 
hung  his  last  clay  pipe  from  a  rafter, 
and  looked  upon  it  morning  and  even- 
ing, after  prayer,  to  remind  himself 
that  sensual  delights,  such  as  are  con- 
tained in  the  black,  cracked  bowls  of 
pipes,  are  like  snares  set  for  the  souls 
of  the  unwary.  Moreover,  it  can  be 
proved  how  that  once,  when  he  could 
not  take  the  punt  to  his  nets  on  a  Sat- 
urday night,  the  wind  being  high,  he 
freed  all  the  fish  on  Monday  morning, 


freed  them  all,  the  quintal  upon  quintal 
of  gleaming  fish  in  the  trap;  more, 
then  and  there  in  the  nets  by  chance, 
than  the  Lord  God  A 'mighty  had  grant- 
ed to  his  labor  all  that  summer  through ; 
but,  thereby,  he  saved  himself  from  the 
charge  of  desecrating  the  Sabbath  in 
permitting  his  nets  to  work  on  that  day, 
which  the  grim  angels  were  waiting  to 
note  down  against  him,  and  he  gained 
greatly  in  humility  and  in  strength 
against  temptation.  He  lived  right- 
eously :  for,  as  he  fled  the  wrath  of  his 
God,  the  cloud  and  flame  were  close  be- 
hind; and  at  the  end  of  the  toilsome 
path,  as  upon  the  crest  of  a  long  hill, 
was  set  the  City  of  Light  and  the  gates 
of  the  City,  wherethrough  men  passed 
to  a  shiny  splendor. 

"I  been  thinkin',  b'y,"  he  said  to 
Solomon  Stride,  at  the  time  of  one 
blood-red  sunset,  when  their  punts  were 
side  by  side  coming  in  from  the  Mad 
Mull  grounds,  "that  I  doan't  know  as 
I  '11  want  one  o'  they  golden  harps." 

"Sure,  an'  why  not,  b'y?  "  Solomon 
called  over  the  purpling  water. 

"I  doan't  know  as  I  will, "  said  Naz- 
areth, "  for  I  were  never  much  of  a  hand 
at  the  jew's-harp.  'T  will  be  gran'  for 
you,  b'y.  You  was  always  a  wonder- 
ful hand  at  that,  an'  the  harp  o'  gold 
'11  come  easy  t'  1'arn.  Sure,  you  '11 
pick  un  up  in  a  day.  But  with  me  't  is 
different.  I  —  I  —  can't  so  much  's 
whistle  a  hymn,  Solomon.  Noa,  b'y, 
I  doan't  know  as  I  '11  want  one  o'  they 
harps;  but  if  they  's  a  sea  there,  b'y, 
they  's  fish  in  it;  an'  if  the  sea  's  gold, 
the  fish  's  gold;  an'  't  is  like,  b'y, 
they  '11  be  hooks  as  well  as  harps,  an' 
maybe  a  trap  an'  a  seine  or  two.  An' 
if  they  's  "  — 

"You  is  all  wrong  about  Heaven," 
said  Solomon.  "They  's  noa  eatin', 
there,  Nazareth." 

"  'T  is  true,  b'y,  maybe  —  iss,  may- 
be 't  is,"  said  Nazareth,  in  all  humility 
admitting  the  possibility  of  error. 
"'T would  be  hard  eatin',  whatever. 
But,  maybe,"  with  a  reflective  frown, 


150 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


"they  's  a  queer  kind  o'  teeth  comes 
with  the  new  body.  Oh,  well,  what- 
ever, "  with  a  sigh,  "I  doan't  know 
what  I  '11  do  when  I  gets  there  —  sure 
an'  I  doan't." 

"You  '11  take  a  grip  on  a  harp,  b'y, " 
Solomon  cried  enthusiastically,  "an' 
you  '11  swing  your  flipper  over  the  gold- 
en strings,  an'  "  — 

"Noa,  noa!  'T  would  be  a  sinful 
waste  o'  good  harps  for  the  Lard  God 
A'mighty  t'  put  one  in  my  hands.  I  'd 
break  un  sure." 

"But  he  've  a  great  heap  o'  them, 
an'  he  'd  "  — 

"Noa,  noa!" 

"But  he'd  1'arn  you,  b'y;  he'd 
1'arn  you  t'  "  - 

"Noa,  b'y  —  noa.  'T  would  be  too 
tough  a  job,  an'  I  would  n't  put  the 
Lard  God  A'mighty  t'  the  trouble  o' 
that.  Noa,  noa;  if  they  's  noa  fish  in 
that  there  sea,  I  doan't  know  what  I  '11 
do  when  I  gets  there.  I  doan't  know 
what  I  '11  do,  Solomon.  I  doan't  know 
what  I  '11  do  —  all  the  time." 

Nazareth  Lute  thought  that  a  man 
should  either  search  diligently  for  things 
to  do  in  the  last  light  of  day,  or  be  cast 
down  when  there  was  no  work  about  the 
cottage,  the  punt,  or  the  flake.  He  should 
look  to  the  condition  of  the  capelin  in 
the  loft,  or  gather  soil  for  a  new  potato 
patch :  in  his  sight  the  sin  of  idleness 
was  like  a  clog  to  the  neck  of  one  who 
traveled  the  road  to  the  City  of  Light 
—  the  idleness  of  half-hours  after  sun- 
set, it  may  be,  when  the  fish  were  split, 
and  the  unrighteous  rested,  and  the 
wicked  had  their  way.  One  winter, 
when  he  had  mended  his  cod  trap  and 
knitted  a  herring  seine  and  a  new  salm- 
on net,  he  set  out  to  whittle  the  model 
of  a  schooner,  thinking  to  sell  it  to 
Manuel  of  Burnt  Arm,  who  builded  five 
schooners  every  year,  and  give  the  mon- 
ey to  the  church,  to  the  end  that,  at 
last,  Ragged  fearbor  might  be  in  a  fair 
way  toward  having  a  parson  all  to  her- 
self. So  he  whittled,  and  whittled, 


and  whittled  away ;  and  while  the  wood 
took  form  under  his  fingers,  even  as  he, 
himself,  directed,  yielding  to  his  veriest 
whims,  and  gave  promise  of  that  grace 
and  strength  which  he,  alone  of  all  the 
vrorld,  had  conceived,  a  new,  flooding 
joy  came  to  him,  —  such  happiness  as  he 
had  not  hoped  for  on  earth  or  in  heaven. 
He  whittled  the  drear  days  through, 
and,  in  the  night,  while  the  wind  swept 
the  hills  and  flung  snow  against  the 
panes,  he  sat  long  in  the  leaping  fire- 
light, whittling  still,  bending  ever  closer 
over  the  forming  thing  in  his  hands, 
creeping  ever  nearer  to  the  expiring 
blaze,  and  dreaming  great  dreams  all 
the  while.  In  this  work  his  soul  found 
vent ;  even,  it  may  be^  said,  a  touch  of 
the  tiny  hull  —  a  soft,  lingering  touch 
in  the  night  —  gave  a  comfort  which 
neither  prayer  nor  fasting,  nor  any 
other  thing,  could  bring  to  his  unrest ; 
and,  soon,  his  last  waking  thought  was 
not  of  the  Lord  God  A'mighty,  his  God, 
as  it  had  been,  nor  yet  of  a  yawning 
hell,  but  of  the  thing  which  his  hands 
were  forming.  And  when  the  model 
was  polished  and  mounted,  which  was 
in  that  spring  when  old  Simon  Luff's 
last  grandson  was  born,  he  did  not  sell 
it  to  Manuel  of  Burnt  Arm;  for  he 
wanted  to  know  of  his  own  knowledge, 
when  he  saw  the  craft  afloat,  that  the 
builder  had  brought  her  promise  to  its 
perfect  fulfillment.  So  he  determined 
to  build  her  himself.  She  would  be,  he 
told  himself,  the  work  of  his  own  hands : 
and  the  work  would  be  good.  In  the 
summer  he  toiled  hard  at  the  fishing, 
and  in  the  winter  following  he  cut  tim- 
ber in  the  inland  woods,  and  hauled  it 
out  with  the  dogs ;  and  in  three  years 
he  had  the  keel  laid  and  two  of  the  ribs 
set  in  place. 

"Solomon,  b'y,"  he  confided  to  Sol- 
omon Stride,  in  a  dark  whisper,  once, 
"she  '11  be  the  best  sixty-tonner  ever 
sailed  these  seas  —  once  I  get  her 
done." 

"She'll  be  overlong  in  buildin',  I 
be  thinkin',"  said  Solomon. 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


151 


"Oh,  I  doan't  know  's  she  will," 
Nazareth  made  reply.  "  'T  will  be  a 
matter  o'  twelve  year,  maybe.  But 
once  I  get  she  done,  Solomon  —  once  I 
get  she  out  o'  the  tickle  in  a  switch 
from  the  nor 'east  —  once  I  doos,  b'y, 
she'll  be  a  cracker  t'  goa!  Iss,  an' 
she  will." 

"Iss,  an'  I  hope  so,"  said  Solomon. 
"But  her  keel '11  rot  afore  this  time 
twelve  year." 

"Iss,  maybe, "  said  Nazareth.  "I  be 
'lowin'  for  a  rotten  keel.  Iss,  I  be 
'lowin'  t'  use  up  two  keels  on  this  here 
craft." 

One  day,  old  Uncle  Simon  Luff,  row- 
ing in  from  the  grounds  with  but  two 
fish  to  show  for  the  day's  jigging,  turned 
his  punt  into  the  little  cove  where  Naz- 
areth was  at  work,  and  came  ashore. 

"They  tells  me,"  said  he,  "that  you 
be  goain'  t'  use  galvanized  nails  for 
she,"  with  a  side  nod  toward  the 
schooner. 

Nazareth's  adze  fell  twice  upon  the 
timber  he  was  dubbing.  "  Iss, "  said  he. 
"I  be  goain'  t'  use  galvanized  nails. 
'Tis  true." 

"They  tells  me  't  will  cost  a  wonder- 
ful sight  moare." 

"I  calc'late  $76.80  for  nails,  b'y," 
said  Nazareth,  as  his  adze  fell  again, 
"which  is  —  ugh! — as  you  says  — 
ugh!  —  a  wonderful  sight  moare  'n  — 
ugh !  —  wrought  nails. " 

Uncle  Simon  sat  down  on  the  keel. 
"What  do  you  'low  for  your  spars, 
b'y?"  he  asked. 

Nazareth  spat  on  his  hands,  and  an- 
swered while  he  rubbed  the  horny  palms 
together.  "Well,  b'y,  I  can't  cut  the 
spars  single-handed,  an'  they  's  noagood 
timber  in  these  parts,"  he  said.  "But 
I  can  get  un  t'  Burnt  Arm,  an'  I  can 
tow  un  up  with  the  punt :  which  it  is 
but  a  matter  o'  twenty  mile,  as  you 
knows.  I  'low  $150  for  a  set,  an'  $12 
for  a  main  boom,  an'  $4  for  three  gaffs 
an'  a  topmast  if  I  doan't  cut  un  me- 
self.  But  't  is  a  long  time  'til  I  needs 
un." 


"Nazareth,"  said  Uncle  Simon, 
"what  do  you  'low  this  schooner  '11  cost 
you  ?  " 

Nazareth  suspended  the  dubbing,  and 
put  a  foot  on  the  keel.  "I  be  goain'  t' 
make  she  a  good  schooner,  Uncle  Si- 
mon,"  he  said  solemnly.  "So  good  a 
schooner  as  ever  sailed  out  of  a  ha'bor. 
She  '11  have  twenty-five  ribs  to  her  body 
frame,  which  is  five  moare  'n  Manuel's 
Duchess  have ;  an'  I  be  goain' t'  brace 
her  bows  with  oak  for  the  ice.  I  be 
goain'  t'  give  she  four  sets  o'  clamps, 
an'  juniper  top-sides,  an'  two  an'  a 
quarter  inch  ceiling  planking ;  an'  I  '11 
put  a  bolt  where  they  's  call  for  a  bolt. 
She  '11  have  her  suit  o'  sails  from  Saint 
John's,  an'  I  '11  serve  her  standin'  rig- 
gin',  an'  when  it  comes  t'  caulking  I  '11 
horse  her.  Uncle  Simon,  b'y,  I  'low 
$767  for  her  timber,  an'  I  'low  $550 
for  iron  an'  nails  an'  oakum  an'  wind- 
lass an'  harse  pipes  an'  all  they  things ; 
an'  't  will  cost  me  $1200  t'  fit  she  out, 
'lowin'  I  can  get  three  anchors  an'  some 
likely  chain  for  $250,  an'  rope  enough 
fbr  $80,  an'  a  set  o'  blocks  for  $100, 
an'  the  suit  o'  sails  I  wants  for  $400. 
Maybe,  Simon,  countin'  in  me  own 
labor  an'  what  little  I  hire  at  $900, 
an'  gettin'  me  smithy  wark  done  t' 
Burnt  Arm  for  $250,  she  '11  cost  me 
$3500  afore  I  take  she  out  o'  the  tickle 
for  t'  try  she.  Simon,"  he  concluded, 
his  voice  a-thrill  with  deep  purpose, 
"she  '11  be  the  best  sixty- tonner  what 
ever  sailed  these  seas !  " 

"Nazareth,"  said  Simon,  "can  you 
do  it,  b'y?" 

"Iss,  Simon,  if  the  Lard  God 
A'mighty  sends  the  seals  in  the  spring 
an'  a  reasonable  sign  o'  fish  in  season, 
I  '11  do  it.  If  the  Lard  God  A'mighty 
leaves  me  take  $200  out  o'  the  sea  each 
year — if  he  oan'y  doos  that  — I'll 
sail  she  this  spring  come  twelve  year." 

"  'T  is  a  deal  t'  expect,"  urged  Si- 
mon, shaking  his  head.  "S'pose  the 
Lard  cuts  you  down  t'  $150  ?  " 

Nazareth  scratched  his  head  in  a  per- 
plexed way.  "I'd  sail  she,  I  s'pose, " 


152 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


he  said,    "this  spring  come   eighteen 
year." 

"Maybe,"  said  Simon,  for  he  had 
looked  back  through  the  years  he  had 
lived.  "A  man  can  do  a  good  spell  o' 
wark  —  in  a  life.  But  you  're  lookin' 
poor  an'  lean,  b'y, "  he  added.  "Eat 
moare, "  now  rising  to  go  to  his  punt, 
"an'  you  '11  get  a  wonderful  sight  moare 
wark  out  o'  yourself." 

"  Doos  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Naza- 
reth, looking  up  quickly,  as  though  the 
suggestion  were  new  and  most  striking. 

"I  knows  it,"  said  Uncle  Simon. 

"Maybe,  now,  you  're  right,"  added 
Nazareth.  "I '11  try  it." 

But  at  the  end  of  twelve  years,  which 
was  the  time  when  Uncle  Simon's  last 
grandson  was  made  a  hand  in  the  trap- 
skiff,  the  schooner  was  still  on  the 
stocks,  though  Nazareth  Lute  had  near 
worn  out  his  life  with  pinching  and 
cruel  work :  for  they  were  hard  years, 
/and  the  Lord  God  A 'mighty,  his  God, 
had  not  generously  rewarded  the  toil  of 
men.  Uncle  Simon  Luff,  who  was  now 
surpassing  old  and  gray,  and,  like  a 
prophet,  stood  upon  the  holiness  of  past 
years,  called  upon  the  people  to  re- 
pent of  their  sins,  that  the  Lord  God 
A' mighty  might  be  persuaded  to  with- 
draw his  anger  from  them.  "Yea, 
even,"  cried  Uncle  Simon,  in  one  ec- 
stasy at  the  meeting-house,  "hunt  out 
the  Jonah  among  you,  an'  heave  un  out 
o'  this  here  ha'bor!  "  Now,  Nazareth 
Lute,  believing  that  Uncle  Simon  had 
come  to  that  holy  age  when  the  mouth 
may  utter  wisdom  which  the  mind  con- 
ceive th  not,  searched  his  heart  for  sin, 
but  found  ~none:  whereupon,  he  was 
greatly  distressed,  for  he  thought  to 
appease  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  God 
A' mighty  with  repentance,  that  the 
Lord,  his  God,  might  grant  the  means  to 
make  the  schooner  ready  for  launching. 
Nevertheless,  being  exceeding  anxious 
to  purge  his  heart  of  such  sins  as  may 
lurk  in  hearts  all  unsuspected,  he  put 
ashes  on  his  head  for  three  nights,  when 
his  fire  went  out ;  for  with  his  whole 


heart  he  longed  for  the  Lord  God 
A' mighty  to  restore  his  favor,  that  the 
schooner  might  some  day  be  finished. 
And  when,  for  three  more  years,  the 
Lord  God  still  frowned  upon  Ragged 
Harbor,  he  put  no  blame  upon  the  Lord 
God  A' mighty,  his  God,  for  scorning  his 
poor  propitiation,  but,  rather,  blamed 
himself  for  having  no  sackcloth  at  hand 
with  which  to  array  himself. 

"They  's  a  good  sign  o'  fish  t'  Round 
Ha'bor, "  said  Solomon  Stride  to  Naza- 
reth, in  the  beginning  of  that  season, 
when  the  news  first  came  down.  "  'T  is 
like  they  '11  strike  here.  'T  will  be  a 
gran'  cotch  o'  fish  this  year,  I  'm 
thinkinV 

"Doos  you  think  so,  b'y  ?  "  said  Naz- 
areth, his  face  lighting  up.  "Solomon, 
b'y,  if  I  can  oan'y  get  me  schooner 
done,  — if  I  can  oan'y  get  she  done 
afore  I  dies,  — I  '11  not  be  much  afeard 
t'  face  the  Lard  God  A'mighty  when  I 
stands  afore  the  throne." 

"Noa,  noa,  lad  —  sure  noa!  " 

"Solomon,  when  the  Lard  God 
A'mighty  says  t'  me,  '  Nazareth  Lute, 
what  has  you  got  t'  show  for  the  life  I 
give  you?  '  I  'll/  say,  t  O  Lard  God 
A'mighty,'  I  '11  say,  '  I  built  the  fast- 
est sixty-tonner  what  ever  sailed  these 
seas.'  An'  he  '11  say,  '  Good  an'  faith- 
ful sarvent, '  he  '11  say,  *  enter  into  thy 
reward,  for  you  done  well  along  o'  that 
there  schooner.'  An'  I  been  thinkin', 
o'  late,  Solomon,"  Nazareth  went  on, 
letting  his  voice  fall  to  a  confidential 
whisper,  "that  he  '11  say  a  ward  or  two 
moare  'n  that.  Maybe,"  with  a  sweet, 
radiant  smile,  "he  '11  say,  '  Nazareth 
Lute, '  he  '11  say  afore  all  the  angels, 
*  I  'm  proud  o'  you,  b'y,  —  I'm  fair 
proud  o'  you.'  ' 

"Iss,  an'  he  will,"  said  Solomon 
gently,  for  he  perceived  that  the  strain 
of  toil  and  longing  had  somewhat  weak- 
ened Nazareth  for  the  time.  "Sure, 
he  '11  say  them  very  words.  I  knows 
it." 

"  Maybe, "  said  Nazareth ;  then,  with 
a  wise  wag  of  his  head:  "'T  is  hard 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


153 


t'  tell  for  sure,  though,  just  what  the 
Lard  God  A'mighty  will  do.  'T  is 
wonderful  hard,  I  'm  thinkin'." 

"Iss,    wonderful,"     said    Solomon; 
"but  't  is  sure  t'  be  done  right." 

When  Uncle  Simon  Luff's  last  grand- 
son had  learned  to  loiter  at  the  Nee- 
dle Rock  to  make  eyes  at  the  maids  as 
they  passed,  which  was  two  years  after 
the  season  of  plenty,  Nazareth  Lute 
launched  his  schooner ;  and  with  prayer 
and  psalm-singing  and  a  pot  of  black- 
berry jam  she  was  christened  the 
Heavenly  Hope.  The  days  of  tribu- 
lation, when  the  great  fear  of  the  wrath 
of  the  Lord  God  A'mighty  descended 
upon  Ragged  Harbor,  were  over :  again, 
with  his  whole  heart,  Nazareth  Lute 
longed  to  lay  a  guiding  hand  upon  the 
helm  of  the  craft  he  had  made,  —  to 
feel  the  thrill  of  her  eager  response  to 
the  touch  of  his  finger.  Day-dreams 
haunted  him  while  he  worked,  — • 
dreams  of  singing  winds  and  a  wake  of 
froth,  of  a  pitching,  heeling  flight  over 
great  waves,  of  swelling  sails  and  of 
foam  at  the  rail,  of  squalls  escaped,  and 
of  gales  weathered  in  the  night.  In 
these  long,  sunny  days,  when  all  the 
rocks  of  the  harbor  cheerily  echoed  the 
noise  of  hammer  and  saw,  and  the  smell 
of  oakum  and  paint  and  new  wood  was 
in  the  air  to  delight  in,  he  was  happy : 
for  the  cloud  and  flame  of  the  wrath  of 
the  Lord  God  A'mighty,  his  God,  were 
unperceived  and  forgotten.  In  these 
days,  too,  Uncle  Simon  Luff  puttered 
about  the  deck,  a  querulous,  flighty,  tot- 
tering old  child :  and  sometimes  he  fan- 
cied he  was  the  master-builder  of  the 
schooner,  and  gave  orders,  which  Naza- 
reth pretended  to  obey ;  and  sometimes 
he  fancied  she  was  at  sea  in  a  gale,  and 
roared  commands,  at  which  times  it  was 
hard  to  soothe  him  to  quiet.  But  Naz- 
areth Lute  delighted  in  the  company 
and  in  the  prattle,  from  sunny  day  to 
sunny  day,  while  he  rigged  the  boat : 
for  he  did  not  know  that  a  revelation 
impended  and  might  come  by  the  lips 


of  old  Simon  Luff,  —  the  inevitable, 
crushing  revelation  of  his  idolatrous  de- 
parture from  the  one  path  of  escape. 

"Nazareth,"  said  Uncle  Simon 
crossly  one  day  when  Nazareth  was 
caulking  the  forward  deck  planks,  "I 
told  you  t'  horse  them  planks,  an'  you 
isn't  doin'  it." 

"Iss,  I  is,  Uncle  Simon,  b'y,"  said 
Nazareth,  looking  up  with  a  smile.  "I 
be  drivin'  the  oakum  in  thick  an' 
tight." 

"Noa,  you  isn't!"  said  Uncle  Si- 
mon in  a  rage. 

"Iss,  b'y,  sure  "  — 

Uncle  Simon  sprung  away.  He 
straightened  himself  to  his  full  stature 
and  lifted  up  his  right  hand.  His  long 
white  hair  fell  over  his  shoulders:  his 
white  beard  quivered,  and  his  eyes 
flashed,  as  the  eyes  of  some  indignant 
prophet  might. 

"Nazareth  Lute,"  he  cried,  "you 
loves  this  here  schooner  moare  'n  you 
loves  the  Lard  God  A'mighty!  " 

Nazareth's  mallet  clattered  harshly 
on  the  deck.  It  had  fallen  from  his 
grasp,  for  the  strength  had  gone  out  of 
his  hands.  He  rose,  trembling. 

"Take  them  wards  back,  Simon,"  he 
said  hoarsely.  "Take  un  back,  b'y," 
he  pleaded.  "They  isn't  true." 

"Iss,  an'  they  is  true, "  Simon  grum- 
bled. "This  here  schooner  's  your  gold- 
en calf.  The  Lard  God  A'mighty  '11 
punish  you  for  lovin'  she  moare  'n  you 
love  him." 

The  cloud  and  flame  x  of  the  wrath  of 
the  Lord  God  A'mighty  seemed  very 
near  to  Nazareth.  In  a  dazed  way  he 
watched  old  Simon  totter  to  the  side 
and  climb  into  his  punt :  watched  him 
row  out  from  the  ship. 

"Simon,"  he  called  earnestly,  "say 
't  is  n't  true  —  what  you  said." 

"  'T  is,  an'  't  is,  an'  can't  be  't  iser, " 
said  Simon. 

Nazareth  was  struck  a  mortal  blow. 

When  the  light  failed,  that  night, 
and  there  remained  but  the  wan  light 


154 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


of  the  stars  to  guide  the  work  of  his 
hands,  Nazareth  Lute  put  aside  his  mal- 
let and  his  oakum;  and  he  stretched 
himself  out  on  the  forward  deck,  with 
his  face  upturned,  that  he  might  pon- 
der again,  in  the  night's  silence,  the 
words  of  Simon  Luff:  for  Simon  was 
old,  very  old  and  white-haired ;  and  he 
had  lived  a  long  life  without  sin,  as 
men  knew,  and  had  at  last  come  to 
those  days  wherein  strange  inspirations 
and  communications  are  vouchsafed  to 
holy  men.  And  Nazareth  fell  asleep 
—  while  from  the  stars  to  the  shimmer- 
ing water,  and  from  the  sea's  misty  rim 
to  the  first  shrubs  and  shadows  of  the 
wilderness,  the  infinite  hymned  the 
praises  of  great  works,  he  fell  asleep; 
and  while  star  and  shadow  and  misty 
water  still  joined  with  the  wilderness 
and  great  rocks  in  the  enravishing 
strain,  he  dreamed  a  dream :  a  dream 
of  the  Lord  God  A' mighty,  who  ap- 
peared in  a  glowing  cloud  above  him. 
Now,  the  words  of  the  Lord  God 
A 'mighty,  his  God,  whom  he  had  made 
in  his  blindness  of  tempest  and  naked 
rock  and  the  sea's  hard  wrath,  I  here, 
in  all  compassion  for  Nazareth  Lute,  set 
down  as  they  were  told  by  him  to  one 
who  told  them  to  me. 

"Nazareth  Lute!"  said  the  Lord 
God  A'mighty. 

"Here  I  be,  O  Lard,"  said  Nazareth 
Lute. 

The  glowing  cloud  was  a  cloud  of 
changing  colors,  —  of  gold  and  purple 
and  gray  and  all  sunset  tints:  and,  of 
a  sudden,  it  melted  from  gold  to  gray. 

"Nazareth  Lute!"  said  the  Lord 
God  A'mignty. 

Now,  Nazareth  Lute  trembled  ex- 
ceedingly, for  he  knew  that  the  Lord 
God  A'mighty,  his  God,  had  come  in 
wrath  to  reprove  him  for  his  idolatry; 
and  he  was  afraid. 

"Here  I  be,  O  Lard,"  he  made  an- 
swer. 

But  the  Lord  withheld  his  voice  for 
a  time,  and  Nazareth  knew  that  he  was 
frowning  in  the  gray  cloud. 


"Nazareth  Lute!"  said  the  Lord 
God  A'mighty,  for  the  third  time. 

"Iss,  Lard,"  said  Nazareth  Lute. 
"  'T  is  Nazareth  a-speakin'.  Doos  you 
not  know  me,  Lard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  knows  you,  never  fear, "  said 
the  Lord  God  A'mighty. 

"Sure,  you  doos,  O  Lard,"  said 
Nazareth.  "I  been  sarvin'  you  ever 
since  that  day  I  seen  you  sittin'  on  Yel- 
low Rock,  by  the  tickle  t'  Seldom  Cove. 
You  knows  me,  Lard." 

Then  a  drear  silence :  and  roundabout 
was  deep  night,  but  the  light  of  the 
crimson  cloud  fell  upon  the  shrouds,  and 
upon  the  thrice-dubbed  planks  of  the 
deck,  and  upon  the  mallet  near  by ;  so 
the  man  knew  that  he  was  yet  upon  the 
deck  of  his  own  schooner,  and  he  was 
comforted. 

"Scuttle  this  here  fore-an' -after," 
said  the  Lord  God  A'mighty. 

Now,  for  a  time,  Nazareth  Lute  had 
no  voice  to  plead  against  the  command 
of  the  Lord  God  A'mighty,  for  he 
knew  that  the  words  of  the  Lord  stand 
forever. 

"O  Lard,"  he  cried  out,  at  last, 
"leave  me  sail  she  once  —  just  once,  O 
Lard  God  A'mighty!" 

The  cloud  of  changing  colors  hung  in 
its  place ;  but  no  words  fell  upon  the 
waiting  ears  of  Nazareth  Lute. 

"O  Lard,"  he  cried,  "leave  me  put 
her  sails  on,  an'  sell  she,  an'  give  the 
money  t'  the  church!  " 

But  the  cloud  of  changing  colors 
made  no  answer:  yet  the  very  silence 
was  an  answer. 

"O  Lard,"  said  Nazareth  Lute, 
braving  the  anger  of  the  Lord,  "leave 
me  keep  she.  Leave  me  let  she  ride 
at  anchor  an'  rot  —  but  leave  me  keep 
she  by  me." 

Still  the  cloud  of  changing  colors 
kept  silence. 

"O  Lard,"  said  Nazareth  Lute,  for 
his  heart  was  breaking,  and  he  no 
longer  feared  the  wrath  of  the  Lord 
God  A'mighty,  "'t  isn't  fair  —  sure, 
't  is  n't  fair.  She  've  been  well  build- 


In  the  Fear  of  the  Lord. 


155. 


ed,  O  Lard.  She  'd  be  the  best  sixty- 
tonner  in  these  parts.  Why,  0  Lard, 
must  I  scuttle  "  — 

"Nazareth  Lute,  does  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Iss,  Lard;  but" 

"Nazareth  Lute,"  cried  the  Lord 
God  A 'mighty  from  the  depths  of  the 
black  cloud,  "stop  your  prate!  'T is 
not  for  wrigglin'  worms  t'  know  the 
mysteries  o'  the  heaven  an'  o'  the  earth. 
An  you  doan't  scuttle  this  here  fore- 
an' -after,  she  '11  wreck  on  her  first 
v'y'ge,  an'  all  hands  '11  loss  themselves. 
Mind  that,  Nazareth  Lute !  " 

Whereupon,  the  cloud  of  changing 
colors  vanished :  and  all  things  were  as 
they  had  been  when  the  daylight  failed 
• — from  the  stars  to  the  shimmering 
water,  and  from  the  sea's  misty  rim  to 
the  first  shrubs  and  shadows  of  the  wil- 
derness. But  the  hymn  in  praise  of 
great  works  fell  upon  the  ears  of  a  numb 
soul. 

Now,  Nazareth  Lute  told  no  man 
what  the  Lord  God  A' mighty,  his  God, 
had  commanded  him  to  do :  and,  from 
year  to  year,  continuing,  he  toiled  early 
and  late,  as  he  had  done  before,  that  his 
schooner  might  be  a  great  and  perfect 
work  before  he  died ;  but  he  dreamed 
no  more  dreams  of  swelling  sails  and 
a  wake  of  froth.  On  the  night  when 
Uncle  Simon  Luff's  last  grandson's  first 
child  was  born,  which  was  long  after 
Uncle  Simon's  feet  had  grown  used  to 
the  streets  of  the  City  of  Light,  as  men 
said,  Nazareth  went  to  Solomon  Stride's 
cottage,  under  the  Man-o'-War,  to  talk 
a  while ;  for  old  Solomon  lay  ill  abed, 
and  Nazareth's  work  was  done.  The 
shadows  were  then  stealing  out  of  the 
wilderness  upon  the  heels  of  the  sun's 
red  glory:  and  behind  lurked  the  dusk 
and  a  clammy  mist. 

"Draw  the  curtains  back,  b'y, "  said 
Solomon.  "Leave  us  see  the  sun  sink 
in  the  sea.  'Tis  a  gran'  sight." 

The  rim  of  the  sea  was  a  flaring  red 
and  gold :  a  great,  solemn  glory  filled 
all  the  sky. 


"They  tells  me,"  said  Solomon,  af- 
ter a  time,  "that  you  got  the  suit  o' 
sails  from  Saint  John's  by  the  last 
mail  boat." 

"Iss,  b'y,"  said  Nazareth.  "I  fit- 
ted un  on,  a  week  gone  Toosday.  Me 
wark  's  done,  b'y.  The  schooner  's  fin- 
ished. She  've  been  lyin'  off  Mad  Mull 
for  five  days  —  over  fifteen  fathom  o' 
water  at  low  tide." 

"She've  been  well  builded,  Naza- 
reth. She  've  been  well  builded." 

"  Iss  —  the  best  sixty-tonner  in  these 
parts.  I  made  she  that,  Solomon,  as 
I  said  I  would." 

"Looks  like  us  '11  have  a  switch  from 
the  nor 'east  the  morrow,"  said  Solo- 
mon, turning  from  the  sunset.  "'Tis 
like  you  '11  try  she  then." 

"Noa,  Solomon." 

"  'T  will  be  a  gran'  wind,  I  'm  think- 
in',  b'y." 

But,  while  the  gloaming  shadows 
gathered  over  the  harbor  water,  Naza- 
reth told  Solomon  Stride  of  the  vision 
in  which  the  Lord  God  A 'mighty,  his 
God,  had  appeared  to  him :  and  when 
he  was  done,  the  dusk  had  driven  the 
flush  of  pink  in  upon  the  sun  and  was 
pressing  upon  the  red  and  gold  at  the 
edge  of  the  world. 

"'T  were  not  the  Lard  a-speakin' !  " 
Solomon  cried.  "'T were  not,  b'y  — 
'twere  not!  " 

"  Doos  you  think  not,  Solomon  ?  " 
said  Nazareth  softly.  "But  you  for- 
gets about  the  sacrifice  an'  propitiation 
for  sin." 

"'T  were  n't  the  Lard,"  said  Solo- 
mon. 

"You  forgets,  Solomon,"  said  Naz- 
areth, in  all  simplicity,  "that  I  seed 
the  Lard  once  afore,  a-sittin  there  on 
Yellow  Rock.  Iss,  b'y,  I  seed  un  once 
afore,  an'  now  I  knows  un  when  I  sees 
un.  'Twere  he,  b'y  —  iss,  't  were." 

"'Twere  not  the  Lard  said  them 
wards, "  said  Solomon. 

"You  forgets,  Solomon,"  said  Naz- 
areth, "that  the  Lard  God  A'mighty 
sung  out  t'  Abraham,  one  day,  an'  told 


156 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


un  t*  offer  up  Isaac  as  a  burnt  offer  in'. 
T'  offer  up  his  son,  Solomon  —  t'  offer 
up  his  son.  He  've  oan'y  asked  a 
schooner  o'  me." 

"Iss,  Nazareth,  he  done  that,"  said 
Solomon.  "But  he  sent  an  angel  in 
time  t'  save  that  poor  lad's  life :  which 
were  what  he  intended  t'  do,  all  the 
time." 

"Iss,"  said  Nazareth,  as  in  a  dream, 
"he  sent  an  angel." 

The  night,  advancing  swiftly,  thrust 
the  last  sunset  color  over  the  rim  of  the 
sea;  and  it  was  dark. 

"Solomon,"  said  Nazareth,  "for 
four  nights  I  been  on  the  deck  oj  that 
there  schooner,  watchin'  for  the  angel 
o'  the  Lard,  but  none  come.  Solomon, " 
he  faltered,  "I  been  waitin',  an'  wait- 
in',  an'  waitin',  but  the  Lard  God 
A 'mighty  sends  noa  angel  —  t'  me." 

"Did  the  new  day  come?  "  said  Sol- 
omon earnestly,  lifting  himself  on  his 
elbow. 

"Iss,  the  new  day  come." 

"Seems  t'  me,  Nazareth,"  said  Sol- 
omon, "that  the  dear  Lard  peeps  out 
o'  every  dawn  t'  bless  us  poor  folk." 

"  Noa,  noa, "  Nazareth  groaned ;  "  the 


Lard  God  A 'mighty  was  not  in  them 
dawns,  nor  yet  the  angel  o'  the  Lard ; 
for  I  kep'  a  sharp  lookout,  an'  I  'd  'a' 
seed  un  if  they  was  there.  Noa,  noa, 
b'y, "  he  went  on,  speaking  with  rising 
firmness,  "he  've  asked  a  sacrifice  o' 
me,  an'  he  means  t'  have  me  make  it. 
She've  been  fitted  out  with  all  the 
things  she  needs  —  to  her  cask-dipper, 
b'y,  an'  her  buzzie  an'  anchor-light. 
I  've  painted  her  sides,  an'  swabbed 
down  her  deck,  an'  made  she  all  neat 
an'  trim  an'  shipshape.  She  's  all 
ready  t'  be  offered  up  —  all  ready, 
now.  I  'm  fair  sad  t'  think  —  but  — 
I  'm  goain'  t'  "  — 

t'What  do  it  all  matter?  "  said  Solo- 
mon, falling  back  on  his  pillow,  wearied 
out.  "What  do  it  matter  so  's  a  man 
trys  t'  please  the  dear  Lard  in  all  he 
doos?" 

"Iss,  Solomon,"  said  Nazareth, 
"what  do  it  all  matter,  so  's  a  man 
oan'y  saves  his  soul  from  the  fires  o' 
hell?" 

And  Nazareth  went  out :  and  in  that 
night  he  scuttled  his  schooner,  even  as 
he  believed  the  Lord  God  A 'mighty, 
his  God,  had  commanded  him  to  do. 
Norman  Duncan. 


THE   REVIVAL   OF   POETIC   DRAMA. 


IT  is  probably  safe  to  say  that  since 
the  days  of  Shirley,  that  is,  since  the  ex- 
perience of  men  who  might  have  known 
Shakespeare,  the  present  is  the  first  oc- 
casion upon  which  two  dramatic  poems, 
of  real  and  high  literary  merit,  by  the 
same  author,  have  enjoyed  runs  of  suc- 
cess at  the  same  time  upon  the  London 
stage.  Even  although  Mr.  Stephen  Phil- 
lips should  prove  to  be  one  of  those  swal- 
lows who  do  not  make  a  summer,  and 
although  poetic  drama  should  once  more 
sink  into  desuetude,  the  vogue  of  his 
beautiful  plays  will  remain  a  cheering 
landmark  in  the  history  of  our  literature. 


It  will  encourage  us  to  go  on  hoping, 
even  though  such  a  triumph  should  not 
occur  again  for  another  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years.  But  it  is  impossible  in  the 
flush  of  his  very  interesting  experiments 
to  take  a  view  relatively  so  gloomy  as 
this.  We  prefer  to  believe,  and  we  are 
justified  in  hoping,  that  the  perennial 
yearning  for  beauty  and  harmony  and 
mystery,  which  is  embodied  in  the  heart 
even  of  the  London  playgoer,  may  be  so 
fostered  and  fed  by  Ulysses  and  by  Paolo 
and  Francesca  that  it  will  not  be  content 
in  future  to  be  persistently  snubbed  and 
silenced  as  it  has  been  in  the  past. 


The  JRevival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


157 


It  seems  worth  while  to  consider,  from 
a  perfectly  common-sense  point  of  view, 
what  is  the  reason  of  the  difficulty  which 
English  poets  have  hitherto  found  in 
making  their  verse  listened  to  with  en- 
joyment on  the  stage.  That  in  some 
countries  poetry  and  large  bodies  of  plea- 
sure-seekers are  able  to  shake  hands 
across  the  footlights  is  absolutely  certain. 
We  have  only  to  look  at  France,  where 
the  tragedies  of  Corneille  and  Racine  — 
which  are  nothing  if  they  are  not  poe- 
try —  have  delighted  successive  genera- 
tions, without  intermission,  since  the  very 
time,  when  we,  in  England,  began  to 
find  stage  poetry  so  difficult  as  to  be 
practically  impossible.  If  gay,  social,  and 
lively  people,  in  large,  recurrent  num- 
bers, can  still  be  induced  to  sit,  breath- 
less, through  five-act  tragedies  of  elabo- 
rately rhymed  poetry,  like  Le  Cid  and 
Phedre,  appreciating  the  drama  thor- 
oughly, and  no  whit  impeded  by  the  har- 
monies of  the  exquisite  verse,  it  is  plain 
that  there  can  be  no  necessary  divorce 
between  a  poem  and  the  stage.  But  we 
are  told  that  France,  and  Scandinavia 
with  its  saga-dramas,  and  Germany  with 
its  Schiller  and  Goethe,  and  Italy  from 
Politian  down  to  d'  Annunzio  are  not 
England  or  America,  and  that  there  is 
something  radically  offensive  to  the  An- 
glo-Saxon playgoer  in  drama  that  has 
pure  literary  form.  Well,  then,  let  us 
keep  our  inquiry  to  England  and  see 
what  the  facts  are. 

Before  we  consider  what  actors  like 
Betterton  and  Garrick  and  Macready  did 
or  tried  to  do  in  the  ages  which  preceded 
Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree,  and  what  strug- 
gles dramatic  poetry  made  during  the 
two  centuries  and  a  half  while  the  green- 
room waited  for  Mr.  Phillips,  it  may  be 
desirable  to  combat  one  or  two  fallacies. 
To  the  commonest  argument  against  po- 
etic drama,  namely,  that  people  go  to  the 
theatre  for  an  amusement  which  is  al- 
most infantile  in  its  simplicity,  an  enter- 
tainment which  takes  them  out  of  them- 
selves without  strain  or  responsibility  or 


effort  of  any  kind,  the  reply  which  I  would 
make  is  to  resign  the  contention  without 
a  struggle.  I  would  admit  it  to  be  true 
that  eighty  per  cent  of  those  who  go  to 
the  play,  go  there  because  it  is  a  "  play," 
because  the  lights,  and  the  music,  and 
the  pretty  women,  and  the  bright  illu- 
sions help  them  to  "  get  through  "  the 
evening  ;  because  they  have  worked  too 
hard  and  are  worried,  or  have  eaten  too 
much  food  and  are  comatose,  or  have 
risked  too  much  money  and  are  anxious  ; 
and  because  they  want,  not  an  intellec- 
tual stimulus,  but  a  physical  and  moral 
sedative.  This  is  a  fact,  and  in  our 
modern  existence  it  is  not  likely  to  di- 
minish in  importance.  There  will  al- 
ways be  this  eighty  per  cent  who  take 
their  theatre  as  if  it  were  morphia,  or  at 
least  as  if  it  were  a  glass  of  champagne. 
When  we  ask  for  a  revival  of  poetic 
drama,  we  do  not  forget  the  numerical 
importance  of  this  class,  or  its  limited 
powers  of  endurance.  We  propose  that 
it  should  continue  to  be  catered  for.  But 
we  suggest  that  the  residue,  the  twenty 
per  cent,  are  now  strong  enough  to  in- 
sist on  being  catered  for  also. 

Another  fallacy,  it  appears  to  me,  is 
that  poetry  on  the  stage  must  be  so  lofty 
and  pompous  a  thing,  so  pharisaical,  so 
dictatorial,  that  common  ears  are  stunned 
by  its  sermons  or  glutted  by  its  imagery 
and  its  diction.  We  have  allowed  our- 
selves to  accept  the  notion  that  poetic 
drama  must  not  be  expected  to  give 
pleasure,  but  only  instruction  and  intel- 
lectual stimulus.  There  is  an  idea  that 
it  is  connected  with  "examinations," 
that  it  may  involve  a  university  profes- 
sor holding  forth  on  the  stage  between 
the  acts.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  one 
of  those  who  are  not  averse  to  a  serious 
moral  purpose  on  the  stage.  Quite  oc- 
casionally, I  can  listen  to  a  sermon  from 
the  footlights,  and  I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand  why  a  "  problem  " 
play  —  which  is  purely  and  simply  a 
play  which  excites  difference  of  opinion 
regarding  a  moot  point  in  morals  — 


158 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


should  be  considered  so  detestable  and 
make  the  critics  so  excessively  angry.  I 
confess  I  believe  it  to  be  these  latter 
gentlemen,  and  not  the  real  public,  who 
bridle  so  much  at  the  idea  that  some  one 
is  trying  to  preach  to  them  in  the  thea- 
tre. But  we  are  not  dealing  with  "  prob- 
lem "  plays  to-day  ;  we  are  speaking  of 
"  poetic  "  dramas  of  love  and  adventure 
and  romance,  written  in  fine  verse  by 
distinguished  poets,  and  able  to  be  en- 
joyed as  literature  even  in  the  absence 
of  scenery  and  lights  and  the  glamour  of 
the  actresses.  It  has  certainly  been  our 
error  to  make  this  class  of  play  too 
grandiloquent  and  too  remote  from  hu- 
man interests.  Success  awaits  the  poet 
who  will  bring  on  to  the  boards  the  real 
flush  and  glow  of  fancy,  with  perfect 
dignity,  yet  in  such  a  simple  fashion  that 
every  one  can  without  difficulty  follow 
and  appreciate. 

Until  the  closure  of  the  theatres  under 
the  Commonwealth  it  may  be  said  that 
no  distinction  between  vulgar  and  poetic 
drama  had  been  conceived.  Whenever 
a  play  was  at  all  carefully  composed,  it 
contained  some  concession  to  literary 
effect.  For  instance,  the  late  and  very 
popular  comedy  of  The  Wise  Woman  of 
Hogsdon,  a  piece  quite  on  a  level  with  a 
topical  farce  of  our  own  day,  is  written 
in  loose,  colloquial  prose  without  any 
ambition.  Yet,  even  here,  when  a  touch 
of  sentiment  is  required,  or  the  attention 
of  the  audience  is  to  be  concentrated,  the 
language  braces  itself  up,  and  falls  into 
a  blank  verse  march.  In  fact,  so  para- 
mount was  the  literary  tradition  of  the 
drama,  that  after  the  playhouses  were 
shut  up  by  the  Puritans,  plays  went  on 
being  written  and  printed,  in  which 
everything  was  more  and  more  recklessly 
sacrificed  to  what  was  supposed  to  be 
poetry,  and  by  1650  no  one  in  England 
could  any  longer  write  a  drama  which  a 
conceivable  troupe  of  actors  could  have 
played.  This,  to  my  mind,  was  the  origin 
of  the  deep-seated  prejudice  to  poetic 
drama  in  England  ;  it  was  dimly  felt  to 


have  been  an  element  in  the  violent  death 
of  the  stage. 

When  the  theatres  began  to  be  opened 
again,  just  before  the  Restoration,  some- 
thing of  the  exterior  form  of  poetic 
drama  clung  for  a  long  time  to  the  fash- 
ionable play.  Taste  has  altered  so  com- 
pletely that  it  is  very  difficult  for  us  to 
realize  that  the  full-bottomed  tragedies 
and  tragi-comedies  of  Dryden's  day,  in 
pompous  rhyme,  with  stately  soliloquiz- 
ings  addressed  to  passive  confidants,  gave 
poetic  pleasure.  They  give  no  sort  of 
enjoyment  to  the  majority  of  modern 
readers.  But  some  fifteen  years  ago  I 
had  the  great  satisfaction  of  being  pre- 
sent when  Dryden's  Secret  Love :  or 
The  Maiden  Queen  was  very  sympa- 
thetically and  gracefully  given,  on  a  sin- 
gle night,  by  a  company  of  young  pro- 
fessional actors,  and  I  was  surprised  to 
perceive  how  much  of  the  perfume  and 
dignity  of  poetry  lingered  around  these 
old,  rejected  rhymes  of  1668.  Now, 
when  everybody  has  been  crowding  to 
Mr.  Phillips's  plays,  it  may  seem  odd  to 
say  that  I  recall  no  performance  of  which 
that  of  Herod  has  so  sharply  reminded 
me  as  this  of  Dryden's  Maiden  Queen. 
In  a  sense  —  not  our  sense,  indeed,  but 
that  of  their  own  age  —  the  playgoers  of 
Charles  II.  and  James  II.  were  votaries 
of  the  poetic  drama,  and  possessed,  in  a 
bastard  and  impure  form,  something  of 
its  magnificent  tradition. 

If  I  were  reviewing  Mr.  Phillips's 
talent,  in  detail,  I  should  have  something 
to  say  about  what  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  invitation  which  it  gives  him  to  the 
composition  of  opera.  I  will  here  only 
pause  to  suggest  that  as  the  vulgarization 
of  drama,  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  became  complete,  it  was  only  in 
the  masques  and  operas  written  for  the 
music  of  Purcell  that  poetry  survived. 
We  have  seen  the  opera  of  Dido  and 
^Eneas  performed  in  London  within  the 
last  few  months,  and  there  has  certainly 
appeared  no  other  work  on  the  recent 
stage  with  which  Ulysses  could  be  so 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


159 


fairly  compared.  It  is  true  that  the  verse 
of  Dido  and  .ZEneas  is  by  Nahum  Tate, 
and  is  mainly  contemptible  ;  but  here  is 
the  attitude,  here  the  tradition,  here  the 
last  breath  of  the  Renaissance  spirit  of 
English  poetic  drama,  and  this  was  lost, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  for  two  hundred  years, 
to  be  restored,  almost  as  it  dropped  from 
the  hands  of  Dryden  and  Betterton  and 
Purcell,  by  the  combined  talents  of  Mr. 
Beerbohm  Tree  and  Mr.  Stephen  Phil- 
lips. 

From  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury onward,  what  we  observe  in  the 
history  of  the  English  stage  is  the  grow- 
ing determination  of  audiences  to  be 
given  what  they  like  rather  than  what 
the  author  likes,  and  an  equally  steady 
decline  of  the  level  of  popular  taste  un- 
til the  author  is  utterly  discouraged,  and 
cares  no  longer  to  do  his  best.  But  it  is 
very  interesting  to  note  how,  again  and 
again,  one  group  of  persons  of  taste, 
strenuously  working  together,  has  con- 
trived for  a  moment  to  force  poetic  drama 
on  the  boards  again.  The  earliest  and 
the  most  remarkable  instance  of  this  in 
the  eighteenth  century  was  the  perform- 
ance of  Addison's  Cato.  Again  I  must 
repeat  that  in  this  consideration  we  must 
not  be  affected  by  our  twentieth-century 
attitude  toward  a  particular  work.  We 
cannot  read  Cato  with  enjoyment,  we  do 
not,  in  fact,  read  Cato  at  all,  but  in  the 
sense  in  which  we  are  now  using  the 
phrase  it  was,  to  its  own  time,  "  poetic 
drama  "  precisely  as  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  was  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth  or 
Paolo  and  Francesca  to  the  age  of  Ed- 
ward VII.  What  contemporaries  said 
that  they  admired  in  it  was  the  "  beauty 
of  poetry  which  shines  through  the 
whole."  They  accepted  it  as  a  protest 
against  the  humdrum  vulgarity  into  which 
stage-writing  had  fallen.  Here,  at  least, 
in  Cato  nothing  was  sacrificed  to  the 
b-oundlings ;  here,  at  least,  was  the  dig- 
nllj  of  versified  literature  supported  as 
compiv^y  ag  tjje  genius  Of  a  most  ele- 
gant writ,  ould  contriye>  yet,  with  all 


its  prestige,  with  all  the  thunders  of  ap- 
plause, with  all  the  political  and  literary 
influence  concentrated  on  its  encourage- 
ment, Cato  proved,  in  the  long  run,  a 
colossal  failure. 

The  reasons  why  Cato  failed  should, 
I  think,  be  studied  by  any  one  who  seeks 
to  understand  why  poetic  drama  has 
been  doomed  so  long  to  penitence  and 
exile.  It  is  absolutely  useless  —  it  was 
useless  in  1713,  it  will  be  useless  in  1913 

—  to  invite  a  well-dressed  crowd,  of  both 
sexes,  who  have  dined,  to  sit  through  a 
whole  evening  listening  to  declamatory 
dialogue  in  which  "  chill  philosophy  "  is 
discussed  in  terms  of  "  unaffecting  ele- 
gance."    Even  when  Addison's  tragedy 
was  first  produced,  under  the  auspices  of 
such  a  claque  as  modern  times  have  never 
seen,  of  such  a  crowd  of  illustrious  and 
servile  admirers  as  might  turn  our  most 
practiced  "  log-roller  "  green  with  envy, 

—  even  then  criticism  uttered  the  fatal 
judgment,  "  deficiency  of  dramatic  busi- 
ness."    We  shall  find,  if  we  examine  in 
succession  all  the  splendid  failures  which 
lie,  like  wrecked   carracks   laden   with 
spice  and  pearl,  on  the  shores  of  our  dra- 
matic literature,  that  this  is  the  reef  on 
which,  one  after  the  other,  each  of  them 
has  struck.     They  have  been  convinced 
that  fine   sentiments,  showy  literature, 
melodious  versification,  a  fund  of  brilliant 
fancy,  would  save  their  credit  if   they 
could  only  secure  an  audience  of  sym- 
pathetic and  cultivated  people,  and  not 
one  has  understood  that  all  the  poetic 
ornament  in  the  world  will  not  redeem 
that  fatal  deficiency,  the  lack  of  "  dra- 
matic business." 

The  example  of  Cato  was  followed  at 
intervals,  and  with  the  closest  exactitude, 
all  down  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
next  effort  at  first-class  "  poetic  "  drama 
was  that  which  culminated  in  the  So- 
phonisba  of  Thomson.  The  history  of 
this  play  reads  like  a  solemn  burlesque 
of  what  we  see  repeated  at  least  once  in 
every  generation.  The  tone  of  the  play- 
houses had  sunk  to  triviality  and  non- 


160 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


sense  ;  lovers  of  literature  looked  round 
to  try  to  find  somebody  to  redeem  it; 
and  the  young  and  brilliant  poet  of  The 
Seasons  was  discovered.  He  was  urged 
forward  to  do  his  best ;  it  was  whispered 
that  the  result  of  his  efforts  was  extra- 
ordinary. The  very  rehearsals  of  So- 
phonisba  were  "  dignified  "  by  audiences 
of  the  elite,  "  collected  to  anticipate  the 
delight  that  was  preparing  for  the  pub- 
lic." Alas,  when  the  event  which  was  to 
mark  the  year  1730  forever  in  white  on 
the  fagade  of  the  Tempfe  of  Fame  came 
off  at  length  in  a  perfect  furore  of  taste 
and  expectancy,  —  "  it  was  observed, that 
nobody  was  much  affected,  and  that  the 
company  rose  as  from  a  moral  lecture  " ! 
Thomson  was  an  excellent  poet,  and  there 
was  nothing  amiss  with  his  sentiments 
or  his  versification,  but  he  had  no  idea  of 
"  dramatic  business."  The  disappointed 
public  chanted,  "  Oh  !  Jemmy  Thomson, 
Jemmy  Thomson  Oh  !  "  and  went  about 
its  affairs. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  later  it  was  the 
turn  of  the  Rev.  John  Home  and  his  glo- 
rious and  immortal  tragedy  of  Douglas. 
Delirious  eulogy  paved  the  way  for  the 
performance  of  this  piece,  which  reflect- 
ed with  no  little  cleverness  the  new  ro- 
mantic feeling  that  was  daily  forcing  it- 
self into  popularity. 

"  The  angry  spirit  of  the  water  shriek'd,"  — 

one  realizes  with  what  rapture,  mingled 
with  a  fear  that  imagination  was  really 
going  "  too  far,"  that  would  be  received 
in  1756.  So  delicate  a  critic  as  Gray 
wrote  that  the  author  of  Douglas  "  seems 
to  me  to  have  retrieved  the  true  language 
of  the  stage,  which  had  been  lost  for 
these  hundred  years."  During  the  first 
performance  at  Edinburgh,  a  youthful 
and  perfervid  Scot  leaped  to  his  legs  in 
the  pit,  flung  up  his  bonnet,  and  shrieked, 
"Where's  your  Wully  Shakespeare 
noo  ?  "  One  hears  the  melancholy  pat- 
ter still :  — 

"  My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flocks." 


It  is  like  the  sound  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  far 
away.  Ah!  "Where's  your  Douglas 
noo  ?  "  He  had  in  all  the  body  of  his  sen- 
timentality no  fibre  of  "  dramatic  busi- 
ness." 

It  would  be  tedious  to  pursue  the  re- 
lation of  these  failures.  The  manner  of 
them  is  so  uniform  that  one  is  amazed  at 
its  regularity,  at  the  mechanical  futility 
of  successive  generations  of  very  clever 
men.  Obviously  the  eighteenth-century 
patrons  were  searching  for  the  wrong 
quality,  and,  oddly  enough,  we  went  on 
almost  down  the  nineteenth  century  mak- 
ing the  same  mistake.  We  have  seen 
that  Addison  and  Thomson  and  "  Doug- 
las "  Home  were  supposed  to  have  done 
all  that  was  necessary  when  they  re- 
deemed the  diction  of  the  theatre  fr6m 
mediocrity.  It  was  taken  for  granted 
that  all  that  was  required  of  a  poet  was 
that  he  should  "retrieve  the  true  lan- 
guage of  the  stage."  But  what  was  not 
seen,  in  spite  of  failure  upon  failure, 
what  was  understood  by  Tennyson  as 
little  as  it  had  been  understood  by  Ad- 
dison, was  that  before  you  can  put  on  the 
embroidery  of  language  you  must  have 
a  sound  theatrical  business  as  a  basis  and 
a  framework.  The  would  be  dramatic 
poets  were  willing  to  turn  the  stage  into 
a  platform  or  a  pulpit  or  a  concert-room  ; 
the  one  thing  they  would  not  do  was  to 
treat  it  simply  as  a  stage. 

At  the  romantic  revolution,  one  hun- 
dred years  ago,  the  theatre  had  a  great 
chance  of  reviving.  In  The  Fall  of 
Robespierre  in  1794,  Coleridge  and 
Southey  put  forward,  in  dramatic  form, 
a  simple  representation  of  a  recent  fact. 
In  The  Borderers,  in  1795,  Wordsworth 
attempted,  with  unusual  boldness,  to  deal 
with  an  incident  of  fierce,  illicit  passion. 
But  these  efforts  did  not  even  reach  the 
stage,  and  they  continue  to  be  mere  cu- 
riosities of  literature.  It  is  a  very  odd 
fact,  and  one  which  has  escaped  general 
attention,  that  the  romantic  movement 
made  an  abortive  attempt  to  work  through 
the  theatre  before  it  found  'is  true  field 


The  JKevival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


161 


of  action  in  lyrical  poetry.  If  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  had  happened  to  be 
brought  into  closer  relations  of  friendship 
with  some  enterprising  young  manager 
in  1796,  it  is  conceivable  that  our  litera- 
ture might  have  been  reformed  on  pure- 
ly theatrical  lines,  as  German  literature 
in  the  dramas  of  Schiller.  But  no  en- 
couragement was  given  them  to  appear 
before  the  footlights,  and  Coleridge's 
subsequent  experiments  on  German  bases, 
his  Waller.stein,  his  Zapolya,  even  his 
moderately  dramatic  and  not  too  poetic 
Remorse  give  us  no  certainty  that  a 
heaven-made  playwright  was  crushed 
when  nobody  would  act  his  tragedy  of 
Osorio. 

We  pass  over  twenty  years  more  in 
our  swift  survey,  and  we  find,  in  1815, 
the  most  popular  poet  of  the  day  made 
a  member  of  the  Managing  Committee 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  This  was  By- 
ron, through  whose  influence,  indeed, 
Coleridge's  Remorse  had  been  produced 
some  years  earlier.  It  might  have  been 
expected  that  now,  if  ever,  the  poetic 
drama  would  have  flourished  in  England. 
But  the  business  side  of  Byron's  charac- 
ter, his  curious  shrewdness  and  practical 
judgment,  asserted  themselves.  He  had 
accepted  the  responsibility  as  a  matter 
of  affairs,  and  by  no  means  with  the  in- 
tention of  being  played  tricks  upon  by 
the  Muses.  We  therefore  search  his 
correspondence  of  this  period  in  vain  for 
any  proposals  that  his  solemn  compeers 
should  contribute  high-flown  poems  to 
his  theatre.  He  is  found  occupied,  like  a 
merchant,  "in  such  complicated  and  ex- 
tensive interests  as  the  Drury  Lane  pro- 
prietary "  may  offer,  and  if  he  rather 
faintly  suggests  that  Tom  Moore  should 
write  an  opera  for  him,  what  he  really 
is  eager  about  is  some  melodrama  trans- 
lated by  Concanen  from  the  French,  or 
some  flashy  drama  in  which  the  charms 
of  Fanny  Kelly  could  be  advertised. 

In  the  very  curious  Detached  Thoughts 
which  Byron  put  down  in  1821,  and 
which  were  fully  printed  for  the  first 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  11 


time  in  1900,  Byron  makes  some  inter- 
esting remarks  about  his  own  conduct  as 
a  theatrical  manager.  He  evidently  feels 
that  he  ought  to  have  done  something  to 
encourage  the  poetic  drama,  and,  as  peo- 
ple are  apt  to  do  in  looking  back,  he 
thinks  that  he  did  a  good  deal.  He  had 
recourse,  "  in  hope  and  in  despair,"  to 
Sir  Walter  Scott ;  he  "  tried  Coleridge, 
too  ;  "  he  dallied  with  Maturin,  and  sank 
back  upon  Sir  James  Bland  Burgess. 
On  the  whole,  one  realizes  that  he  was 
foiled  in  faintly  good  intentions  by  his 
colleagues,  that  he  was  not  greatly  in- 
terested (at  that  time)  in  dramatic  lit- 
erature, that  Drury  Lane  occupied  his 
thoughts  simply  in  connection  with  its 
opportunities  of  business  and  pleasure. 
Byron's  experience  as  the  manager  of  a 
great  theatre  was  brief ;  it  was  washed 
away  in  the  catastrophe  of  his  domestic 
fortunes.  When  he  began  to  write  plays 
himself,  he  profited  little  by  what  expe- 
rience he  had  enjoyed.  After  frenzied 
efforts  to  prevent  his  own  old  theatre  of 
Drury  Lane  from  acting  Marino  Faliero 
in  1821,  Byron  sullenly  withdrew  the 
injunction  at  the  last,  but  the  tragedy 
was  coldly  received.  Of  the  rest  of  his 
dramas,  not  one  was  put  on  the  boards 
until  long  after  the  poet's  death,  nor  has 
one,  in  later  representations,  contrived 
to  hold  public  attention.  I  record  only 
a  personal  impression  when  I  say  that 
there  is  a  blank  verse  tragedy  of  Byron's 
—  the  half  -  forgotten  Sardanapalus  — 
which  I  can  imagine  forming  an  agree- 
able spectacle  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Beer- 
bohm  Tree.  It  was  played  in  1834  by 
Macready,  and  in  1853  by  Kean,  with 
some  positive  credit  and  advantage ;  it 
may  be  looked  upon  as  perhaps  the  least 
unsuccessful  of  nineteenth-century  "  po- 
etic "  plays. 

The  mention  of  Byron's  tragedies 
seems  to  remind  us  that  Shelley  said  to 
Leigh  Hunt,  "  Certainly,  if  Marino  Fa- 
liero is  a  drama,  The  Cenci  is  not." 
Since  1820,  literary  criticism  has  been 
engaged  in  reversing  these  clauses.  It 


162 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


would  probably  be  admitted  that  The 
Cenci  is  not  merely  in  the  truest  sense 
dramatic,  but  the  most  brilliant  example 
of  purely  poetic  drama  written  by  an 
English  poet  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
Yet  no  one  sees  it  on  the  boards  ;  no 
one  has  been  found  with  courage  enough 
to  accept  the  complicated  infamy  of  its 
personages.  The  character  of  Count 
Francesco  Cenci  is  extremely  theatrical ; 
its  elements  are  calculated  in  the  highest 
degree  to  excite  pity  and  terror  on  the 
stage ;  Shelley  has  imbued  the  scheme 
of  the  intrigues  which  surround  it  with 
an  amount  of  dramatic  business  which 
is  surprising  in  a  poet  with  no  practical 
knowledge  of  the  requirements  of  the 
stage.  It  is  the  subject  —  the  awful  and 
revolting  scheme  —  forever  present  in 
the  beholder's  mind,  that  appalling  sub- 
ject which  cannot  be  ignored  or  put 
aside  without  sacrifice  of  significance  to 
every  scene  and  every  speech,  which  ex- 
cludes The  Cenci  from  the  theatre.  We 
have  here  an  instance  of  the  peculiar 
conditions  of  dramatic  art.  We  can 
read  Shelley's  tragedy,  with  all  its  wicked 
coil  of  passions,  without  more  emotion 
than  can  be  endured  ;  but  if  it  were  set 
out  before  us  on  the  public  stage,  visu- 
ally and  systematically,  we  should  rise 
from  our  seats  and  fly  the  house  in  hor- 
ror. 

Even  if  the  subject  of  The  Cenci  were 
one  which  the  theatre  could  bear,  there 
would  be  other  objections  to  it.  It  is 
well  contrived,  but  not  well  enough.  An 
actress  of  great  genius  would  doubtless 
make  the  speech  of  Beatrice  to  the  guests, 
"  I  do  entreat  you,  go  not !  "  extremely 
effective,  and  her  part,  in  general,  has 
plenty  of  "  business  "  in  it.  But  it  would 
need  marvelous  powers  of  elocution  to 
prevent  an  audience  from  fretting  at  Or- 
sino's  unbroken  soliloquy  of  sixty  lines 
toward  the  end  of  the  second  act,  at 
Giacomo's  complicated  descriptions,  at 
Cenci's  long-drawn  ravings.  And  these 
are  matters  in  the  green  tree  of  Shel- 
ley's extremely  passionate,  adroit,  and 


skillful  drama,  which  is  still  full  of  in- 
tellectual life.  What,  then,  is  to  be  said 
of  the  dry  ?  What  of  the  scene  of  Mat- 
urin  and  Sheil,  of  Sheridan  Knowles 
and  Talfourd,  of  all  that  the  beginning 
and  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century 
took  for  poetic  drama  ?  What,  indeed, 
—  if  not  that,  absolutely  without  excep- 
tion, it  was  founded  upon  a  wrong  concep- 
tion of  art,  theatrical  and  poetic  alike  ? 

The  one  significant  fact  in  the  earlier 
half  of  the  century  was  the  attitude  of 
Macready  to  the  theatre.  He  was  the 
one  manager  of  his  age  who  genuinely 
preferred  "  poetic  "  drama,  and  desired 
to  encourage  and  promote  it.  To  his 
ardor,  from  1825  to  1840,  a  certain  re- 
vival of  romantic  plays  was  due.  He 
commissioned  various  writers,  Bulwer- 
Lytton  and  Browning  among  them,  to 
compose  tragedies  for  him  in  blank  verse, 
and  he  continued  with  extraordinary  per- 
tinacity to  produce  the  bourgeois  versi- 
fied plays,  in  imitation  of  Massinger, 
which  were  poured  forth  by  the  excel- 
lent Sheridan  Knowles  before  he  left 
the  "loathed  stage  "  and  became  a  Bap- 
tist minister.  We  are  quaintly  told  that 
Macready  withdrew  from  the  manage- 
ment, first  of  Covent  Garden,  then  of 
Drury  Lane,  because  he  "  found  his  de- 
signs for  the  elevation  of  the  stage  ham- 
pered and  finally  frustrated  by  the  sor- 
did aims  of  the  proprietors  and  the  ab- 
sence of  adequate  public  support."  But 
it  is  odd  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
of  course  the  public  would  not  support 
what  did  not  amuse  it,  and,  equally  of 
course,  that  the  aims  of  the  proprietors 
of  the  theatre  must  include  a  decent  re- 
turn on  the  money  they  expended.  How 
a  very  clever  actor  and  a  sensible  per- 
son like  Macready  could  go  on  hopeless- 
ly producing  objects  of  dreary  diversion 
such  as  Virginius  and  Ion,  and  plays  far 
more  wooden  than  these,  it  passes  the 
mind  of  man  to  conjecture. 

Finally,  about  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago,  a  fresh  effort  to  revive  poetic  drama 
was  made  by  Mr.  (now  Sir)  Henry 


The  Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


163 


Irving.  Of  this,  also,  it  is  not  now  possi- 
ble to  speak  without  some  depression  of 
spirits.  One  thing,  indeed,  must  always 
be  remembered  greatly  to  Mr.  Irving's 
credit.  His  famous  revival  of  Hamlet 
in  1874  reintroduced  Shakespeare  to  the 
London  playgoer,  and  accustomed  our 
ears  to  the  finest  language  presented  in 
a  tragic  manner,  which  was  not  always 
inadequate,  and  was  frequently  intelli- 
gent. But  of  encouragement  to  living 
literature  much  was  said  during  this  Ly- 
ceum period  and  remarkably  little  done. 
Mr.  Irving  was  fascinated  by  the  oppor- 
tunities which  romantic  melodrama  of- 
fered to  the  picturesque  richness  of  the 
performances  which  he  liked  to  give, 
and  all  the  talk  about  poetry  evaporated 
in  such  plays  as  those  of  W.  G.  Wills, 
whose  unliterary  and  almost  illiterate 
Charles  I.  and  Faust  (the  latter  a  really 
shameful  travesty  of  a  masterpiece)  did 
much  to  lower  the  level  of  popular  taste. 
Meanwhile,  Mr.  Irving  had  some  com- 
munication with  Browning,  but  the  poet 
would  write  nothing  new,  while  the  ac- 
tor-manager refused  to  perform  The  Re- 
turn of  the  Druses,  —  as,  indeed,  he  well 
might.  Encouragement  of  poetic  drama 
confined  itself  to  the  performance  of  one 
or  two  plays  by  Tennyson,  of  which 
Becket  was  the  least  insignificant.  But 
Irving  grew  less  and  less  inclined,  as 
years  went  on,  to  adventure  upon  a  new 
play  of  any  description. 

It  was  necessary  to  recount,  thus  rap- 
idly, the  experience  of  the  last  two  centu- 
ries, to  show  how  incessantly  the  desire 
for  poetic  drama  has  reasserted  itself, 
and  how  completely  it  has  been  rejected 
by  successive  generations  of  theatre-go- 
ers. On  the  eve  of  considering  what  is 
at  least  a  very  curious  and  interesting 
recrudescence  of  this  effort,  it  is  worth 
while  looking  back  again  to  the  eigh- 
teenth century  and  asking  ourselves  what 
has  led  to  this  constant  failure.  Why 
is  it  that  all  the  talent  of  Betterton  and 
Garrick  and  Kean  and  Macready,  aid- 
ed by  all  the  talent  of  Addison  and 


Thomson  and  Byron  and  Browning,  has 
been  able  to  make  precisely  nothing  at 
all  of  poetic  drama  in  England?  If  we 
can  only  discover  the  reason,  the  can- 
kerworm  at  the  root  of  this,  we  may 
possibly  be  able  to  deal  more  intelligent- 
ly with  the  future.  If  we  cannot  dis- 
cover it,  the  present  hopeful  gleam  of 
revival  will  sink  and  be  quenched  like 
all  its  predecessors.  My  belief  is  that  it 
is  possible  to  suggest  the  principal,  the 
most  ubiquitous  and  most  fatal  danger, 
but  to  indicate  it,  it  is  necessary  for  me 
to  wear  the  white  sheet  of  penitence  for 
an  error  of  judgment  in  the  past. 

Mr.  William  Archer,  certainly  the 
most  competent  of  our  living  theatrical 
critics,  suggested  several  years  ago  that 
the  customary  mode  of  approaching  such 
a  poem  as  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfy 
was  not  correct  as  regards  the  stage.  It 
required  some  courage  to  suggest  that 
the  tragedy  on  which  every  critic,  from 
Charles  Lamb  and  Mr.  Swinburne  down- 
wards, had  lavished  eulogy  for  its  power 
to  move  the  emotions  and  its  intense  dra- 
matic effect  was  really,  for  stage  pur- 
poses, a  very  bad  play,  and  its  "  dread- 
ful apparatus,"  as  Elia  calls  it,  the  silly 
terror  of  a  bogy-man.  I  forget  in  what 
connection  Mr.  Archer  advanced  these 
censures  ;  I  read  them,  much  incensed, 
since  our  holiest  poetic  shibboleth,  the 
Elizabethan  Tradition,  seemed  to  be 
questioned  and  undermined.  Successive 
generations  of  analysts  have  dwelt  more 
and  more  occultly  on  the  splendor  of  the 
crowd  of  tragic  poets  who  wrote  from 
the  times  of  Kyd  and  Marlowe  to  the 
times  of  Ford  and  Shirley.  Not  only 
has  the  imagination,  the  literary  pas- 
sion, of  these  playwrights  been  considered 
something  above  all  censure,  but  it  has 
come  to  be  a  matter  of  faith  that  their 
stagecraft  was  equally  faultless.  In  short, 
the  universal  opinion  of  the  higher  criti- 
cism has  been  that  nothing  but  the  vul- 
garity and  ignorance  of  modern  audi- 
ences prevented  Middleton  and  Tourneur 
and  the  rest  from  being  entirely  enjoy- 


164 


Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


able  on  the  boards  to-day.  With  this 
went  the  corollary  that  to  produce  a 
tragedy  worthy  to  be  acted,  you  must 
write  as  much  as  possible  in  the  mode  of 
Tourneur  and  Middleton.1 

Whether  Mr.  Archer,  whose  dealings 
are  mainly  with  the  living  drama,  has 
pushed  his  audacities  further  than  to 
question  the  value  of  the  horror  scenes 
in  The  Duchess  of  Malf y,  I  do  not  know. 
His  remark,  however,  sunk  deep  into  my 
own  breast,  and  (I  have  to  confess)  has 
wrought  a  revolution  there.  I  have  been 
reading  the  old  "  impressive  scenes  "  of 
the  seventeenth-century  dramatists  over 
again  from  the  stage  point  of  view,  and 
while  I  admire  their  poetry  no  less  than 
ever,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  can  no 
longer  hold  the  faith  of  our  fathers  as  to 
their  stage  quality.  In  reading  these 
plays,  and  rediscovering  them,  a  hundred 
years  ago,  Charles  Lamb  found  in  them 
"  an  exquisitiveness  of  moral  sensibility, 
making  one  to  gush  out  tears  of  delight," 
and  we  may  still  find  it  there.  But  these 
are  closet  beauties,  and  we  may  be  sure 
that  half  of  them  would  be  impercepti- 
ble on  the  stage,  and  half  of  the  rest 
repulsive. 

The  great  reason,  then,  in  my  humble 
and  converted  opinion,  why  poetic  drama 
since  the  seventeenth  century  has  inevi- 
tably failed  in  England,  is  that  it  has  re- 
mained faithful  to  the  Elizabethan  Tra- 
dition. This  has  been  followed  by  every 
writer  of  a  play  in  verse.  It  haunts  us, 
it  oppresses  us,  it  destroys  us.  On  the 
merits  of  the  seventeenth-century  drama, 
it  is  no  longer  needful  to  insist.  The 
silver  trumpets  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  praise 
are  ever  in  our  ears  ;  he  ceases  not  from 
celebrating  "  the  dawn-enkindled  quire  " 
of  starry  playwrights.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  why  is  it  forbidden  to  point  out 
how  violent  and  excessive  they  are,  how 
wearisome  in  their  iterations,  how  con- 
fused, wordy,  and  incoherent  ?  These 
are  faults  which  the  reader  of  a  dramatic 
poem  easily  skips  over  and  forgets  ;  but 
these  are  what  ruin  a  play  upon  the 


stage.  These  violences  and  verbosities, 
this  lack  of  thought  for  narrative  evolu- 
tion, this  absence  of  consideration  for 
the  eye  and  ear  of  the  audience,  have 
come  to  be  accepted  as  essential  charac- 
teristics of  poetic  drama.  This  is  the 
unshaken  Elizabethan  faith,  and  it  is 
this  that  has  wrecked  play  after  play  on 
the  English  stage.  If  poetry,  in  the  fu- 
ture, is  to  speak  from  the  footlights,  it 
must  avoid  the  Elizabethan  Tradition  as 
it  would  the  plague. 

The  great  hope  of  the  newest  revival 
of  poetic  drama  in  England  lies,  to  my 
mind,  in  the  fact  that  it  is  more  inde- 
pendent of  the  Elizabethan  Tradition 
than  any  previous  movement  of  the  kind 
has  been.  Neither  Mr.  Yeats  in  his  Irish 
folk  -  plays,  nor  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips 
in  his  three  remarkably  successful  ex- 
periments, has  permitted  himself  to  be 
bound  down  by  the  mannerisms  which 
so  grievously  handicapped,  to  speak  of 
no  others,  such  illustrious  predecessors 
of  theirs  as  Tennyson,  Browning,  and 
Mr.  Swinburne.  Mr.  Yeats,  in  common 
with  M.  Maeterlinck  and  certain  other 
Continental  playwrights  of  the  latest 
school,  obtains  new  effects  by  plunging 
deeper  than  the  dramatist  has  hitherto 
been  expected  to  plunge  into  the  agita- 
tions and  exigencies  of  the  soul.  He 
uses  the  symbol  to  awaken  the  mystical 
sense  ;  he  works  before  our  eyes  the  psy- 
chological phenomena  of  mystery,  and 
excites  our  curiosity  with  regard  to  those 
"  invisible  principles  "  on  which  the  au- 
thor of  La  Princesse  Maleine  delights 
to  insist.  In  this  species  of  drama,  with 
its  incessant  suggestion  of  the  unseen, 
the  unknown,  there  is  something  child- 
like. It  takes  us  back  to  the  infancy 
of  feeling,  to  the  May-time  of  the  world. 
It  does  not  pretend  and  would  not  desire 
to  obtain  gross  successes  in  the  popular 
theatres  of  large  world  centres. 

The  dramatic  poetry  of  Mr.  Stephen 
Phillips,  on  the  other  hand,  does  make 
that  pretension,  and  it  is  difficult  not  to 
believe  that  the  performances  of  Herod 


The  ^Revival  of  Poetic  Drama. 


165 


in  1901  and  of  Ulysses  and  Paolo  and 
Francesca  in  1902  will  take  an  inter- 
esting place  in  the  history  of  theatrical 
literature.  For  it  is  important  to  notice 
that  Mr.  Phillips  does  not  separate  him- 
self, as  M.  Maeterlinck  and  Mr.  Yeats 
do,  from  the  common  observations  of 
mankind.  In  his  plays  we  discover  no 
effort  to  deal  with  any  but  the  superfi- 
cial aspects  of  life  and  passion.  He  con- 
fines himself,  in  a  remarkable  degree,  to 
the  obvious  characteristics  of  emotion. 
It  is  these,  indeed,  which  most  appeal  to 
the  modern  playgoer,  and  when  Mr. 
Phillips  succeeds  in  pleasing  alike  the 
seeker  after  delicate  literary  sensations 
and  the  average  sensual  person  in  the 
stalls,  he  achieves  a  remarkable  triumph 
of  tact.  That  he  does  it  without  re- 
course to  the  Elizabethan  Tradition  is 
another  proof  of  his  adroitness.  His 
theatrical  pretensions  are  the  more  easy 
to  deal  with  because  in  all  other  respects 
he  is  in  no  sense  an  inaugurator.  Like 
M.  Rostand  in  France  — whose  career 
has  in  some  ways  curiously  resembled 
his  —  Mr.  Phillips  is  so  little  of  an  inno- 
vator in  his  essential  dramatic  aesthetics, 
that  the  extreme  school  deny  to  him  the 
merit  of  being  a  dramatic  poet  at  all,  his 
genius  —  except  in  its  tact  and  adroit- 
ness —  being  entirely  conservative  and 
reproductive. 

The  literary  success  of  Mr.  Stephen 
Phillips  is  bound  up  in  a  remarkable 
degree  with  praatical  knowledge  of  stage 
requirements.  The  poet  is  himself  an 
actor,  —  he  played  with  applause  the 
dignified  and  pleasing  role  of  the  Ghost 
in  Hamlet,  —  and  he  has  all  that  ac- 
quaintance with  the  necessities  and  im- 
possibilities of  stage  movement  which 
greater  poets  than  he  have  utterly  failed 
for  the  want  of.  He  has  also,  it  would 
seem,  placed  himself  more  unreservedly 
than  the  writers  of  the  old  tradition  were 
willing  to  do  in  the  hands  of  the  actor- 
manager.  In  particular,  to  refuse  to 
acknowledge  the  part  of  Mr.  Beerbohm 
Tree  in  this  revival  of  poetic  drama 


would  be  to  commit  an  act  of  flagrant 
injustice.  Mr.  Tree  believed  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  bringing  poetry  out  across  the 
footlights  when  the  chasm  between  verse 
and  the  people  seemed  to  be  at  its  widest 
His  productions  of  Shakespeare,  tinc- 
tured as  they  all  have  been  with  some- 
thing too  flamboyant  and  redundant  for 
an  austere  taste,  curiously  indicative  — 
as  we  look  back  upon  them  —  of  the  bro- 
caded and  embroidered  side  of  his  own 
genius  as  a  manager,  brought  him  into 
close  relations  with  romantic  verse,  and 
with  the  treatment  of  what  we  call  "  pur- 
ple passages."  He  felt,  as  we  cannot 
but  surmise,  that  the  total  disregard  of 
purity  of  enunciation,  which  was  the 
malady  of  the  Lyceum  school  of  acting 
twenty  years  ago,  must  be  fatal  to  poe- 
try, since,  whatever  the  splendor  of  orna- 
ment and  whatever  the  subtlety  of  act- 
ing, if  the  language  of  the  piece  is  in- 
audible the  purpose  of  the  poet  must  be 
frustrated.  Mr.  Tree  deserves  no  lit- 
tle commendation  for  the  clearness  and 
dignity  of  utterance  upon  which  he  in- 
sists. 

In  working  out  this  cardinal  reform, 
—  the  clear  and  correct  pronunciation 
of  English,  —  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree,  and 
indeed  the  whole  London  stage,  owes 
much  to  the  Oxford  company  of  beginners 
trained  so  patiently  and  unobtrusively  by 
Mr.  F.  R.  Benson.  This  troupe,  in  fact, 
supplies  the  English  stage  to-day  wijjjh 
its  most  cultivated  and,  we  may  say,  its 
most  academic  actors.  From  this  school, 
by  the  way,  Mr.  Phillips  himself  pro- 
ceeded. The  company  with  which  Mr. 
Alexander  plays  Paolo  and  Francesca  is 
recruited  from  the  same  source,  and  it 
is  charming  to  see  with  what  gravity, 
with  what  reverence  for  the  text,  they 
pronounce  Mr.  Phillips's  romantic  blank 
verse,  as  if  their  object  were  to  give  as 
much  of  its  beauty  as  possible,  and  not 
as  little,  which  was  the  earlier  tradition- 
al plan.  Our  actors  and  managers,  4in 
fact,  have  at  last  accepted  poetic  drama 
as  a  possible  treasure  to  boast  of,  not 


166 


The  Desert. 


as  a  thing  to  be  apologized  for  arid  to 
be  hidden  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
sight. 

Mr.  Stephen  Phillips,  then,  would 
seem  to  have  succeeded  in  producing  one 
of  those  revivals  of  poetic  drama  which 
occur  in  our  history  three  or  four  times 
in  every  century.  Whether  he  will  do 
more  than  this,  whether  he  will  inaugu- 
rate a  new  epoch  of  dramatic  literature 
remains  to  be  experienced.  We  have 
seen  that  the  difficulty  is  not  so  much  to 
get  a  poem  acted,  amid  the  plaudits  of 
a  clique,  as  to  persuade  the  general  pub- 
lic to  like  it  and  to  continue  to  support 
it.  At  present,  our  advices  are  that  the 
London  audiences  liked  Herod  better 
than  could  be  expected,  and  are  liking 
Paolo  and  Francesca  better  still.  In 
the  long  run  it  is  not  by  silly  personal 
friends  of  the  author  "  claiming  his  kin- 
ship with  Sophocles  and  with  Dante " 
that  a  new  writer  for  the  stage  is  sup- 
ported. The  poetic  inventor  who  writes 
for  the  stage  has  to  learn  that  he  cannot 
trust  to  the  flattery  of  his  associates.  For 
him  the  severest  tests  alone  are  pre- 
pared ;  he  must  descend,  like  Ulysses, 

"  to  gather  tidings  of  his  land 
There,  in  the  dark  world,  and  win  back  his 
way." 

Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  has  been  the  vic- 
tim of  more  injudicious  praise  than  is 
often  poured  out  upon  young  writers 


even  in  this  crude  and  impetuous  age. 
But  he  has  shown  qualities  of  power  and 
reserve  which  give  us  hope  that  he  will 
survive  the  honeyed  poison  of  his  friends. 
He  possesses  a  high  sense  of  beauty,  and 
great  skill  in  preserving  this  under  the 
vulgar  glare  of  the  theatre.  He  can  tell 
a  story  theatrically  so  as  to  excite  curi- 
osity, and  lead  it  steadily  forward  to  the 
close.  He  is  fond  of  those  familiar  types 
which  are  consecrated  to  romantic  ideas 
in  the  minds  of  all  cultivated  people, 
and  which  relieve  them  of  the  strain  of 
following  an  unknown  fable.  He  realizes 
that  modern  audiences  will  not  think 
after  dinner,  and  he  is  most  adroit  in 
presenting  to  them  romantic  images,  rich 
costumes,  and  vivid  emotions,  without 
offering  to  their  intellects  the  smallest 
strain.  He  does  not  attempt,  like  his 
predecessors,  to  dictate  to  the  actors  im- 
possible and  unscenic  tasks,  but  bends 
his  ambition  to  the  habits  and  require- 
ments of  a  practicable  modern  stage.  In 
short,  he  seems  to  represent  the  essence 
of  common  sense  applied  to  the  difficult 
task  of  reviving  poetic  drama  upon  the 
boards  where  it  flourished  until  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  ago,  and  where  it 
has  never  flourished  since.  We  need  not 
talk  rubbish  about  Sophocles,  but  we 
ought,  surely,  to  offer  every  reasonable 
welcome  to  an  experiment  so  graceful, 
so  civilizing,  and  so  intelligent. 

Edmund  Gosse. 


THE  DESERT. 


OPINIONS  are  frequently  so  hastily 
formed,  and  conclusions  are  so  often 
erroneous,  that  they  need  not  be  taken 
too  seriously  into  account.  One  may 
believe  that  the  earth  is  borne  upon  the 
back  of  a  turtle,  or  that  God  will  pun- 
ish his  creatures  for  performing  the  acts 
that  he  caused  them  to  perform;  yet 
these  beliefs  will  not  alter  the  real 


truth  of  the  matter.  Truth  is  not  ly- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  but  is  all 
about  the  world,  on  the  sea,  in  count- 
ing houses,  in  workshops,  and  in  tem- 
ples. That  it  is  often  not  recognized 
makes  no  difference  with  the  fact  that 
its  presence  is  universal.  Yet  even 
truth  may  seem  to  be  a  variable  thing, 
in  accordance  with  conditions.  To  a 


The  Desert. 


167 


monk,  withdrawal  from  the  world  and 
the  practice  in  the  sternest  way  of  ab- 
stinence and  continence  may  represent 
the  requirements  of  truth,  but  that 
seeming  of  truth  to  him  does  not  make 
it  truth  to  others.  So  it  is  with  peo- 
ple, and  landscapes,  and  places.  The 
fact  that  a  given  man  can  see  no  beauty 
away  from  Piccadilly  or  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  does  not  disprove  the  beauty 
of  the  Lake  of  Bourget  or  the  Valley 
of  Apam.  Because  deserts,  to  most 
people,  are  places  of  desolation  that 
they  like  to  shut  out  of  their  sight  if 
they  can,  and  out  of  their  memories 
when  they  have  once  passed  over  them 
and  are  safely  in  the  green  valleys  or 
the  fertile  flat  lands,  it  is  none  the  less 
true  that  they  are  among  the  most  in- 
teresting places  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Deserts  are  equal  to  the  sea  in 
the  ideas  they  give  of  extent,  solitude, 
and  infinity,  and  equal  to  the  moun- 
tains in  beauty  and  weirdness.  One  of 
their  chiefest  beauties  is  that  they  are 
far  from  the  throngs  and  crowds  of 
tired,  nervous,  disappointed,  and  envious 
men  and  women,  who  occupy  much  of 
the  nearer  landscape  in  inhabited  places. 
In  the  uninhabited  desert  there  are 
no  men  bending  under  weights  of  un- 
derpaid labor,  no  women  eating  out 
their  hearts  because  of  unsatisfied  crav- 
ings and  ambitions ;  there  are  no  richer 
and  no  poorer  ones  there;  no  vexing 
questions  of  schism  and  sect,  or  ruled 
and  rulers,  of  capital  and  labor,  of  nat- 
ural desires  and  artificial  morals.  But 
there  is  a  brooding  peace,  as  deep  as 
the  fountains  of  life  in  the  bosom  of  old 
mother  earth ;  there  is  silent  communion 
with  the  powers  and  laws  of  nature, 
with  the  Power  or  Force  or  God  that 
somewhere  back  of  its  visible  and  invis- 
ible mysteries  looks  so  carefully  after 
the  things  that  exist  that  even  the  spar- 
rows are  accounted  for;  and  there  is  a 
content  that  is  beyond  money  and  power 
and  position  and  the  accidents  of  birth, 
station,  and  environment.  Like  old 
Omar's 


"  Strip  of  herbage  strown," 
the  deserts  surely  are  the  places 

"  Where  name  of  slave  and  sultan  is  forgot,"  — 

and  well  forgot.  They  are  the  places 
where  Truth  wears  no  disguises,  and 
whose  face  may  be  studied  even  by  a  fool. 
The  deserts  too  have  physical  beauty. 
This  varies  with  each  one  as  much  as 
do  the  individual  beauties  and  peculiar 
attractions  of  different  ranges  of  moun- 
tains. With  some  there  are  the  shift- 
ing seas  of  gray  sands,  ever  moving, 
ever  rearing  themselves  into  hills  and 
dunes  that  are  blown  down  again  by  the 
next  wind  —  blown  down  and  dispersed 
and  scattered  as  men  have  ever  been  dis- 
persed and  scattered,  no  matter  how 
strongly  they  allied  themselves  into 
tribes  and  communities  and  nations. 
Nor  are  the  dunes  much  sooner  forgot- 
ten than  are  the  men  and  the  races,  if 
the  measurement  is  computed  by  geo- 
logical time.  In  such  hot,  gray  des- 
erts there  is  a  strange  weirdness,  al- 
most beauty,  in  the  metallic  sky,  in  the 
occasional  sagebush  or  cactus,  in  the 
great  ball  of  molten  fire  that  is  the  sun. 
But  the  chiefest  charm  in  such  deserts, 
as  with  all,  is  in  the  fact  that  here  one 
can  be  alone,  with  himself  and  with  na- 
ture, and  away  from  all  the  mistakes 
and  cares  that  burden  life  in  the  inhab- 
ited places.  When  the  Juggernaut  car 
of  Civilization  presses  unduly  and  un- 
usually hard,  when  things  are  most  out 
of  joint,  when  the  disease  of  progress  is 
at  such  an  acute  and  critical  stage  that 
a  powerful  counter-irritant  is  needed, 
then  the  beauties  of  the  hottest  and  most 
barren  desert  are  unfolded,  and  are  ap- 
preciated, as  is  strong  drink  after  expo- 
sure to  severe  cold.  But  for  lasting 
beauty  and  permanent  enjoyment,  the 
deserts  where  some  vegetation  grows, 
where  a  dry  stream-bed  winds  its  way 
across  the  landscape,  where  prairie  dogs 
and  locusts  abound  and  ant-hills  mark 
the  course  of  vision,  are  the  most  de- 
sired. In  some  such  deserts  there  are 
a, few  winding,  irresolute  little  rivers 


168 


The  Desert. 


that  seem  to  have  been  frightened  by 
tales  of  the  uproar  and  fury  of  the  sea, 
and  to  have  turned  inland  to  places 
where  they  can  drop  out  of  sight  and 
bury  themselves  in  the  sands  in  peace. 
I  know  such  a  desert,  where  cottonwood 
trees  grow  along  the  courses  of  the  odd 
little  rivers,  inviting  the  dusty  traveler 
to  lie  under  their  welcome  shade  and 
prove  the  wisdom  of  the  nations  that 
number  the  siesta  among  their  national 
institutions.  And  if  there  is  a  gray, 
hazy  mist  in  the  sky  or  in  part  of  it, 
and  given  that  the  sun  is  willing,  there 
is  spread  before  one  the  marvelous  mi- 
rages of  the  Southland.  In  such  a  place, 
I  once  saw  a  mirage  of  an  island  in  a 
quiet  sea.  The  beach  descended  in  an 
easy  slope  to  the  water  line,  irregular 
rows  of  palm  trees  grew  along  the  shore, 
and  an  infinite  silence  and  peace  hovered 
like  a  benison  over  the  place.  I  do  not 
know  where  the  reality  of  the  image  is 
located,  but  some  place  on  the  face  of 
this  one  of  God's  worlds  that  island  of 
beauty  exists,  perhaps  in  undiscovered 
pristinity,  and  is  another  of  the  visible 
manifestations  of  the  absolute  beauty, 
and  consequently  of  the  absolute  good, 
of  nature.  A  few  of  us  saw  this  trans- 
ferred picture  when  we  were  in  a  barren 
desert  of  the  great  Bolson  of  Mapimi, 
and  its  only  settings  were  the  sky,  the 
sun,  and  the  broad,  silent  stretches  of 
sand.  I  think  no  one  of  that  little 
party  had  ever  seen  anything  more  beau- 
tiful among  all  the  lands  and  cities  he 
knew ;  and  I  think  no  one  of  them  will 
ever  be  told  so  much  of  the  real  grace 
and  goodness  of  nature  or  of  God  as  was 
there  disclosed  as  a  picture  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  desert. 

The  deserts  have  voices,  and  we  can 
hear  and  understand  them  if  the  ears  of 
our  souls  are  open  and  attuned  to  the 
languages  they  speak.  They  do  not 
speak  loudly,  and  with  insistence,  but 
very  gently,  and  with  great  modesty ; 
and  they  speak  with  the  sublime  indif- 
ference that  is  one  of  the  chief  appur- 
tenances of  all  truth.  We  may  listen 


or  close  our  ears,  we  may  understand  or 
not,  we  may  heed  or  go  unheeding,  it 
is  all  matter  of  the  most  complete  in- 
difference,to  the  desert.  It  is  with  the 
voice  of  nature  that  the  desert  speaks, 
with  the  truth  of  nature,  with  the  per- 
sistence of  nature ;  but  if  we  heed  not 
its  voice,  or  are  indifferent  to  its  mes- 
sage, the  great  soul  of  the  desert  stops 
not  to  argue  nor  to  grieve,  for  it  knows 
that  to-morrow  we  shall  be  dead  and  at 
one  with  nature  anyhow.  Whether  we 
hear  or  are  deaf,  God's  will  will  be  done ; 
nations  will  rise  and  fall,  mountains  will 
emerge  from  the  sea,  and  the  sea  will 
submerge  mountains ;  fables  of  Jehen- 
num  and  the  devil  will  be  hurled  broad- 
cast to  frighten  men  during  their  few 
days,  and  men  will  in  time  return  to 
the  dust  from  which  they  are  made,  and 
the  future  will  remain  in  the  hands  of 
God,  who  perhaps  has  not  told  even  to 
the  spirits  of  the  desert  the  secret  of 
the  purpose  of  things.  The  inevitable 
and  infallible  evolution  of  things  will 
go  on,  the  processes  of  the  suns  will 
work  out  the  destinies  that  were  set  to 
them,  and  why  should  the  soul  of  the 
desert  trouble  itself  because  weak  mor- 
tals cannot  understand  its  language,  and 
that  they  prefer  to  keep  their  eyes  to 
the  ground  and  suffer  deafness  of  their 
own  choosing,  rather  than  strive  to  see 
the  beauties  it  speaks  of,  and  under- 
stand the  messages  it  is  willing  to  say 
into  their  unwilling  ears  ? 

I  know  a  desert  that  is  full  of  voices, 
that  is  full  of  messages  written  in  stone 
that  men  can  but  dimly  understand, 
that  is  full  of  sermons  of  a  rarer  and 
better  kind  than  men  have  ever  spoken. 
This  desert  is  on  a  high  plateau,  a  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  desertlike  valley 
of  a  lonely  river  that  winds  its  way 
along  nature's  course  to  the  sea,  un- 
mindful of  what  bands  of  temporary 
peoples  may  from  time  to  time  inhabit 
and  encumber  its  banks.  This  desert 
was  once  inhabited,  and  through  its 
crumbling  ruins  it  tells  of  nations  that 
were  born  into  the  world,  perhaps  be- 


The  Desert. 


169 


fore  the  word  history  had  a  definition, 
and  who  faded  from  life  perhaps  before 
the  Druids  were  sacrificing  blood  in  the 
groves  of  Britain,  and  who  were  fol- 
lowed by  other  nations  in  a  younger 
time  that  is  now  so  old  as  to  be  almost 
beyond  comprehension.  These  old  cliff 
ruins,  slowly  wearing  away  by  the  gen- 
tle action  of  the  soft  winds  that  blow 
down  from  the  mountains,  speak  elo- 
quently of  the  inevitable  destiny  of  men 
and  the  races  of  men.  We  may  find, 
if  we  seek  the  knowledge,  that  distant 
descendants  of  the  ancient  nations  who 
once  dwelt  and  toiled  and  loved  and 
worshiped  and  died,  in  what  is  now 
this  gray  desert,  live  petty  lives  in  mud 
villages  in  remote  places ;  but  the  time 
has  been  so  long,  and  food  has  had  to 
be  sought  so  persistently,  that  they 
know  of  the  old  tribes  of  their  ancestors 
only  by  dim  traditions  and  the  scraps  of 
history  handed  down  and  woven  into  the 
fantastic  superstitions  of  their  priests. 
The  soul  of  this  desert,  speaking  from 
among  the  crumbling  ruins  that  dot  it 
as  any  hills  dot  a  sandy  valley,  seems 
to  say,  "In  the  end  all  the  works  of 
men  lead  but  to  oblivion  and  decay. 
Individuals,  communities,  tribes,  and 
nations  may  fret  the  face  of  the  earth 
for  a  little  time  with  their  presence, 
with  their  toilings,  and  their  wranglings 
over  things  that  they  know  not  of,  but 
in  the  end  it  will  be  in  all  places  as  it 
is  here.  The  peoples  will  be  gone,  and 
those  who  come  after  them  will  know 
not  where.  Memories  of  them  will  not 
abide  with  their  successors,  and  they 
will  be  forgotten  utterly  in  all  places  in 
the  world.  But  the  effects  of  what  they 
have  done  will  not  be  lost,  for  nothing 
is  lost  in  nature." 

The  realizing  sense  that  we  get  in 
this  desert  of  our  own  smallness  and 
futileness  is  better  than  much  of  the 
education  that  is  dinned  into  the  ears 
of  students  by  pale-faced,  dogmatic  pe- 
dants. And,  when  we  come  to  think 
upon  the  truths  that  the  desert  teaches, 
we  find  them  pleasant.  We  are  yet  at 


the  beginning  of  things,  although  we 
may  be  the  descendants  and  ascendants 
of  every  form  of  vegetable  and  animal 
life  that  has  ever  been  upon  the  earth 
or  in  its  waters.  For  us,  with  our  lit- 
tle brains  that  are  so  easily  turned,  it 
is  perhaps  better  that  we  are  incapable 
of  understanding  the  skies  and  the  stars, 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  things,  and 
the  great  facts  about  God  and  his  myri- 
ads of  worlds.  Else  might  the  know- 
ledge craze  us ;  and  as  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  our  wisdom  to  keep  even 
pace,  even  if  we  could  comprehend  the 
knowledge,  our  happiness  is  better  con- 
served, and  our  progress  better  assured, 
that  things  are  as  they  are. 

In  the  desert  the  condition  of  the  sur- 
roundings makes  it  plain  to  us,  as  the 
forests  made  the  same  truths  plain  to 
Thoreau,  that  we  are  insignificant  and 
ignorant ;  that  we  do  not  know  the  let- 
ter "A"  and  cannot  count  one.  But 
a  great  fact,  temporarily  at  least,  is 
made  known  to  our  intuitive  senses,  a 
fact  that  all  the  science  and  theology 
of  all.  the  races  of  men  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  conclusively  and  absolutely 
prove,  namely,  that  with  us,  and  as  part 
of  us,  are  souls,  mysterious  parts  of  the 
fabrics  of  our  being  that  we  do  not  com- 
prehend, and  that  are  immortal  if  it  is 
wisest  and  best  for  them  to  be  so.  The 
desert  takes  away  from  her  true  lovers 
the  fear  of  death  and  the  mysteries  of 
the  unknown  and  unknowable  future. 
She  teaches  that  it  is  wisest  and  best 
that  she  herself  exists,  that  the  moun- 
tains exist,  that  humanity  exists,  that 
the  universe  exists,  that  water  seeks  al- 
ways its  level,  that  the  clouds  pass  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  that  all  that  is  is 
right,  and  that  it  must  also  be  true  that 
it  is'  best  for  all  life  that  exists  in  flesh 
to  have  an  end.  The  silent  voices  of 
the  desert  say  that  in  all  nature  there 
are  no  mistakes ;  that,  therefore,  it  is 
impossible  for  mankind  to  be  a  mis- 
take, and  that  if  immortality  is  best, 
then  it  will  surely  be. 

There  are  poisonous  things  in  the  des- 


170 


The  Desert 


erts,  plants  whose  juices  are  death-deal- 
ing, and  creatures  that  are  venomous, 
but  they  have  their  places  and  their  uses 
in  the  great  system  of  things ;  and  this 
is  none  the  less  true  because  we,  who 
do  not  know  even  our  own  uses  and  pur- 
poses, fail  to  know  theirs.  It  must  also 
be  inevitably  true  that  their  uses  and 
purposes  are  for  ultimate  and  absolute 
good,  as  are  all  things  else  in  the  world. 

I  know  a  desertlike  place  that  is  not 
wholly  a  desert,  yet  it  is  neither  oasis 
nor  fertile  land.  It  is  what  might  be 
termed  a  semi-desert,  and  it  has  a  mood 
that  is  different  from  that  of  other  des- 
erts. It  seems  a  philosophic,  well-con- 
tented sort  of  place,  that  has  much  know- 
ledge, much  wisdom,  and  that  extracts 
a  wise  enjoyment  from  the  days  that 
pass  over  it.  It  is  nearly  related  to  a 
tall  peak,  and  is  akin  to  a  near-by  range 
of  mountains,  and  to  the  air  and  the 
sky.  Flowers  grow  upon  this  semi- 
desert,  —  sunflowers,  and  bergamot, 
and  bluebells,  and  Mariposa  lilies,  and 
many  other  shaggy  little  stems  that  bear 
blue  and  yellow  and  white  and  seven- 
hued  blossoms.  It  knows  sagebrush, 
too,  and  yucca,  and  various  pygmy 
cacti.  It  is  field  and  farm  and  native 
land  for  many  well-established,  ancient, 
and  wise  nations  of  prairie  dogs,  and  it 
is  the  world  and  the  fullness  thereof  for 
thousands  of  republics  of  ants.  This 
semi-desert  stretches  away  from  the 
mountains  apd  runs  undulating  in  billows 
toward  the  east.  We  know  it  reaches 
to  farms  and  towns  and  work  and  trou- 
ble, and  that  its  next  of  kin,  the  prairie, 
goes  on  to  the  great  rivers  whose  banks 
are  lined  with  the  coveters  of  chattels, 
but  we  like  to  think  that,  as  a  desert, 
it  stretches  away  beyond  the  horizon, 
and  passes  unchanged  on  to  infinity,  and 
that  across  it  is  the  road  to  eternity, 
and  endless  growth  of  soul,  and  cease- 
less joy  of  effort  and  consummation. 

A  little  town  has  been  built  upon  the 
edge  of  this  desert.  The  town  is  the 
best  one  I  know,  and  is  infinitely  supe- 
rior to  London  or  Paris  or  New  York, 


in  that  it  is  infinitely  smaller,  and 
therefore  cannot  hold  so  much  poverty 
and  vice  and  false  pride  and  malice  and 
envy;  but  yet  it  seems  a  sort  of  dese- 
cration for  it  to  sit  in  all  its  upstart 
garishness  upon  the  edge  of  this  ancient 
and  perfect  semi-desert.  It  seems  an 
impertinence,  something  as  a  beetle 
would  if  it  sat  upon  a  masterpiece  of 
the  painter's  art.  The  desert  crowds 
upon  the  town  somewhat,  by  way  of  dis- 
cipline, and  it  sometimes  seems  mildly  to 
threaten  that  it  will  press  forward  and 
sweep  the  houses  and  gardens  before  it. 
But  I  think  it  is  not  much  annoyed 
by  the  town,  or  that  it  gives  much 
thought  to  it,  for  other  towns,  in  other 
and  forgotten  times,  may  have  settled 
upon  its  borders,  and  they  are  gone,  and 
the  desert  knows  by  that  past  experience, 
as  well  as  by  its  natural  wisdom,  that 
this  town  too  will  go  in  time,  and  that 
it  will  be  left  again  to  undisturbed  com- 
munion with  the  stars  that  are  its  an- 
gels, and  the  mountains  that  are  its  sis- 
ters, and  with  the  sun  that  is  lover  of 
both  it  and  the  mountains.  And  then, 
too,  if  the  town  has  the  same  good  right 
to  exist  that  the  desert  has,  the  desert 
knows  that  much  better  than  does  the 
town.  The  mountains  that  look  down 
upon  this  semi-desert  wrap  themselves 
in  mantles  of  filmy  mist  at  night,  and 
they  and  the  desert  sleep  the  peaceful 
sleep  of  nature,  secure  in  the  absolute 
knowledge  that  the  sun  will  come  again 
as  soon  as  it  is  best  for  him  to  come. 
Then  in  the  morning  the  mists  unwrap 
themselves  in  winding  veils  of  beau- 
ty and  melt  away;  the  sun  kisses  the 
desert  and  thrills  the  mountains  to 
their  hearts  with  messages  of  infinity 
and  eternity.  Yet  perhaps  the  desert 
and  the  mountains  say  to  one  another 
that  the  little  town  is  not  a  desecration, 
but  is  also  good,  and  that  even  its  poor- 
est and  meanest  inhabitant  is  as  great 
and  as  valuable  in  the  estimation  of  God 
as  is  the  sun  himself. 

The  most  beautiful,  the  most  myste- 
rious, the  most  inscrutable  of  all  the 


The  Desert. 


171 


deserts  I  know  is  one  that  lies  to  the 
north  of  the  city  of  Zacatecas.  It  is 
much  loved  by  the  sun,  but  it  loves  the 
shadow  better.  The  sun  gathers  pic- 
tures over  the  world  for  it  and  casts 
them  as  mirages  upon  it  for  it  to  see, 
much  as  any  other  foolish  lover  casts 
pieces  of  stone  and  bits  of  metal  at  the 
feet  of  his  sweetheart.  But  this  desert 
loves  the  sun  better  because  of  his  dis- 
appearance ;  and  when  he  sinks  behind 
the  Sierra  Madres,  which  are  the  true 
lovers  and  beloved  of  this  desert,  she 
puts  on  her  loveliest  appearance,  and 
takes  unto  herself  a  beauty  that  is  be- 
yond description.  The  hills  outvie  her 
in  effort  and  in  beauty,  and  if  in  all  the 
w,orld  there  is  a  more  lovely  or  more 
beautiful  place  than  is  this  at  sunset, 
then  have  travelers  missed  the  purpose 
of  their  wanderings,  for  they  have  not 
told  of  such  a  place.  The  sun  casts 
golden  messages  back  as  he  sinks  over 
the  side  of  the  world,  —  shafts  of  light 
that  strike  the  sides  of  the  everlasting 
hills  and  refract  from  them  in  prisms 
of  greater  beauty  than  ever  artist  fas- 
tened to  canvas.  The  mountains  trans- 
late these  golden  messages  into  shadows, 
and  send  them  stealing  over  the  bosom 
of  the  desert.  The  everlasting  hills 
change  their  color  from  the  dull  brown 
of  day  into  an  ultramarine,  and  the 
golden  aureole  on  their  summits  makes 
them  seem  to  be  truly  clothed  in  royal 
purple  and  golden  crowns,  but  better 
than  human  imitations,  for  theirs  are 
purple  of  royal  nature  and  crowns  of 
nature's  beauty.  The  subtropical  at- 
mosphere that  has  been  surcharged  with 
heat  throughout  the  day  quivers  in  vi- 
brations that  seem  to  extend  to  the  ends 
of  space,  and  the  mountains  appear  to 
quiver,  and  even  to  move  forward  in 
perfect  motion  and  in  dancing  light,  in 
sympathy  with  the  kind  and  perfect 
farewell  of  the  sun.  These  everlasting 
mountains  seem  to  call  out  a  message 
to  the  desert,  and  to  the  humans  and 
beetles  and  ants,  too,  if  they  can  under- 
stand, and  say, — 


"We  are  the  everlasting  hills.  We 
are  the  beloved  of  the  sun,  who  thrills 
us  to  our  hearts  each  day,  and  tells  us 
of  the  infinity  and  immutability  and 
all-wisdom  of  our  Creator.  We  stand 
as  emblems  of  eternity  and  steadfast- 
ness and  truth  and  right-being.  We 
are  motionless,  but  we  are  content,  for 
we  know  that  in  God's  good  time  we 
will  be  changed.  But  we  are  immor- 
tal, and  indestructible,  and  created  of 
God,  and  nothing  can  be  other  than 
well  with  us.  And  the  sun  loves  us, 
and  love  is  the  warmth  and  the  light  of 
existence,  and  we  are  content,  and  more 
than  content." 

And  as  the  golden  crowns  fade  from 
the  summits  of  the  mystic  mountains, 
and  the  shadows  stretch  in  longer  lines 
of  beauty  over  the  face  of  the  perfect 
earth,  the  desert  gives  voice,  and  an- 
swers, — 

"  I  am  the  desert,  the  eternal  desert, 
also  beloved  of  the  sun.  I  have  been 
since  the  beginning  of  God's  earth,  and 
I  shall  be  until  the  end  of  his  earth 
shall  come.  The  sun  that  kisses  me, 
and  impregnates  me  with  warmth  and 
heat,  has  taught  me  that  in  some  form 
and  in  some  place  I  shall  always  be, 
and  so  I  am  content,  and  all  is  well 
with  me.  I  stand  for  quiet  and  for 
peace,  and  I  am  the  visible  emblem  of 
quietness  and  of  peace  in  the  world. 
My  limits,  that  lie  beyond  the  scope  of 
vision,  are  to  teach  men  of  the  bound- 
less extent  of  right  and  truth;  my 
peace  is  to  teach  them  that  all  is  good, 
and  that  to  all  will  come  peace.  I  that 
am  finite  stand  as  a  visible  enlblem  of 
infinity.  I  that  am  mortal  am  an  ir- 
refutable proof  of  immortality.  And 
because  I  am  great  and  silent  and  mys- 
terious, I  speak  unerringly  to  the  depth 
and  greatness  and  silence  and  mystery 
of  the  souls  of  humans,  that,  like  me, 
were  made  by  nature  and  by  nature's 
God." 

The  desert  sometimes  has  a  sterner 
message.  If  one  appears  before  her  in 
pride  and  arrogance,  she  will  say, — 


172 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


"Oh,  poverty-stricken  human;  you 
are  among  the  least  of  all  things  in  the 
sight  of  God,  for  he  has  given  you  less 
than  the  gifts  that  are  to  his  other  crea- 
tures. Your  days  are  less  than  the 
days  of  the  stone,  your  joys  are  less 
than  the  joys  of  the  lark,  your  under- 
standing is  less  than  my  own,  and  all 
that  was  vouchsafed  you  was  an  uncer- 
tain few  of  nights  and  days.  Yet  have 
you  manacled  these  few  nights  with  ter- 
ror, and  hindered  your  days  with  loads 
of  folly  and  vain  desire.  Seek  not  so 
much  after  riches,  for  your  flesh  melts, 
and  soon  you  sink  back  into  the  ele- 
ments of  nature.  Embitter  not  your 
souls  with  envy,  for  you  and  those 
whom  your  envy  causes  you  to  hate  are 
but  as  the  beetles  and  the  grass  and  the 
leaves,  —  inheritors  only  of  inevitable 
death.  Be  not  selfish,  for  your  weak 
self  is  but  as  a  mote  in  a  ray  of  light. 
God  will  not  stop  the  blowing  of  one  of 
the  least  of  his  winds  in  order  that  you 
may  triumph  over  your  neighbor,  or 
that  your  selfish  vanity  may  be  grati- 
fied. And  all  the  largesse  you  pay  to 


self-appointed  agents  of  the  Immutable 
Right  will  not  add  a  single  day  to 
your  days,  nor  will  it  relieve  you  from 
paying  a  full  right  for  the  least  of  your 
wrongs." 

But  the  desert  has  the  same  spirit  as 
its  mother  earth,  who  speaks  messages 
of  hope  and  peace  to  all  her  creatures. 
And  when  we  seek  wisdom  from  the 
desert,  and  listen  to  it  in  reverence,  it 


"Come  to  me,  for  I  am  solitude,  and 
in  solitude  is  wisdom.  Come  to  me,  for 
I  am  silence,  and  in  silence  is  commun- 
ion with  God.  Come  to  me,  for  I  am 
beauty,  and  beauty  is  a  thing  beyond 
the  creation  of  Caesar  or  of  Midas.  But 
come  not  to  me  at  all  unless  you  come 
in  humility  and  right  thinking,  for  in 
exacting  those  things  I  am  as  one  with 
God,  and  with  me  a  king  is  no  greater 
than  a  beggar.  But  if  you  will  know 
me,  and  study  me,  and  love  me,  I  will 
give  you  peace,  and  a  great  content,  and 
a  knowledge  that  is  beyond  what  you 
may  gain  from  men,  or  from  events,  or 
from  books." 

Verner  Z.  Reed. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES. 


PROLOGUE  OF  LETTERS. 


LETTER  XXH. 

June  4,  AMONG  THE  BEECHES. 

I  AM  glad  you  did  riot  tell  me  who 
you  are,  "as  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  But 
I  understand  your  letter  only  too  well. 
You  are  lonely,  poor  man  of  science! 
you  long  for  a  friend,  and  because  you 
do  not  know  me,  you  fancy  I  might  be 
that  friend.  You  are  in  that  state  of 
mind  —  or  isn't  it  in  reality  a  state 
of  heart  ?  —  when  a  man  longs  for  a  wo- 
man, a  woman  for  a  man  friend. 

I  too  have  struggled  with  the  feel- 
ing that  it  is  foolish  to  keep  you  at  such 
a  distance,  that  we  would  each  of  us 


be  happier  for  knowing  the  other,  but 
I  am  conscious  all  the  time  that  the 
feeling  is  a  weakness.  I  like  you,  I 
like  your  letters ;  the  eyes  of  the  pastel 
in  the  tower-room  have  grown  to  be  your 
eyes,  and  I  like  and  trust  them.  But 
if  I  know  who  yea  are,  would  not  half 
the  charm  be  gone  ? 

Have  you  never,  before  going  to  some 
strange  place,  made  for  yourself  a  pic- 
ture of  that  place,  and  then,  arriving, 
been  almost  ludicrously  disappointed 
because  the  house  was  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  road,  or  the  door  not  where  you 
had  built  it  in  your  imagination  ?  The 


Our  Lady  of  the,  Beeches. 


173 


me  you  have  invented  is  the  friend  you 
want  and  need.  The  me  I  am  is  a 
different  woman,  the  result  of  a  host  of 
things  in  which  you  have  had  no  hand. 
And  I  confess  that  the  you  I  have  in- 
vented is  all  that  I  want,  and  I  should 
be  disappointed  in  a  thousand  ways  if 
we  should  ever  meet. 

No,  let  us  leave  things  as  they  are, 
dear  Pessimist.  I  have  been  having  a 
bad  time  of  late:  outside  things  have 
gone  wrong;  but  what  is  worse,  I  am 
upset  and  jarred  mentally.  Even  my 
trees  cannot  soothe  me  into  my  usual 
calm. 

These  lovely  May  days  nearly  break 
my  heart,  for  some  reason ;  the  birds' 
singing  brings  tears  to  my  silly  eyes; 
I  feel  the  terror  of  growing  old.  Time 
is  going,  —  "the  bird  of  Time  is  on  the 
wing, "  —  and  I  am  doing  nothing.  I 
am  doing  no  one  any  good,  myself  least 
of  all.  I  am  not  even  enjoying  life. 
But  this  is  what  you  call  "  drivel, "  — 
forgive  it,  and  set  it  down  to  a  touch 
of  spring  fever! 

Thanks  for  the  book,  which  I  am  glad 
to  have,  though  I  have  not  yet  even 
opened  it. 

Old  Annette  expects  her  husband  in 
July.  She  is  much  excited,  in  a  quaint, 
shy  way,  and  leaves  me  in  a  few  days 
to  go  back  to  Paris.  Here  she  comes 
with  a  frightful  concoction  of  herbs  for 
me  to  drink.  She  is  very  wise,  and  she 
thinks  the  spring  air  has  got  into  my 
blood.  v 

Perhaps  it  has ! 

Good  -  by,  kindliest  of  Pessimists. 
Write  me  soon,  and  tell  me  I  am  a 
goose.  W. 

LETTER  XXIII. 

June  15,  BAB  HARBOR. 
DEAR  W.  —  Poor  child,  poor  child ! 
so  you  have  it,  too.  Spring  fever  is 
what  the  old  wives  in  Yankeeland  call 
it,  did  you  know  ?  In  children  it  may 
come  from  the  liver.  In  grown  people 
it  comes  from  the  memory.  The  mem- 
ory of  happy  days  is  bad  enough,  but 


far  wdrse  is  the  memory  of  the  ^iappy 
days  one  never  had. 

But  you  are  too  young  to  know  this. 
You  should  not  know  it,  —  should  not, 
and  yet  you  do;  and  I  have  a  feeling 
that  your  pain  comes,  as  does  mine, 
from  the  memory  of  those  happy  days 
never  had.  Old  Annette  gave  you  all 
the  mothering  you  ever  knew.  My 
grandmother  gave  me  mine,  and  to  this 
day  I  envy  children  with  a  silly,  illogi- 
cal, loving  little  mother  who  spoils 
them  and  cuddles  them  in  her  soft  arms. 
Do  you?  Have  you  children  of  your 
own? 

You  are  right,  we  must  not  meet ;  but 
we  must  be  friends,  we  must  trust  each 
other.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  me ;  I  swear 
that  if  by  moving  my  hand  I  could  know 
all  about  you,  I  would  not  do  it  with- 
out your  permission.  There  is  not  one 
person  in  the  world  who  would  not  gasp 
with  astonishment  could  he  see  this  let- 
ter, but  I  mean  it  all.  I  am  lonely. 
I  do  sometimes  long,  with  a  keenness 
that  hurts,  for  a  sympathetic  woman 
friend  with  whom  to  talk,  "  the  heart  in 
the  hand, "  as  Italians  say ;  and  yet  I  am 
not  in  the  least  a  sentimental,  or  even 
a  woman's  man.  Once,  years  ago,  when 
I  was  still  in  college,  I  fell  in  love  with 
a  pretty  girl,  and  asked  her  to  marry 
me.  She  refused,  in  the  kindest  way 
in  the  world,  because  I  had  no  money, 
and  she  only  a  little  ;  beyond  this  I 
have  had  no  romances.  Is  n't  it  rather 
pitiful,  the  baldness  of  such  a  life  ?  I 
could  wish  sometimes  that  I  were  the 
victim  of  a  great  tragedy.  It  would  be 
something  to  remember,  something  for 
which  to  deserve  the  self-pity  that  wells 
up  to  my  very  eyes  sometimes. 

Are  you  laughing  at  me?  Is  Our 
Lady  of  the  Beeches  in  one  of  her  mock- 
ing moods?  If  so,  so  be  it.  We  are 
friends,  and  surely  friends  can  bear  a 
bit  of  chaff. 

If  you  have  not  yet  read  the  book, 
do  not,  I  beg  you.  It  is  sincerely  and 
honestly  written,  but  it  is  the  work  of 
a  materialist,  and,  I  now  see,  no  read- 


174 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


ing  for  a  young  woman  of  your  char- 
acter. 

Why  I  was  sent  into  the  world  with 
this  taste  and  talent  for  iconoclastics, 
that  which  made  me  must  know.  I  am 
counted  a  wise  man,  I  have  a  string 
of  letters  after  my  name,  I  have  made 
two  discoveries  considered  important; 
but,  after  all,  what  good  has  it.  done 
me? 

And  such  reading  as  you  could  do  on 
my  lines,  dear  lady,  at  best  superficial 
and  imperfectly  understood,  can  do  you 
only  harm.  May  I  know  whether  you 
believe  in  a  God  ?  If  you  do,  as  I  hope, 
read  nothing  to  shake  that  belief. 

The  Pessimist  as  a  preacher ! 

I  have  been  in  this  delightful  place 
for  ten  days,  and  shall  stay  all  summer, 
boating,  riding,  and  loafing. 

The  air,  a  rare  combination  of  sea 
and  mountain,  is  delicious,  the  colors 
equal  to  those  of  Italy,  and  the  house 
where  I  am  stopping  almost  a  bache- 
lor's hall,  though  my  friend  is  married. 
His  wife  plays  golf  all  day,  and  when 
the  season  is  in  full  swing  will  dance 
all  night,  so  we  here  are  subject  to  but 
little  control. 

I  went  to  a  dinner  last  night,  at 
which  the  conversation  turned,  strange- 
ly enough,  on  American  women  who 
have  married  foreigners.  Nearly  every 
one  present  knew  of  some  such  case, 
while  of  course  several  were  well  known 
to  us  all.  I  wondered  whether  any  of 
the  talkers  knew  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches. 

My  silence  drawing  attention  to  me, 
one  man  asked,  laughing :  — 

"And  you,  S ,  don't  you  know 

any  such  fair  deserter  ?  " 

Almost  involuntarily  I  answered, 
"  Yes,  the  most  charming  woman  I  ever 
knew  married  in  Europe."  And  then 
the  charming  women  present  besieged 
me  with  questions,  which  I  did  not  an- 
swer. 

I  noticed,  among  all  the  examples  of 
international  marriages  cited,  that  not 
one  was  said  to  be  conspicuously  happy. 


I  wonder  why  women  will  not  learn  that 
to  cut  themselves  off  from  all  early 
associations,  after  the  age  for  making 
new  close  friends,  is  a  dangerous  thing. 
Women  need  friends,  acquaintances  will 
not  do ;  and  a  girl  brought  up  in  one 
country  can  never  —  love  her  husband 
as  she  may  —  learn  to  be  of  another 
country. 

But  I  am  lecturing.  Forgive  me, 
you  who  know  from  experience  whether 
I  am  right  or  wrong. 

Write  me  soon  again.  Send  your 
letter  to  Box  71,  Bar  Harbor,  Maine. 
Faithfully  your  friend, 

C.  R.  S. 

LETTER  XXTV. 

June  27,  LONDON. 

Yesterday  I  had  a  tremendous  shock. 
A  man  whom  I  have  known  for  years, 
and  liked,  a  friend  of  my  husband,  I 
had  thought  a  friend  of  mine,  asked  me 
to  go  away  with  him.  « 

I  have  never  flirted  with  him,  I  knew 
that  he  was  more  or  less  in  love  with 
me,  but  I  had  thought  that  he  was  a 
gentleman.  He  has  been  mixed  up  in 
my  life  a  great  deal  of  late,  and  once 
or  twice  has  shown  me  a  kind  of  tacit 
sympathy  that  I  could  not  refuse. 
That  is  all.  Yesterday  he  dared,  in 
perfectly  cold  blood,  to  propose  to  me  to 
leave  my  husband  for  him. 

He  began  by  telling  me  I  had  a  great 
deal  of  self-control,  and  you  will  see 
how  innocent  I  was  when  I  tell  you  I 
did  not  know  what  he  meant.  Then 
he  asked  me  point-blank  whether  I  had 
not  known  that  he  loved  me. 

I  answered  honestly  that  I  had  known 
it,  and  that  I  was  very  grateful  to  him 
for  never  letting  his  feelings  become  an 
obstacle  to  our  pleasant  friendship. 

He  informed  me  thereupon  that 
when  a  man  loves  a  woman  he  never  is 
mistaken  about  her  feeling  for  him,  that 
he  knew  I  loved  him,  and  that  the  time 
had  come  when  neither  of  us  could  stand 
the  strain  of  present  circumstances  any 
longer. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


175 


His  strength  of  conviction  was  such 
that  I  was  utterly  aghast  for  a  minute, 
and  then,  the  funny  side  of  it  suddenly 
appearing  to  me,  I  burst  into  what  he 
called  "a  roar"  of  laughter.  It  was 
all  so  absurd. 

When  at  last  he  stopped  talking  I 
told  him  very  gently  that  he  was  utterly 
wrong,  that  I  was  not  in  the  least  in 
love  with  him,  and  that  I  must  beg  of 
him  not  to  force  me  to  see  him  again 
until  he  had  come  to  his  senses.  He 
left  me  without  a  word,  and  I  have  been 
growing  angrier  ever  since. 

There  must  be  a  strain  of  vulgarity 
in  me,  for  I  should  like  at  this  moment 
nothing  better  than  to  box  his  ears. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  Pessimist,  that  I  am 
sure  the  wretch  is  somewhere  cursing 
my  self-control. 

The  belief  that  I  care  for  him  ap- 
pears to  be  too  deep-rooted  to  be  jerked 
out  so  suddenly,  and  it  seems  that  sev- 
eral of  my  innocent  words  and  acts  have 
been  construed  into  a  tacit  acceptance 
of  his  passion.  He  called  it  his  pas- 
sion ! 

My  unfortunate  burst  of  laughter  he 
no  doubt  took  on  consideration  as  the 
result  of  hysterical  joy,  and  here  I  am, 
angry  as  I  have  been  but  a  few  times  in 
my  life,  and  —  perfectly  helpless.  How 
can  I  make  the  creature  believe  that  I 
never  gave  him  a  thought  of  that  kind 
—  that  I  looked  on  him  as  a  good  sort, 
not  too  clever,  and  rather  attractively 
faithful  to  his  mute  adoration  of  my 
charming  self !  However  — 

So  you  are  at  dear  old  Bar  Harbor ! 
Why  spell  it  with  a  "  u  "  ?  Anything  so 
essentially,  deliciously  American  surely 
ought  to  be  writ  in  the  American  way. 
I  have  been  there,  and  love  it. 

When  I  was  very  young  I  was  in  love 
there,  and  that  was  enchanting. 

The  object  of  my  love  was  a  hand- 
some youth  with  blue  eyes,  and,  ,oh 
rapture !  a  budding  mustache.  He  had 
a  great  deal  of  money,  and  his  atten- 
tions, although  I  was  in  reality  too 
young  to  be  the  recipient  of  such  things, 


were  not  discouraged  by  my  only  rela- 
tive, a  cousin,  and  for  a  time  all  went 
well,  and  we  were  engaged,  subject  to 
certain  restrictions. 

The  following  winter  I  had  the  mea- 
sles and  was  taken  South  to  recuperate. 
My  young  body,  alas,  recuperated  no 
sooner  than  did  my  young  heart,  and 
poor  Annette's  was  the  task  of  seeing 
him  when  he  came  to  see  me  in  the  early 
spring.  Vanity  notwithstanding,  I  am 
compelled  to  admit  that  he  was  not 
crushed  by  the  blow,  and  a  few  years 
ago  I  met  him  at  Venice  with  his  wife, 
a  very  pretty  girl  with  a  curl  in  the 
middle  of  her  forehead. 

'  Does  one  still  go  to  Duck  Brook  and 
Bubble  Pond  ?  Dear  Bar  Harbor,  how 
blue  the  air  is  there,  and  how  strong 
the  salt  smell! 

No,  I  have  no  children ;  and  will  you 
think  me  very  awful  for  being  glad  I 
have  not? 

Your  moralizing  on  international 
marriages  amuses  me.  How  do  you 
know,  dear  Pessimist,  for  you  do  know 
a  great  deal.  You  are  not  entirely 
right,  however .  Now  the  reason,  I  think, 
that  such  marriages  are  apt  to  be  un- 
happy is  that  they  are  nine  times  out  of 
ten  merely  mariages  de  convenance.  A 
very  rich  girl  marries  a  more  or  less 
needy  nobleman  (and  say  what  one  will, 
European  men  as  a  whole  greatly  prefer 
marrying  women  of  their  own  race) ;  she 
lives  with  him  the  life  he  is  used  to  and 
likes,  and  takes  up  his  interests.  If 
they  are  in  love  with  each  other  in  such 
a  way  that  it  lasts,  of  course  all  is  well ; 
but  usually  at  least  one  of  them  tires, 
and  then  no  old  associations,  no  com- 
mon relations  and  friends  binding  them 
together,  the  woman,  do  what  she  will, 
compares  the  two  countries,  and  grows 
homesick.  It  is  a  dangerous  experi- 
ment, as  you  say,  though  there  are  some 
exceptions. 

The  happiest  people  I  know  in  the 
world  are  an  American  girl  and  her 
Dutch  husband.  The  girl  was  not  rich, 
the  man  had  not  only  little  money,  but 


176 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


also  no  particular  social  position,  and 
yet  they  are  perfectly  happy;  the  ne- 
cessary bond  in  this  case  being  a  passion 
for  tulips.  The  girl  was  always  crazy 
about  flowers,  and  the  man  is  one  of  the 
most  successful  amateur  "  tulipists  "  in 
Holland.  He  directed  her  love  for  flow- 
ers in  general  to  tulips  in  particular, 
and  there  they  live  among  acres  of  gar- 
den, like  an  unmolested  Adam  and 
Eve. 

So  you  have  never  married.  I  thought 
you  had  not,  even  before  the  letter  after 
your  illness.  I  have  been  married  for 
some  years.  My  husband  is  very  good 
tome;  I  can't  imagine  a  better  hus- 
band, in  many  ways. 

I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  imagine 
me  no  Griselda,  after  my  occasional 
wails.  The  unhappiness  I  have,  amigo, 
comes  from  within.  Do  not  pity  me 
too  much. 

To-day,  or  rather  this  evening,  I  am 
savage  with  the  whole  world,  most  of 
all  with  myself  for  paying  so  little  heed 
to  the  moods  and  thoughts  of  what  I 
considered  a  harmless  little  man.  I 
should  like  to  fly  off  to  a  wilderness  and 
revert  to  a  savage  life.  I  wish  my  only 
thought  was  to  have  enough  to  eat.  I 
wish  I  had  a  nice  comforting  vice,  such 
as  smoking,  or  bridge.  Nothing  keeps 
a  woman  out  of  mischief  so  well  as  a 
pet  vice. 

I  have  not  read  the  book,  but  I  think 
you  had  better  let  me.  The  God  I  be- 
lieve in  is  the  God  of  no  creed,  and  of 
infinite  mercy.  I  do  not  fear  Him. 
Your  book  would  not  shake  me.  No 
book  in  the  world  could,  though  I  am 
not  at  all  pious. 

Annette  had  a  mass  read  to-day,  in 
the  I  fear  vain  hope  of  receiving  a  let- 
ter from  her  husband,  who  has  not  once 
written  since  you  sent  him  the  money. 
Poor  old  woman! 

I  trust  the  money  reached  you  safely 
through  the  Harpers? 

Good-by.  I  like  the  thought  that 
you  are  my  friend.  God  bless  you. 

W. 


I. 


"  *  La  vie  est  breve,  un  peu  d'espoir, '  " 
Leduc  sang  as  he  came  slowly  up  the 
slope,  the  letter  in  his  hand :  " '  Un  peu 
de  reve,  et  puis  bonsoir !  ' 

Saxe  rolled  over,  brushing  the  pine 
needles  from  his  coat.  "Hurry  up!  " 
he  called. 

Leduc 's  vivid  blue  eyes  twinkled  un- 
der their  wrinkled  lids  as  he  put  the 
letter  into  Saxe's  outstretched  hand. 

"M'sieu  is  pretty  old  to  be  so  excited 
by  a  letter  from  a  woman.  Pretty 
old!" 

"Old?  I?  I  am  twenty-five  this 
evening  in  feelings  and  in  appetite. 
Did  you  get  the  coffee  ?  " 

Leduc  grunted.  "Yes  an*  the  dev- 
iled ham,  an'  the  whiskey.  Leduc  tired, 
Leduc  must  sleep  two-three  minutes, 
—  then  he  make  the  fire." 

Throwing  himself  face  downward  on 
the  fragrant  earth,  he  was  silent. 

Saxe  watched  him,  an  amused  smile 
in  his  eyes. 

"The  facile  sleep  of  the  man  of  rudi- 
mentary conscience  and  a  good  diges- 
tion. The  man  is  to  be  envied,  —  by 
another  than  me,  however." 

The  letter  expected  for  days  lay  on 
Saxe's  updrawn  knees:  a  long,  slim 
white  envelope,  addressed  in  a  very 
clear,  unadorned  handwriting,  "To  the 
Author  of  The  Pessimist's  Breviary," 
and  re-addressed  by  a  clerk  in  his  pub- 
lisher's office.  He  turned  it  over;  the 
blue  seal  was  small  and  perfect. 

"When  I  held  out  my  hand  to  take 
it,"  the  man  mused,  "it  trembled.  I 
both  felt  and  saw  it  tremble.  Once 
more,  Richard  Saxe,  I  ask  you,  on  your 
honor,  are  you  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

A  snore  from  Leduc  being  the  only 
answer  to  his  question,  he  took  a  knife 
from  his  pocket  and  carefully  cut  the 
letter  open. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  the  ochre  seams  in  the  big  pines 
about  him  were  crimson  in  the  sunlight. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


177 


The  ground,  modulating  gently  to  a  lit- 
tle blue  lake,  was  bare  of  grass,  warm 
with  rich  tints  of  brown,  and  swept  with 
swift  shadows  as  the  wind  stirred  the 
branches  high  above.  To  the  left  stood 
a  small  cabin,  flanked  by  a  dingy  tent. 
Saxe  read  his  letter  slowly,  often 
going  back  and  re-studying  a  phrase,  his 
expression  changing  curiously  in  his  per- 
fect freedom  from  observation.  His 
face  was  that  of  a  man  ctose  on  middle 
age,  with  a  handsome  nose  and  chin, 
small  brilliant  eyes  that  shone  behind 
rimless  glasses,  a  broad,  well-modeled 
brow  shadowed  by  a  lock  of  stiff  brown 
hair,  and  a  heavy,  short-cut  mustache 
streaked  with  gray.  His  muscular 
throat,  bared  by  a  low-collared  flannel 
shirt,  lent  him  a  youthful  air  that  he 
would  have  lacked  in  more  civilized 
clothes,  and  his  clever  looking  hands, 
though  brown,  were  distinctly  the  hands 
of  a  student.  Once  he  laid  down  the 
letter,  and  taking  off  his  eyeglasses 
with  a  little  downward  swoop  of  three 
fingers,  opened  and  closed  his  eyes  sev- 
eral times  in  rapid  succession,  in  a  way 
evidently  characteristic,  before  putting 
them  on  again. 

"  Beast !  "  he  said  aloud  once,  and 
then  a  quick  smile  at  himself  flashed 
two  dimples  in  his  cheeks. 

At  last  Leduc  grunted,  rolled  over, 
and  awoke.  "  Bien,  bien,  bien,  bien, " 
he  muttered,  yawning.  "  I  dream  M'sieu 
have  the  fire  all  built  for  poor  old 
Leduc!" 

"Leduc  had  better  hurry  and  build 
the  fire  for  poor  old  M'sieu.  The  trout 
is  cleaned,  and  in  the  pail  there.  I  '11 
attend  to  the  coffee  while  you  fry  him." 

Leduc  paused,  looking  down  at  him 
shrewdly.  "De  bonnes  nouvelles, 
M'sieu?" 

"Yes.  Very  good.  More  than  — 
get  to  work,  man." 

"When  I  was  the  age  of  M'sieu, 
there  was  a  little  English  girl  in  Ban- 
gor,  — pretty  to  eat,  I  tell  you.  My 
God,  how  I  love  that  girl,  — when  I 
was  the  age  of  M'sieu!  " 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  12 


"Why  didn't  you  marry  her?" 
asked  Saxe,  rising  too,  and  walking  the 
old  man  toward  the  cabin. 

"  Oh,  —  she  was  married,  —  and  me, 
too.  Telle  est  la  vie.  Rottenr  old 
world !  " 

"Rotten  old  Leduc!  I  forgot  you 
were  a  Frenchman.  Unmarried  French- 
men never  fall  in  love  with  girls,  do 
they?" 

Leduc  scrutinized  his  innocent  face 
sharply,  and  then,  satisfied  of  his  good 
faith,  "No,  we  marries  them,  but  we 
do  not  love  them.  Oh  no.  I  too  have 
passed  that  way.  I  too  married  a  girl. 
La,  la,  —  where  is  that  trout  ?  " 

He  disappeared  behind  the  cabin,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  Saxe  heard  him 
burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  ex- 
claim :  "  Holy  Mother  of  God,  he  has 
cut  off  its  head !  " 

Saxe  apologized.  He  had  cut  the 
trout's  head  off, half  through  ignorance, 
half  through  absent-mindedness,  and 
felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  was  feeling  very  happy,  moreover, 
and  quite  willing  to  apologize  to  nearly 
any  one  for  nearly  anything. 

As  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey, 
he  smiled  at  it  absently  and  said  to  Le- 
duc :  "  Nothing  like  a  '  nice  comforting 
vice, '  is  there  ?  " 

"Vice?  M'sieu!  But  yes,  M'sieu 
is  right,  only  I  should  choose  not  whis- 
key. Whiskey  make  a  brute  of  a  man. 
A  pig." 

"  I  may  say  without  vanity  that  nei- 
ther would  it  be  my  choice.  By  Jove, 
smell  that  coffee !  " 

The  fire,  burnt  down  to  a  steady 
glow,  cast  a  faint  circle  of  beautiful 
light  around  the  two  men  sitting  by  it. 
The  fish,  nailed  to  a  strip  of  board,  was 
half  cooked ;  the  fragrance  of  the  coffee 
mingled  with  the  pine  smell  as  a  cone 
crackled  from  time  to  time,  sending  a 
spray  of  sparks  into  the  closing  in  dark- 
ness. An  owl  hooted.  Saxe  sat  with 
his  arms  clasped  about  his  knees,  his 
eyeglasses  glinting  in  the  firelight,  his 
forehead  white  under  the  lock  of  hair. 


178 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


Leduc,  a  picturesque  enough  figure, 
knelt  close  in  the  glow,  shifting  the 
board  to  which  the  decapitated  trout, 
ruined,  according  to  him,  for  boiling, 
was  nailed.  Suddenly  the  old  man 
turned,  and  dropped  the  board  full  in 
the  fire. 

"Can  you  kindly  show  us  the  way 
to  Lake  Silver  Camp  ?  " 

The  speaker  stood  close  by  him,  her 
face  in  the  light,  his  back  to  it.  "Lake 
Silver?" 

"I  am  looking  for  a  guide  there, 
Lucien  Bonnet." 

Leduc  rose.      "Sacristi,  Annette!" 

Saxe  sat  perfectly  still.  It  all 
seemed  to  have  happened  before.  The 
burning  fish  hissed,  the  coffee  boiled 
over.  Leduc  and  the  little  woman 
stood  staring  at  each  other;  then  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  face  and  burst  into 
tears. 

Saxe  rose  and  left  the  firelight. 

She.w&s  standing  just  outside  its 
radius,  and  as  he  approached,  a  sudden 
leap  of  the  flame  fed  by  the  pine  board 
flashed  over  her. 

"Let  us  —  leave  them  alone,  poor 
things,"  he  said. 

The  boat  was  drawn  up  in  the  sand, 
and  they  sat  down  on  it  in  silence. 

At  last  she  said,  "  Is  it  really  he,  — 
Bonnet?" 

"Yes.  But  —  I  knew  him  —  they 
all  do  hereabouts  —  as  Leduc.  You 
must  believe  that." 

"I  must  believe  that  ?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  she  returned,  struck  by  his 
tone. 

"I  mean  that  I  did  n't  know.  I  am 
Richard  Saxe,  and  you  are  '  Our  Lady 
of  the  Beeches/  " 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  the 
water  lapped  the  sand  with  soft  lips, 
and  the  trees  stirred  overhead.  He 
could  barely  see  the  outlines  of  her 
figure,  it  was  so  dark;  he  looked  in 
vain  for  the  moon ;  the  mesh  of  waving 
darkness  overhead  was  studded  with 
stars. 


"Hush!  "  she  said  suddenly.  "He 
is  crying,  too." 

"Le  Mioche, "  suggested  Saxe. 

Then  he  smiled  to  himself.  Leduc 's 
tears  were  very  near  the  surface. 

"  Where  has  he  been,  do  you  know  ?  " 
she  asked,  rising  and  facing  him.  "He 
did  not  come,  and  he  never  wrote." 

"Yes,  he  has  been  on  a  spree,  —  to 
Bangor. " 

"ToBang6r!"    She  laughed  softly. 

"Yes,  he  told  me  of  the  spree,  but 
I  never  suspected  that  you  furnished 
the  money  for  it.  You  and  I." 

They  both  laughed  again. 

All  at  once  she  turned.  "What  is 
burning  ?  It  is  your-  supper !  " 

"It  is  my  supper;  my  only  trout. 
Let  it  burn." 

But  she  sped  up  the  path ;  he  saw  her 
slight  figure  bend  easily  over  the  fire, 
there  was  a  splash  of  sparks,  anotlier 
laugh,  and  she  stood  upright,  her  face 
in  the  light  beckoning  to  him. 

"It  is  a  charcoal  —  ruined  —  a 
wreck.  And  those  two  old  —  geese  — 
have  disappeared.  I  hope  they  have  n't 
gone  altogether!  " 

"I  should  n't  mind, "  answered  Saxe 
recklessly.  "But  they  are  only  in  the 
cabin." 

"Oh,  you  have  a  cabin?  How  dis- 
appointing. " 

She  turned,  with  a  little  gesture  of 
disapproval  that  delighted  him. 

"The  cabin  is  Leduc  —  Bonnet's. 
Behold  my  habitation." 

"Ah,  a  tent.  That  is  much  bet- 
ter." 

She  sat  down,  leaning  against  the  very 
tree  on  which  he  had  leaned  two  hours 
before  while  reading  her  letter,  and  took 
off  her  hat.  Her  fair  hair  was  ruffled 
into  a  roughness  of  little  curls  and  ten- 
drils ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed.  Saxe 
stood  looking  at  her. 

From  the  cabin  window  came  a  nar- 
row strip  of  yellow  light  and  the  sound 
of  voices. 

"If  you  don't  put  on  some  wood,  the 
fire  will  be  out  in  two  minutes. " 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


179 


He  started.  "Yes,  —  I  will  put  on 
a  log." 

While  he  bent  over  the  fire  an  idea 
struck  him.  "You  will  have  a  cup  of 
coffee?  It  is  good." 

"Yes.      I  am  hungry." 

She  smiled  on  him  with  the  serenity 
common  to  some  women  when  a  man  is 
on  their  account  beside  himself  with 
embarrassment  —  or  any  other  emo- 
tion. He  poured  out  the  coffee,  gave 
her  sugar  and  condensed  milk;  he 
rushed  to  the  cabin  and  brought  out  a 
tin  of  "  water  crackers  "  and  another  of 
deviled  ham.  A  small  box  —  it  had 
held  candles  —  did  duty  as  her  table. 
He  watched  her  eat. 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  how  we 
happened  to  drop  in  on  you  in  this 
way  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  time. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  know, "  he  answered 
with  an  effort.  "Your  letter  came  this 
afternoon.  It  was  written  in  England. " 

She  dropped  her  cracker,  and  looked 
away.  "  My  letter, "  she  repeated  — 
"  which  letter  ?  I  never  "  —  A  slow 
flush,  deliciously  visible  in  the  now 
vivid  firelight,  was  creeping  from  her 
high  white  collar  to  the  loose  hair  on 
her  brow. 

Saxe's  courage  came  back  with  a 
rush.  "Yes,  your  letter.  The  best  of 
them  all.  The  one  about  the  fool  who 
dared  to  make  love  to  you.  To  you! 
You  ended  by  bidding  God  bless 
me." 

She  set  down  her  cup,  and  rose.  "  Mr. 
Saxe,  —  or  do  I  mean  Dr.  Saxe  ?  — 
that  was  all  very  well,  it  was  amusing, 
and  harmless,  so  long  as  we  didn't 
know  each  other,  but  now  that  we  do 
—  in  a  way  —  you  must  forget  all  that. 
Although,"  she  went  on,  in  a  lighter 
tone  and  with  a  little  smile,  "I  am  off 
to-morrow,  so  after  all  it  does  n't  make 
much  difference." 

Saxe  winced. 

"I  must  forget  all  that.  And  you 
are  off  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  go  back  to  civilization,  leav- 
ing Annette."  As  she  spoke,  the  old 


woman  and  the  old  man  came  out  of  the 
cabin,  and  approached  the  fire. 

"  Monsieur  must  excuse  me, "  Leduc 
began  at  once,  in  French,  wiping  his 
eyes.  "It  is  my  wife.  She  comes 
all  the  way  from  Paris  to  look  me 
up." 

Saxe  held  out  his  hand  to  the  old 
woman.  "I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  that  you  found  us, "  he  said.  "Sit 
down  and  have  some  supper." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered,  in 
far  better  English  than  her  husband 
could  boast.  "We  drove  over  from 
Windsor." 

"Mademoiselle  will  permit  the  old 
man  to  kiss  her  hand,  after  all  these 
years  ?  "  Leduc  bowed  in  a  graceful 
way  that  amused  Saxe  in  the  midst  of 
his  bewildered  pain.  Going  away  to- 
morrow ! 

"It  is  to  visit  the  grave  of  our  little 
child,  sir,  that  I  have  come,"  Annette 
went  on,  in  an  undertone,  to  Saxe. 
"And  Mademoiselle  has  come  with  me 
because  I  am  too  old  to  go  so  far  alone. 
She  is  an  angel." 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"What  will  you?  Only  my  man 
knows  to  find  the  grave,  and  we  may 
be  gone  two-three  days,  and  who  but 
Mademoiselle  would  stay  all  that  time 
in  the  'otel  at  Windsor!  " 

Saxe  took  off  his  eyeglasses  and 
closed  his  eyes  hard  for  a  minute. 

"She  is  going  to  stay  at  Wind- 
sor?" 

"  Annette,  some  one  must  tell  the  boy 
that  we  are  coming,  or  he  will  drive  off 
and  leave  us." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mademoiselle. 

Annette  turned  down  the  slope,  and 
Saxe,  calling  after  her  to  wait,  thrust 
a  lighted  lantern  into  Leduc 's  hand  and 
sent  him  after  her. 

Then  he  turned.  "You  say  you  are 
off  to-morrow,"  he  said  quickly;  "but 
Annette  tells  me  that  you  were  going 
to  stay  on  at  Windsor  while  she  and 
—  he  —  go  to  see  the  grave  of  Le 
Mioche.  Now  listen.  You  say  I  must 


•J 


180 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


forget  all  that,  now  that  we  know 
each  other.  Very  well;  I  promise;  I 
will  neither  by  word  nor  look,  if  I  can 
help  it,  remind  you  of  anything.  You 
will  have  to  see  me  only  when  you 
choose.  I  will  do  all  that  you  wish.  I 
have  always  done  all  that  you  wish. 
Only  stay.  Let  them  go  to  the  grave 
of  Le  Mioche." 

The  old  pair  were  coming  back,  the 
lantern  danced  among  the  trees,  and 
Leduc's  voice,  piercingly  sweet,  sang 
a  snatch  of  some  old  song:  "Plaisir 
d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  instant." 

She  laughed.  "Not  very  polite  of 
him,  after  her  coming  all  this  way,  is 
it?" 

"  You  will  stay  ?  "  he  persisted, 
frowning  over  his  eyeglasses. 

"If  I  had  known  I  was  to  see  you  " 
—  she  answered,  demurring. 

"But  you  did  not.  Nor  I.  And  it 
is  hot  fair  to  punish  me  for  what  —  the 
gods  have  chosen  to  bring  about." 

"Mademoiselle,  a  storm  is  coming 
up,  and  the  boy  refuses  to  wait, "  An- 
nette said,  coming  toward  them. 

The  trees  were  tossing,  the  wind 
moaning. 

"Yes,  you  must  go,"  assented  Saxe, 
a  little  roughly. 

She  put  on  her  hat  without  speaking, 
and  they  followed  the  lantern  to  the 
waiting  wagon. 

"Well?"  he  said  suddenly,  stop- 
ping. 

"I _I  would  rather  go." 

"No.  Stay.  You  forget  the  chief 
thing, "  he  added,  forcing  a  laugh.  "I 
do  not,  need  not,  know  your  name,  Ma- 
demoiselle! Can't  you  stay?  " 

"'  Mademoiselle,'  "  she  repeated, 
hesitating.  Then,  holding  out  her  hand, 
"Very  well.  I  will  stay;  you  will  not 
know  my  name,  and  —  you  will  forget 
the  rest.  We  will  begin  over !  " 

Saxe  awoke  at  dawn,  a  sound  of  beat- 
ing mingling  with  the  every-day  one  of 
Leduc's  piercingly  sweet  voice  raised  in 
his  favorite  "La  vie  est  vaine."  Vague 


reminiscences  of  house-cleaning,  years 
ago  in  his  grandmother's  day,  stirred 
his  brain ;  he  opened  his  eyes  to  find  his 
tent  flooded  with  rosy  light ;  to  see,  be- 
yond, a  patch  of  blue  sky,  blurred  and 
broken  by  stiff  pine  branches.  He  re- 
membered, and  reaching  for  his  eye- 
glasses, put  them  on. 

"  I  say,  Leduc,  —  Bonnet,  —  what- 
ever your  name  is !  " 

"M'sieu?" 

Leduc's  face,  rosy  as  the  drawn  it- 
self in  spite  of  his  age,  appeared  in  the 
open  flap,  his  soft  curly  hair  ruffled. 

"What  the  deuce  is  that  noise?  " 

The  old  man  entered  unceremonious- 
ly, a  stout  stick  in  his  hand. 

"It  is  that  I  am  preparing  for  An- 
nette, M'sieu.  She  has  eyes  like  a 
hawk,  and  a  tongue  like  a  scourge." 

"  So  it  was  house-cleaning !  " 

"C'est  §a.  I've  been  beating  my 
mattress.  The  dust  in  that  mattress 
was  something  e'tonnant  !  and  not  a 
grain  would  have  escaped  her.  A  ter- 
rible woman !  " 

Saxe  turned  over  lazily.  "Then  you 
think  she  will  be  coming  again  to-day  ?  " 

Leduc  rose  and  took  up  his  stick. 
"Coming?  M'sieu  —  she  love  Leduc, 
that  old  woman.  It  is  a  cur'ous  thing, 
by  gum!  Twenty  years  ago  she  left 
Leduc.  He  treated  her  pretty  bad,  an' 
she  couldn't  stand  it,  so  off  she  went 
at  the  end.  Now  —  here  she  is." 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  she 
hasn't  come  on  your  account,,  you  old 
scoundrel,"  returned  Saxe,  watching 
him. 

"Comment  ca?  Why  then?  Why 
she  come  ?  " 

"Le  Mioche." 

Leduc  turned  and  looked  out  into  the 
morning. 

"Tiens,  Le  Mioche!" 

"Yes,  Le  Mioche.  Now  look  here, 
Leduc.  Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  pay  you 
well,  last  year  ?  " 

"Oui,  monsieur"  — 

"  Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  give  you  a  new 
rifle,  and  a  present  in  money  besides  ?  " 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


181 


"M'sieu  was  very  good  —  M'sieu 
is  galant  homme." 

The  old  man  turned,  his  face  irra- 
diated with  the  most  enchanting  of 
smiles. 

Saxe  went  on,  rubbing  his  eyeglasses 
on  a  corner  of  his  blanket.  "  Very  well. 
If  you  want  another  present  this  time, 

—  say  that  setter  of  Sam  Bradley 's  and 
some  money,  — you,  too,  are  going  to 
behave  like  a  —  galant  homme !  " 

"M'sieu,  Leduc  is  a  galant  homme. 
Leduc  a  bad  man,  but  he  always  been  a 
slave  to  women." 

"Nonsense !  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
a  slave,  but  I  won't  have  you  disappoint 

—  Annette." 

"M'sieu  a  raison.  Poor  Annette, 
she  would  be  very  sad.  Also  Made- 
moiselle." 

"Also  Mademoiselle,"  agreed  Saxe, 
without  flinching  from  the  keen  eyes 
fixed  on  him. 

"What  does  M'sieu  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 
asked  the  old  man,  unable,  as  he  always 
was,  to  look  long  into  Saxe's  face,  and 
turning  away. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  as  decent  as  your 
instincts,  partly  inherited,  no  doubt, 
also  partly  acquired,  will  allow  you." 
Then  with  a  mischievous  delight  he  went 
on  slowly :  "Those  fools'who  deny  ata- 
vism, inherited  tendency,  the  whole  Dar- 
winian theory,  should  be  confronted  in 
a  body,  my  good  Leduc,  with  you.  You 
are  a  most  beautiful  example  of  all  of 
those  things.  The  shape  of  your  head 
is  distinctly  simian;  your  instincts  are 
simian,  —  splendidly  so.  You  have 
spent  the  greater  part  of  your  life  in 
the  humanizing  influence  of  great  trees, 
and  yet  you  are  untouched  by  any  of 
the  qualities  that  emanate  from  them. 
Amazing,  amazing !  " 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which 
the  old  man,  passing  his  hand  through 
his  hair  as  if  to  feel  the  shape  of  his 
head,  said :  — 

"M'sieu  wishes  to  bathe,  this  morn- 
ing? What  time  does  M'sieu  want  his 
coffee?" 


Saxe  looked  at  his  watch.  "Be  ready 
for  me  at  half -past  six  —  and  remem- 
ber :  one  word  to  disappoint  your  poor 
wife,  — no  dog,  no  present." 

Leduc  straightened  up.  "It  is  not 
necessary  for  M'sieu  to  menacer.  Le- 
duc have  a  heart,  and  Leduc  grows 
old." 

Then  he  went  out  with  a  beautiful 
dignity  of  carriage. 

Saxe  splashed  about  in  the  still  gild- 
ed waters  of  the  little  lake  for  ten 
minutes,  dressed,  and  appeared  at  the 
fire  at  promptly  half -past  six.  Break- 
fast was  ready.  Coffee,  fried  eggs, 
bacon,  and  johnny-cake.  Leduc,  in  a 
clean  flannel  shirt,  his  hair  still  sepa- 
rated into  gleaming,  wavy  locks  by  the 
recent  passage  of  a  wet  comb,  awaited 
him. 

When  Saxe  had  demonstrated  his 
good  humor  by  praise  of  the  johnny- 
cake,  the  old  man  began  gravely :  — 

"M'sieu  —  Leduc  wants  to  tell 
M'sieu  something." 

"To  tell  me  something?  " 

"Oui,  M'sieu  —  Leduc  has  no  chil- 
dren, he  is  a  poor  solitary  old  man  — 
except  when  M'sieu  is  with  him." 

Saxe  bowed  his  acknowledgment  of 
this  compliment  in  silence. 

"  But  Leduc,  —  Leduc  has  here  in 
his  breast  —  what  no  one  can  take  from 
him.  A  memory." 

The  sharp  blue  eyes  were  wet.  Saxe 
put  down  his  cup  and  watched  him,  a 
frown  of  interest  between  his  brows. 

"Years  ago  —  Leduc  had  a  little 
child.  A  little  child  with  so  yellow 
curls.  God  sent  it  to  Leduc  to  make 
him  a  better  man.  But  God  got  tired 
of  trying  and  took  Le  Mioche." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  man,  stop  it!  " 

Saxe  rose  impatiently  and  turned 
away.  A  squirrel  rushed  across  an 
opening  in  the  trees,  his  plumy  tail 
erect ;  birds  were  singing  everywhere ; 
a  little  yellow  flower  peered  out  from 
the  mossy  roots  of  the  one  beech  near. 
Saxe  stooped  and  picked  the  flower  with 
gentle  fingers,  and  after  looking  at  it 


182 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


closely,  laid  it  between  the  leaves  of 
his  notebook. 

"M'sieu!" 

He  turned.  Leduc 's  face  was  white, 
his  eyes  dry.  "M'sieu,  you  wrong  an 
old  man.  Leduc  a  bad  man,  a  liar, 
he  beat  his  wife  when  he  was  drunk, 
he  cheat  at  cards.  But  Leduc  love  Le 
Mioche.  LeMioche  love  him.  M'sieu 
scold  about  Annette.  Bien  —  I  am 
sorry  she  comes,  —  ca  m'ennuie,  —  but 
M'sieu  go  to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche 
and  he  will  see  how  many  white  stones ! 
Thirty- one.  Every  year  one.  Leduc 
did  not  forget  Le  Mioche,  M'sieu." 

He  was  telling  the  truth,  and  the 
poor  dignity  in  his  voice  touched  Saxe, 
who  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Leduc.     I  was  ^ 
wrong,  and  I  am  sorry." 

Leduc  shook  his  hand  and  sat  down 
again  in  silence. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  at  last,  in  one 
of  his  accesses  of  good  French,  "you 
are  very  wise,  and  I  am  an  ignorant 
old  scoundrel,  but  I  have  taught  you 
one  thing  that  you  did  not  know  be- 
fore. The  worst  of  men  has  his  one 
good  quality.  The  blackest  of  sheep 
has  its  one  white  hair.  It  is  bad  to 
be  too  pessimistic." 

Saxe  repressed  a  smile  at  the  old 
man's  vain  delight  in  himself  as  an 
exposition  of  this  theory,  and  went  on 
with  his  breakfast. 

"M'sieu,  Mademoiselle  is  pretty, 
is  n't  she?" 

Saxe  started.  "Pretty,  oh  yes. 
Very  pretty,  and  very  good  —  I  gather 
from  your  wife." 

"Yes,  very  good.    I  know  her  since 


she  was  a  little  baby.  That 's  why  I 
still  say  'Mademoiselle.'  Her  real 
name  is  "  — 

"  My  very  good  fellow,  do  you  think 
I  do  not  know  her  real  name  ?  " 

Leduc  started,  as  he  scraped  the 
remaining  shreds  of  bacon  together 
preparatory  to  mopping  them  up  on  a 
bit  of  bread.  "M'sieu  knew  her  be- 
fore?" 

"  Of  course  I  knew  her  before, "  re- 
turned the  other  man,  taking  off  his 
glasses  and  opening  his  eyes  very  wide. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  know  her?  " 

"  Dieu,  que  le  monde  est  petit !  But 
that  is  very  nice  for  her,  — to  find 
M'sieu  here,  —  and  very  nice  for  M'sieu 
—  as  the  other  lady  does  not  come." 

"The  other  lady?" 

"The  lady  whose  letter  makes 
M'sieu's  eyes  change.  Oh,  Leduc  is 
not  blind !  Last  year  there  was  a  let- 
ter, too  "  — 

Saxe  considered  a  minute,  and  then, 
vaguely  seeing  a  series  of  advantages 
to  be  derived  from  this  error,  laughed 
aloud. 

"Leduc  certainly  is  not  blind.  As 
he  says,  I  cannot  have  the  lady  of  the 
letters,  so  it  will  be  very  agreeable  for 
me  to  see  something  of  Mademoiselle, 
who  is  charming,  too." 

"I  suppose  M'sieu  will  not  be  com- 
ing to  the  woods  any  more  ?  " 

The  old  man,  encouraged  in  his  cu- 
riosity, smiled  knowingly.  "He  will 
be  marrying  this  winter." 

"Everything  is  possible  in  this  best 
of  possible  worlds.  Now  then,  old 
chatterbox,  hurry  and  clear  away  that 
i  " 

Bettina  von  Hutten. 


mess! 


(To  be  continued.) 


Midsummer's  Day.  183 


MIDSUMMER'S   DAY. 

WHENCE  comes  he  ?     He  is  all  distraught. 

A  bramble  in  his  hair  is  caught, 

And  there  are  dreams  within  his  eyes 

From  regions  of  the  upper  skies, 

Found  in  deep  forest  pools  that  drowse 

Under  low  interlacing  boughs 

And  for  a  moment  wake  to  paint 

Unreal  parallels,  when  faint 

With  breath  of  nectaries  blown  bare 

A  wind  steals  from  one  knows  not  where. 

In  that  obscure  where  he  has  been 
What  are  the  wonders  he  has  seen  ? 
In  steam  of  marish  spots  and  springs 
.Touched  by  the  noon,  what  startled  things, 
What  great  eyes  glancing  through  green  gloom, 
What  faces  fashioned  out  of  bloom, — 
Where  creatures  of  the  azure  mists 
Weave  their  enchantment,  what  bright  lists 
Of  airy  shapes,  and  what  swift  flight 
Up  the  long  pencils  of  the  light, 
What  phantoms  turning  as  they  fled  ? 
What  voices  lured,  what  beckoning  led  ? 

Forbid  to  all  but  such  as  he, 

They  say  he  read  the  charactery, 

On  bark  and  stem,  of  mystic  runes. 

They  say  he  heard  forgotten  tunes, 

Sung  when  the  moons  were  young,  —  oh,  sweet, 

And  only  broken  measures  fleet 

Homeless  till  some  blest  listener  hears 

The  bitter  music  sealed  in  tears ! 

They  say  he  saw  sweep  over  him 

Or  whirling  scarf,  or  flashing  limb, 

That  something  liefer  touched  his  lips 

Than  honey  that  the  wild  bee  sips, 

That  something  whispered"  him  all  day  — 

While  in  a  trance  of  joy  he  lay 

And  flower-soft  fingers  brushed  his  brow  — 

The  secrets  known  to  no  man  now. 

In  some  deep  dell  with  mosses  lined 

They  say  he  left  his  soul  behind. 

The  chantry  tolled  beyond  the  wood 

As  if  from  outer  solitude. 

Softly  the  day  drew  down ;  and  far 


184  The  African  Pygmies. 

As  echoes  falling  from  a  star 

The  children  called  him.     And  he  came, — 

And  on  his  face  immortal  flame. 

For  the  dark  wood  had  held  him  fast, 

The  leaves  a  subtle  sorcery  cast, 

The  briers  bound  him,  the  wild  sprays 

Tangled  his  feet  in  dear  delays, 

Tendrils  would  clasp,  and  waterfalls 

Foam  round  him,  and  he  broke  through  walls 

Of  living  amethyst  where  sun 

And  haze  and  distance  wrought  as  one. 

And  you  will  know  him  from  the  look 
Of  men  by  happiness  forsook,  — 
Since  he  had  been  that  time  made  free 
Of  the  first  court  of  poesy, 
Nor  till  midsummer's  day  return, 
And  skies  are  blue  and  roses  burn, 
Shall  he  set  foot  within  those  dim 
Delightful  ranges,  nor  for  him 
Those  vaporous  barriers  be  stirred  — 
For  he  has  lost  the  magic  word. 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 


THE   AFRICAN  PYGMIES. 

NOT   long    after   my   settlement    at  not  understand  my  extraordinary  visitor. 

Ndombe,  the  town  of  a  remarkable  mon-  His   language    sounded   more   like   the 

arch  of  the  same  name,  the  king  of  the  gabbling   of   an  ape  than   the   ordered 

Balunda  tribes  around  Wissmann  Falls,  speech  of  the  intelligent  Balunda ;  but 

Central  Africa,  an  odd-looking  creature  when  I  brought  out  the  salt  which  is  the 

came    up  to  my  bungalow,  bringing   a  universal  currency  in  that  country,  his 

piece  of  fresh  meat  for  sale.     At  first  I  eyes  sparkled,  and  a  broad   smile  and 

took  him  for  a  boy,  judging  by  his  height  beaming  face  rendered  further  efforts  at 

and  size,  for  he  was  about  four  feet  high,  conversation  unnecessary  to   the  trade, 

and  could  not  have  weighed  more  than  The  little  man  grinned,  laid  his  meat  on 

eighty  pounds.     As  he  came  closer  and  the  floor,  readjusted  his  quiver  of  darts, 

held  out  his  meat,  making  a  peculiar  gilt-  picked  up  the  bow  he  had  laid  aside,  and 

tural  sound,  I  noticed  that  he  appeared  started  down  the  path,  to  all  appearances 

to  be  an  old  man.     His  form  was  slight-  supremely  happy. 

ly  bent,  his  hair  and  beard  were  tinged          Turning  to  one  of  the  boys  in  my  em- 

with  white,  the  lines  were  deeply  sunken  ploy,  I  asked  who  that  man  was.     The 

in  his  face,  and  his  deep-set  eyes  were  boy  answered,  "  Oh,  he  is   one  of   the 

glazed  with  the  film  of  age.  Batwa."     The  word  had  no  sooner  been 

I  began  to  question  him,  having  be-  uttered  than  I  seized   my  helmet   and 

come  proficient  in   the  native  tongues,  started  off  in  pursuit  of  the  stranger ;  for 

and  was  surprised  to  discover  that  I  could  I  had  read  enough  of  African  ethnology 


The  African  Pygmies. 


185 


to  know  that  Batwa  meant  Pygmies,  and 
here  was  a  chance  not  to  be  lost. 

My  visitor  was  not  far  ahead,  and  did 
not  seem  to  be  alarmed  at  my  following 
him,  for  soon  he  led  me  into  a  clearing 
in  the  adjacent  plain,  not  more  than  a 
few  hundred  yards  from  my  house,  in 
which  a  little  hamlet  was  ensconced. 
The  Pygmy,  if  such  he  was,  entered  one 
of  the  beehive  huts,  and  ousted  a  swarm 
of  children,  who  scampered  wildly  about 
at  sight  of  the  white  man.  The  boy  who 
had  given  the  name  Batwa  to  my  caller 
had  followed  me,  and  I  now  turned  to 
him  for  more  information  concerning 
this  strange  village.  He  said  that  the 
Batwa  were  little  people  who  lived  to 
themselves,  and  were  much  afraid  of  the 
big  people  ;  that  those  in  this  town  were 
under  the  authority  of  Ndpmbe,  who 
would  not  destroy  them,  but  kept  them 
to  hunt  and  fish  for  him.  A  few  ques- 
tions to  the  boy,  and  a  careful  study  of 
the  town  and  people,  assured  me  that 
my  next  door  neighbors  were  none  others 
than  the  Pygmies  of  Herodotus,  the  fa- 
bled dwarfs  of  Ethiopia  in  reality  and 
truth.  From  that  time  I  began  a  close 
study  of  the  life,  condition,  manners, 
customs,  and  language  of  these  remark- 
able people,  for  the  three  years  during 
which  I  lived  among  them. 

The  village  of  the  Batwa  was  located 
in  the  suburbs  of  the  town  of  Ndombe, 
the  nephew  of  Mai  Munene,  who  found- 
ed a  famous  African  kingdom  at  the 
head  of  navigation  of  the  Kasai  tributary 
of  the  Congo  River.  The  proximity  of 
this  Pygmy  settlement  to  the  principal 
city  of  tribes  long  noted  for  their  large 
stature  and  fine  physique  was  a  unique 
fact  in  my  knowledge  of  these  people. 
Stanley,  and  most  of  the  other  explorers 
who  had  described  them,  had  represent- 
ed them  as  inhabiting  the  densest  for- 
ests, and  as  being  entirely  separate  from 
the  other  Africans,  but  this  settlement 
was  on  the  edge  of  the  great  plateau  of 
Lunda,  and  under  the  sovereignty  of  a 
distinctly  alien  tribe. 


Ndombe's  town  is  situated  on  the  crest 
of  the  watershed  of  the  Kasai  and  Lubi 
rivers,  and  about  fifteen  miles  above 
their  confluence  at  Wissmann  Falls,  a 
series  of  cataracts  in  the  former  stream, 
so  called  in  honor  of  the  celebrated  gov- 
ernor of  German  East  Africa.  This 
region  is  about  five  degrees  south  lati- 
tude and  twenty-two  degrees  east  longi- 
tude, with  an  average  elevation  of  twen- 
ty-five hundred  feet,  some  of  the  peaks 
of  the  Chrystal  Range  rising  to  over  six 
thousand  feet.  The  plateau  of  Lunda 
stretches  from  the  Wissmann  Falls  to 
the  Zambezi  divide,  embracing  a  terri- 
tory about  the  size  of  Texas. 

The  population  of  Ndombe's  capital  is 
about  five  thousand,  and  that  of  the  sub- 
urban Pygmies  about  three  hundred. 
The  Batwa  formed  a  distinct  village  of 
their  own,  with  no  other  inhabitants  save 
their  immediate  chief  or  mayor,  and  his 
wife.  This  man  was  of  Ndombe's  own 
family,  the  representative  of  the  king, 
who  acted  as  the  sub-chief  of  the  Pygmy 
village  under  Ndombe's  general  suzerain- 
ty. His  authority  seemed  never  to  be  dis- 
puted, and  through  him  the  dwarfs  paid 
their  tribute  of  game  and  fish  daily  to  the 
king.  The  Pygmies  dwelt  in  little  huts 
shaped  like  a  beehive,  with  an  opening 
on  the  side  at  the  bottom,  barely  large 
enough  to  admit  their  bodies  crawling. 
These  houses  were  built  by  bending  sticks 
into  the  shape  of  a  bow,  placing  the  ends 
in  the  ground,  and  thus  forming  a  frame- 
work, upon  which  a  matting  of  large 
leaves  was  tied  with  the  fibres  of  the 
palm.  These  huts,  although  a  full-grown 
normal  African  could  not  stand  erect  or 
recline  at  full  length  in  them,  sufficed  for 
a  Pygmy  and  his  whole  family,  sometimes 
consisting  of  a  wife  and  half  a  do/en 
children.  About  eighty  of  these  little 
dwellings  were  arranged  without  any 
order  or  design  upon  the  slope  of  the 
hill  toward  the  Lubi,  near  the  meeting 
place  of  the  grassy  plains  and  the  tangled 
forests,  which  constituted  the  Pygmies' 
happy  hunting  grounds.  The  village  cov- 


186 


The  African  Pygmies. 


ered  about  three  acres,  and  was  dotted 
here  and  there  with  the  characteristic 
trees  of  the  African  plains,  the  baobab, 
euphorbia,  and  palm.  Besides  these,  the 
wife  of  the  Bakuba  chief  of  the  Pyg- 
mies had  planted  the  village  with  plan- 
tains, bananas,  and  pineapples,  also  the 
never-failing  pawpaw,  red  pepper,  and 
castor-oil  bushes.  It  is  noteworthy  that 
this  planting  was  not  done  by  the  Pyg- 
mies, who  did  absolutely  no  agricultural 
work  at  all. 

From  the  limbs  of  the  trees  about 
the  houses  hung  uncanny  trophies  of 
the  skill  of  the  Batwa  at  the  chase,  — 
the  head-bones  of  the  antelope  and  buf- 
falo, the  skeletons  of  monkeys,  boars, 
and  large  rodents,  the  skins  of  snakes, 
the  scaly  armor  of  the  ant-eater,  the 
feathers  of  many  large  birds,  the  shells 
of  the  porpoise,  and  the  head  and  verte- 
brae of  many  large  fishes.  Immense  nets, 
made  both  for  hunting  and  fishing,  were 
thrown  over  poles  suspended  under  grass 
sheds  about  the  village,  while  the  walls 
of  the  little  huts  bristled  with  spears, 
knives,  bows,  and  arrows,  traps,  har- 
poons, and  hunting  horns.  Yellow  dogs, 
whose  diminutive  dimensions  were  in 
proportion  to  those  of  their  masters, 
prowled  about  the  open  spaces  between 
the  houses,  jangling  the  peculiar  wooden 
bells  which  were  fastened  about  their 
necks.  One  striking  peculiarity  of  these 
African  curs  is  that  they  do  not  bark, 
and  so  the  bells  are  put  upon  them  to 
enable  the  huntsmen  to  follow.  Often 
the  dogs  themselves  are  eaten  by  the 
Africans,  but  I  never  found  the  Pygmies 
guilty  of  this  unsportsmanlike  conduct. 
Neither  was  I  ever  able  to  detect  any 
evidences  of  cannibalism  on  the  part  of 
the  little  people. 

The  life  of  the  Pygmies  was  concerned 
chiefly  in  the  procuring  of  meat  for  them- 
selves and  for  the  larger  tribes  with  whom 
they  traded.  They  were  expert  hunts- 
men and  fishermen,  their  principal  wea- 
pon being  the  bow  and  arrow  with  its 
poisoned  wooden  dart,  the  most  formid- 


able of  all  the  implements  of  savage 
African  warfare.  The  bow  of  the  Pyg- 
mies was  made  from  the  wood  of  a  very 
strong  and  tough  tree,  the  color  of  the 
heart  of  which  was  bright  crimson  ;  the 
bowstring  was  made  of  a  fibre  stripped 
from  the  body  of  a  rattan  vine  growing 
in  the  swamps.  This  fibre  produced  a 
string  perfectly  pliable,  and  exceeding 
a  rawhide  in  strength.  The  Pygmies 
were  often  shorter  than  their  bows.  The 
arrow  was  a  light  straight  piece  of  bam- 
boo, usually  the  stem  of  the  frond  of  one 
of  the  smaller  palms.  This  frond  stem 
was  cylindrical  in  shape,  and  hollow 
throughout  its  length,  the  woody  fibre 
being  wonderfully  strong  and  light.  Con- 
trary to  the  practice  among  larger  tribes, 
these  arrows  were  neither  tipped  with 
iron,  nor  furnished  with  the  feathery 
barb.  They  were  simply  the  neatly 
trimmed  bamboo  sticks,  sharpened  at  the 
top  and  cleft  at  the  bottom,  the  sharp 
point  being  thickly  smeared  with  a  dark 
poison.  It  is  the  last  fact  which  makes 
these  simple  contrivances  such  deadly 
weapons.  The  poison  is  one  of  the  most 
fatal  known.  It  is  decocted  from  the 
roots  of  one  of  the  euphorbias  by  boil- 
ing and  pressing  them,  a  black  sticky 
scum  rising  to  the  surface,  into  which 
the  points  of  the  arrows  are  dipped.  The 
scum  is  very  adhesive,  and  also  impreg- 
nates the  wood  of  the  arrowhead,  which 
is  made  from  a  certain  kind  of  timber 
specially  for  the  purpose. 

The  effect  of  this  poison  is  more  dead- 
ly than  that  of  any  vegetable  poison  with 
which  I  am  acquainted.  It  has  been 
known  to  produce  death  within  two 
minutes  of  its  administration  to  a  human 
being.  The  ordinary  way  to  test  its 
efficacy  among  the  Africans  is  to  try  it 
on  a  monkey,  and  the  usual  result  is 
death  in  less  than  five  minutes.  The  use 
of  the  poison  in]war  or  the  chase  depends 
upon  the  infliction  of  a  very  slight  wound 
on  the  victim  by  the  point  of  the  arrow, 
the  small  amount  of  poison  thus  put  into 
the  system  sufficing  to  cause  death. 


The  African  Pygmies. 


187 


Sometimes,  however,  instead  of  death, 
the  effect  is  insanity. 

I  noted  several  instances  of  the  terri- 
ble effects  of  these  poisoned  arrows.  A 
man  of  Ndombe's  town  insulted  one  of 
the  Pygmies  and  was  shot  in  the  thigh. 
Despite  all  that  the  medicine  men  could 
do  in  the  way  of  charms  and  various 
hoodoo  practices,  besides  using  certain 
herbs  and  roots  which  are  often  effica- 
cious in  ordinary  ailments,  the  wound- 
ed man  died  in  great  agony  after  several 
hours  of  delirious  coma.  On  another 
occasion  the  poison  was  administered  as 
an  ordeal  to  a  woman  accused  of  witch- 
craft, and  she  died  in  less  than  half  an 
hour.  A  man  in  my  employ  was  once 
going  down  the  Kasai  River  in  a  canoe, 
and  was  attacked  by  some  of  the  savage 
Baschilele  tribe,  who  were  armed  with 
these  poisoned  arrows  obtained  from  the 
Pygmies.  The  man  sustained  a  scratch 
on  the  forehead  from  a  passing  arrow. 
Although  the  wound  was  so  slight  as  to 
be  almost  invisible  to  the  eye,  the  poor 
fellow  went  violently  insane,  lingered 
for  two  weeks,  and  then  died  in  terrible 
convulsions. 

Once,  in  making  a  survey  of  the  up- 
per Kasai  valley,  I  had  occasion  to  as- 
cend a  high  mountain,  upon  whose  sum- 
mit I  walked  about,  compass  in  hand, 
taking  observations.  Suddenly,  without 
the  least  warning,  I  fell  violently  into 
the  earth.  I  had  come  upon  a  concealed 
pit,  made  to  impale  antelopes  upon  sharp- 
ened stakes  set  in  the  bottom.  One  of 
these  stakes  penetrated  my  thigh  and 
caused  a  severe  wound.  My  only  at- 
tendant, a  boy  of  fourteen  years,  ran, 
down  the  mountain  and  secured  men, 
who  carried  me  quickly  to  an  adjacent 
village.  The  boy  sucked  the  wound 
thoroughly,  and  the  native  doctors  cau- 
terized it  by  pouring  boiling  oil  into  it, 
thus  no  doubt  saving  my  life  and  reason. 
I  was  dangerously  ill  for  a  month,  and 
suffered  for  three  years  afterwards.  The 
sucking  of  the  wound  and  the  cautery 
were  at  my  own  suggestion. 


The  use  of  these  poisoned  arrows  by 
the  Pygmies  in  killing  game  is  wonder- 
fully effective.  The  flesh  around  the 
wound  is  excised,  and  the  rest  of  the 
meat  is  eaten  with  impunity.  With  its 
coat  of  poison,  the  puny  bamboo  reed 
becomes  more  fatal  than  the  Krag-Jor- 
gensen  or  Martini-Henry.  With  his 
bow  and  arrows  the  Pygmy  is  more 
than  a  match  for  any  denizen  of  the 
African  jungle  ;  he  kills  the  elephant, 
buffalo,  antelope,  leopard,  hyena,  jackal, 
and  the  numberless  smaller  animals  of 
forest  and  plain,  besides  guinea-fowl, 
water-fowl,  and  others  of  the  feathered 
tribe.  The  Batwa  of  Ndombe's  village 
frequently  brought  in  meat  from  these 
different  animals,  part  of  which  went  to 
Ndombe  as  his  regular  tribute,  the  rest 
being  kept  for  their  own  use,  or  ex- 
changed for  the  farinaceous  produce  of 
the  Bikenge.  Once  the  dwarfs  brought 
in  immense  chunks  of  a  huge  python, 
which  they  found  asleep  after  making 
his  monthly  meal  of  a  whole  antelope, 
horns,  hoof,  and  all.  The  total  length 
of  the  tremendous  snake  was  twenty-six 
feet,  and  his  body  was  as  thick  as  a 
man's  thigh.  There  was  wild  excite- 
ment in  the  Pygmies'  town,  and  the 
other  natives  flocked  in  from  far  and 
wide  to  see  the  monster  and  enjoy  the 
feast.  It  may  be  remarked  here  that 
the  Pygmies'  diet  includes  everything 
from  the  soft  bodies  of  the  white  ant  to 
the  hippopotamus.  I  have  known  them 
to  shake  caterpillars  from  the  trees,  and 
dry  them  in  the  sun,  preserving  them  as 
a  special  delicacy ;  and  the  locust,  upon 
which  John  the  Baptist  fed  in  the  wil- 
derness, is  as  highly  esteemed  among 
them  as  the  shrimp  or  lobster  among  the 
epicures  of  the  West. 

The  method  of  hunting  the  monkey, 
the  eating  of  which  must  have  been  the 
beginning  of  anthropophagy,  is  most  in- 
teresting. A  clearing  of  about  half  an 
acre  is  made  in  the  forest  where  the 
simians  abound  ;  a  net  ten  feet  high  and 
forty  feet  long,  made  from  a  very  tough 


188 


The  African  Pygmies. 


and  strong  fibrous  plant,  is  stretched 
across  this  clearing.  The  Pygmies  then 
drive  the  monkeys  from  the  forest  into 
the  clearing.  When  the  monkeys  at- 
tempt to  cross  the  open  space,  they  no 
longer  find  the  convenient  branches  of 
the  trees  which  have  hitherto  assisted* 
them  in  their  flight,  and  are  forced  to 
rush  across  the  clearing  on  the  ground. 
When  they  come  upon  the  net,  they  are 
sorely  puzzled,  and  instead  of  trying  to 
climb  over  it,  vainly  strive  to  get  through 
the  meshes,  and  in  this  bewildered  con- 
dition are  set  upon  by  the  Pygmies  with 
their  bows  and  arrows  and  spears,  and  a 
general  slaughter  ensues.  One  reason 
why  this  method  of  hunting  4he  monkey 
is  followed  is  that  a  wounded  monkey  is 
so  very  difficult  to  pursue  in  the  mazes 
of  the  forests. 

The  fact  that  the  Pygmies  did  not 
cultivate  the  soil  at  all  was  established 
by  careful  and  prolonged  investigation, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  char- 
acteristics of  these  people.  At  the  time 
of  my  residence  among  them,  they  had 
been  in  the  habit  for  centuries  past  of 
trading  the  meat  from  the  chase  for  pro- 
duce of  the  fields  of  the  Bantu.  The 
latter  people  engaged  quite  extensively 
in  raising  food  supplies  of  various  kinds. 
Their  principal  implement  is  the  hoe,  the 
blade  of  which  their  blacksmiths  make 
from  the  abundant  magnetic  iron  ore  of 
the  country,  the  handle  of  the  hoe  being 
a  short  stick  about  two  feet  long,  with 
a  hole  bored  through  a  knot  in  the  end, 
for  the  attachment  of  the  blade.  The 
Bantu  women  use  this  hoe  exclusively,  as 
they  have  neither  plough,  spade,  shovel, 
nor  any  other  agricultural  implement. 
With  this  primitive  hoe,  however,  they 
plant  and  cultivate  corn,  peas,  beans, 
onions,  tomatoes,  tobacco,  cotton,  melons, 
pepper,  and  various  tropical  fruits  and 
vegetables,  besides  the  universal  manioc, 
plantain,  and  peanut.  The  word  for 
peanut,  by  the  way,  in  the  language  of 
Ndombe,  is  "  Ngoobah." 

None   of   these   products,  which  the 


African  soil  and  climate  cause  to  flour- 
ish with  such  ease  and  abundance,  have 
ever  been  cultivated  by  the  Pygmies. 
The  dwarfs,  before  the  advent  of  the 
larger  tribes,  were  literally  wild  men  of 
the  woods,  who  subsisted  entirely  on 
the  bounty  of  unaided  nature. ,  The  in- 
digenous and  uncultivated  edibles  of  the 
African  soil  were  considered  ample  for 
their  needs.  They  lived  on  the  roots 
and  tubers  of  trees  and  of  certain  plants 
resembling  the  Irish  potato,  the  young 
and  tender  shoots  of  succulent  bushes, 
and  the  acidulous  fruits  occurring  in 
great  quantity  in  the  forest,  which  the 
monkeys  feed  upon  with  avidity. 

The  relations  of  the  Batwa  to  Ndombe 
and  the  powerful  Balunda  were  unique. 
According  to  the  traditions  of  both  peo- 
ple, many  ages  previously  the  Pygmies 
had  been  the  sole  inhabitants  and  the  un- 
disputed masters  of  the  vast  territories 
now  occupied  by  the  dominant  races  in 
Africa.  Then  the  forefathers  of  the 
Bantu  came  down  from  the  Northeast, 
and  began  to  fight  the  Pygmies.  The  lat- 
ter represent  these  early  conflicts  as  long 
and  bitter.  Some  of  the  dwarfs  escaped 
into  the  depths  of  the  remote  forests, 
into  whose  gloomy  wilds  the  conquering 
invaders  would  not  follow  them.  This 
accounts  for  Stanley's  discovery  of  them 
in  the  Aruwimi  forests,  and  explains  his 
impression  that  the  Pygmies  were  never 
found  elsewhere  in  association  with  the 
other  Africans.  But  some  of  the  little 
people  were  captured  in  those  ancient 
wars,  and  kept  near  their  captors  until 
their  shyness  wore  off,  and  they  were 
willing  to  live  with  them  on  friendly 
terms.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Ndombe's 
kingdom  came  to  embrace  this  settle- 
ment of  the  dwarfs.  It  is  possible  that 
the  superior  tribes  could  never  have 
overcome  the  Pygmies  had  they  not 
learned  the  secret  of  the  manufacture 
and  use  of  the  poisoned  arrows  of  the 
latter.  But  there  never  was  any  inter- 
marriage between  the  two  peoples,  nor 
did  either  adopt  the  ways  of  the  other. 


The  African  Pygmies. 


189 


Both  remained  separate  and  distinct, 
though  living  side  by  side  for  centuries. 
The  Pygmies  did  not  increase  rapidly  in 
numbers,  and  barely  kept  up  their  ex- 
istence from  generation  to  generation. 
In  this  they  appear  to  have  been  already 
a  moribund  race  when  the  larger  men 
came  down  upon  them. 

The  complete  confidence  of  Ndombe 
and  his  people  facilitated  my  intercourse 
with  the  Pygmies.  This  ripened  into 
the  most  friendly  association  when  the 
little  people  found  me  such  a  steady 
customer  for  their  game,  the  more  so  as 
the  principal  article  which  I  had  to  offer 
was  what  they  most  earnestly  coveted  — 
common  salt.  The  craving  for  chloride 
of  sodium  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that 
the  chief  mineral  ingredient  of  the  food 
of  the  African  aborigines  is  a  kind  of 
chlorate  of  potash  obtained  by  precipi- 
tating a  lye  made  from  th£  ashes  of  a 
marsh  weed.  Although  there  are  de- 
posits of  rock  salt  in  different  parts  of  the 
continent,  the  natives  have  not  learned 
to  use  it.  The  potash  salt  is  so  very  in- 
ferior to  the  "white  man's  salt,"  as  the 
blacks  call  our  article,  that  the  latter 
commands  fabulous  prices  in  the  remote 
interior,  where  I  was  located.  Salt  is 
more  precious  than  gold  in  the  opinion 
of  the  Pygmies.  As  I  was  fairly  well 
supplied  with  the  coveted  relish,  my  eager 
little  neighbors  undertook  to  barter  all 
the  meat  they  could  persuade  me  to  take 
for  it.  In  this  way  quite  a  familiarity 
sprang  up  between  us,  and  I  was  enabled 
to  collect  much  detailed  information  con- 
cerning them. 

The  clothing  of  the  Pygmies  was  the 
most  primitive  of  all  I  saw  in  Africa. 
The  children  and  some  of  the  women 
were  nude,  and  the  best  clad  of  them 
wore  nothing  more  than  a  yard  of  palm 
fibre  around  their  loins,  this  garment 
being  obtained  from  the  other  tribes. 
Some  wore  pieces  of  fibre  of  the  size  of 
a  pocket  handkerchief  suspended  from 
a  string  around  the  waist,  while  others 
were  content  with  leaves  or  grass.  They 


had  no  looms,  and  manufactured  no  cloth 
as  the  other  natives  did.  The  favorite 
ornamental  garment  among  them  was  the 
skin  of  a  large  baboon.  I  never  saw  a 
single  Pygmy  tattooed  in  any  way.  They 
.  often  made  amulets  or  charms  of  the 
skin  or  bones  of  small  animals.  They 
did  not  wear  the  beads  or  brass  and 
copper  wire  which  were  affected  by  the 
Balunda,  but  they  often  wore  the  gay 
feathers  of  some  bird  in  their  woolly 
hair. 

The  extreme  simplicity  of  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  the  Pygmies  was 
in  striking  contrast  to  the  more  com- 
plex life  of  the  other  races.  Ndombe's 
people,  for  example,  had  been  enjoying 
for  centuries  the  advantages  accruing 
from  the  subdivision  of  labor,  somewhat 
on  the  lines  of  more  civilized  countries. 
The  Balunda  had  blacksmiths,  wood- 
carvers,  weavers,  mat-makers,  manufac- 
turers, besides  lawyers,  medicine  men, 
governmental  officials  such  as  consta- 
bles, tax-collectors,  and  executioners  with 
chieftains  and  petty  governors  under 
the  greater  kings.  The  Pygmies  had 
none  of  these.  The  governmental  sys- 
tem under  which  the  Batwa  lived  at 
Ndombe  was  imposed  on  them  by  the 
king.  Nor  had  their  system  ever  been 
even  patriarchal.  In  most  of  these  mat- 
ters the  aboriginal  race  of  Pygmies  must 
have  been  the  most  primitive  race  of 
mankind. 

The  poverty  of  the  Pygmies  alone  re- 
stricted their  naturally  polygamous  ten- 
dencies. The  other  Africans  enjoy  as 
many  wives  and  concubines  as  they  have 
means  to  buy.  There  are  so  few  dis- 
tinctions of  wealth  among  the  Pygmies 
that  their  women  are  pretty  evenly  di- 
vided among  them.  They  are  also 
much  less  prolific  than  the  larger  tribes. 
Their  children  are  precocious,  being  ex- 
posed early  to  the  hardening  influences 
of  their  parents'  lives,  and  made  to  shift 
for  themselves  as  soon  as  they  can  catch 
mice,  or  dig  up  roots.  While  the  men 
hunt  and  fish,  the  women  search  for  the 


190 


The  African  Pygmies. 


wild  food  of  the  plain  and  forest,  or 
barter  meat  for  the  food  of  the  Ba- 
lunda. 

The  average  height  of  fifty  grown 
men  of  the  Batwa  village  was  fifty-one 
and  seven  eighths  inches,  or  four  feet  and  . 
nearly  four  inches.  Seven  men  averaged 
less  than  three  feet  and  nine  inches  high, 
and  five  of  them  were  over  four  feet,  six 
inches.  It  was  very  difficult  to  persuade 
the  women  to  submit  to  measurement, 
but  eight  of  them,  mothers  of  families, 
averaged  forty-seven  and  three  eighths 
inches,  four  inches  shorter  than  the  men. 
The  prevalent  color  was  a  light  chocolate 
brown.  The  older  men  wore  scanty 
beards. 

The  head  of  the  Pygmy  is  of  the 
brachycephalic  order.  The  mean  cranial 
index  of  the  skulls  of  eight  adult  males 
is  eighty-one  degrees.  The  nose  is  small, 
but  more  aquiline  than  that  of  the  real 
Negro.  The  mouth  is  large,  and  the  chin 
usually  receding.  The  hair  is  of  a  light- 
er color,  —  almost  a  shade  of  brown,  — 
and  is  kinky  and  woolly.  His  hands  and 
feet  are  small  and  well  shaped,  the  hands 
in  particular  being  delicately  formed. 
In  proportion  to  his  size,  his  strength  far 
exceeds  that  of  all  the  other  Africans. 
His  powers  of  endurance  on  the  march 
or  in  the  chase  are  phenomenal.  Fifty 
miles  a  day  is  an  ordinary  march  for 
him,  and  he  is  almost  as  much  at  home 
in  the  trees  as  the  monkeys  themselves. 
The  senses  of  the  Pygmies  are  unusu- 
ally acute.  At  quite  a  distance,  they 
can  distinguish  the  chameleon  from  the 
foliage  in  which  it  is  hidden,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  the  color  of  the 
little  animal  coincides  with  that  of  its 
hiding  place.  Much  of  their  quarry  is 
discovered  through  the  powers  of  the 
nose,  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that 
the  Pygmies'  sense  of  smell  is  as  keen 
as  that  of  their  dogs.  They  are  such 
shots  with  the  bow  that  I  have  seen  one 
send  an  arrow  through  a  rat  at  twenty 
yards,  while  it  was  running  through  the 
village.  The  Bantu  would  spear  fish  as 


they  leaped  from  the  water,  or  darted 
among  the  rocks  in  the  streams. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  chief  charac- 
teristic of  the  Pygmy's  mind  is  cunning. 
Ages  of  warfare  with  ferocious  beasts, 
and  long  periods  of  struggling  against 
tribes  of  men  physically  superior  to 
them,  have  made  the  little  people  so  fa- 
mous for  treachery,  sly  dexterity,  and 
extraordinary  agility,  that  the  words 
"  Mudimuki  mu  mutwa "  (sharp  as  a 
Pygmy)  have  become  the  favorite  sim- 
ile of  the  Bantu  race. 

The  language  of  the  Batwa  is  the 
most  strongly  onomatopoetic  of  any  with 
which  I  am  acquainted.  The  names  of 
animals  are  made  of  sounds  most  char- 
acteristic of  the  beasts  they  describe. 
"  Elephant  "  is  «  humba-humba ;  " 
"  snake  "  is  "  luwilya-wilya  "  (note  how 
this  word  squirms).  The  verbs  describe 
actions  imitatively.  The  vocabulary  is 
much  more  limited  than  that  of  the 
Bantu.  The  Batwa  appear  to  have  very 
few,  if  any,  abstract  ideas. 

The  religion  of  the  Pygmies  consisted 
primarily  in  the  worship  of  the  sun. 
They  were  not  idolatrous  —  the  sun  was 
worshiped  as  God,  and  the  moon  was 
feared  as  the  devil.  They  made  no  im- 
ages of  material  objects,  and  had  very 
few  of  the  superstitious  practices  of  the 
other  Africans. 

After  my  acquaintance  with  the  Pyg- 
mies had  ripened  into  complete  mutual 
confidence,  I  once  made  bold  to  tell  them 
that  some  of  the  wise  men  of  my  country 
asserted  that  they  had  descended  from 
the  apes  of  the  forest.  This  statement, 
far  from  provoking  mirth,  met  with  a 
storm  of  indignant  protestation,  and  fur- 
nished the  theme  for  many  a  heated  dis- 
cussion around  the  Batwa  firesides.  The 
sequel  of  the  matter  was  an  amusing 
occasion,  when  a  venerable  grandfather 
among  the  Pygmies  turned  the  tables  on 
me.  One  day  a  young  ape  of  the  Soko 
species  was  brought  to  my  house  as  a 
present  to  me  from  my  little  neighbors. 
A  gray-haired  old  Pygmy  watched  the 


The  African  Pygmies. 


191 


antics  of  the  young  Soko,  the  peculiarity 
of  which  consisted  in  its  perfectly  white 
face  and  hair.  Turning  his  eyes  on  the 
Saxon  propounder  of  the  insulting  hy- 
pothesis concerning  his  progenitors,  and 
noting  that  Saxon  and  Soko  alike  were 
strikingly  white,  the  shrewd  old  chap 
dryly  asked  :  u  If  we  black  Batwa  come 
from  black  monkeys  in  the  forest,  who 
then  comes  from  that  Soko  there  ?  " 

The  history  of  the  Batwa  tribe  of  the 
Pygmies  is  involved  in  the  general  his- 
tory of  all  the  dwarf  races.  It  has  been 
shown  by  exhaustive  research  that  this 
species  of  the  genus  homo  is  not  con- 
fined to  Africa,  but  is  widely  distributed 
over  the  whole  globe.  My  only  guides 
to  the  history  of  the  Batwa  were  their 
own  traditions  and  those  of  the  Bantu 
around  them,  —  sources  of  information 
much  more  trustworthy  than  is  often  sup- 
posed. The  Africans  are  very  careful 
to  conserve  their  traditions,  and  the  old 
men  gather  the  young  ones  about  their 
firesides,  and  relate  to  them  the  lore 
of  their  people  and  the  deeds  of  their 
fathers.  They  reckon  time  by  the  ap- 
pearances of  the  new  moon  and  the  oc- 
currence of  such  natural  phenomena  as 
earthquakes,  eclipses,  droughts,  besides 
unusual  wars,  migrations,  or  any  extraor- 
dinary events. 

The  concurrence  of  testimony  is  to 
the  effect  that  the  ancestors  of  the  Pyg- 
mies many  years  before  had  exclusively 
occupied  the  vast  territories  throughout 
which  they  are  now  scattered.  The 
statements  of  the  Bantu  and  Batwa  alike 
agreed  that  the  latter  were  the  only  spe- 
cies of  mankind  occupying  the  plains  of 
Lunda  when  the  former  came  down  upon 
them  from  the  direction  of  the  rising 
sun.  The  migrations  of  the  Bantu, 
therefore,  into  Central  Africa  were  from 
the  direction  of  Egypt  and  Asia.  When 
these  larger  people  found  the  Pygmies,  as 
before  indicated,  they  began  to  destroy 
or  subdue  them,  or  to  chase  them  into 
the  depths  of  the  remote  forests.  It  is 
noteworthy  that  the  Pygmies  have  never 


developed  any  of  the  primitive  arts  which 
are  practiced  among  the  Bantu  to-day. 
There  are  no  signs  of  a  stone  age  in 
Africa.  This  fact  is  of  the  utmost  an- 
thropological value  when  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  fact  that  Central  Africa 
is  of  extremely  recent  geological  forma- 
tion. The  irruption  of  the  Bantu,  who 
were  already  in  the  iron  age,  upon  the 
Batwa,  who  had  not  yet  reached  the 
stone  age,  is  curiously  like  the  superpo- 
sition of  volcanic  strata  upon  a  tertiary 
formation. 

The  geographical  distribution  of  the 
dwarf  races  is  much  wider  than  has  been 
popularly  believed.  The  ancient  Egyp- 
tians report  them  at  the  head  waters  of 
the  Nile.  This  was  confirmed  by  Stan- 
ley and  Emin  Pasha.  Schweinfurth 
made  a  thorough  study  of  a  settlement 
of  Pygmies  in  North  Central  Africa  in 
the  valley  of  the  Welle,  a  branch  of  the 
Mobangi  tributary  of  the  Congo,  three 
degrees  north  latitude,  twenty-five  de- 
grees east  longitude.  Du  Chaillu  identi- 
fied them  in  the  Ogowe  country  of  the 
Gaboon,  a  thousand  miles  southwest  of 
Schweinfurth's  investigation.  Another 
thousand  miles  southeast  of  those  found 
by  Du  Chaillu  are  the  Batwa  which  I 
am  describing,  in  the  location  already 
mentioned.  Three  hundred  miles  north- 
east of  this  country  occurs  a  tribe  of 
Pygmies  mentioned  by  Dr.  Wolf.  It 
will  thus  be  seen  that  the  existence  of 
the  Pygmies  has  been  authenticated  in 
five  different  parts  of  Africa,  over  a  ter- 
ritory much  larger  than  the  United 
States.  Besides  these  it  is  pretty  clearly 
established  that  the  Hottentots  and  Bush- 
men of  extreme  South  Africa  also  belong 
to  this  class. 

The  Pygmies  are  not,  as  has  been 
alleged  from  lack  of  exact  data,  restrict- 
ed solely  in  their  habitat  to  the  forests 
or  impenetrable  jungles.  They  are  the 
residuum  of  complete  occupation  of  vast 
continental  areas.  The  interesting  part, 
however,  about  this  occupation  is  that  no 
traces  have  been  found  of  any  human  be- 


192 


The  African  Pygmies. 


ings  prior  to  the  Pygmies.  In  this  re- 
spect, the  Caucasian  discoveries  in  North 
America  differ  totally  from  those  in 
Africa.  The  aborigines  whom  the  Euro- 
peans found  in  America  had  evidently 
been  antedated  by  a  people  vastly  supe- 
rior to  them  in  the  arts  of  civilization. 
But  the  white  man  has  found  no  traces 
of  the  handiwork  of  man  preceding  the 
Pygmies.  These  dwarfish  beings  are  the 
most  primitive  of  men  yet  discovered  in 
the  annals  of  history. 

Reference  has  already  been  made  to 
the  existence  of  other  Pygmy  tribes. 
Most  of  these  occur  in  different  parts 
of  the  eastern  hemisphere.  One  of  the 
principal  localities  in  which  these  Orien- 
tal Pygmies  occur  is  in  the  Philippine 
Islands.  In  Luzon,  particularly,  black 
Pygmies  with  straight  hair  have  been 
found.  The  other  localities  are  the  An- 
daman Islands,  Borneo,  Madagascar, 
the  Punjab  of  India,  the  extreme  west- 
ern part  of  China,  and  the  Malay  Penin- 
sula, while  certain  skulls  on  the  Pacific 
coast  of  America  point  to  the  probability 
that  the  Pygmies,  as  well  as  the  larger 
Asiatics,  once  occupied  the  western  hem- 
isphere. 

While  the  indubitable  existence  of 
these  Pygmy  races  is  a  fact  which  late 
modern  research  alone  has  demonstrated 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  scientific  world, 
stories  about  the  Pygmies  have  been 
current  in  literature  from  the  dawn 
of  history.  The  recent  investigations 
of  scientists  in  Africa  have  done  much 
to  dignify  the  oft-ridiculed  writings  of 
Herodotus.  The  Father  of  History  re- 
cords stories  of  his  day  concerning  Pyg- 
mies who  were  said  to  occupy  upper 
Egypt.  Homer  also  makes  reference 
to  these  little  people,  and  Aristotle  em- 
bellishes his  account  with  reference  to 
diminutive  horses  as  well  as  men.  Pliny 
places  his  Pygmies  in  a  number  of  lo- 
calities. Swift,  therefore,  had  abundant 
classical  ground  for  his  Lilliputians,  and 
a  truer  basis  in  fact  than  he  imagined. 
The  sober  facts  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 


tury have  eclipsed  the  romances  of 
Homer,  Swift,  and  Defoe  alike. 

The  philosophic  speculations  raised  by 
the  facts  brought  to  light  about  these 
Batwa,  Akka,  Hottentots,  Mincopies, 
and  Negritos  as  they  have  been  various- 
ly called,  are  not  the  least  interesting 
results  of  their  discovery.  Who  and 
what  are  they?  Are  they  men,  or  the 
highest  apes  ?  Who  and  what  were  their 
ancestors  ?  What  are  their  ethnic  rela- 
tions to  the  other  races  of  men  ?  Have 
they  degenerated  from  larger  men,  or 
are  the  larger  men  a  development  of 
Pygmy  forefathers  ?  These  questions 
arise  naturally,  and  plunge  the  inquirer 
at  once  into  the  depths  of  the  most  heat- 
ed scientific  discussions  of  this  genera- 
tion. 

For  practical  consideration,  we  may 
classify  these  questions  into  three  :  — 

1.  Were  the  ancestors  of  the  Pygmies 
larger  men  ?     That  is,  are  the  Pygmies 
a  degenerate  race  ? 

2.  Were  the  ancestors  of  the  Pygmies 
also  the  ancestors  of  the  larger  men  ? 

3.  Are   the  Pygmies  an   unchanged 
race  from  their  creation,  or  from  their  ap- 
pearance as  human  beings  on  the  globe  ? 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that  so  many  cor- 
relative issues  in  questions  which  have 
been  the  subject  of  the  fiercest  debate 
are  here  raised,  that  only  a  re'sume'  of  the 
leading  arguments  in  each  hypothesis 
can  be  given. 

The  principal  points  in  favor  of  the  hy- 
pothesis of  degeneracy  are  these :  the 
clearly  established  fact  of  degeneracy 
as  influential  in  modifying  animals  ;  the 
long  ages  in  which  this  deteriorating  his- 
tory has  certainly  had  time  to  act  in 
the  case  of  Pygmies  —  history  records 
their  existence  for  five  thousand  years, 
and  the  extreme  probability  points  to  a 
much  longer  period  ;  the  fact  that  the 
widespread  occurrence  of  the  dwarf  races 
over  the  globe  points  to  migration  rather 
than  to  separate  spontaneous  evolution  ; 
and,  stronger  than  any  other  point,  the 
anatomical  completeness  of  the  Pygmy's 


The  African  Pygmies. 


193 


body  shows  near  kinship  to  all  the  races 
of  man.  If  the  dwarfs  were  undeveloped 
men,  not  yet  come  to  the  full  stature  of 
manhood,  this  fact  would  probably  ap- 
pear in  some  incompleteness  in  their 
anatomic  structure. 

The  considerations  in  favor  of  the 
Pygmy  as  the  primeval  man  from  whose 
ancestors  the  larger  races  were  developed 
are  the  usual  arguments  for  the  evolu- 
tion of  man  from  lower  to  higher  types, 
and  are  too  well  known  for  extended  dis- 
cussion here.  The  anatomic  complete- 
ness of  the  Pygmy  applies  as  strongly  to 
this  hypothesis  as  to  that  of  degeneracy. 
It  may  be  remarked  that  if  the  ances- 
tors of  the  Pygmies  also  fathered  the 
larger  races,  then  there  ought  to  appear 
among  the  Pygmies  of  to-day  some  cases 
of  progressive  development  in  that  direc- 
tion. As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  ob- 
serve any  case  of  this,  nor  have  I  found 
any  recorded.  The  strongest  argument 
for  this  hypothesis  is,  that  everywhere 
the  Pygmies  have  been  found  they  seem 
to  have  chosen  the  outer  frontier  of  the 
lands  occupied  by  the  stronger  peoples. 
This  looks  as  if  the  latter  drove  the  for- 
mer toward  the  extremities  of  the  world 
from  a  country  in  which  all  were  origi- 
nally together. 

The  last  hypothesis,  that  the  Pygmies 
present  a  case  of  unmodified  structure 
from  the  beginning,  is  supported  by  the 
usual  arguments  which  are  brought 
against  both  evolution  and  degeneracy. 
It  is  true  that  these  little  people  have 
apparently  preserved  an  unchanged  phy- 
sical entity  for  five  thousand  years.  But 
that  only  carries  th'e  question  back  into 
the  debated  ground  of  the  origin  of  spe- 
cies. 

The  point  at  issue  is  distinct.  Did 
the  Pygmies  come  from  a  man  who  was 
a  common  ancestor  to  many  races  now 
as  far  removed  from  one  another  as  my 
friend  Teku  of  the  Batwa  village  is  from 
the  late  President  McKinley  ?  We  must 
reserve  the  discussion  of  this  question 
for  another  time.  It  is  too  profound  and 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  13 


comprehensive  to  be  fully  presented  now. 
The  juxtaposition  of  the  Bantu  and  the 
Batwa  in  Africa  affords  one  of  the  best 
specific  cases  for  this  study  which  has 
ever  been  brought  before  the  scientific 
and  philosophical  world. 

Of  one  fact  my  experience  and  obser- 
vation completely  convinced  me,  —  that 
these  Pygmies  are  human  beings  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  The  data  corrobo- 
rating this  opinion  are  physical,  psycho- 
logical, and  ethnical. 

The  Pygmies,  without  exception,  have 
all  the  parts,  organs,  and  powers  of  the 
human  body,  without  any  variation  in 
kind  distinguishing  them  from  other  men. 
They  lack  nothing  in  this  respect,  nor 
are  there  any  cases  of  atrophied  mem- 
bers of  the  body.  Their  vocal  organs  en- 
able them  to  make  all  the  sounds  necessa- 
ry to  speak  the  languages  of  the  several 
different  tribes  which  meet  and  mingle 
at  Ndombe.  The  linguistic  differences 
between  these  tribes  are  such  as  to  jus- 
tify the  word  language  rather  than  dia- 
lect. The  fact  of  there  being  no  cases 
of  marital  alliance  between  the  Pygmies 
and  the  other  races  is  due  to  the  attitude 
of  the  larger  and  not  of  the  smaller  men. 
There  is  a  variation  of  at  least  one  foot 
among  the  Pygmies  themselves,  and  it 
is  conceivable  that  the  law  of  natural  se- 
lection might  develop  a  larger  race  from 
the  selected  members  of  the  dwarfs.  But 
there  are  no  authenticated  cases  of  this 
development  on  record  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  discover. 

The  Pygmies  show,  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree,  all  the  mental  faculties  which  are 
characteristic  of  other  men.  The  love  of 
parents  for  their  children  is  quite  marked. 
The  affectionate  playfulness  toward  their 
dogs  attracted  my  attention.  The  insti- 
tution of  marriage  is  recognized  among 
them,  and  although  polygamy  prevails, 
there  is  the  disapproval  of  laxity  in  these 
matters  which  one  finds  among  the  higher 
races.  I  have  already  referred  to  sun- 
worship  as  their  chief  religious  princi- 
ple. Murder,  theft,  and  violence  are 


194 


The  African  Pygmies. 


punished  by  common  consent  with  vary- 
ing severity  in  each  case.  The  necessity 
of  cunning  rather  than  of  force  as  a 
means  of  self-defense  has  affected  their 
standard  of  truthfulness,  but  they  know 
the  difference  between  a  lie  and  the 
truth,  and  have  words  to  express  both 
ideas.  They  show  the  play  of  the  emo- 
tions of  love,  hatred,  fear,  self-respect, 
vanity,  emulation,  and,  in  fact,  to  a  great- 
er or  less  rudimentary  degree,  of  all  the 
passions  and  affections.  The  possession 
of  rational  powers  by  the  Pygmies  is  be- 
yond dispute.  They  can  form  a  correct 
induction  from/  facts,  and  can  deduce 
conclusions  from  premises,  and  act  con- 
stantly on  axioms  which  are  expressed 
pithily  in  their  language.  This  reason- 
ing faculty  was  what  especially  caught 
my  attention,  and  caused  me  to  prose- 
cute a  psychological  study  of  them  ;  with 
the  result  that  I  was  fully  convinced  that 
they  were  men,  and  if  the  lowest  type, 
still  men. 

The  Pygmies  are  essentially  gregari- 
ous in  their  habits.  This  is  in  sharp  con- 
trast with  the  practice  of  the  highest 
apes,  the  gorillas,  which  go  in  pairs,  each 
pair  exhibiting  unrelenting  hostility  to 
all  others.  The  Pygmies  are  not  natu- 
rally warlike  in  their  attitude  toward  one 
another,  and  the  wars  in  which  they 
have  been  engaged  have  been  principally 
in  self-defense. 

On  one  occasion  the  Pygmies  showed 
their  common  sense  in  rather  a  decided 
way.  In  my  employ  were  some  very 
turbulent  natives  of  the  Zappo-Zap  and 
Batetela  tribes,  whose  headstrong  dispo- 
sition was  a  source  of  constant  anxiety 
to  me.  They  were  so  superior  in  indus- 
try and  intelligence  to  all  the  other  na- 
tives available  as  laborers  that  I  could 
not  conveniently  dispense  with  their  ser- 
vices. Their  love  of  meat  made  them 
constant  visitors  to  our  Pygmy  neigh- 
bors, and  their  taste  for  sharp  bargains 
made  the  little  people  decidedly  reluc- 
tant to  deal  with  them.  So  one  day  the 
Pygmies  mixed  an  emetic  herb  with  the 


meat  the  Zappo-Zaps  insisted  on  buy^ 
ing  at  too  low  a  figure,  and  put  an  end 
to  the  nuisance. 

Once  some  black  soldiers  sent  by  the 
Belgian  representative  of  the  Congo  gov- 
ernment to  collect  taxes  from  Ndombe 
came  upon  the  town,  and  poured  into  the 
Batwa  village  demanding  meat.  The 
little  people  gave  them  all  they  had  on 
hand,  and  promised  more  on  the  morrow. 
When  the  soldiers  came  next  morning, 
they  were  presented  with  an  abundance 
of  venison,  which,  fortunately  for  them, 
they  first  fed  to  some  dogs  as  a  precau- 
tion. The  dogs  died,  and  it  was  asserted 
by  the  soldiers  that  the  Pygmies  had 
prepared  to  poison  them  all.  But  for 
my  own  earnest  intervention,  there  would 
have  ensued  a  bloody  fray  at  once.  The 
soldiers  contented  themselves  with  feed- 
ing the  meat  to  the  Pygmies'  dogs,  and 
the  little  people  wept  sorely  because  I 
pronounced  this  fair  play,  and  told  them 
that  they  thus  escaped  lightly  from  worse 
punishment. 

Although  I  made  many  efforts  to  im- 
press the  principles  of  Christianity  upon 
the  Batwa,  they  were  very  slow  to  com- 
prehend or  act  upon  them.  They  were 
extremely  materialistic  in  their  views  of 
life,  and  preferred  the  sodium  chloride 
of  commerce  to  the  salt  of  religion.  One 
of  them  is  now  a  member  of  the  church 
in  good  and  regular  standing,  according 
to  my  latest  information,  and  I  believe 
they  have  souls  with  light  enough  in  them 
to  see  the  way  to  their  spiritual  improve- 
ment and  redemption. 

In  conclusion,  it  may  afford  a  strik- 
ing contrast  to  this  description  of  the 
dwarfs,  if  I  briefly  allude  to  the  prin- 
cipal characteristics  of  the  giant  king 
Ndombe  and  his  family.  Ndombe  stood 
six  feet  six  in  stature,  with  broad  square 
shoulders,  Herculean  limbs,  and  massive 
statuesque  features  of  a  distinctly  Egyp- 
tian cast.  He  was  of  a  bright  copper 
color,  with  aquiline  features,  and  mag- 
nificent brown  eyes.  He  carried  him- 
self as  erect  as  a  life-guardsman,  and 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


195 


although  he  weighed  fully  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  there  was  not  a  super- 
fluous ounce  of  flesh  on  him.  The  tout 
ensemble  of  the  man  was  regal,  and  I 
have  never  seen  his  physical  superior. 

He  had  thirty-one  wives  and  over  forty 
children.  His  family  connections  were 
so  extensive  that  they  occupied  a  whole 
town,  and  his  personal  bodyguard  was 
composed  entirely  of  his  blood  relations. 
Ndombe's  character  was  kindly  and  his 
deportment  dignified.  As  a  rule,  he 
treated  his  subjects  with  benevolence, 
and  even  his  slaves  were  devoted  to  him. 
Toward  me  his  attitude  was  always  both 
friendly  and  deferential.  The  complete 


confidence  which  his  Pygmy  subjects  re- 
posed in  him  was  one  of  the  strongest 
testimonies  to  his  good  sense  and  diplo- 
matic ability. 

The  accessibility  of  these  Pygmies  to 
the  outside  world  by  reason  of  the  recent 
opening  up  of  the  Kasai  valley  to  steam 
navigation  —  a  steamboat  for  Kasai  river 
having  been  built  in  Richmond,  Virginia 
—  ought  to  lead  to  a  thorough  study  of 
these  little  people.  No  subject  can  be 
of  more  fascinating  interest,  whether  to 
the  followers  of  science,  or  to  any  others 
who  agree  with  Pope  to  the  extent  of 
believing  that  at  least  one  "  proper  study 
of  mankind  is  man." 

Samuel  Phillips  Verner. 


A   NIGHT'S   LODGING. 


FATHER  WILISTON  was  a  retired 
clergyman,  so  distinguished  from  his 
son  Timothy,  whose  house  stood  on  the 
ridge  north  of  the  old  village  of  Win- 
throp,  and  whose  daily  path  lay  between 
his  house  and  the  new  growing  settle- 
ment around  the  valley  station.  It  oc- 
curred at  odd  times  to  Father  Wiliston 
that  Timothy's  path  was  somewhat  un- 
deviating.  The  clergyman  had  walked 
widely  since  Winthrop  was  first  left  be- 
hind fifty -five  years  back,  at  a  time  when 
the  town  was  smaller  and  cows  cropped 
the  Green  but  never  a  lawn  mower. 

After  college  and  seminary  had  come 
the  frontier,  which  lay  this  side  of  the 
Great  Lakes  until  Clinton  stretclied  his 
ribbon  of  waterway  to  the  sea;  then  a 
mission  in  Wisconsin,  intended  to  mod- 
ify the  restless  profanity  of  lumbermen 
who  broke  legs  under  logs  and  drank 
disastrous  whiskey.  A  city  and  twenty 
mills  were  on  the  spot  now,  though  the 
same  muddy  river  ran  into  the  same 
blue  lake.  Some  skidders  and  saw- 
tenders  of  old  days  were  come  to  live 
in  stone  mansions  and  drive  in  nickel- 
plated  carriages ;  some  were  dead ;  some 


drifting  like  the  refuse  on  the  lake 
front;  some  skidding  and  saw-tending 
still.  Distinction  of  social  position  was 
an  idea  that  Father  Wiliston  never  was 
able  to  grasp. 

In  the  memories  of  that  raw  city  on 
the  lake  he  had  his  place  among  its 
choicest  incongruities;  and  when  his 
threescore  and  ten  years  were  full  the 
practical  tenderness  of  his  nickel-plated 
and  mansioned  parishioners  packed  him 
one  day  into  an  upholstered  sleeping 
car,  drew  an  astonishing  check  to  his 
credit,  and  mailed  it  for  safety  to  Tim- 
othy Wiliston  of  Winthrop.  So  Father 
Wiliston  returned  to  Winthrop,  where 
Timothy,  his  son,  had  been  sent  to  take 
root  thirty  years  before. 

One  advantage  of  single-mindedness 
is  that  life  keeps  on  presenting  us  with 
surprises.  Father  Wiliston  occupied  his 
own  Arcadia,  and  Wisconsin  or  Win- 
throp merely  sent  in  to  him  a  succes- 
sion of  persons  and  events  of  curious  in- 
terest. "The  parson,"  —  Wisconsin 
so  spoke  of  him,  leaning  sociably  over 
its  bar,  or  pausing  among  scented  slabs 
and  sawdust,  —  "the  paVson  resembles 


196 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


an  egg  as  respects  that  it 's  innocent 
and  some  lopsided,  but  when  you  think 
he  must  be  getting  addled,  he  ain't. 
He  says  to  me,  '  You  '11  make  the  Lord 
a  deal  of  trouble,  bless  my  soul!  '  he 
says.  *  I  don't  see  how  the  Lord  's  going 
to  arrange  for  you.  But '  —  thinking 
he  might  hurt  my  feelings  — i  I  guess 
he  '11  undertake  it  by  and  by.'  Then 
he  goes  wabbling  down-street,  picks  up 
Mick  Riley,  who  's  considerable  drunk, 
and  takes  him  to  see  his  chickens.  And 
Mick  gets  so  interested  in  those  chick- 
ens you  'd  like  to  die.  Then  parson 
goes  off,  absent-minded  and  forgets 
him,  and  Mick  sleeps  the  balmy  night 
in  the  barnyard,  and  steals  a  chicken  in 
the  morning,  and  parson  says,  *  Bless 
my  soul!  How  singular!  '  Well," 
concluded  Wisconsin,  "he's  getting 
pretty  young  for  his  years.  I  hear 
they  're  going  to  send  him  East  before 
he  learns  bad  habits." 

The  steadiness  and  repetition  of 
Timothy's  worldly  career  and  semi- 
daily  walk  to  and  from  his  business 
therefore  seemed  to  Father  Wiliston 
phenomenal,  a  problem  not  to  be  solved 
by  algebra,  for  if  a  equaled  Timothy,  b 
his  house,  c  his  business,  a  -\-  b  -f-  c  was 
still  not  a  far-reaching  formula,  and 
there  seemed  no  advantage  in  squaring 
it.  Geometrically  it  was  evident  that 
by  walking  back  and  forth  over  the  same 
straight  line  you  never  so  much  as  ob- 
tained an  angle.  Now,  by  arithmetic, 
"  Four  times  thirty,  multiplied  by  — 
leaving  out  Sundays  —  Bless  me ! 
How  singular !  Thirty-seven  thousand 
five  hundred  and  sixty  times !  " 

He  wondered  if  it  had  ever  occurred 
to  Timothy  to  walk  it  backward,  or, 
perhaps,  to  hop,  partly  on  one  foot,  and 
then,  of  course,  partly  on  the  other. 
Sixty  years  ago  there  was  a  method  of 
progress  known  as  "  hop  -  skip  -  and- 
jump, "  which  had  variety  and  interest. 
Drawn  in  the  train  of  this  memory  came 
other  memories  floating  down  the  after- 
noon's slant  sunbeams,  rising  from  every 
meadow  and  clump  of  woods ;  from  the 


elder  swamp  where  the  brown  rabbits 
used  to  run  zigzag,  possibly  still  ran  in 
the  same  interesting  way;  from  the 
great  sand  bank  beyond  the  Indian 
graves.  The  old  Wiliston  house,  with 
roof  that  sloped  like  a  well-sweep,  lay 
yonder,  a  mile  or  two.  He  seemed  to 
remember  some  one  said  it  was  empty, 
but  he  could  not  associate  it  with  emp- 
tiness. The  bough  apples  there,  if  he 
remembered  rightly,  were  an  efficacious 
balm  for  regret. 

He  sighed  and  took  up  his  book.  It 
was  another  cure  of  regret,  a  Scott 
novel,  The  Pirate.  It  had  points  of 
superiority  over  Cruden's  Concordance. 
The  surf  began  to  beat  on  the  Shetland 
Islands,  and  trouble  was  imminent  be- 
tween Cleveland  and  Mordaunt  Mer- 
toun. 

Timothy  and  his  wife  drove  away 
visiting  that  afternoon,  not  to  return 
till  late  at  night,  and  Bettina,  the 
Scandinavian,  laid  Father  Wiliston 's 
supper  by  the  open  window,  where  he 
could  look  out  across  the  porch  and  see 
the  chickens  clucking  in  the  road. 

"You  mus'  eat,  fater,"  she  com- 
manded. 

"Yes,  yes,  Bettina.  Thank  you, 
my  dear.  Quite  right." 

He  came  with  his  book  and  sat  down 
at  the  table,  but  Bettina  was  expe- 
rienced and  not  satisfied. 

"You  mus'  eat  firs'." 

He  sighed  and  laid  down  The  Pi- 
rate. Bettina  captured  and  carried  it 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  lit  the 
lamp  though  it  was  still  light,  and  de- 
parted after  the  mail.  It  was  a  rare 
opportunity  for  her  to  linger  in  the  com- 
pany of  one  of  her  Scandinavian  admir- 
ers. "Fater  "  would  not  know  the  dif- 
ference between  seven,  and  nine  or  ten. 

He  leaned  in  the  window  and  watched 
her  safely  out  of  sight,  then  went  across 
the  room,  recaptured  The  Pirate,  and 
chuckled  in  the  tickling  pleasure  of  a 
forbidden  thing,  "asked  the  blessing," 
drank  his  tea  shrewdly,  knowing  it 
would  deteriorate,  and  settled  to  his 


A  NigMs  Lodging. 


197 


book.  The  brown  soft  dusk  settled, 
shade  by  shade ;  moths  fluttered  around 
the  lamp ;  sleepy  birds  twittered  in  the 
maples.  But  the  beat  of  the  surf  on 
the  Shetland  Islands  was  closer  than 
these.  Cleveland  and  Mordaunt  Mer- 
toun  were  busy,  and  Norna,  —  "  Really, 
Norna  was  a  remarkable  woman, "  — 
and  an  hour  slipped  past. 

Some  one  hemmed  close  by  and 
scraped  his  feet.  It  was  a  large  man 
who  stood  there,  dusty  and  ragged,  one 
boot  on  the  porch,  with  a  red  handker- 
chief knotted  under  his  thick  tangled 
beard  and  jovial  red  face.  He  had  solid 
limbs  and  shoulders,  and  a  stomach  of 
sloth  and  heavy  feeding. 

The  stranger  did  not  resemble  the 
comely  pirate,  Cleveland ;  his  linen  was 
not  "seventeen  hun'red;"  it  seemed 
doubtful  if  there  were  any  linen.  And 
yet,  in  a  way  there  was  something  not 
inappropriate  about  him,  a  certain  cha- 
otic ease;  not  piratical,  perhaps,  al- 
though he  looked  like  an  adventurous 
person.  Father  Wiliston  took  time  to 
pass  from  one  conception  of  things  to 
another.  He  gazed  mildly  through  his 


"I  ain't  had  no  supper,"  began  the 
stranger  in  a  deep  moaning  bass;  and 
Father  Wiliston  started. 

"Bless  my  soul!  Neither  have  I." 
He  shook  out  his  napkin.  "Bettina, 
you  see  "  — 

"Looks  like  there  's  enough  for  two, " 
moaned  and  grumbled  the  other.  He 
mounted  the  porch  and  approached  the 
window,  so  that  the  lamplight  glim- 
mered against  his  big,  red,  oily  face. 

"Why,  so  there  is!"  cried  Father 
Wiliston,  looking  about  the  table  in 
surprise.  "I  never  could  eat  all  that. 
Come  in."  And  the  stranger  rolled 
muttering  and  wheezing  around  through 
the  door. 

"Will  you  not  bring  a  chair?  And 
you  might  use  the  bread  knife.  These 
are  fried  eggs.  And  a  little  cold  chick- 
en ?  Really,  I  'm  very  glad  you  dropped 
in,  Mr."  — 


"Del  Toboso."  By  this  time  the 
stranger's  mouth  was  full  and  his  enun- 
ciation confused. 

"Why,"— Father  Wiliston  helped 
himself  to  an  egg,  —  "I  don't  think  I 
caught  the  name." 

"Del  Toboso.  Boozy  's  what  they 
calls  me  in  the  push." 

"I  'm  afraid  your  tea  is  quite  cold. 
Boozy?  How  singular!  I  hope  it 
doesn't  imply  alcoholic  habits." 

"No,"  shaking  his  head  gravely,  so 
that  his  beard  wagged  to  the  judicial 
negation.  "Takes  so  much  to  tank  me 
up  I  can't  afford  it,  let  alone  it  ain't 
moral. " 

The  two  ate  with  haste,  the  stranger 
from  habit  and  experience,  Father  Wil- 
iston for  fear  of  Bettina 's  sudden  re- 
turn. When  the  last  egg  and  slice  of 
bread  had  disappeared,  the  stranger  sat 
back  with  a  wheezing  sigh. 

"I  wonder,"  began  Father  Wiliston 
mildly,  "Mr.  Toboso  —  Toboso  is  the 
last  name,  is  n't  it,  and  Del  the  first  ?  " 

"Ah,"  the  other  wheezed  mysteri- 
ously, "I  don't  know  about  that,  El- 
der. That 's  always  a  question." 

"You  don't  know!  You  don't 
know !  " 

"Got  it  off'n  another  man,"  went 
on  Toboso  sociably.  "He  said  he 
wouldn't  take  fifty  dollars  for  it.  I 
didn't  have  no  money  nor  him  either, 
and  he  rolled  off'n  the  top  of  the  train 
that  night  or  maybe  the  next.  I  don't 
know.  I  didn't  roll  him.  It  was  in 
Dakota,  over  a  canon  with  no  special 
bottom.  He  scattered  himself  on  the 
way  down.  But  I  says,  if  that  name  's 
worth  fifty  dollars,  it 's  mine.  Del 
Toboso.  That 's  mine.  Sounds  valu- 
able, don't  it?" 

Father  Wiliston  fell  into  a  reverie. 
"Toboso?  Why,  yes.  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso.  I  remember,  now." 

"What 's  that?  Dulcinea,  was  it? 
And  you  knowed  him  ?  " 

"A  long'  while  ago  when  I  was 
younger.  It  was  in  a  green  cover  Don 
Quixote  —  he  was  in  a  cage,  '  The 


198 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


Knight   of    the  Rueful   Countenance.' 
He  had  his  face  between  the  bars."  . 

"Well,"  said  Toboso,  "you  must 
have  knowed  him.  He  always  looked 
glum,  and  I  've  seen  him  in  quad  my- 
self." 

"Yes.  Sancho  Panza.  Dulcinea 
del  Toboso." 

"I  never  knowed  that  part  of  it. 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso!  Well,  that's 
me.  You  know  a  ruck  of  fine  names, 
Elder.  It  sounds  like  thirteen  trumps, 
now,  don't  it?  " 

Father  Wiliston  roused  himself,  and 
discriminated.  "But  you  look  more 
like  Sancho  Panza." 

"Do?  Well,  I  never  knowed  that 
one.  Must  've  been  a  Greaser.  Dul- 
cinea 's  good  enough." 

Father  Wiliston  began  to  feel  singu- 
larly happy  and  alive.  The  regular  and 
even  paced  Timothy,  his  fidgeting  wife, 
and  the  imperious  Bettina  were  to  some 
extent  shadows  and  troubles  in  the  even- 
ing of  his  life.  They  were  careful  peo- 
ple, who  were  hemmed  in  and  restricted, 
who  somehow  hemmed  in  and  restricted 
him.  They  lived  up  to  precedents. 
Toboso  did  not  seem  to  depend  on  pre- 
'  cedents.  He  had  the  free  speech,  the 
casual  inconsequence,  the  primitive 
mystery,  desired  of  the  boy's  will  and 
the  wind's  will,  and  traveled  after  by 
the  long  thoughts  of  youth.  He  was 
wind-beaten,  burned  red  by  the  sun, 
ragged  of  coat  and  beard,  huge,  fat, 
wallowing  in  the  ease  of  his  flesh.  One 
looked  at  him  and  remembered  the  wide 
world  full  of  crossed  trails  and  slum- 
bering swamps. 

Father  W  iliston  had  long,  straight 
white  hair,  falling  beside  his  pale- 
veined  and  spiritual  forehead  and  thin 
cheeks.  He  propped  his  forehead  on 
one  bony  hand,  and  looked  at  Toboso 
with  eyes  of  speculation.  If  both  men 
were  what  some  would  call  eccentric, 
to  each  other  they  seemed  only  compan- 
ionable, which,  after  all,  is  the  main 
thing. 

"I  have  thought  of  late,"  continued 


Father  Wiliston  after  a  pause,  "that 
I  should  like  to  travel,  to  examine  hu- 
man life,  say,  on  the  highway.  I  should 
think,  now,  your  manner  of  living 
most  interesting.  You  go  from  house 
to  house,  do  you  not  ?  —  from  city  to 
city?  Like  Ulysses,  you  see  men  and 
their  labors,  and  you  pass  on.  Like 
the  Apostles,  — •  who  surely  were  wise 
men,  besides  that  were  especially  main- 
tained of  God,  —  like  them,  and  the  pil- 
grims to  shrines,  you  go  with  wallet 
and  staff  or  merely  with  Faith  for  your 
baggage." 

"There  don't  nothing  bother  you  in 
warm  weather,  that 's  right,"  said  To- 
boso, "except  your  grub.  And  that 
ain't  any  more  than  's  interesting.  If 
it  wasn't  for  looking  after  meals  a 
man  on  the  road  might  get  right  down 
lazy." 

-  "Why,  just  so!  How  wonderful! 
Now,  do  you  suppose,  Mr.  Toboso,  do 
you  suppose  it  feasible  ?  I  should  very 
much  like,  if  it  could  be  equably  ar- 
ranged, I  should  very  much  like  to  have 
this  experience." 

Toboso  reflected.  "There  ain't  many 
of  your  age  on  the  road."  An  idea 
struck  him  suddenly.  "But  supposing 
you  were  going  sort  of  experimenting, 
like  that, —  and  there  's  some  folks  that 
do,  —  supposing  you  could  lay  your 
hands  on  a  little  bunch  of  money  for 
luck,  I  don't  see  nothing  to  stop." 

"Why,  I  think  there  is  some  in  my 
desk." 

Toboso  leaned  forward  and  pulled  his 
beard.  The  table  creaked  under  his 
elbow. 

"How  much?" 

"I  will  see.  Of  course  you  are  quite 
right." 

"At  your  age,  Elder." 

"It  is  not  as  if  I  were  younger." 

Father  Wiliston  rose  and  hurried  out. 

Toboso  sat  still  and  blinked  at  the 
lamp.  "My  Gord!"  he  murmured 
and  moaned  confidentially,  "here  's  a 
game !  " 

After  some  time  Father  Wiliston  re- 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


199 


turned.  "Do  you  think  we  could  start 
now  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Why  sure,  Elder.  What's  hin- 
dering?" 

"I  am  fortunate  to  find  sixty  dol- 
lars. Really,  I  didn't  remember. 
And  here  's  a  note  I  have  written  to  my 
son  to  explain.  I  wonder  what  Bettina 
did  with  my  hat." 

He  hurried  back  into  the  hall.  To- 
boso  took  the  note  from  the  table  and 
pocketed  it.  "Ain't  no  use  taking 
risks." 

They  went  out  into  the  warm  night, 
under  pleasant  stars,  and  along  the  road 
together  arm  in  arm. 

"I  feel  pretty  gay,  Elder."  He 
broke  into  bellowing  song,  "  Hey,  Jinny ! 
Ho,  Jinny!  Listen,  love,  to  me." 

"Really,  I  feel  cheerful,  too,  Mr. 
Toboso,  wonderfully  cheerful." 

"Dulcinea,  Elder.  Dulcinea 's  me 
name.  Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!" 

"How  singular  it  is!  I  feel  very 
cheerful.  I  think  —  really,  I  think  I 
should  like  to  learn  that  song  about 
Jinny.  It  seems  such  a  cheerful  song. " 

"  Hit  her  up,  Elder, "  wheezed  Tobo- 
so jovially.  "Now  then  "  — 

"Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!  Listen, 
love,  to  me." 

So  they  went  arm  in  arm  with  a  roar- 
ing and  a  tremulous  piping. 

The  lamp  flickered  by  the  open  win- 
dow as  the  night  breeze  rose.  Bettina 
came  home  betimes  and  cleared  the  ta- 
ble. The  memory  of  a  Scandinavian 
caress  was  too  recent  to  leave  room  for 
her  to  remark  that  there  were  signs  of 
devastating  appetite,  that  dishes  had 
been  used  unaccountably,  and  that  "  Fa- 
ter  "  had  gone  somewhat  early  to  bed. 
Timothy  and  his  wife  returned  late. 
All  windows  and  doors  in  the  house  of 
Timothy  were  closed,  and  the  last  lamp 
was  extinguished. 

Father  Wiliston  and  Toboso  went 
down  the  hill,  silently,  with  furtive, 
lawless  steps  through  the  cluster  of 
houses  in  the  hollow,  called  Ironville, 


and  followed  then  the  road  up  the  chat- 
tering hidden  brook.  The  road  came 
from  the  shadows  of  this  gorge  at  last 
to  meadows  and  wide  glimmering  skies, 
and  joined  the  highway  to  Redfield. 
Presently  they  came  to  where  a  grassy 
side  road  slipped  into  the  highway  from 
the  right,  out  of  a  land  of  bush  and 
swamp  and  small  forest  trees  of  twenty 
or  thirty  years'  growth.  A  large  chest- 
nut stood  at  the  corner. 

"Hey,  Jinny!"  wheezed  Toboso. 
"Let 's  look  at  that  tree,  Elder." 

"Look  at  it  ?  Yes, yes.    What  for  ?  " 

Toboso  examined  the  bark  by  the 
dim  starlight;  Father  Wiliston  peered 
anxiously  through  his  glasses  to  where 
Toboso 's  linger  pointed. 

"See  those  marks?" 

"I  'm  afraid  I  don't.  Really,  I  'm 
sorry. " 

"Feel  'em,  then." 

And  Father  Wiliston  felt,  with  eager, 
excited  finger. 

"Them  there  mean  there  's  lodging 
out  here;  empty  house,  likely." 

"Do  they,  indeed.  Very  singular! 
Most  interesting!  "  And  they  turned 
into  the  grassy  road.  The  brushwood 
in  places  had  grown  close  to  it,  though 
it  seemed  to  be  still  used  as  a  cart  path. 
They  came  to  a  swamp,  rank  with 
mouldering  vegetation,  then  to  rising 
ground  where  once  had  been  meadows, 
pastures,  and  plough  lands. 

Father  Wiliston  was  aware  of  vaguely 
stirring  memories.  Four  vast  and  aged 
maple  trees  stood  close  by  the  road,  and 
their  leaves  whispered  to  the  night ;  be- 
hind them,  darkly,  was  a  house  with  a 
far  sloping  roof  in  the  rear.  The  win- 
dows were  all  glassless,  all  dark  and 
dead-looking,  except  two  in  a  front 
room,  in  which  a  wavering/  light  from 
somewhere  within  trembled  and  cow- 
ered. They  crept  up,  and  looking 
through  saw  tattered  wall  paper  and 
cracked  plaster,  and  two  men  sitting  on 
the  floor,  playing  cards  in  the  ghostly 
light  of  a  fire  of  boards  in  the  huge 
fireplace. 


200 


A  Nights  Lodging. 


"Hey,  Jinny!  "  roared  Toboso,  and 
the  two  jumped  up  with  startled  oaths. 
"Why,  it 's  Boston  Alley  and  the  New- 
ark Kid!  "  cried  Toboso.  "Come  on, 
Elder." 

The  younger  man  cast  forth  zigzag 
flashes  of  blasphemy.  "You  big  fat 
fool!  Don't  know  no  mor*  'n  to  jump 
like  that  on  me!  Holy  Jims!  I  ain't 
made  of  copper." 

Toboso  led  Father  Wiliston  round  by 
the  open  door.  "Hold  your  face,  Kid. 
Gents,  this  here  's  a  friend  of  mine 
we  '11  call  the  Elder,  and  let  that  go. 
I  'm  backing  him,  and  I  hold  that 
goes.  The  Kid,"  he  went  on  descrip- 
tively, addressing  Father  Wiliston,  "  is 
what  you  see  afore  you,  Elder.  His 
mouth  is  hot,  his  hands  is  cold,  his 
nerves  is  shaky,  he 's  always  feeling 
the  cops  gripping  his  shirt-collar.  He 
did  n't  see  no  clergy  around.  He  begs 
your  pardon.  Don't  he?  I  says,  don't 
he?" 

He  laid  a  heavy  red  hand  on  the 
Newark  Kid's  shoulder,  who  wiped  his 
pallid  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
smiled,  and  nodded. 

Boston  Alley  seemed  in  his  way  an 
agreeable  man.  He  was  tall  and  slen- 
der limbed,  with  a  long,  thin  black  mus- 
tache, sinewy  neck  and  hollow  chest, 
and  spoke  gently  with  a  sweet,  resonant 
voice,  saying,  "Glad  to  see  you,  El- 
der." 

These  two  wore  better  clothes  than 
Toboso,  but  he  seemed  to  dominate 
them  with  his  red  health  and  windy 
voice,  his  stomach  and  feet,  and  solid- 
ity of  standing  on  the  earth. 

Father  Wiliston  stood  the  while  gaz- 
ing vaguely  through  his  spectacles.  The 
sense  of  happy  freedom  and  congenial 
companionship  that  had  been  with  him 
during  the  starlit  walk  had  given  way 
gradually  to  a  stream  of  confused  mem- 
ories, and  now  these  memories  stood 
ranged  about,  looking  at  him  with  sad, 
faded  eyes,  asking  him  to  explain  the 
scene.  The  language  of  the  Newark 
Kid  had  gone  by  him  like  a  white  hot 


blast.  The  past  and  present  seemed  to 
have  about  the  same  proportions  of  vi- 
sion and  reality.  He  could  not  explain 
them  to  each  other.  He  looked  up  to 
Toboso,  pathetically,  trusting  in  his 
help. 

"It  was  my  house." 
Toboso  stared  surprised.     "I  ain't  on 
to  you,  Elder." 

"I  was  born  here." 

Indeed  Toboso  was  a  tower  of 
strength  even  against  the  ghosts  bf  other 
days,  reproachful  for  their  long  dur- 
ance in  oblivion. 

"Oh!  Well,  by  Jinny!  I  reckon 
you'll  give  us  lodging,  Elder,"  he 
puffed  cheerfully.  He  took  the  coinci- 
dence so  pleasantly  and  naturally  that 
Father  Wiliston  was  comforted,  and 
thought  that  after  all  it  was  pleasant 
and  natural  enough. 

The  only  furniture  in  the  room  was 
a  high-backed  settle  and  an  overturned 
kitchen  table,  with  one  leg  gone,  and 
the  other  three  helplessly  in  the  air,  — 
so  it  had  lain  possibly  many  years.  Bos- 
ton Alley  drew  forward  the  settle  and 
threw  more  broken  clapboards  on  the 
fire,  which  blazed  up  and  filled  the  room 
wfth  flickering  cheer.  Soon  the  three 
outcasts  were  smoking  their  pipes  and 
the  conversation  became  animated. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Father 
Wiliston,  —  "I remember  so  distinctly, 
—  there  were  remarkable  early  bough 
apples  growing  in  the  orchard." 

"The  pot's  yours,  Elder,"  thun- 
dered Toboso.  They  went  out  groping 
under  the  old  apple  trees,  and  returned 
laden  with  plump  pale  green  fruit.  Bos- 
ton Alley  and  the  Newark  Kid  stretched 
themselves  on  the  floor  on  heaps  of 
pulled  grass.  Toboso  and  Father  Wil- 
iston sat  on  the  settle.  The  juice  of 
the  bough  apples  ran  with  a  sweet  tang. 
The  palate  rejoiced  and  the  soul  re^ 
sponded.  The  Newark  Kid  did  swift, 
cunning  card  tricks  that  filled  Father 
Wiliston  with  wonder  and  pleasure. 

"My  dear  young  man,  I  don't  see 
how  you  do  it !  " 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


201 


The  Kid  was  lately  out  of  prison  from 
a  two  years'  sentence,  "only  for  get- 
ting into  a  house  by  the  window  instead 
of  the  door, "  as  Boston  Alley  delicate- 
ly explained,  and  the  "flies,"  meaning 
officers  of  the  law,  "  are  after  him  again 
for  reasons  he  ain't  quite  sure  of. "  The 
pallor  of  slum  birth  and  breeding,  and 
the  additional  prison  pallor,  made  his 
skin  look  curious  where  the  grime  had 
not  darkened  it.  He  had  a  short- jawed, 
smooth- shaven  face,  a  flat  mouth  and 
light  hair,  and  was  short  and  stocky, 
but  lithe  and  noiseless  in  movement,  and 
inclined  to  say  little.  Boston  Alley  was 
a  man  of  some  slight  education,  who 
now  sometimes  sung  in  winter  variety 
shows  such  songs  as  he  picked  up  here 
and  there  in  summer  wanderings,  for  in 
warm  weather  he  liked  footing  the  road 
better,  partly  because  the  green  country 
sights  were  pleasant  to  him,  and  part- 
ly because  he  was  irresolute  and  keep- 
ing engagements  was  a  distress.  He 
seemed  agreeable  and  sympathetic. 

"He  ain't  got  no  more  real  feelings 
'n  a  fish, "  said  Toboso,  gazing  candidly 
at  Boston,  but  speaking  to  Father  Wil- 
iston,  "and  yet  he  looks  like  he  had 
'em,  and  a  man  's  glad  to  see  him. 
Ain't  seen  you  since  fall,  Boston,  but  I 
see  the  Kid  last  week  at  a  hang-out  in 
Albany.  Well,  gents,  this  ain't  a  bad 
lay." 

Toboso  himself  had  been  many  years 
on  the  road.  He  was  in  a  way  a  man 
of  much  force  and  decision,  and  prob- 
ably it  was  another  element  in  him, 
craving  sloth  and  easy  feeding,  which 
kept  him  in  this  submerged  society; 
although  here,  too,  there  seemed  room 
for  the  exercise  of  his  dominance.  He 
leaned  back  in  the  settle,  and  had  his 
hand  on  Father  Wiliston's  shoulder.  His 
face  gleamed  redly  over  his  bison  beard. 

"It 's  a  good  lay.  And  we  're  gay, 
Elder.  Ain't  we  gay?  Hey,  Jinny!  " 

"Yes,  yes,  Toboso.  But  this  young 
man,  —  I  'm  sure*  he  must  have  great 
talents,  great  talents,  quite  remarkable. 
Ah  —  yes,  Jinny !  " 


"Hey,  Jinny,"  they  sang  together, 
"Ho,  Jinny!  Listen,  love,  to  me. 
I  '11  sing  to  you,  and  play  to  you,  a 
dulcet  melode-e-e, "  —  while  Boston 
danced  a  shuffle  and  the  Kid  snapped 
the  cards  in  time.  Then,  at  Toboso 's 
invitation  and  command,  Boston  sang  a 
song,  called  The  Cheerful  Man,  resem- 
bling a  ballad,  to  a  somewhat  monoto- 
nous tune,  and  perhaps  known  in  the 
music  halls  of  the  time,  —  all  with  a 
sweet,  resonant  voice  and  a  certain 
pathos  of  intonation :  — 

"  I  knew  a  man  across  this  land 
Came  waving  of  a  cheerful  hand, 
Who  drew  a  gun  and  gave  some  one 
A  violent  contus-i-on, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"  They  sent  him  up,  he  fled  from  '  quad ' 
By  a  window  and  the  grace  of  God, 
Picked  up  a  wife  and  children  six, 
And  wandered  into  politics, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"  In  politics  he  was,  I  hear, 
A  secret,  subtle  financier  — 
So  the  jury  says,  '  But  we  agree 
He  quits  this  sad  community, 
This  cheerful  man.' 

"  His  wife  and  six  went  on  the  town, 
And  he  went  off  ;  without  a  frown 
Reproaching  Providence,  went  he 

.    And  got  another  wife  and  three, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"  He  runs  a  cross-town  car  to-day 
From  Bleecker  Street  to  Avenue  A. 
He  swipes  the  fares  with  skillful  ease, 
Keeps  up  his  hope,  and  tries  to  please, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"  Our  life  is  mingled  woe  and  bliss, 
Man  that  is  born  of  woman  is 
Short-lived  and  goes  to  his  long  home. 
Take  heart,  and  learn  a  lesson  from 
This  cheerful  man." 

"But, "  said  Father  Wiliston,  "don't 
you  think  really,  Mr.  Alley,  that  the 
moral  is  a  little  confused?  I  don't 
mean  intentionally,"  he  added,  with 
anxious  precaution,  "but  don't  you 
think  he  should  have  reflected  "  — 

"You  're  right,  Elder, "  said  Toboso, 


202 


A  Night's  Lodging. 


with  decision.  "It 's  like  that.  It 
ain't  moral.  When  a  thing  ain't  moral 
that  settles  it."  And  Boston  nodded 
and  looked  sympathetic  with  every 
one. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  agree  with 
me,"  said  Father  Wiliston.  He  felt 
himself  growing  weary  now  and  heavy- 
eyed.  Presently  somehow  he  was  lean- 
ing on  Toboso*  with  his  head  on  his 
shoulder.  Toboso 's  arm  was  around 
him,  and  Toboso  began  to  hum  in  a  kind 
of  wheezing  lullaby,  "Hey,  Jinny! 
Ho,  Jinny !  " 

"I  am  very  grateful,  my  dear 
friends,"  murmured  Father  Wiliston. 
"I  have  lived  a  long  time.  I  fear  I 
have  not  always  been  careful  in  my 
course,  and  am  often  forgetful.  I 
think," — drowsily,  —  "I  think  that 
happiness  must  in  itself  be  pleasing  to 
God.  I  was  often  happy  before  in  this 
room.  I  remember  —  my  dear  mother 
sat  here  —  who  is  now  dead.  We  have 
been  quite,  really  quite  cheerful  to- 
night. My  mother  —  was  very  judi- 
cious —  an  excellent  wise  woman  —  she 
died  long  ago."  So  he  was  asleep,  be- 
fore any  one  was  aware,  while  Toboso 
crooned  huskily,  "Hey,  Jinny!"  and 
Boston  Alley  and  the  Newark  Kid  sat 
upright  and  stared  curiously. 

"Holy  Jims!"  said  the  Kid. 

Toboso  motioned  them  to  bring  the 
pulled  grass.  They  piled  it  on  the  set- 
tle, let  Father  Wiliston  down  softly, 
brought  the  broken  table,  and  placed  it 
so  that  he  could  not  roll  off. 

"Well,"  said  Toboso,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  "I  guess  we'd  better 
pick  him  and  be  off.  He  's  got  sixty 
in  his  pocket." 

"Oh,"  said  Boston,  "that's  it,  is 
it?" 

"It 's  my  find,  but  seeing  you  's  here 
I  takes  half  and  give  you  fifteen 
apiece." 

"Well,  that's  right." 

"And  I  guess  the  Kid  can  take  it 
out." 

The  Kid  found  the  pocketbook  with 


sensitive  gliding  fingers,  and  pulled  it 
out.  Toboso  counted  and  divided  the 
bills. 

"  Well, "  whispered  Toboso  thought- 
fully, "if  the  Elder  now  was  forty 
years  younger,  I  wouldn't  want  a  bet- 
ter pardner."  They  tiptoed  out  into 
the  night.  "But,"  he  continued, 
"looking  at  it  that  way,  o'  course  he 
ain't  got  no  great  use  for  his  wad  and 
won't  remember  it  till  next  week. 
Heeled  all  right,  anyhow.  Only,  I  says 
now,  I  says,  there  ain't  no  vice  in 
him." 

"Mammy  tuck  me  up,  no  licks  to- 
night," said  the  Kid,  plodding  in  front. 
"I  ain't  got  nothing  against  him." 

Boston  Alley  only  fingered  the  bills 
in  his  pocket. 

It  grew  quite  dark  in  the  room  they 
had  left,  as  the  fire  sunk  to  a  few  flames, 
then  to  dull  embers  and  an  occasional 
darting  spark.  The  only  sound  was 
Father  Wiliston 's  light  breathing. 

When  he  awoke  the  morning  was  dim 
in  the  windows.  He  lay  a  moment  con- 
fused in  mind,  then  sat  up  and  looked 
around. 

"  Dear  me !  Well,  well,  I  dare  say 
Toboso  thought  I  was  too  old.  I  dare 
say  "  —  getting  on  his  feet  —  "I  dare 
say  they  thought  it  would  be  unkind 
to  tell  me  so." 

He  wandered  through  the  dusky  old 
rooms  and  up  and  down  the  creaking 
stairs,  picking  up  bits  of  recollection, 
some  vivid,  some  more  dim  than  the 
dawn,  some  full  of  laughter,  some  that 
were  leaden  and  sad;  then  out  into 
the  orchard  to  find  a  bough  apple  in 
the  dewy  grasses,  and,  kneeling  under 
the  gnarled  old  tree  to  make  his  morn- 
ing prayer,  which  included  in  petition 
the  three  overnight  revelers,  he  went 
in  fluent  phrase  and  broken  tones 
among  eldest  memories. 

He  pushed  cheerfully  into  the  grassy 
road  now,  munching  his  apple  and  hum- 
ming, "Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!  "  He 
examined  the  tree  at  the  highway  with 
fresh  interest.  "How  singular!  It 


The  Browning   Tonic. 


203 


means  an  empty  house.  Very  intel- 
ligent man,  Toboso." 

Bits  of  grass  were  stuck  on  his  back 
and  a  bramble  dragged  from  his  coat 
tail.  He  plodded  along  in  the  dust  and 
wabbled  absent-mindedly  from  one  side 
of  the  road  to  the  other.  The  dawn 
towered  behind  him  in  purple  and  crim- 
son, lifted  its  robe  and  canopy,  and 
flung  some  kind  of  glittering  gauze  far 
beyond  him.  He  did  not  notice  it  till 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  above 
Ironville  with  Timothy's  house  in  sight. 
Then  he  stopped,  turned,  and  was  star- 
tled a  moment ;  then  smiled  companion- 
ably  on  the  state  and  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing, much  as  on  Toboso  and  the  card 
tricks  of  the  Newark  Kid. 

"  Really, "  he  murmured,  "  I  have  had 
a  very  good  time." 

He  met  Timothy  in  the  hall. 


"Been  out  to  walk  early,  father? 
Wait  —  there  's  grass  and  sticks  on 
your  coat." 

It  suddenly  seemed  difficult  to  ex- 
plain the  entire  circumstances  to  Tim- 
othy, a  settled  man  and  girt  with  pre- 
cedent. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  it  ?  —  Letter  you 
dropped?  No,  I  haven't  seen  it. 
Breakfast  is  ready." 

Neither  Bettina  nor  Mrs.  Timothy 
had  seen  the  letter. 

"No  matter,  my  dear,  no  matter. 
I  —  really,  I '  ve  had  a  very  good  time. " 

Afterward  he  came  out  on  the  porch 
with  his  Bible  and  Concordance,  sat 
down  and  heard  Bettina  brushing  his  hat 
and  ejaculating,  "Fater!  "  Presently 
he  began  to  nod  drowsily  and  his  head 
dropped  low  over  the  Concordance.  The 
chickens  clucked  drowsily  in  the  road. 
Arthur  Colton. 


THE   BROWNING   TONIC. 


I. 


THERE  was  once  a  time  —  not  so  long 
ago,  either,  as  I  would  like  to  induce 
credulous  people  to  believe  —  when  the 
three  editions  of  Robert  Browning's 
poems  which  now  find  home  and  wel- 
come in  my  bookcases  would,  had  I 
possessed  them,  have  been  sealed  books 
to  me. 

In  those  days  —  already  so  incon- 
ceivable that  they  seem  to  recede  into 
a  prehistoric  vista  —  it  was  commonly 
supposed  by  readers  in  my  rank  and 
station  of  enlightenment  that  a  person 
who  made  any  assured  claim  to  a  com- 
prehension of  Browning  was  either  a 
rank  pretender  or  the  victim  of  a  spe- 
cial revelation.  It  was  during  this 
period,  I  remember,  that  a  teacher  of 
English  in  thejpublic  schools  said  to  me 
rather  sadly,  — 

"I  don't  like  to  tell  people  that  I 


enjoy  reading  Browning  —  it  makes  me 
appear  so  conceited." 

Even  in  that  dark  era  of  my  ex- 
istence, however,  I  did  not  consider  my- 
self so  ignorant  of  the  work  of  the  great 
poet  as  my  present  confession  seems  to 
imply.  I  was  more  or  less  familiar  with 
The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  I  had  heard 
the  story  of  {he  good  news  that  was 
brought  from  Ghent  to  Aix  vigorously 
thundered  forth  on  various  declamatory 
occasions,  and  I  had  read  with  emotion 
that  Incident  of  the  French  Camp 
which  Owen  Wister  makes  his  Virgin- 
ian hero  criticise  so  cruelly.  I  should 
not  say,  if  I  were  going  to  state  my 
conception  of  the  situation,  that  I  had 
been  growing  up  through  gradations  of 
Longfellow,  Lowell,  Tennyson,  and  the 
rest  to  the  possibility  of  a  comprehen- 
sion of  Browning.  The  library  with 
which  I  was  most  familiar  in  my  youth 
offered  to  a  child  naturally  hungry  for 


204 


The  Browning   Tonic. 


poetry  a  noble  collection  of  English 
authors.  Fed  from  this  source  I  de- 
voured Shakespeare  with  the  avidity 
which  one  saves  nowadays  for  the  pe- 
rusal of  a  popular  novel,  pored  over 
Paradise  Lost  with  the  conviction  that 
it  was  rather  sensational  reading,  laid 
my  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth  with 
Gray,  and  spouted  Collins 's  Odes  to 
hill  and  sky  in  my  lonely  walks. 

This  was  princely  fare,  and  I  ought 
to  have  benefited  by  it  far  more  than 
I  did,  yet,  in  spite  of  my  limitations, 
I  assimilated  something  from  it  all, 
something  that  became  a  part  of  me, 
imperishable  until  I  perish.  From  such 
a  foundation,  however  ill  profited  by, 
one  does  not  "grow  up  "  to  other  au- 
thors—  one  simply  enlarges  one's 
Olympian  temple  to  make  room  for 
new  gods, 

"  A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone  ! 
All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each." 

A  man  asked  me  once  if  I  had  not 
outgrown  Dickens,  and  I  questioned  my 
inner  consciousness  to  know  if  this  were 
the  case.  Through  long  familiarity  I 
had,  indeed,  ceased  to  read  Dickens, 
but  —  outgrown  ?  Does  one  outgrow 
Mr.  Micawber,  Betsey  Trotwood,  Mr. 
Pickwick,  and  the  rest?  Is  it  not 
rather  that  one  enlarges  the  circle  of 
one's  friends  to  find  room  for  them  all, 
every  one,  the  old  no  less  than  the  new  ? 
Sometimes,  too,  the  high  gods  prove  too 
high,  or  the  son  of  the  carpenter  is  trans- 
formed before  our  eyes  into  the  King 
of  Men. 

Lucian's  parable  of  the  council  of  the 
gods  and  the  struggle  for  precedence  is 
applicable  still.  The  dog-faced  mon- 
ster from  Egypt  with  the  great  gold 
nose  is,  it  is  true,  sooner  or  later  rele- 
gated to  the  background  when  one  learns 
to  estimate  comparative  values,  but  he 
is  not  banished  to  outer  darkness.  All 
our  gods  come  to  stay  —  and  a  gold 
nose  counts  for  something. 

I  can  remember  the  exact  moment 
when  Robert  Browning  was  first  defi- 


nitely revealed  to  me  as  a  presiding 
deity. 

I  have  always  had  a  tendency  to 
grasp  at  the  pictorial  aspect  of  things, 
and,  as  it  chances,  each  of  the  group 
of  poems  which  first  revealed  that  poet 
to  me  as  the  friendliest  friend  of  all  is 
pigeon-holed  in  my  mind  with  a  spec- 
tacular tag  attached  to  it. 

Thus  I  entered  the  Browning  coun- 
try —  the  real  land  of  faery  where 
Browning  is  king  —  through  the  gate 
of  Prospice,  and  the  gate  was  opened 
to  me  by  a  young  man.  He  stood,  I 
remember,  while  he  read  the  poem 
aloud,  and  a  slant  of  sunlight  fell  full 
upon  his  broad  brows  and  his  rather 
nice  gray  eyes,  and  even  lent  a  glamour 
to  the  exceedingly  pointed  toes  of  his 
patent  leather  shoes.  He  liked  what 
he  read,  and  was  in  earnest  about  it ; 
he  was  not  thinking  of  me  and  I  very 
ooon  ceased  thinking  of  him. 

The  peculiar  movement  of  the  poem 
appealed  directly  to  an  element  always 
easily  aroused  in  my  nature,  —  the  fight- 
ing spirit,  which  may  be  in  my  case 
more  bravado  than  pluck,  but  which  at 
any  rate  knows  how  to  appreciate  pluck 
in  others. 
"  I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more 

The  best  and  the  last !  " 
struck  a  chord  that  went   thrilling  on 
until  the  quick  transition  at  the  end  of 
the  poem,  when 

"  the  element's  rage,  the  fiend  voices  that 
rave," 

dwindle  and  blend  and  change,  to  be- 
come 

"  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
0  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee 
again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest !  " 

There  is  no  touch  to  which  the  hearts 
of  men  and  women  so  readily  thrill  with 
instant  response  as  to  this  touch  of  hu- 
man love,  whether  it  be  that  of  the 
fighter  leaning  across  the  black  gulf  of 
death  to  clasp  the  beloved  one  again,  or 


The  Browning   Tonic. 


the    Blessed    Damozel    stooping    from 
"  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  "  to  say, 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 
For  he  will  come." 

Every  one  of  us,?  even  those  who  have 
deliberately  taken  husbands  or  wives  in 
a  series,  cherishes  in  his  or  her  inmost 
thought  the  conviction  that  under  dif- 
ferent and  more  favorable  circumstances 
we,  too,  might  have  been  capable  of  ro- 
mantic love  and  perfect  constancy.  This 
unformulated  belief  in  ourselves  aids 
our  self-respect  immensely,  and  helps 
to  put  a  garland  —  invisible  perhaps, 
but  to  the  eye  of  faith  none  the  less 
decorative  —  around  the  least  senti- 
mental existence. 

The  motive  of  the  whole  poem,  too, 
the  courage,  the  constancy,  the  devo- 
tion, strikes  with  a  bold  hand  —  as 
Browning  always  does  strike  —  that 
keynote  of  strength  which  is  the  domi- 
nant note  in  everything  he  writes. 
Weakness  is  the  only  thing  he  conceived 
it  possible  to  fear.  Be  bold,  act  a  man's 
part  and  leave  the  rest,  —  above  all,  re- 
member that  fighting  is  the  best  fun  in 
the  world,  and  a  man  who  won't  fight 
is  not  worth  his  salt. 

"  Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will !  " 

My  next  discovery  in  the  Browning 
country  was  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  a  mine  of 
pure  gold  from  which  I  have  been  dig- 
ging nuggets  ever  since.  The  personal 
recollection  to  which  my  earlier  know- 
ledge of  this  poem  is  joined  is  that  of 
a  clergyman  with  whom  I  conned  it 
over  stanza  by  stanza,  for  the  purpose, 
as  I  recall  it,  of  convincing  him  that 
Browning  had  written  some  things 
which  compared  favorably  with  the  work 
of  his  favorite  Tennyson  and  were  not 
materially  harder  to  understand. 

I  told  him,  with  that  modest  confi- 
dence in  my  literary  judgments  which 
has  always  distinguished  me,  that  Ten- 
nyson never  but  once  mustered  sufficient 
courage  really  to  "let  himself  go,"  and 
that  Maud,  which  was  the  outcome  of 
this  first  and  last  indulgence,  has  a  hys- 


205 

teric  note  in  it  which  would  have  been 
impossible  to  Browning. 

"  One  feels  all  the  time, "  I  criticised 
confidently,  "that  the 

*  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood  ' 

was  a  great  deal  more  dreadful  than  it 
need  have  been  if  the  hero  of  the  poem 
could  only  have  '  braced  up  '  and  ful- 
filled his  own  longings, 

'  And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me, 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be  !  '  " 

My  clerical  friend,  however,  did  not 
believe  in  any  man's  right  to  let  him- 
self go,  and  our  sitting  ended  with  a 
hopeless  discrepancy  between  the  lay 
and  the  ministerial  judgment. 

I  have  read  this  poem  many  times 
since  then  and  never  without  finding  in 
it  something  strong  and  stirring,  some- 
thing that  gave  me  fresh  courage  to  be 
gone 

"  Once    more    on    my  adventure   brave    and 
new." 

f  In  many  a  night  of  weariness  and 
racking  pain  I  have  repeated  over  and 
over  to  myself  —  that  inner  self  that 
has  power  over  the  physical  being  — 
fragments  from  its  battle  call,  —  the 
bugle  call  to  my  retreating  courage :  — 

"  Then  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting-  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three  parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 

Learn,  nor  account    the    pang ;   dare,  never 
grudge  the  throe  !  " 

It  is  true,  I  never  did  welcome  each 
rebuff,  and  there  was  no  moment,  I  sup- 
pose, when  I  would  not  joyfully  have 
turned  earth's  roughness  smooth,  but 
since  I  must  endure  the  throe  whether 
I  grudged  it  or  not,  here  was  something 
to  take  hold  of,  to  crystallize  around, 
to  serve  as  a  sting  to  my  spiritual 
weakness. 

If,  of  all  our  authors,  we  are  most 
indebted  to  him  who  helps  us  to  hate 
cowardice,  then  Robert  Browning  must 


206 


The,  Browning   Tonic. 


be  hailed  above  all  others  as  the  prophet 
of  courage,  courage  in  victory,  courage 
in  defeat,  the  courage  of  the  losing  fight 
no  less  than  the  courage  of  success. 
One,  he  was, 

"  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched 

breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never   dreamed,  though   right   were  worsted, 

wrong  would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake." 

I  have  never  asked,  it  is  true, 
whether  in  detail  he  lived  up  to  what 
he  preached.  It  does  not  matter.  Most 
of  us  are  in  one  way  or  another  born 
cowards,  and  what  we  need  more  than 
anything  else  is  to  be  made  properly 
ashamed  of  ourselves.  Hail,  then, 
Robert  Browning,  disturber  of  the 
peace ! 

While  I  was  still  in  the  grasp  of 
Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  I  was  invited  to  spend 
an  afternoon  with  a  "  Reading  Circle, " 
which  was  at  that  time  struggling  with 
the  dark  mysteries  of  Childe  Roland  to 
the  Dark  Tower  Came. 

They  told  me  sadly  —  the  members 
of  the  Circle  —  that  they  had  pored 
over  a  dozen  interpretations  of  the 
poem  and  "didn't  understand  it  yet." 

"Of  course  I  would  like  to  under- 
stand what  Browning  meant  by  the 
thing, "  one  reader  said  candidly,  — 
"that  is,  if  he  himself  had  any  idea 
*  where  he  was  at,'  — but  I  don't  see 
how  anybody  could  like  it." 

Having  had  my  attention  thus  called 
to  Childe  Roland,  I  made  a  bold 
charge  at  his  secrets,  but  very  soon 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  was  not  under 
the  slightest  obligation  to  understand 
him.  I  have  trodden  that  dark  way 
with  him  many  a  time,  have  lost  my- 
self upon  the  barren  plain,  felt  what  he 
felt,  looked  with  despairing  eyes  on 
what  he  saw,  and  when 

"  Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once 

This  was  the  place," 

I  have  always  been  sure  that,  after 
going  through  so  much  disagreeableness 


for  the  sake  of  arriving  at  the  Dark 
Tower,  only  to  find  "all  the  lost  ad- 
venturers, my  peers, "  on  dress  parade 
watching  to  see  what  I  was  going  to  do 
about  it,  I  should  have  blown  the  horn 
at  all  hazards.  As  I  have  previously 
hinted,  Browning's  chief  virtue  is  that 
he  makes  one  feel  willing  to  blow  horns 
and  wave  banners  and  lead  forlorn 
hopes. 

It  was  at  about  this  period  of  my 
Browning  explorations  that  I  began  to 
meet  the  Greek  professor  in  my  morn- 
ing walks.  The  springtime  had  come 
and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  was  heard 
in  the  land,  —  a  condition  of  affairs 
which  made  it  more  possible  for  the  hu- 
man voice  to  gain  an  audience.  The 
Greek  professor  —  who  had  retired  from 
the  active  duties  of  his  position  —  now 
and  then  joined  company  with  me  dur- 
ing our  leisurely  return  from  the  morn- 
ing errands  which  gave  us  an  excuse  for 
being  abroad.  He  had  a  genuine  pas- 
sion for  the  classics,  and  enjoyed  rolling 
out  sonorous  quotations  from  his  favor- 
ite authors,  although  these  gems  of 
thought  always  required  translation  into 
English  for  the  instruction  of  my  igno- 
rance. 

One  day  he  asked  me  rather  mourn- 
fully if  I  liked  Browning.  I  acknow- 
ledged with  cheerful  hope  that  I  thought 
I  was  going  to  like  him,  though  I  had 
not  yet  penetrated  very  far  into  the 
labyrinth  of  his  pages. 

It  appeared  from  the  professor's  nar- 
rative that  an  enthusiastic  young  friend 
"who  in  the  inexperience  of  youth 
doubtless  flattered  himself  that  he  could 
comprehend  all  mysteries  "  had  request- 
ed him,  the  professor,  to  read  Caliban 
upon  Setebos  —  oh,  the  drawling  scorn 
of  accent  with  which  this  was  spoken! 
and  he  was  in  process  of  offering  this 
sacrifice  to  friendship. 

"If  you  have  n't  read  the  gibberish, " 
he  suggested,  "  and  have  time  to  waste, 
as  most  women  do  have,  I  wish  you 
would  see  whether  you  can  make  head 
or  tail  of  it.  I  can't." 


The  Browning  Tonic. 


207 


The  next  time  we  met  I  told  the  pro- 
fessor that  I  had  ventured  on  Caliban 
and  rather  enjoyed  the  experiment.  I 
spoke  more  diffidently  than  is  my  wont. 
I  am  generally  most  positive  in  regard 
to  subjects  I  know  least  about. 

"Enjoyed  it!"  the  professor  ex- 
claimed. "Will  you  tell  me  what  there 
is  to  enjoy  about  Caliban  upon  Sete- 
bos  ?  "  —  the  old  scornful  intonation. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "the  same  ele- 
ment that  appeals  to  me  in  all  the 
Browning  poems  I  know,  —  the  daring 
of  it,  the  boldness  with  which  he  puts 
his  finger  on  the  sore  spots  so  many 
of  us  are  conscious  of  and  think  it 
wicked  to  mention." 

"Pooh !  "  my  friend  repeated,  "  Cali- 
ban upon  Setebos!  My  dear  woman, 
there 's  nothing  in  it  —  less  than  no- 
thing! Now  here  's  a  little  bit  that  I 
got  from  my  Greek  Calendar  this  morn- 
ing—  an  epitaph  by  Leonidas.  See 
what  you  think  of  this,"  and  the  pro- 
fessor translated  for  me, 

"  A  slave  was  Epictetus,  who  before  you  buried 

lies, 
And  a  cripple  and  a  beggar  and  the  favorite 

of  the  skies." 

"I  like  it,"  I  answered,  "partly,  I 
think,  because  it  shows  the  same  spirit 
that  draws  me  toward  Browning." 

"  The  only  difference  I  recognize  be- 
tween the  two, "  the  professor  remarked 
in  his  very  softest  drawl,  "is  the  dif- 
ference between  words  with  meaning  — 
much  in  little  —  and  words  without 
meaning  —  little  in  much." 

I  no  longer  meet  the  professor  in  my 
morning  walks.  He  heard  one  day 
"the  great  voice  "  from  those  skies 

"  Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits," 

and  calling  last  Ave  atque  Vale!  to 
those  he  left  behind,  he  went  his  way. 
It  may  be  that  in  that  high  Olympus 
he  talks  to-day  with  "Euripides  the 
human  "  and  Catullus  the  beloved  and 
Browning  the  brave,  and  there  has 
learned  to  know  as  he  is  known. 

From  Caliban  upon  Setebos  I  passed 


by  an  easy  transition  to  Paracelsus. 
This  transformation  scene  was  owing  to 
the  prophetic  guidance  of  the  Woman's 
Literary  Club.  The  "programme  com- 
mittee "  of  this  organization,  knowing 
well  where  Genius  had  her  home,  had 
invited  me  to  "prepare  a  paper"  on 
the  latter  poem.  I  did  not  hesitate 
for  a  moment.  I  had  once  glanced 
hastily  through  the  poem,  and,  being 
hampered  by  very  little  knowledge  of 
its  real  import,  in  three  days  from  the 
time  of  request  I  had  delivered  myself 
of  an  interpretation  which  solved  satis- 
factorily —  to  my  thinking  —  every 
vexed  problem  that  the  critics  had  ever 
raised  in  regard  to  its  meaning. 

I  did  not  hesitate  to  assert  in  the 
most  "flat-footed  "  manner,  "Whatever 
charge  of  obscurity  can  be  brought 
against  other  of  Browning's  poems, 
thereis  nothing  obscure  in  Paracelsus !  " 

It  was  a  great  paper.  I  liked  the 
exordium  of  it :  — 

"It  is  characteristic  of  the  power 
and  the  outreach  of  Browning's  genius 
that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  no- 
thing to  learn  from  life.  In  Paracelsus, 
written  by  a  stripling  hardly  past  the 
age  of  boyhood,  a  young  man  standing 
at  the  threshold  of  his  years,  joyous 
with  an  Italian  affluence  of  tempera- 
ment, having  never  known  the  deep  ex- 
periences, the  struggles  that  are  birth 
pangs  of  the  soul,  the  disenchantments 
and  failures  of  life,  he  paints  the  dream, 
the  yearning,  the  bitter  comedy,  and 
the  tragedy  of  the  human  drama  as  if 
his  genius  could  foresee  the  end  from 
the  beginning,  or  as  if  he  had  already 
reached  the  vantage  point  of  that 

4  Last  of  life  for  which  the  first  was  made.'  " 

I  am  not  much  addicted  to  reading 
papers  in  public,  —  I  think,  in  fact,  that , 
I  made  my  de*but  and  my  final  exit  in 
that  capacity  on  the  occasion  in  question, 
—  and  I  remember  well  that  the  electric 
light  above  my  head  shone  with  unex- 
ampled violence,  and  the  faces  of  the 
audience  advanced  and  receded  like  the 


208 


The  Browning  Tonic. 


waves  of  the  sea.  There  were  tones  in 
my  voice,  too,  which  were  unrecogniz- 
able even  to  myself.  When  I  had  fin- 
ished, a  lady,  who  was  then  serving  God 
and  her  native  land  by  accepting  the  po- 
sition of  domestic  in  some  needy  house- 
hold, took  me  kindly  by  the  hand  and 
told  me  that  she  liked  my  piece.  Few 
of  my  audience  seemed  to  realize  that 
they  were  apathetically  letting  the  op- 
portunity of  a  lifetime  slip  by. 

I  have  never  been  sorry  for  my  auda- 
city in  writing  that  paper.  I  got  from 
it  for  myself  much  that  I  did  not  know 
how  to  give  to  others,  —  the  burden 
and  message  of  Paracelsus,  that  strange, 
complex  nature,  trying  at  all  the  gates 
of  life,  striving  to  live  a  purely  spirit- 
ual existence  in  a  human  world,  forced 
to  recognize  one  by  one  the  physical 
and  material  barriers  which  made  such 
a  life  impossible,  hampered  by  the  very 
strength  of  his  own  powers,  and  stoop- 
ing at  last  to  be  bound  by  the  restraints 
he  despised,  yet  through  strength  and 
weakness  alike, 

"  upward  tending,  all  though  weak, 
Like  plants  in  mines  which  never  saw  the  sun, 
But  dream  of  him,  and  guess  where  he  may  be, 
And  do  their  best  to  climb  and  get  to  him." 

It  is  the  same  dominant  chord  of 
courage.  All  the  battle  cries  of  all  the 
ages  are  in  it,  and  the  confidence  born 
of  all  the  victories  that  have  been. 

A  Browning  notion  of  victory,  how- 
ever, does  not  with  any  necessity  what- 
ever imply  the  getting  what  one  wants. 
It  often  means  just  keeping  eternally  at 
it,  and  realizing  that  surrender  is  the 
only  defeat :  — 

"  But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 
To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again  — 
So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that 's  all." 


II. 


I  am  as  well  aware  as  any  one  can 
be  that  my  Browning  explorations  are 


valuable  to  the  world  at  large  only  as 
an  indication  of  the  ease  with  which 
one  can  grow  rich. 

As  Captain  Bunsby  would  say,  "  The 
bearings  of  this  obserwation  lies  in  the 
application  on  it." 

If  I  who  am  but  a  woman,  neither 
scholar  nor  critic,  a  shallow  adventur- 
ess going  at  the  quest  in  mere  haphaz- 
ard fashion,  have  been  able  to  discover 
for  myself  the  true  elixir,  the  tonic 
which  the  twentieth  century  most  jieeds, 
what  wealth  may  not  lie  in  the  search 
for  that  dominant  sex  which  habitually 
calls  itself  "the  stronger,"  the  sex  of 
assured  intellect  and  logical  mind,  and, 
to  speak  candidly,  the  sex  that  needs 
the  tonic  most. 

I  may  be  wrong,  —  and  if  so  I  am 
willing  to  acknowledge  it  to  anybody 
who  can  convince  me  of  my  error,  —  but 
my  observation  goes  to  show  that  the 
average  woman  of  to-day  has  more  ideals 
than  the  average  man  and  is  therefore 
morally  stronger.  Moreover,  no  wo- 
man is  ever  allowed  to  suppose  herself 
incapable  of  improvement.  We  belong 
to  a  sex  that  is  continually  being  les- 
soned and  lectured.  One  never  takes 
up  a  newspaper  without  finding  in  it 
some  admonition  in  regard  to  what  wo- 
men should  or  should  not  do.  On  the 
other  hand,  while  our  daily  reading 
furnishes  much  inconsistent  criticism  of 
individual  men,  the  evidence  seems  to 
point  to  the  fact  that  men  in  the  con- 
crete are  very  well  satisfied  with  them- 
selves as  they  are.  One  cannot  help 
feeling  that  if  the  entire  sex  could  be 
lined  up,  and  the  question  propounded 
to  them,  "What's  the  matter  with 
man  ?  "  the  answer  would  be  one  univer- 
sal roar  of  "He's  all  right!" 

A  woman,  once  convinced  that  she  has 
a  soul,  can  seldom  be  quite  easy  in  ig- 
noring it ;  a  man  feels  sure  that  if  he 
has  one  it  isn't  his  fault,  and  therefore 
he  feels  himself  relieved  from  too  great 
responsibility.  The  twentieth-century 
man,  however,  is  not  indolent  in  any 
sense  but  an  ethical  one.  Never  was 


The  Browning  Tonic. 


209 


there  a  time  when  more  attention  was 
paid  to  physical  growth  and  culture, 
but  a  tonic  whose  efficacy  must  be  as- 
sured by  a  more  strenuous  spiritual  life 
does  not  especially  commend  itself  to 
our  athlete.  He  prefers  ease  of  mind 
and  malt  extracts.  He  has  "outworn" 
the  old  dogmas,  seen  the  folly  of  ideals, 
and  prefers  to  confine  his  attention  to 
the  things  that  really  count.  If  there 
is  another  existence  to  follow  this  one, 
its  philosophy  is  simple :  — 

"  Our  egress  from  the  world 
Will  be  nobody  knows  where, 
But  if  we  do  well  here 
We  shall  do  well  there,"  — 

therefore,  why  bother  one's  self  too 
much  about  a  future  which  is,  at  best, 
problematic  ? 

The  human  race  has  not  altogether 
deteriorated.  The  twentieth  -  century 
man  has  in  him  all  the  heroic  possibil- 
ities that  any  man  ever  had,  but  he  is 
suffering  from  that  weakening  of  fibre 
which  necessarily  accompanies  a  dearth 
of  convictions. 

The  acquisition  of  wealth,  which  is 
the  ruling  motive  of  the  America  of  our 
century,  does  not  constitute  an  ideal, 
since  an  ideal  implies  some  sort  of 
moral  earnestness.  Materialism,  how- 
ever, is  perfectly  consistent  with  great 
benevolences,  generosity  without  sacri- 
fice and  sympathy  without  abnegation. 
Indeed,  in  proportion  as  we  lower  the 
standard  of  that  absolute  strength  which 
constitutes  perfect  manhood  and  wo- 
manhood, the  more  "kind-hearted  "  we 
grow,  the  more  we  deprecate  anything 
which  creates  pain  or  demands  endur- 
ance, the  more  we  send  flowers  to  crimi- 
nals and  sign  petitions  against  the  exe- 
cution of  murderers.  We  cry  out  against 
war  and  send  delegates  to  Peace  Con- 
gresses, not  altogether  because  this 
course  is  "Christian, "  —  though  that  is 
how  we  usually  define  our  feeling,  — 
but  partly,  too,  because,  like  the  child 
in  Helen's  Babies,  we  object  to  the 
sight  of  anything  "bluggy." 

I  do  not  know  anything  which  better 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  14 


illustrates  the  deterioration  of  fibre 
which  is  the  result  of  an  unstrenuous 
standard  than  the  attitude  of  the  Amer- 
ican people  —  too  large  a  proportion 
of  them,  at  least  —  toward  the  Cuban 
War. 

I  was  too  young  at  the  time  of  our 
civil  conflict  to  pronounce  with  any  ac- 
curacy upon  the  feeling  of  the  public  at 
large  in  regard  to  it,  so  perhaps  I  arn 
wrong  in  imagining,  as  I  always  have 
done,  that  it  was  that  of  heroic  accep- 
tance and  endurance,  and  that  men  and 
women  alike  felt  that  the  best  blood  of 
a  nation  was  not  too  great  a  price  to 
pay  to  settle  a  moral  issue  forever  and 
settle  it  aright. 

Years  after,  when  the  bugles  of  war 
again  sounded  for  a  contest  not  our 
own,  —  a  war  of  generosity  to  right  the 
wrongs  of  another  and  alien  people,  — 
the  response  was  just  as  ready,  the  deeds 
of  heroism  were  no  less  conspicuous, 
and  for  a  breathing  space  while  the  men 
of  the  country  were  shouting  "  Remem- 
ber the  Maine !  "  and  the  women  were 
gathering  in  sewing  circles  for  the  man- 
ufacture of  the  flannel  night  clothing 
which  no  self-respecting  soldier  ever 
fails  to  assume  before  retiring  to  rest 
in  the  trenches,  a  thrill  of  the  same  un- 
questioning courage  swept  through  the 
land. 

Scarcely  had  the  echo  of  the  guns  of 
Santiago  died  away,  however,  before 
the  howl  began,  —  the  howl  of  the  kind- 
hearted,  the  sympathetic,  the  unstren- 
uous generation. 

What  justification,  they  asked,  has 
any  Christian  nation  for  going  to  war 
at  all,  especially  in  a  quarrel  not  its 
own? 

If,  however,  to  suit  his  own  pur- 
poses, President  McKinley  insisted 
upon  war,  why  did  he  not  select  a  coun- 
try possessing  a  more  temperate  climate 
as  the  scene  of  battle? 

If  time  had  been  given  the  soldiers 
to  provide  themselves  with  suitable  out- 
fits, could  not  this  delay  have  been  util- 
ized by  the  government  for  the  manu- 


210 


The  Browning   Tonic. 


facture  of  sandwiches  in  readiness  for 
informal  lunches  to  be  served  during 
charges  and  on  the  field  of  battle? 
Has  not  a  toiling  and  much  enduring 
soldier  a  right  to  expect  such  common, 
every -day  recognition  of  his  services  as 
a  hot  dinner,  prepared  promptly,  would 
represent?  Is  the  "poor  soldier  "  ask- 
ing too  much  when  he  calls  for  clean 
linen  and  an  opportunity  to  run  up  a 
laundry  bill? 

In  short,  the  voice  of  the  people 
suggested  wisely,  if  we  must  have  war, 
let  us  see  that  it  is  conducted  regularly 
and  in  order,  without  bloodshed  or  con- 
fusion. Let  physicians  be  provided  to 
feel  the  military  pulse  daily  and  keep 
down  all  unnecessary  fever  in  the  veins. 

Hence  it  happened  that  while  we 
were  taking  all  our  newly  acquired  he- 
roes down  from  their  pedestals,  and  our 
army  officers  were  quarreling  over  the 
division  of  glory,  and  mothers  of  volun- 
teers were  writing  to  the  newspapers  to 
complain  that  the  tastes  of  their  sons 
had  never  been  consulted  in  regard  to 
having  oatmeal  for  breakfast,  and  com- 
mittees of  investigation  were  diligently 
smelling  at  all  the  army  stores  that  re- 
mained unused,  there  were  one  or  two 
more  or  less  important  facts  that  seemed 
to  escape  general  cognizance. 

It  has,  for  instance,  sometimes  been 
apprehended  that  war  is  a  grim  game, 
not  suited  to  holiday  soldiers ;  but  if  the 
thing  at  stake  is  worth  the  price  to  be 
paid,  the  only  decency  is  to  pay  it  joy- 
fully without  doubt  or  hesitation,  and 
having  paid,  never  to  repent.  Repen- 
tance, in  such  a  case,  is  cowardice. 

I  remember  a  certain  little  boy  who 
came  home  from  school  with  a  black 
eye  and  a  bleeding  nose  and  a  question 
in  his  young  mind  whether  he  should 
weep  or  swagger.  Just  as  his  mother's 
sympathy  and  first  aid  to  the  wounded 
were  beginning  to  convulse  his  infant 
features  his  father  appeared  on  the 
scene. 

"Did  you  have  any  good  reason  for 
fighting  ?  "  he  asked. 


The  budding  warrior  proclaimed  a 
noble  cause  for  battle. 

"Did  you  lick  the  other  fellow?  " 

The  other  fellow  had  ignominiously 
bitten  the  dust. 

"Then,"  inquired  the  parent,  "what 
are  you  whining  over  ?  " 

Every  grave  on  those  Cuban  hillsides 
marks  a  sacrifice  for  human  progress, 
and  when  one  remembers  the  failures, 
the  futilities,  the  disgraces  among  liv- 
ing men,  who  can  feel  that  he  who 
in  the  moment  of  a  supreme  impulse 
offered  all,  and  found  his  abnegation 
accepted,  did  not  choose  the  better 
part  ? 

"  Life's  business  being  just  the  terrible  choice  " 

betwixt  strength  and  weakness. 

It  is  a  part  of  the  materialism  of 
modern  life  and  the  cowardly  theory 
that  life  is  worth  to  a  man  only  "what 
he  gets  out  of  it  as  he  goes  along," 
that  so  many  men  spend  their  days  in 
offering  continual  sacrifices  to  their 
bodies. 

When  the  hero  of  the  popular  short 
story  is  not  eating  or  drinking,  he  is 
smoking.  His  chronicler  flavors  his 
pages  with  tobacco  smoke  and  punctu- 
ates them  with  cocktails.  In  joy  or 
sorrow,  in  the  most  romantic  no  less 
than  the  most  commonplace  moments 
the  hero  "lights  another  cigarette." 
Emotion  unaccompanied  by  nicotine  is 
something  of  which  he  evidently  has  no 
conception. 

It  is  the  same,  too,  with  the  up  to 
date  young  man  in  real  life.  He  knows, 
if  he  has  been  properly  trained,  that 
while  a  toothpick  should  be  indulged  in 
only  in  that  spot  to  which  Scripture 
enjoins  us  to  retire  when  we  are  about  to 
pray,  a  meerschaum  pipe  is  a  perfectly 
well-bred  article  for  public  wear,  and 
one  which  enables  him  to  fulfill  agree- 
ably that  law  of  his  being  which  sug- 
gests that  he  should  always  be  putting 
something  in  his  mouth. 

At  a  college  ball  game  not  long  since 
where,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions, 


The  Browning  Tonic. 


211 


clouds  of  incense  were  rising  to  the 
heavens  from  the  male  portion  of  the 
spectators,  I  amused  myself  by  observ- 
ing a  young  man  who  sat  in  a  carriage 
near  me,  and  who  while  the  game  was 
in  progress  smoked  a  pipe  three  times 
and  filled  in  all  the  intervals  with  cigars 
and  cigarettes.  I  knew  something  about 
him,  and  had  frequently  heard  him  re- 
ferred to  as  "  a  first-rate  fellow, "  but  if 
anybody  had  asked  him  if  he  believed 
himself  capable  of  a  single  pure  impulse 
of  the  soul  entirely  unmixed  with  bod- 
ily sensations  he  would  have  stared  in 
amazement. 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra's  test, 

"  Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone 
way  ?  " 

would  have  struck  this  young  man  as  a 
decidedly  "fresh"  inquiry.  A  certain 
pictorial  advertisement  which  for  a  long 
time  held  a  conspicuous  place  in  the 
daily  newspapers  would,  however,  have 
appealed  to  him  at  once.  It  depicted 
a  youth  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  hold- 
ing his  sweetheart  on  his  knee,  and 
rapturously  exclaiming,  as  he  diligent- 
ly puffed  the  smoke  into  her  face, 
"With  you  and  a  pipeful  of  Every  Day 
Smoke  I  am  perfectly  happy !  "  Old 
Omar  gives  us  a  more  poetic  version  of 
the  same  thing :  — 

"  A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread  —  and  Thou 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  !  " 

I  am  not  desirous  in  this  essay  of 
discussing  the  morality  of  any  habit,  as 
such ;  I  simply  wish  to  emphasize  the 
fact  that  constant  self-indulgence  of 
any  kind  is  incompatible  with  strength. 
The  Browning  tonic  which  I  would 
like  to  substitute  for  the  proprietary 
medicines  of  the  age  does  not  inspire 
any  man  to  be  an  angel  before  his  time, 


—  it  only  stimulates  him  to  be  a  man 
and  master  of  himself; 

"  A  man  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute  ;  a  God  though  in 
the  germ." 

The  tonic  in  question  is  not  an  ex- 
pensive remedy  except  in  the  amount  of 
effort  required  on  the  part  of  the  patient 
to  render  it  efficacious,  but  it  is  perhaps 
a  little  too  bracing  to  be  taken  in  large 
doses  until  the  spirit  of  it  has  begun  to 
steal  into  one's  veins. 

If,  for  instance,  the  young  man  of  the 
ball  game  should  begin  before  breakfast 
in  the  morning  with 

"  What  have  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  un- 
manly ?  " 

follow  it  up  at  about  the  time  of  his 
after-breakfast  pipe  with 

"  I  count  life  just  a  stuff, 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on," 

manfully  swallow  an  afternoon  dose  of 

"  When  the  fight  begins  within  himself 
A  man  's  worth  something," 

and  substitute  for  his  usual  nightcap, 

"  Why  comes  temptation  but  for  man  to  meet, 
And  master  and  make  crouch  beneath  his  foot, 
And  so  be  pedestaled  in  triumph  ?  " 

he  might  at  first  find  such  a  sudden  in- 
flux of  red  blood  into  his  veins  a  little 
more  than  his  system  could  bear,  but, 
in  due  time,  if  the  prescription  were 
persevered  in,  he  might  learn  to  wel- 
come the  joy  and  the  strength  of  the 
new  elixir  of  life. 

"Don't  you  get  a  little  weary  of 
hearing  life  compared  to  a  battlefield  ?  " 
the  athletic  young  man  inquired  when 
the  rhetoric  of  these  prescriptions  was 
discussed  in  the  family  circle. 

"Call  it  a  football  field,  then,"  I  re- 
torted. "If  you  are  going  to  play  at 
all,  one  has  a  perfect  right  to  expect  you 
to  get  into  the  game." 

Martha  Baker  Dunn. 


212 


JLi    Wan,  the  Fair. 


LI    WAN,    THE   FAIR. 


"THE  sun  sinks,  Canim,  and  the  heat 
of  the  day  is  gone !  " 

So  called  Li  Wan  to  the  man  whose 
head  was  hidden  beneath  the  squirrel- 
skin  robe,  but  she  called  softly,  as  though 
divided  between  the  duty  of  waking  him 
and  the  fear  of  him  awake.  For  she 
was  afraid  of  this  big  husband  of  hers, 
who  was  like  unto  none  of  the  men  she 
had  known. 

The  moose  meat  sizzled  uneasily,  and 
she  moved  the  frying-pan  to  one  side 
of  the  red  embers.  As  she  did  so  she 
glanced  warily  at  the  two  Hudson  Bay 
dogs  dripping  eager  slaver  from  their 
scarlet  tongues  and  following  her  every 
movement.  They  were  huge,  hairy 
fellows,  crouched  to  leeward  in  the  thin 
smoke-wake  of  the  fire  to  escape  the 
swarming  myriads  of  mosquitoes.  As 
Li  Wan  gazed  down  the  steep  to  where 
the  Klondike  flung  its  swollen  flood  be- 
tween the  hills,  one  of  the  dogs  bellied 
its  way  forward  like  a  worm,  and  with 
a  deft,  catlike  stroke  of  the  paw  dipped 
a  chunk  of  hot  meat  out  of  the  pan  to 
the  ground.  But  Li  Wan  caught  him  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  he  sprang 
back  with  a  snap  and  a  snarl  as  she 
rapped  him  over  the  nose  with  a  stick 
of  firewood. 

"Nay,  Olo, "  she  laughed,  recovering 
the  meat  without  removing  her  eye  from 
him.  "Thou  art  ever  hungry,  and  for 
that  thy  nose  leads  thee  into  endless 
troubles." 

But  the  mate  of  Olo  joined  him,  and 
together  they  defied  the  woman.  The 
hair  on  their  backs  and  shoulders  bris- 
tled in  recurrent  waves  of  anger,  and 
the  thin  lips  writhed  and  lifted  into 
ugly  wrinkles,  exposing  the  flesh-tear- 
ing fangs,  cruel  and  menacing.  Their 
very  noses  serrulated  and  shook  in  brute 
passion,  and  they  snarled  as  wolves 
snarl,  with  all  the  hatred  and  malig- 
nity of  the  breed  impelling  them  to 


spring  upon  the  woman  and  drag  her 
down. 

"And  thou,  too,  Bash,  fierce  as  thy 
master  and  never  at  peace  with  the  hand 
that  feeds  thee !  This  is  not  thy  quar- 
rel, so  that  be  thine !  and  that !  " 

As  she  cried,  she  drove  at  them  with 
the  firewood,  but  they  avoided  the 
blows  and  refused  to  retreat.  They 
separated  and  approached  her  from 
either  side,  crouching  low  and  snarling. 
Li  Wan  had  struggled  with  the  wolf- 
dog  for  mastery  from  the  time  she  tod- 
dled among  the  skin-bales  of  the  tepee, 
and  she  knew  a  crisis  was  at  hand. 
Bash  had  halted,  his  muscles  stiff  and 
tense  for  the  spring ;  Olo  was  yet  creep- 
ing into  striking  distance.' 

Grasping  two  blazing  sticks  by  the 
charred  ends,  she  faced  the  brutes. 
The  one  held  back,  but  Bash  sprang, 
and  she  met  him  in  mid-air  with  the 
flaming  weapon.  There  were  sharp 
yelps  of  pain  and  swift  odors  of  burn- 
ing hair  and  flesh  as  he  rolled  in  the 
dirt  and  the  woman  ground  the  fiery 
embers  into  his  mouth.  Snapping  wild- 
ly, he  flung  himself  sidelong  out  of  her 
reach  and  in  a  frenzy  of  fear  scrambled 
for  safety.  Olo,  on  the  other  side,  had 
begun  his  retreat,  when  Li  Wan  re- 
minded him  of  her  primacy  by  hurling 
a  heavy  stick  of  wood  into  his  ribs. 
Then  the  pair  retreated  under  a  rain  of 
firewood,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  camp 
fell  to  licking  their  wounds  and  whim- 
pering and  snarling  by  turns. 

Li  Wan  blew  the  ashes  off  the  meat 
and  sat  down  again.  Her  heart  had  not 
gone  up  a  beat,  and  the  incident  was 
already  old,  for  this  was  the  routine  of 
life.  Canim  had  not  stirred  during  the 
disorder,  but  instead  had  set  up  a  lusty 
snoring. 

"Come,  Canim!  "  she  called.  "The 
heat  of  the  day  is  gone  and  the  trail 
waits  for  our  feet." 


Li    Wan,  the  Fair. 


213 


The  squirrel- skin  robe  was  agitated 
and  cast  aside  by  a  brown  arm.  Then 
the  man's  eyelids  fluttered  and  drooped 
again. 

"His  pack  is  heavy,"  she  thought, 
"and  he  is  tired  with  the  work  of  the 
morning. " 

A  mosquito  stung  her  on  the  neck, 
and  she  daubed  the  unprotected  spot 
with  wet  clay  from  a  ball  she  had  con- 
venient to  hand.  All  morning,  toiling 
up  the  divide  and  enveloped  in  a  cloud 
of  the  pests,  the  man  and  woman  had 
plastered  themselves  with  the  sticky 
mud,  which,  drying  in  the  sun,  covered 
their  faces  with  masks  of  clay.  These 
masks,  broken  in  divers  places  by  the 
movement  of  the  facial  muscles,  had 
constantly  to  be  renewed,  so  that  the 
deposit  was  irregular  of  depth  and  pe- 
culiar of  aspect. 

Li  Wan  shook  Canim  gently  but  with 
persistence  till  he  roused  and  sat  up. 
His  first  glance  was  to  the  sun,  and  af- 
ter consulting  the  celestial  timepiece  he 
hunched  over  to  the  fire  and  fell  to  rav- 
enously on  the  meat.  He  was  a  large 
Indian,  fully  six  feet  in  height,  deep- 
chested  and  heavy-muscled,  and  his  eyes 
were  keener  and  vested  with  greater 
intelligence  than  the  average  of  his 
kind.  The  lines  of  will  had  marked  his 
face  deeply,  and  this,  coupled  with  a 
sternness  and  primitiveness,  advertised 
a  native  indomitability,  unswerving  of 
purpose  and  prone,  when  thwarted,  to 
sullen  cruelty. 

"To-morrow,  Li  Wan,  we  shall 
feast. "  He  sucked  a  marrow-bone  clean 
and  threw  it  to  the  dogs.  "We  shall 
have  flapjacks  fried  in  bacon  grease,&nd 
sugar,  which  is  more  toothsome  "  — 

"Flapjacks?"  she  cried,  mouthing 
the  word  curiously. 

"Ay,"  Canim  answered  with  supe- 
riority; "and  I  shall  teach  you  new 
ways  of  cookery.  Of  these  things  I 
speak,  you  are  ignorant,  and  of  many 
more  things  besides.  You  have  lived 
your  days  in  a  little  corner  of  the  earth 
and  know  nothing.  But  I  "  « —  he 


straightened  himself  and  looked  at  her 
pridef ully  —  "I  am  a  great  traveler, 
and  have  been  all  places,  even  among 
the  white  people,  and  I  am  versed  in 
their  ways,  and  in  the  ways  of  many 
peoples.  I  am  not  a  tree,  born  to  stand 
in  one  place  always  and  know  not  what 
there  be  over  the  next  hill;  for  I  am 
Canim,  The  Canoe,  made  to  go  here  and 
there  and  to  journey  and  quest  up  and 
down  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
world." 

She  bowed  her  head  humbly.  "It  is 
true.  I  have  eaten  fish  and  meat  and 
berries  all  my  days,  and  lived  in  a  little 
corner  of  the  earth.  Nor  did  I  dream 
the  world  was  so  large  until  you  stole 
me  from  my  people,  and  I  cooked  and 
carried  for  you  on  the  endless  trails." 
She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly.  "Tell 
me,  Canim,  does  this  trail  ever  end  ?  " 

"Nay,"  he  answered.  "My  trail  is 
like  the  world ;  it  never  ends.  My  trail 
is  the  world,  and  I  have  traveled  it 
since  the  time  my  legs  could  carry  me, 
and  I  shall  travel  it  until  I  die.  My 
father  and  my  mother  may  be  dead,  but 
it  is  long  since  I  looked  upon  them,  and 
I  do  not  care.  My  tribe  is  like  your 
tribe.  It  stays  in  the  one  place,  — 
which  is  far  from  here,  — -but  I  care 
naught  for  my  tribe,  for  I  am  Canim, 
The  Canoe ! " 

"And  must  I,  Li  Wan,  who  am  weary, 
travel  always  your  trail  until  I  die  ?  " 

"You,  Li  Wan,  are  my  wife,  and 
the  wife  travels  the  husband's  trail 
wheresoever  it  goes.  It  is  the  law. 
And  were  it  not  the  law,  yet  would  it 
be  the  law  of  Canim,  who  is  lawgiver 
unto  himself  and  his." 

She  bowed  her  head  again,  for  she 
knew  no  other  law  than  that  man  was 
the  master  of  woman. 

"Be  not  in  haste,"  Canim  cautioned 
her,  as  she  began  to  strap  the  meagre 
camp  outfit  to  her  pack.  "The  sun  is 
yet  hot,  and  the  trail  leads  down  and 
the  footing  is  good." 

She  dropped  her  work  obediently  and 
resumed  her  seat. 


214 


Li    Wan,  the  Fair. 


Canim  regarded  her  with  specula- 
tive interest.  "You  do  not  squat  on 
your  hams  like  other  women,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"  No, "  she  answered.  "  It  never  came 
easy.  It  tires  me,  and  I  cannot  take 
my  rest  that  way." 

"And  why  is  it  your  feet  point  not 
straight  before  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,  save  that  they  are 
unlike  the  feet  of  other  women." 

A  satisfied  light  crept  into  his  eyes, 
but  otherwise  he  gave  no  sign. 

"Like  other  women,  your  hair  is 
black;  but  have  you  ever  noticed  that 
it  is  soft  and  fine,  softer  and  finer  than 
the  hair  of  other  women  ?  " 

"I  have  noticed,"  she  answered 
shortly,  for  she  was  not  pleased  at  such 
cold  analysis  of  her  sex  deficiencies. 

"It  is  a  year,  now,  since  I  took  you 
from  your  people,"  he  went  on,  "and 
you  are  nigh  as  shy  and  afraid  of  me 
as  when  first  I  looked  upon  you.  How 
does  this  thing  be  ?  " 

Li  Wan  shook  her  head.  "I  am 
afraid  of  you,  Canim,  you  are  so  big 
and  strange.  And  further,  before  you 
looked  upon  me,  even,  I  was  afraid  of 
all  the  young  men.  I  do  not  know 
—  I  cannot  say  —  only,  it  seemed, 
somehow,  as  though  I  should  not  be  for 
them,  as  though  "  — 

"Ay,"  he  encouraged,  impatient  at 
her  faltering. 

"As  though  they  were  not  my  kind. " 

"  Not  your  kind  ?  "  he  demanded 
slowly.  "Then  what  is  your  kind?  " 

"I  do  not  know,  I  "  —  She  shook 
her  head  in  a  bewildered  manner.  "I 
cannot  put  into  words  the  way  I  felt. 
It  was  strangeness  in  me.  I  was  un- 
like other  maidens  who  sought  the  young 
men  slyly.  I  could  not  care  for  the 
young  men  that  way.  It  would  have 
been  a  great  wrong,  it  seemed,  and 
an  ill  deed." 

"  What  is  the  first  thing  you  remem- 
ber ?  "  Canim  asked  with  abrupt  irrele- 
vance. 

"Pow-Wah-Kaan,  my  mother." 


"And  naught  else  before  Pow-Wah- 
Kaan?" 

"Naught  else." 

But  Canim,  holding  her  eyes  with 
his,  searched  her  secret  soul  and  saw  it 
waver. 

"Think,  and  think  hard,  Li  Wan!  " 
he  threatened. 

She  stammered,  and  her  eyes  were 
piteous  and  pleading,  but  his  will  dom- 
inated her  and  wrung  from  her  lips  the 
reluctant  speech. 

"  But  it  was  only  dreams,  Canim,  ill 
dreams  of  childhood,  shadows  of  things 
not  real,  visions  such  as  the  dogs,  sleep- 
ing in  the  sun  warmth,  behold  and 
whine  out  against." 

"Tell  me,"  he  commanded,  "of  the 
things  before  Pow-Wah-Kaan,  your 
mother. " 

"They  are  forgotten  memories,"  she 
protested.  "As  a  child  I  dreamed 
awake,  with  my  eyes  open  to  the  day, 
and  when  I  spoke  of  the  strange  things 
I  saw  I  was  laughed  at,  and  the  other 
children  were  afraid  and  drew  away 
from  me.  And  when  I  spoke  of  the 
things  I  saw  to  Pow-Wah-Kaan,  she 
chided  me  and  said  they  were  evil ;  also 
she  beat  me.  It  was  a  sickness,  I  be- 
lieve, like  the  falling  sickness  that 
comes  to  old  men;  and  in  time  I  grew 
better  and  dreamed  no  more.  And 
now  —  I  cannot  remember  " —  She 
brought  her  hand  in  a  confused  manner 
to  her  forehead,  "They  are  there, 
somewhere,  but  I  cannot  find  them, 
only  "  — 

"Only,"  Canim  repeated,  holding 
her. 

"Only  one  thing.  But  you  will 
laugh  at  its  foolishness,  it  is  so  un- 
real." 

"Nay,  Li  Wan.  Dreams  are  dreams. 
They  may  be  memories  of  other  lives 
we  have  lived.  I  was  once  a  moose.  I 
firmly  believe  I  was  once  a  moose. 
What  qf  the  things  I  hav^f  seen  in 
dreams,  and  heard  ?  " 

Strive  as  he  would  to  hide  it,  a  grow- 
ing anxiety  was  manifest,  but  Li  Wan, 


Li    Wan>  the  Fair. 


215 


groping  after  the  words  with  which  to 
paint  the  picture,  took  no  heed. 

"I  see  a  snow-tramped  space  among 
the  trees, "  she  began,  "  and  across  the 
snow  the  sign  of  a  man  where  he  has 
dragged  himself  heavily  on  hand  and 
knee.  And  I  see,  too,  the  man  in  the 
snow,  and  it  seems  I  am  very  close  to 
him  when  I  look.  He  is  unlike  real 
men,  for  he  has  hair  on  his  face,  much 
hair,  and  the  hair  of  his  face  and  head 
is  yellow  like  the  summer  coat  of  the 
weasel.  His  eyes  are  closed,  but  they 
open  and  search  about.  They  are  blue 
like  the  sky,  and  look  into  mine  and 
search  no  more.  And  his  hand  moves, 
slow,  as  from  weakness,  and  I  feel  "  — 

"Ay,"  Canim  whispered  hoarsely. 
" You  feel"  — 

"No,  no!  "  she  cried  in  haste.  "I 
feel  nothing.  Did  I  say  '  feel '  ?  I  did 
not  mean  it.  It  could  not  be  that  I 
should  mean  it.  I  see,  and  I  see  only, 
and  that  is  all  I  see  —  a  man  in  the 
snow,  with  eyes  like  the  sky  and  hair 
like  the  weasel.  I  have  seen  it  many 
times,  and  always  it  is  the  same  —  a 
man  in  the  snow  "  — 

"  And  do  you  see  yourself  ? "  he 
asked,  leaning  forward  and  regarding 
her  intently.  "Do  you  ever  see  your- 
self and  the  man  in  the  snow  ?  " 

"Why  should  I  see  myself?  Am  I 
not  real  ?  " 

His  muscles  relaxed  and  he  sank 
back,  an  exultant  satisfaction  in  his 
eyes  which  he  turned  from  her  so  that 
she  might  not  see. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Li  Wan, "  he  spoke 
decisively;  "you  were  a  little  bird  in 
some  life  before,  a  little  moose-bird, 
when  you  saw  this  thing,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  it  is  with  you  yet.  It  is  not 
strange.  I  was  once  a  moose,  and  my 
father's  father  afterward  became  a  bear 
—  so  said  the  shaman, l  and  the  shaman 
cannot  lie.  Thus,  on  the  Trail  of  the 
Gods,  we  pass  from  life  to  life,  and  the 
gods  know  only  and  understand.  Dreams 
and  the  shadows  of  dreams  be  memo- 
1  Medicine  man. 


ries,  nothing  more,  and  the  dog,  whin- 
ing asleep  in  the  sun  warmth,  doubtless 
sees  and  remembers  things  gone  before. 
Bash,  there,  was  a  warrior  once.  I  do 
firmly  believe  he  was  once  a  warrior." 

Canim  tossed  a  bone  to  the  brute  and 
got  upon  his  feet.  "Come,  let  us  be- 
gone. The  sun  is  yet  hot,  but  it  will 
get  no  cooler." 

"And  these  white  people,  what  are 
they  like  ?  "  Li  Wan  made  bold  to  ask. 

"Like  you  and  me,"  he  answered, 
"only  they  are  less  dark  of  skin.  You 
will  be  among  them  ere  the  day  is 
dead." 

Canim  lashed  the  sleeping-robe  to  his 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pound  pack, 
smeared  his  face  with  wet  clay,  and  sat 
down  to  rest  till  Li  Wan  had  finished 
loading  the  dogs.  Olo  cringed  at  sight 
of  the  club  in  her  hand,  and  gave  no 
trouble  when  the  bundle  of  forty  pounds 
and  odd  was  strapped  upon  him.  But 
Bash  was  aggrieved  and  truculent,  and 
could  not  forbear  to  whimper  and  snarl 
as  he  was  forced  to  receive  the  burden. 
He  bristled  his  back  and  bared  his  teeth 
as  she  drew  the  straps  tight,  the  while 
throwing  all  the  malignancy  of  his  na- 
ture into  the  glances  shot  at  her  sidelong 
and  backward.  And  Canim  chuckled 
and  said,  "  Did  I  not  say  I  believed  he 
was  once  a  very  great  warrior  ?  " 

"  These  furs  will  bring  a  price, "  he 
remarked  as  he  adjusted  his  head-strap 
and  lifted  his  pack  clear  of  the  ground. 
"A  very  big  price.  The  white  men 
pay  well  for  such  goods,  for  they  have 
no  time  to  hunt  and  are  soft  to  the  cold. 
Soon  shall  we  feast,  Li  Wan,  as  you 
have  feasted  never  in  all  the  lives  be- 
fore." 

She  grunted  acknowledgment  and 
gratitude  for  her  lord's  condescension, 
slipped  into  the  harness,  and  bent  for- 
ward to  the  load. 

"The  next  time  I  am  born,  I  would 
be  born  a  white  man,"  he  added,  and 
swung  off  down  the  trail  which  dived 
into  the  gorge  at  his  feet. 

The  dogs  followed  close  at  his  heels, 


216 


Li    Wan,  the,  Fair. 


and  Li  Wan  brought  up  the  rear.  But 
her  thoughts  were  far  away,  across  the 
Ice  Mountains  to  the  east,  to  the  little 
corner  of  the  earth  where  her  childhood 
had  been  lived.  Ever  as  a  child,  she 
remembered,  she  had  been  looked  upon 
as  strange,  as  one  with  an  affliction. 
Truly  she  had  dreamed  awake  and  been 
scolded  and  beaten  for  the  remarkable 
visions  she  saw,  till,  after  a  time,  she 
had  outgrown  them.  But  not  utterly. 
Though  they  troubled  her  no  more  wak- 
ing, they  yet  came  to  her  in  her  sleep, 
grown  woman  that  she  was,  and  many 
a  night  of  nightmare  was  hers,  filled 
with  fluttering  shapes,  vague  and  mean- 
ingless. The  talk  with  Canim  had  ex- 
cited her,  and  down  all  the  twisted  slant 
of  the  divide  she  harked  back  to  the 
mocking  fantasies  of  her  dreams. 

"Let  us  take  breath,"  Canim  said, 
when  they  had  tapped  midway  the  bed 
of  the  main  creek. 

He  rested  his  pack  on  a  jutting  rock, 
slipped  the  head-strap,  and  sat  down. 
Li  Wan  joined  him,  and  the  dogs 
sprawled  panting  on  the  ground  beside 
them.  At  their  feet  rippled  the  glacial 
drip  of  the  hills,  but  it  was  muddy  and 
discolored,  as  soiled  by  some  commotion 
of  the  earth. 

"Why  is  this?  "   Li  Wan  asked. 

"Because  of  the  white  men  who  work 
in  the  ground.  Listen !  "  He  held  up 
his  hand,  and  they  heard  the  ring  of 
pick  and  shovel  and  the  sound  of  men's 
voices.  "They  are  made  mad  by  gold, 
and  work  without  ceasing  that  they  may 
find  it.  Gold  ?  It  is  yellow  and  comes 
from  the  ground,  and  is  considered  of 
great  value.  It  is  also  a  measure  of 
price. " 

But  Li  Wan's  roving  eyes  had  called 
her  attention  from  him.  A  few  yards 
below,  and  partly  screened  by  a  clump 
of  young  spruce,  the  tiered  logs  of  a 
cabin  rose  to  meet  its  overhanging  roof 
of  dirt.  A  thrill  ran  through  her,  and 
all  her  dream  phantoms  roused  up  and 
stirred  about  uneasily. 

"  Canim, "  she  whispered  in  an  agony 


of    apprehension.       "Canim,     what    is 
that  ?  " 

"The  white  man's  tepee,  in  which 
he  eats  and  sleeps." 

She  eyed  it  wistfully,  grasping  its 
virtues  at  a  glance  and  thrilling  again 
at  the  unaccountable  sensations  it 
aroused.  "It  must  be  very  warm  in 
time  of  frost,"  she  said  aloud,  though 
she  felt  impelled  to  form  strange  sounds 
with  her  lips. 

She  longed  to  utter  them,  but  did  not, 
and  the  next  instant  Canim  said,  "It 
is  called  a  cabin." 

Her  heart  gave  a  great  leap  —  these 
were  the  sounds,  the  very  sounds !  She 
looked  about  her  in  sudden  awe.  How 
should  she  know  that  strange  word  be- 
fore ever  she  heard  it  ?  What  could  be 
the  matter?  And  then,  with  a  shock, 
half  of  fear  and  half  of  delight,  she  re- 
alized that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
there  had  been  sanity  and  significance 
in  the  promptings  of  her  dreams. 

"Cabin,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 
"Cabin."  Then  an  incoherent  flood  of 
dream  stuff  welled  up  and  up  till  her 
head  was  dizzy  and  her  heart  seemed 
bursting.  Shadows,  and  looming  bulks 
of  things,  and  unintelligible  associations 
fluttered  and  whirled  about,  and  she 
strove  vainly  with  her  consciousness  to 
grasp  and  hold  them.  For  she  felt  that 
there,  in  that  welter  of  memories,  was 
the  key  of  the  mystery;  could  she  but 
grasp  and  hold  it,  all  would  be  clear  and 
plain. 

O  Canim!  O  Pow- Wah-Kaan !  O 
shades  and  shadows,  what  was  that? 

She  turned  to  Canim,  speechless  and 
trembling,  the  dream  stuff  in  mad, 
overwhelming  riot.  She  was  sick  and 
fainting,  and  could  only  listen  to  the 
ravishing  sounds  which  proceeded  from 
the  cabin  in  a  wonderful  rhythm. 

"Hum,  fiddle,"  Canim  vouchsafed. 

But  she  did  not  hear  him,  for  in  the 
ecstasy  she  was  experiencing  it  seemed 
at  last  that  all  things  were  coming  clear. 
Now!  now!  she  thought.  A  sudden 
moisture  swept  into  her  eyes,  and  the 


Li    Wan,  the  Fair. 


217 


tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  The 
mystery  was  unlocking,  but  the  faint- 
ness  was  overpowering  her.  If  only  she 
could  hold  herself  long  enough!  If 
only  —  but  the  landscape  bent  and 
crumpled  up,  and  the  hills  swayed  back 
and  forth  across  the  sky,  as  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  screamed,  "Daddy! 
Daddy !  "  Then  the  sun  reeled,  and 
darkness  smote  her,  and  she  pitched  for- 
ward limp  and  headlong  among  the 
rocks. 

Canim  looked  to  see  if  her  neck  had 
been  broken  by  the  heavy  pack,  grunted 
his  satisfaction,  and  threw  water  from 
the  creek  upon  her.  She  came  to  slow- 
ly, with  choking  sobs,  and  sat  up. 

"It  is  not  good,  the  hot  sun  on  the 
head,"  he  ventured. 

And  she  answered,  "No,  it  is  not 
good,  and  the  pack  bore  upon  me  hard. " 

"We  shall  camp  early,  so  that  you 
may  sleep  long  and  win  strength, "  he 
said  gently.  "And  if  we  go  now  we 
shall  be  the  quicker  to  bed." 

She  said  nothing,  but  tottered  to  her 
feet  in  obedience  and  stirred  up  the 
dogs.  Taking  the  swing  of  his  pace 
mechanically,  she  followed  him  past  the 
cabin  scarce  daring  to  breathe.  But  no 
sounds  issued  forth,  though  the  door  was 
open  and  smoke  curling  upward  from  the 
sheet- iron  stovepipe. 

They  came  upon  a  man  in  the  bend 
of  the  creek,  white  of  skin  and  blue  of 
eye,  and  for  a  moment  Li  Wan  saw  the 
other  man  in  the  snow.  But  she  saw 
dimly,  for  she  was  weak  and  tired  from 
what  she  had  undergone.  Still,  she 
looked  at  him  curiously,  and  stopped 
with  Canim  to  watch  him  at  his  work. 
He  was  washing  gravel  in  a  large  pan, 
with  a  circular,  tilting  movement ;  and 
as  they  looked,  giving  a  deft  flirt,  he 
flashed  up  the  yellow  gold  in  a  broad 
streak  across  the  bottom  of  the  pan. 

"Very  rich,  this  creek,"  Canim  told 
her,  as  they  went  on.  "Some  time  I 
will  find  such  a  creek,  and  then  I  shall 
be  a  big  man." 

Cabins  and  men  grew  more  plentiful, 


till  they  came  to  where  the  main  por- 
tion of  the  creek  was  spread  out  before 
them.  It  was  the  scene  of  a  vast  de- 
vastation. Everywhere  the  earth  was 
torn  and  rent  as  though  by  a  Titan's 
struggles.  Where  there  were  no  up- 
thrown  mounds  of  gravel,  great  holes 
and  trenches  yawned,  and  chasms  where 
the  thick  rime  of  the  earth  had  been 
peeled  to  bed-rock.  There  was  no  worn 
channel  for  the  creek,  and  its  waters, 
dammed  up,  diverted,  flying  through 
the  air  on  giddy  flumes,  trickling  into 
sinks  and  low  places,  and  raised  by  huge 
water  wheels,  were  used  and  used  again 
a  thousand  times.  The  hills  had  been 
stripped  of  their  trees,  and  their  raw 
sides  gored  and  perforated  by  great  tim- 
ber slides  and  prospect  holes.  And  over 
all,  like  a  monstrous  race  of  ants,  was 
flung  an  army  of  men,  —  mud-covered, 
dirty,  disheveled  men,  who  crawled  in 
and  out  of  the  holes  of  their  digging, 
crept  like  big  bugs  along  the  flumes, 
and  toiled  and  sweated  at  the  gravel 
heaps  which  they  kept  in  constant  un- 
rest, —  men,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
even  to  the  rims  of  the  hilltops,  dig- 
ging, tearing,  and  scouring  the  face  of 
nature. 

Li  Wan  was  appalled  at  the  tremen- 
dous upheaval.  "Truly,  these  men  are 
mad,"  she  said  to  Canim. 

"Small  wonder.  The  gold  they  dig 
after  is  a  great  thing,"  he  replied. 
"The  greatest  thing  in  the  world." 

For  hours  they  threaded  the  chaos  of 
greed,  Canim  eagerly  intent,  Li  Wan 
weak  and  listless.  She  knew  she  had 
been  on  the  verge  of  disclosure,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  still  on  the  verge  of 
disclosure;  but  the  nervous  strain  she 
had  undergone  had  tired  her,  and  she 
passively  waited  for  the  thing,  she  knew 
not  what,  to  happen.  From  every  hand 
her  senses  snatched  up  and  conveyed  to 
her  innumerable  impressions,  each  of 
which  became  a  dull  excitation  to  her 
jaded  imagination.  Somewhere  within 
her,  responsive  notes  were  answering  to 
the  things  without  ;  forgotten  and  un- 


218 


Li    Wan,  the  Fair. 


dreamed-of  correspondences  were  being 
renewed ;  and  she  was  aware  of  it  in  an 
incurious  way,  and  her  soul  was  trou- 
bled, but  she  was  not  equal  to  the  men- 
tal exaltation  necessary  to  transmute 
and  understand.  So  she  plodded  wea- 
rily on  at  the  heels  of  her  lord,  content 
to  wait  for  that  which  she  knew,  some- 
where, somehow,  must  happen. 

After  undergoing  the  mad  bondage 
of  man,  the  creek  finally  returned  to  its 
ancient  ways,  all  soiled  and  smirched 
from  its  toil,  and  coiled  lazily  among 
the  broad  flats  and  timbered  spaces 
where  the  valley  widened  to  the  mouth. 
Here  the  "pay  "  ran  out,  and  men  were 
loath  to  loiter  with  the  lure  yet  beyond. 
And  here,  as  Li  Wan  paused  to  prod 
Olo  with  her  staff,  she  heard  the  mellow 
silver  of  a  woman's  laughter. 

Before  a  cabin  sat  a  woman,  fair  of 
skin  and  rosy  as  a  child,  dimpling  with 
glee  at  the  words  of  another  woman  in 
the  doorway.  But  the  woman  who  sat 
shook  about  her  great  masses  of  dark 
wet  hair  which  yielded  up  its  dampness 
to  the  warm  caresses  of  the  sun. 

For  an  instant  Li  Wan  stood  trans- 
fixed. Then  she  was  aware  of  a  blind- 
ing flash,  and  a  snap,  as  though  some- 
thing gave  way ;  and  the  woman  before 
the  cabin  vanished,  and  the  cabin,  and 
the  tall  spruce  timber,  and  the  jagged 
sky  line,  and  Li  Wan  saw  another  wo- 
man, in  the  shine  of  another  sun,  brush- 
ing great  masses  of  black  hair  and  sing- 
ing as  she  brushed.  And  Li  Wan  heard 
the  words  of  the  song,  and  understood, 
and  was  a  child  again.  She  was  smit- 
ten with  a  vision,  wherein  all  the  trou- 
blesome dreams  merged  and  became  one, 
and  shapes  and  shadows  took  up  their 
accustomed  round,  and  all  was  clear  and 
plain  and  real.  Many  pictures  jostled 
past,  strange  scenes,  and  trees,  and 
flowers,  and  people;  and  she  saw  them 
and  knew  them  all. 

"When  you  were  a  little  bird,  a  lit- 
tle moose-bird,"  Canim  said,  his  eyes 
upon  her  and  burning  into  her. 

"When  I  was  a  little  moose-bird," 


she  whispered,  so  faint  and  low  he 
scarcely  heard.  And  she  knew  she  lied, 
as  she  bent  her  head  to  the  strap  and 
took  the  swing  of  the  trail. 

And  such  was  the  strangeness  of  it, 
the  real  now  became  unreal.  The  mile 
tramp  and  the  pitching  of  camp  by  the 
edge  of  the  stream  seemed  like  a  pas- 
sage in  a  nightmare.  She  cooked  the 
meat,  fed  the  dogs,  and  unlashed  the 
packs  as  in  a  dream,  and  it  was  not  un- 
til Canim  began  to  sketch  his  next  wan- 
dering that  she  became  herself  again. 

"The  Klondike  runs  into  the  Yu- 
kon, "  he  was  saying ;  "a  mighty  river, 
mightier  than  the  Mackenzie,  of  which 
you  know.  So  we  go,  you  and  I,  down 
to  Fort  o'  Yukon.  With  dogs,  in  time 
of  winter,  it  is  twenty  sleeps.  Then 
we  follow  the  Yukon  away  into  the 
west  —  one  hundred  sleeps,  two  hun- 
dred, I  have  never  heard.  It  is  very 
far.  And  then  we  come  to  the  sea. 
You  know  nothing  of  the  sea,  so  let  me 
tell  you.  As  the  lake  is  to  the  island, 
so  the  sea  is  to  the  land ;  all  the  rivers 
run  to  it,  and  it  is  without  end.  I 
have  seen  it  at  Hudson  Bay ;  I  have  yet 
to  see  it  in  Alaska.  And  then  we  may 
take  a  great  canoe  upon  the  sea,  you 
and  I,  Li  Wan,  or  we  may  follow  the 
land  into  the  south  many  a  hundred 
sleeps.  And  after  that  I  do  not  know, 
save  that  I  am  Canim,  The  Canoe,  wan- 
derer and  far- journey er  over  the  earth !  " 

She  sat  and  listened,  and  fear  ate  into 
her  heart  as  she  pondered  over  this 
plunge  into  the  illimitable  wilderness. 
"  It  is  a  weary  way, "  was  all  she  said, 
head  bowed  on  knee  in  resignation. 

Then  it  was  a  splendid  thought  came 
to  her,  and  at  the  wonder  of  it  she  was 
all  a-glow.  She  went  down  to  the 
stream  and  washed  the  dried  clay  from 
her  face.  When  the  ripples  died  away 
she  stared  long  at  her  mirrored  fea- 
tures ;  but  sun  and  weather  had  done 
their  work,  and,  with  the  roughness  and 
bronze,  her  skin  was  not  soft  and  dim- 
pled as  a  child's.  But  the  thought  was 
still  splendid  and  the  glow  unabated  as 


Li   Wan,  the  Fair. 


219 


she  crept  in  beside  her  husband  under 
the  sleeping-robe. 

She  lay  awake,  staring  up  at  the  blue 
of  the  sky  and  waiting  for  Canim  to 
sink  into  the  first  deep  sleep.  When 
this  came  about,  she  wormed  slowly  and 
carefully  away,  tucked  the  robe  around 
him,  and  stood  up.  At  her  second  step, 
Bash  growled  savagely.  She  whispered 
persuasively  to  him  and  glanced  at  the 
man.  Canim  was  snoring  profoundly. 
Then  she  turned,  and  with  swift,  noise- 
less feet  sped  up  the  back  trail. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  Van  Wyck  was  just  pre- 
paring for  bed.  Bored  by  the  duties 
put  upon  her  by  society,  her  wealth, 
and  widowed  blessedness,  she  had  jour- 
neyed into  the  Northland  and  gone  to 
housekeeping  in  a  cosy  cabin  on  the 
edge  of  the  diggings.  Here,  aided  and 
abetted  by  her  friend  and  companion, 
Myrtle  Giddings,  she  played  at  living 
close  to  the  soil,  and  cultivated  the 
primitive  with  refined  abandon. 

She  strove  to  get  away  from  the  gen- 
erations of  culture  and  parlor  selection, 
and  sought  the  earth-grip  her  ancestors 
had  forfeited.  Likewise  she  induced 
mental  states  which  she  fondly  believed 
to  approximate  those  of  the  stone  folk, 
and  just  now,  as  she  put  up  her  hair  for 
the  pillow,  she  was  indulging  her  fancy 
with  a  palaeolithic  wooing.  The  de- 
tails consisted  principally  of  cave  dwell- 
ings and  cracked  marrow-bones,  inter- 
sprinkled  with  fierce  carnivora,  hairy 
mammoths,  and  combats  with  rude 
flaked  knives  of  flint ;  but  the  sensations 
were  delicious.  And  as  Evelyn  Van 
Wyck  fled  through  the  sombre  forest 
aisles  before  the  too  arduous  advances 
of  her  slant-browed,  skin-clad  wooer, 
the  door  of  the  cabin  opened,  without 
the  courtesy  of  knock,  and  a  skin-clad 
woman,  savage  and  primitive,  came  in. 
"Mercy!" 

With  a  leap  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  cave  woman,  Miss  Giddings 
landed  in  safety  behind  the  table.  But 
Mrs.  Van  Wyck  held  her  ground.  She 


noted  that  the  intruder  was  laboring  un- 
der a  strong  excitement,  and  cast  a  swift 
glance  backward  to  assure  herself  that 
the  way  was  clear  to  the  bunk,  where 
the  big  Colt's  revolver  lay  beneath  a 
pillow. 

"Greeting,  O  Woman  of  the  Won- 
drous Hair, "  said  Li  Wan. 

But  she  said  it  in  her  own  tongue, 
—  the  tongue  spoken  in  but  a  little  cor- 
ner of  the  earth,  and  the  women  did 
not  understand. 

"Shall  I  go  for  help?"  Miss  Gid- 
dings quavered. 

"The  poor  creature  is  harmless,  I 
think, "  Mrs.  Van  Wyck  replied.  "And 
just  look  at  her  skin  clothes,  ragged  and 
trail- worn,  and  all  that.  They  are  cer- 
tainly unique.  I  shall  buy  them  for 
my  collection.  Get  my  sack,  Myrtle, 
please,  and  set  up  the  scales." 

Li  Wan  followed  the  shaping  of  the 
lips,  but  the  words  were  unintelligible, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  she  real- 
ized, in  a  moment  of  suspense  and  in- 
decision, that  there  was  no  medium  of 
communication  between  them. 

And  at  the  passion  of  her  dumbness 
she  cried  out,  with  arms  stretched  wide 
apart,  "O  Woman,  thou  art  sister  of 
mine  I  " 

The  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks 
as  she  yearned  toward  them,  and  the 
break  in  her  voice  carried  the  sorrow 
she  could  not  utter.  But  Miss  Gid- 
dings was  trembling,  and  even  Mrs. 
Van  Wyck  was  disturbed. 

"I  would  live  as  you  live.  Thy  ways 
are  my  ways,  and  our  ways  be  one.  My 
husband  is  Canim,  The  Canoe,  and  he 
is  big  and  strange,  and  I  am  afraid. 
His  trail  is  all  the  world,  and  never 
ends,  and  I  am  weary.  My  mother  was 
like  you,  and  her  hair  was  as  thine,  and 
her  eyes.  And  life  was  soft  to  me, 
then,  and  the  sun  warm." 

She  knelt  humbly,  and  bent  her  head 
at  Mrs.  Van  Wyck's  feet.  But  Mrs. 
Van  Wyck  drew  away,  frightened  at 
her  vehemence. 

Li  Wan  stood  up,  panting  for  speech. 


220 


Li  Wan,  the  Fair. 


Her  dumb  lips  could  not  articulate  her 
overmastering  consciousness  of  kind. 

"Trade?  You  trade?"  Mrs.  Van 
Wyck  questioned,  slipping,  after  the 
manner  of  the  superior  peoples,  into 
pigeon  tongue. 

She  touched  Li  Wan's  ragged  skins 
to  indicate  her  choice,  and  poured  sev- 
eral hundreds  of  gold  into  the  blower. 
She  stirred  the  dust  about  and  trickled 
its  yellow  lustre  temptingly  through 
her  fingers.  But  Li  Wan  saw  only  the 
fingers,  milk-white  and  shapely,  taper- 
ing daintily  to  the  rosy,  jewel-like 
nails;  and  she  placed  her  own  hand 
alongside,  all  work-worn  and  calloused, 
and  wept. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck  misunderstood. 
a  Gold, "  she  encouraged.  "  Good  gold ! 
You  trade  ?  You  changee  for  changee  ?  v 
And  she  laid  her  hand  again  on  Li 
Wan's  skin  garments. 

"How  much?  You  sell?  How 
much  ?  "  she  persisted,  running  her  hand 
against  the  way  of  the  hair  so  that  she 
might  make  sure  of  the  sinew-thread 
seam. 

But  Li  Wan  was  deaf  as  well,  and 
the  woman's  speech  was  without  signifi- 
cance. Dismay  at  her  failure  sat  upon 
her.  How  could  she  identify  herself 
with  these  women  ?  For  she  knew  they 
were  of  the  one  breed,  blood-sisters 
among  men  and  the  women  of  men. 
Her  eyes  roved  wildly  about  the  inte- 
rior, taking  in  the  soft  draperies  hang- 
ing around,  the  feminine  garments,  the 
oval  mirror,  and  the  dainty  toilet  ac- 
cessories beneath.  And  the  things 
haunted  her,  for  she  had  seen  like  things 
before ;  and  as  she  looked  at  them  her 
lips  involuntarily  formed  sounds  which 
her  throat  trembled  to  utter.  Then  a 
thought  flashed  upon  her,  and  she  stead- 
ied herself.  She  must  be  calm.  She 
must  control  herself.  There  must  be 
no  misunderstanding  this  time,  or  else, 
—  and  she  shook  with  a  storm  of  sup- 
pressed tears  and  steadied  herself 
again. 

She   put   her   hand   on   the    table. 


"Table,"    she    clearly   and    distinctly 
enunciated.      "  Table, "  she  repeated. 

She  looked  at  Mrs.  Van  Wyck,  who 
nodded  approbation.  Li  Wan  exulted, 
but  brought  her  will  to  bear  and  held 
herself  steady.  "Stove,"  she  went  on. 
"Stove." 

Then  at  every  nod  of  Mrs.  Van 
Wyck,  Li  Wan's  excitement  mounted. 
Now  stumbling  and  halting,  and  again 
in  feverish  haste,  as  the  recrudescence 
of  forgotten  words  was  fast  or  slow, 
she  moved  about  the  cabin,  naming 
article  after  article.  And  when  she 
paused,  finally,  it  was  in  triumph, 
with  body  erect  and  head  thrown  back, 
expectant,  waiting. 

"C-a-t,"  Mrs.  Van  Wyck  laughing- 
ly spelled  out  in  kindergarten  fashion. 
"I  —  see  —  the  —  cat  —  catch  —  the 
^rat." 

Li  Wan  nodded  her  head  seriously. 
They  were  beginning  to  understand  at 
last,  these  women.  The  blood  flushed 
darkly  under  her  bronze  at  the  thought, 
and  she  smiled  and  nodded  her  head 
still  more  vigorously. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck  turned  to  her  com- 
panion. "Received  a  smattering  of 
mission  education  somewhere,  I  fancy, 
and  has  come  to  show  it  off." 

"Of  course, "  Miss  Giddings  tittered. 
"Little  fool!  We  shall  lose  our  sleep 
with  her  vanity." 

"All  the  same  I  want  that  jacket. 
If  it  is  old,  the  workmanship  is  good,  — 
a  most  excellent  specimen."  She  re- 
turned to  her  visitor.  "Changee  for 
changee  ?  You !  —  changee  for  changee  ? 
How  much  ?  Eh  ?  How  much,  you  ?  " 
"Perhaps  she  'd  prefer  a  dress  or 
something,"  Miss  Giddings  suggested. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck  went  up  to  Li  Wan 
and  made  signs  that  she  would  exchange 
her  wrapper  for  the  jacket.  And  to 
further  the  transaction,  she  took  Li 
Wan's  hand  and  placed  it  amid  the  lace 
and  ribbons  of  the  flowing  bosom,  and 
rubbed  the  fingers  back  and  forth  that 
she  might  feel  the  texture.  But  the 
jeweled  butterfly  which  loosely  held  the 


My   Cookery  Bocks. 


221 


fold  in  place  was  insecurely  fastened, 
and  the  front  of  the  gown  fell  aside, 
exposing  a  firm  white  breast  which  had 
never  known  the  lip-clasp  of  a  child. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck  coolly  repaired  the 
mischief;  but  Li  Wan  uttered  a  loud 
cry,  and  ripped  and  tore  at  her  skin- 
shirt  till  her  own  breast  showed  firm 
and  white  as  Evelyn  Van  Wyck's. 
Murmuring  inarticulately  and  making 
swift  signs,  she  strove  to  establish  the 
kinship. 

"A  half-breed,"  Mrs.  Van  Wyck 
commented.  "I  thought  so  from  her 
hair. " 

Miss  Giddings  made  a  fastidious  ges- 
ture. "Proud  of  her  father's  white 
skin.  It 's  beastly.  Do  give  her  some- 
thing, Evelyn,  and  make  her  go." 

But  the  other  woman  sighed.  "Poor 
creature,  I  wish  I  could  do  something 
for  her. " 

There  was  a  crunching  on  the  gravel 
without.  Then  the  cabin  door  swung 
wide  and  Canim  stalked  in.  Miss  Gid- 
dings saw  a  vision  of  sudden  death  and 
screamed,  but  Mrs.  Van  Wyck  faced 
him  composedly. 

"What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  demand- 
ed. 

"How  do,"  Canim  answered  suavely 
and  directly,  pointing  at  the  same  time 
to  Li  Wan.  "Um  my  wife." 

He  reached  out  to  her,  but  she  waved 
him  back. 

"Speak,  Canim!   Tell  them  I  am  "  — 

"  Daughter  of  Pow- Wah-Kaan  ? 
Nay,  of  what  is  it  to  them  that  they 
should  care  ?  Better  should  I  tell  them 


thou  art  an  ill  wife,  given  to  creeping 
from  thy  husband's  bed  when  sleep  is 
heavy  in  his  eyes." 

Again  he  reached  out  for  her,  but 
she  fled  away  from  him  to  Mrs.  Van 
Wyck,  at  whose  feet  she  made  frenzied 
appeal,  and  whose  knees  she  tried  to 
clasp.  But  the  lady  stepped  back,  giv- 
ing permission  with  her  eyes  to  Canim. 
He  gripped  Li  Wan  under  the  shoulders 
and  raised  her.  She  fought  with  him, 
in  a  madness  of  despair,  till  his  chest 
was  heaving  with  the  exertion  and  they 
had  reeled  about  over  half  the  room. 

"Let  me  go,  Canim!  "  she  sobbed. 

But  he  twisted  her  wrist  till  she 
ceased  to  struggle.  "The  memories  of 
the  little  moose-bird  are  over-strong  and 
make  trouble,"  he  began. 

But  she  interrupted.  "I  know! 
I  know !  I  see  the  man  in  the  snow, 
and,  as  never  before,  I  see  him  crawl  on 
hand  and  knee.  And  I,  who  am  a  lit- 
tle child,  am  carried  on  his  back.  And 
this  is  before  Pow- Wah-Kaan  and  the 
time  I  came  to  live  in  a  little  corner  of 
the  earth." 

"You  know,"  he  answered,  forcing 
her  toward  the  door ;  "  but  you  will  go 
with  me  down  the  Yukon  and  forget." 

"Never  shall  I  forget!  So  long  as 
my  skin  is  white  shall  I  remember!  " 

She  clutched  frantically  at  the  door- 
post and  looked  a  last  appeal  to  Mrs. 
Evelyn  Van  Wyck. 

"Then  will  I  teach  thee  to  forget, 
I,  Canim,  The  Canoe !  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  pulled  her  fingers  clear 
and  passed  out  with  her  upon  the  trail. 
Jack  London. 


MY    COOKERY    BOOKS.1 

II.  mind  must  like,  I  think,  to  read  about 

them."      The  words  are  Thackeray's, 

"NEXT   to   eating  good  dinners,    a     and  they  encourage  me,  if  I  need  en- 
healthy  man  with  a  benevolent  turn  of     couragement,  in  my  belief  that  to  go  on 
1  Seo  Atlantic  for  June,  1901,  p.  789. 


222 


My  Cookery  Books. 


writing  about  my  Cookery  Books  is  a 
duty  I  owe  not  only  to  myself,  but  to 
the  world. 

If  I  have  owned  to  a  sneaking  pre- 
ference for  the  little  calf  and  vellum 
covered  duodecimos  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  courteous  and  gallant  as  the 
Stuart  days  to  which  they  belong,  I 
should  lose  no  time  in  adding  that  it 
is  to  the  eighteenth  century  I  am  in- 
debted for  the  great  treasure  of  my 
collection,  —  Mrs.  Glasse  in  the  famous 
"pot  folio  "  of  the  first  edition.  The 
copy  belonged,  as  I  have  explained,  to 
George  Augustus  Sala,  and  came  up  for 
sale  when  his  library  was  disposed  of  at 
Sotheby's  in  the  July  of  1896.  This 
library  was  a  disappointment  to  most 
people,  —  to  none  more  than  to  me.  I 
had  heard  much  of  Sala's  cookery  books, 
but  small  as  my  collection  then  was  I 
found  only  three  that  I  had  not  already. 
Bartolommeo  Scappi's  Cuoco  Secreto,1 
in  fine  binding,  but  not  in  the  first  edi- 
tion (which  I  secured  a  year  or  two  af- 
ter); The  Delmonico  Cook  Book,  and 
excellent  it  is;  and  Mrs.  Glasse,  — 
The  Art  of  Cookery,  Made  Plain  and 
Easy,  which  far  Exceeds  Every  Thing 
of  the  Kind  yet  Published,  to  give  her 
book  its  full  title.  In  the  preliminary 
paragraphs  that  went  the  round  of  the 
press,  Mrs.  Glasse  alone  received  the 
honor  of  special  mention ;  in  that  dingy 
little  salesroom  in  Wellington  Street, 
where,  however  high  passions  —  and 
prices  —  may  run,  the  group  at  the  ta- 
ble seem  to  have  come  together  for 
nothing  more  exciting  than  a  sociable 
nap,  Mrs.  Glasse  again  held  the  place 
of  honor  in  a  glass  case  apart.  Every- 
thing pointed  to  a  struggle.  It  would 
take  a  braver  woman  than  I  to  face 
the  "knock-outs  "  and  "rings  "  before 
which  the  private  buyer  is  said  to  be  as 
a  lamb  led  to  the  slaughter.  When  the 
day  of  the  sale  came,  like  royalty  at 
important  functions,  I  was  "represent- 
ed "  at  Sotheby's,  and  myself  stayed  at 

1  It  was  at  the  Court  of  Pius  V.  that  he  held 
this  important  position. 


home  with  my  emotions.  The  sequel 
is  known.  Is  not  the  book  on  my 
shelves?  It  came  that  same  evening, 
the  two  others  with  it.  "I  am 
pleased, "  wrote  my  representative,  "  to 
be  able  to  send  you  the  three  books,  and 
all  below  your  limit,  and  hope  you  will 
be  satisfied."  Satisfied?  Was  there 
ever  a  woman  yet  to  whom  a  bargain 
was  not  half  the  joy  of  possession  ? 

Sala,  it  was  currently  reported,  val- 
ued the  book  at  five  hundred  dollars; 
I  paid  but  fifty.  It  was  not  because 
he  overestimated  its  rarity.  The  first 
edition  was  almost  as  rare  as  he 
thought.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  his  copy 
he  wrote,  July,  1876,  that  only  three 
others  were  known  to  be  in  existence : 
one  at  the  British  Museum,  a  second  at 
the  Bodleian,  and  a  third  in  the  library 
of  a  country  clergyman.  Since  then 
only  two  others,  to  my  knowledge,  have 
materialized.  But  Sala  was  a  vandal ; 
his  copy  was  evidently  in  a  shocking 
state  when  he  found  it,  in  a  barrow  in 
a  South  London  slum  according  to  the 
legend,  and  he  had  the  battered  and 
torn  pages  mended,  and  the  book  bound 
in  substantial  and  expensive,  if  inap- 
propriate binding.  So  far  so  good. 
.Still  he  also  had  it  interleaved.  He 
seems  to  have  believed  that  his  own 
trivial  newspaper  correspondence  on  the 
subject  carefully  pasted  in  would  in- 
crease its  value.  How  often  have  I 
looked  at  the  book  and  decided,  at 
whatever  cost,  to  get  rid  of  the  inter- 
leaving and  the  newspaper  clippings,  an 
insult  alike  to  Mrs.  Glasse  and  myself! 
How  often  have  I  decided  that  to  re- 
duce it  to  its  original  slimness  would 
be  to  destroy  its  pedigree ;  not  a  very 
distinguished  pedigree,  but  still  the 
copy  was  known  in  the  auction  room  as 
Sala's,  and,  therefore,  as  Sala's  must 
it  not  remain  ?  Whoever  can  settle  this 
problem  for  me  will  lift  a  burden  of  re- 
sponsibility from  shoulders  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  it. 

Now,  I  have  the  first  edition,  I  do 
not  mind  admitting  that  no  other  trea- 


My    Cookery  Books. 


223 


tise  on  cookery  owes  its  reputation  so 
little  to  merit,  so  much  to  chance.  It 
was  popular  in  its  own  day,  I  grant 
you.  The  Biographical  Dictionary  says 
that,  except  the  Bible,  it  had  the  great- 
est sale  in  the  language.  It  went  into 
edition  after  edition.  There  are  ten  in 
the  British  Museum.  I  own  five  my- 
self, though  I  vowed  that  the  first  suf- 
ficed for  my  wants.  The  book  was 
republished  in  Edinburgh.  It  was  re- 
vived as  late  as  1852,  perhaps  later 
still,  for  all  I  as  yet  know.  But  al- 
most all  the  eighteenth-century  books 
shared  its  popularity,  —  only  the  Bio- 
graphical Dictionary  has  not  happened 
to  hear  of  them.  I  have  The  Compleat 
Housewife,  by  E.  Smith,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth edition ;  I  have  Elizabeth  Mox- 
on's  English  Housewife,  in  the  thir- 
teenth; I  have  John  Farley's  London 
Art  of  Cookery,  in  the  eleventh,  and  I 
might  go  on  through  a  list  of  titles  and 
authors  long  forgotten  by  every  one  but 
me.  All  are  as  amusing  now  as  the 
Art  of  Cookery,  and  were  probably  very 
useful  in  their  day.  The  receipts  are 
much  the  same;  indeed,  the  diligence 
with  which  the  authorities  upon  cookery 
in  the  eighteenth  century  borrowed  one 
from  the  other,  without  a  word  of  ac- 
knowledgment, ought  to  have  kept  the 
law  courts  busy.  Nor  does  the  manner 
vary  more  than  the  matter.  Of  most 
of  the  books  the  authors  could  say  as 
truthfully  as  Mrs.  Glasse  of  hers,  that 
they  were  "not  wrote  in  the  high  polite 
stile."  Not  even  her  sex  gives  Mrs. 
Glasse  distinction  in  an  age  when  au- 
thorship or  public  practice  of  any  sort 
was  indelicate  in  a  female.  Mary 
Eale,  E.  Smith,  Elizabeth  Raffald,  — 
a  charming  person  in  a  mob  cap,  if  you 
can  trust  her  portrait,  —  Charlotte 
Mason,  Elizabeth  Cleland,  Martha 
Bradley,  were  a  few  of  her  many  rivals. 
And  where  are  they  now? 

"  Where  's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais  ?  " 

If  Mrs.  Glasse  alone  survives,  H  is 
for  one  reason  only,  and  that  the  most 


unreasonable.  Her  fame  is  due  not  to 
her  genius,  for  she  really  had  none, 
but  to  the  fact  that  her  own  generation 
believed  there  was  "no  sich  person," 
and  after  generations  believed  in  her 
as  the  author  of  a  phrase  she  never 
wrote.  And,  indeed,  no  one  would  re- 
member even  the  doubt  at  the  time 
thrown  upon  her  identity,  but  for  Bos- 
well.  I  know  Cumberland  also  is  an 
authority  for  the  report  that  Dr.  Hill 
wrote  the  book.  Hill,  he  says,  was 
"a  needy  author  who  could  not  make 
a  dinner  out  of  the  press  till,  by  a  happy 
transformation  into  Hannah  Glasse,  he 
turned  himself  into  a  cook  and  sold  re- 
ceipts for  made  dishes  to  all  the  savoury 
readers  in  the  kingdom.  Then,  indeed, 
the  press  acknowledged  him  second  in 
fame  only  to  John  Bunyan ;  his  feasts 
kept  pace  in  sale  with  Nelson's  Fasts, 
and  when  his  own  name  was  fairly 
written  out  of  credit,  he  wrote  himself 
into  immortality  under  an  alias. "  But 
nobody  nowadays  reads  Cumberland's 
Memoirs,  and  everybody  reads  Boswell, 
—  or  pretends  to.  The  subject  came 
up  at  Mr.  Dilley's  dinner-table.  "Mrs. 
Glasse 's  Cookery,  which  is  the  best,  was 
written  by  Dr.  Hill.  Half  the  trade 
knows  this, "  said  Mr.  Dilley,  who,  be- 
ing in  the  trade  himself,  ought  to  have 
been  an  authority.  But  Dr.  Johnson 
was  of  another  opinion:  "Women  can 
spin  very  well,  but  they  cannot  make 
a  good  book  of  cookery."  Mrs.  Glasse's 
is  not  a  good  book,  mistakes  occurring 
in  it ;  therefore,  Dr.  Hill,  a  man,  could 
not  have  written  it.  I  agree  with  Dr. 
Johnson's  conclusions,  but  on  far  sim- 
pler grounds.  The  impersonation  of 
Mrs.  Glasse  would,  in  the  end,  have 
become  too  elaborate  a  joke  to  carry 
through,  had  Dr.  Hill  been  as  ingen- 
ious and  as  wanting  in  veracity  as  in 
Dr.  Johnson's  description  of  him  to 
George  III.  The  first  edition  of  the 
Art  of  Cookery  —  the  folio,  sold  at 
Mrs.  Ashburn's  China  Shop,  corner  of 
Fleet  Ditch,  and  at  Mrs.  Wharton's, 
at  the  Blue  Coat  Boy,  near  the  Royal 


224 


My   Cookery  Books. 


Exchange  —  was  published  anonymous- 
ly in  1747.  "By  a  Lady  "  is  printed 
on  the  title-page.  Only  later  editions, 
the  octavo,  sold  by  innumerable  booksell- 
ers, Dr.  Johnson's  friend,  Mr.  Millar, 
among  them,  appear  with  the  name  H. 
Glasse  printed  on  the  title-page  and  in 
facsimile  above  the  first  chapter.  To 
invent  the  name  would  have  been  no 
great  tax  on  the  imagination.  But,  by 
the  fourth  edition,  which  I  search  for 
in  vain,  Dr.  Hill  would  have  had  to  in- 
vent a  trade  as  well.  For  in  this  edi- 
tion, and  in  this  one  only,  an  impressive 
engraved  frontispiece  describes  Hannah 
Glasse  —  and  if  the  description  is  long, 
it  is  too  inimitable  not  to  be  quoted  in 
full  —  as  "Habit  Maker  to  Her  Royal 
Highness,  the  Princess  of  Wales,  in 
Tavistock  St.,  Covent  Garden,  Makes 
and  Sells  all  sorts  of  Riding  Hab- 
its, Joseph's  Great  Coats,  Horsemen's 
Coats,  Russia  Coats,  Hussar  Coats, 
Bedgowns,  Nightgowns,  and  Robe  de 
Shambers,  Widows'  Weeds,  Sultains, 
Sultans,  and  Cartouches  after  the  neat- 
est manner,  Likewise,  Parliament, 
Judges'  and  Chancellors '  Robes,  Ital- 
ian Robes,  Cossockroons,  Capuchins, 
Newmarket  Cloaks,  Long  Cloaks,  Short 
Do.,  Quilted  Coats,  Hoop  Petticoats, 
Under  Coats,  All  Sorts  of  Fringes  and 
Laces  as  cheap  as  from  the  makers. 
Bonnetts,  Hatts,  Short  Hoods,  and 
Caps,  of  all  Sorts,  Plain  Sattins,  Sas- 
netts,and  Persians.  All  Sorts  of  Child- 
bed Linning,  Cradles,  Baskets  and 
Robes.  Also  Stuffs,  Camblets,  Cabi- 
nances,  and  Worsted  Damasks,  Norwich 
Crapes,  and  Bumbasins,  Scarlet  Cloaths, 
Duffels  and  Frizes,  Dimitys,  New- 
market Hunting  Caps,  etc.  Likewise 
all  sorts  of  Masquerade  Dresses." 

More  than  this,  Dr.  Hill,  thus  es- 
tablished on  copper  plate,  would  have 
had  promptly  to  invent  his  failure.  In 

1  Just  as  I  am  re-reading  this  before  trusting 
it  to  the  post,  a  package  is  handed  to  me.  I 
open  it.  The  Servant's  Directory,  or  House- 
keeper's Companion,  by  H.  Glasse.  The  book 
I  have  been  searching  for  during  long  years ! 


1 754,  three  years  later,  Hannah  Glasse 
figured  among  the  bankrupts  of  the 
year;  "Hannah  Glasse  of  St.  Paul's, 
Covent  Garden,  Warehousekeeper, "  is 
the  entry.  He  would  also  have  had  to 
claim  two  other  books:  The  Servant's 
Directory,  published  in  1760,  almost 
fifteen  years  after  the  Art  of  Cookery, 
a  book  I  have  never  been  able  to  find,1 
and  The  Compleat  Confectioner,  pub- 
lished in  I  cannot  say  what  year,  for 
my  copy,  a  first  edition,  has  no  date, 
and  the  book  is  known  neither  to  Haz- 
litt  nor  Vicaire.  And  as  a  last  touch, 
he  must  have  had  the  brilliant  idea  of 
opening  a  cookery  school  in  Edinburgh, 
if  I  can  trust  "M.  D.,"  who  wrote 
a  note  on  the  fly-leaf  of  my  copy  of 
The  Compleat  Confectioner  to  protest 
against  the  revival,  in  the  Times,  of 
the  old  scandal.  This  was  in  1866, 
when  some  one  rashly  called  Mrs.  Glasse 
"Mrs.  Harris."  Mrs.  Glasse,  M.  D. 
says,  "lived  in  the  flesh  in  Edinburgh 
about  1790.  She  taught  cookery  to 
classes  of  young  ladies.  My  mother 
was  a  pupil,  and  fondly  showed  in  her 
old  age  to  her  children  a  copy  of 
Glasse 's  Cookery,  with  the  autograph 
of  the  authoress,  gained  as  a  prize  in 
the  School  of  Cookery."  "M.  D."  at 
once  spoils  her  case  by  adding  "This 
book  does  contain  '  Catch  your  Hare.'  ' 
Not  before  seeing  it  could  I  believe. 
I  have  spent  hours  in  pursuit  of  the 
famous  phrase,  or,  at  least,  the  reason 
of  the  misquotation,  in  the  hope  that 
success  might,  forever  after,  link  my 
name  with  that  of  Hannah  Glasse.  But 
I  can  come  no  nearer  to  the  clue  than 
the  "First  Case  your  hare, "  found  in 
every  cookery  book  of  the  period,  and 
that  Mr.  Churton  Collins  has  just  been 
offering  as  an  explanation,  and  so  de- 
priving me  of  the  chance  of  being  the 
first  with  even  this  obvious  discovery. 

The  miracle  I  owe,  I  am  proud  to  say,  to  Mr. 
Janvier,  whose  intimacy  with  Mr.  Hutchinson, 
Port  of  Philadelphia,  has  made  him  sympathize 
with  me  in  my  study  of  the  Science  of  the 
Gullet. 


My   Cookery  Books. 


225 


Well,  any  way,  believe  in  Mrs.  Glasse, 
or  not,  the  cookery  book  that  bears  her 
name  is  the  only  one  published  in  the 
eighteenth  century  now  remembered  by 
the  whole  world.  And  yet,  it  is  in 
eighteenth-century  books  my  collection 
is  richest.  They  are  mostly  substantial 
octavos,  calf  bound,  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  often  "embellished  "  with  an 
elegant  frontispiece,  a  portrait  of  the 
author,  or  picture  of  the  kitchen,  and, 
I  regret  to  say,  seldom  very  beautiful 
examples  of  the  printer's  art.  Several 
have  been  given  to  me  by  friends  who 
know  my  weakness.  For  instance,  few 
books  in  my  entire  library  do  I  prize 
more  than  the  Collection  of  above  Three 
Hundred  Receipts  in  Cookery,  Physick 
and  Surgery  for  the  use  of  all  Good 
Wives,  Tender  Mothers,  and  Careful 
Nurses,  not  so  much  because  it  is  curi- 
ous and  tolerably  rare,  as  because  of 
the  little  legend,  "Homage  to  Auto- 
lycus,1  Austin  Dobson,"  on  the  fly-leaf . 
The  greater  number  I  have  bought  at 
different  times,  but  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  never,  like  Sala,  have  I  picked 
one  up  from  a  costermonger's  barrow, 
though,  for  a  while,  I  made  weekly  pil- 
grimages to  Whitechapel  in  their  pur- 
suit. Usually  they  have  come  through 
the  second-hand  booksellers.  A  few 
sympathizers,  Dr.  Furnivall  chief 
among  them,  never  fail  to  let  me  know 
of  a  chance  for  a  bargain.  Once  I 
was  offered  some  odd  twenty,  all  in  one 
lot,  before  they  were  advertised,  and 
I  hardly  receive  a  catalogue  that  does 
not  contain  two  or  three  in  its  list. 
Nor  are  they  often  costly.  For  the 
price  of  one  Mrs.  Glasse  in  the  first 
edition,  you  can  have  a  whole  series 
of  her  contemporaries.  And  so  this 
section  of  my  collection  has  grown,  un- 
til I  have  some  sixty  or  seventy  books 
published  in  England  alone  during  the 
eighteenth  century. 

If  I  were  asked  to  point  out  any  one 

1  Perhaps  I  should  explain  that  my  articles 
on  cookery  appeared  in  the  Pall  Mall,  under 
the  title  of  Wares  of  Autolycus,  and  it  was 

VOL.  XC.  —  NO.  538.  15 


characteristic  they  all  share  in  common, 
I  would  say  it  was  the  businesslike 
seriousness  of  their  authors.  The  ama- 
teur had  been  silenced  forever  by  artists 
like  Robert  May  and  Will  Rabisha. 
By  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, almost  all  the  new  cookery  books 
were  being  written  by  cooks.  And  the 
new  authors  were  in  haste,  on  the  very 
title-page,  to  present  their  credentials. 
Henry  Howard  (England's  Newest  Way 
in  all  Sorts  of  Cookery,  1703,  —my 
edition,  alas,  is  1707)  and  J.  Hall 
(The  Queen's  Royal  Cookery,  1713) 
were  Free  Cooks  of  London.  Patrick 
Lamb  (The  Complete  Court  Cook, 
1710)  was  "near  fifty  years  Master 
Cook  to  their  late  Majesties  King 
Charles  II,  King  James  II,  King  Wil- 
liam, Queen  Mary,  and  to  her  Pre- 
sent Majesty,  Queen  Anne, "  and  in  the 
Ordinances  and  Regulations  for  the 
Government  of  the  Royal  Household, 
you  can  learn  to  a  halfpenny  how  much 
he  earned  in  a  year.  Charles  Carter 
(The  Compleat  City  and  Country  Cook, 
1732),  whose  boast  it  was  that  he  came 
of  "  a  long  race  of  predecessors, "  pre- 
sided over  the  kitchens  of  the  Duke 
of  Argyle,  the  Earl  of  Pontefract,  and 
Lord  Cornwallis.  John  Nott  (The 
Cooks'  and  Confectioners'  Dictionary, 
1723),  Vincent  LaChapelle  (The  Mod- 
ern Cook,  1751,  but  then  mine  is  a 
fourth  edition),  William  Verral  (A 
Complete  System  of  Cookery,  1759), 
—  all  I  could  name  have  as  irreproach- 
able references.  A  few  were  not  cooks 
in  service,  but  teachers:  Edward  Kid- 
der,  Pastry-Master,  for  one,  who  ran 
two  schools:  in  Queen  Street,  near  St. 
Thomas  Apostle's,  where  he  held  his 
classes  on  Mondays,  Tuesdays,  and 
Wednesdays,  and  at  Furnival's  Inn  in 
Holborn,  where  he  presided  on  Thurs- 
days, Fridays,  and  Saturdays;  he  also 
was  willing,  kind  soul,  to  teach  ladies 
in  their  own  houses.  I  respect  Kidder 

while  I  was  writing  them  that  Mr.  Dobson 
gave  me  the  hook. 


226 


My   Cookery  Books. 


as  a  man  of  originality,  for  his  Receipts 
of  Pastry  and  Cookery  is  unlike  any 
book  of  the  same  period.  From  the 
frontispiece,  where  he  appears  in  ample 
wig,  with  one  hand  uplifted  as  if  in 
exhortation  to  his  class,  to  the  amazing 
plans  for  setting  and  decorating  a  din- 
ner -  table,  it  is  neatly  engraved  and 
printed  on  one  side  of  the  page  only, 
the  receipts  written  out  in  the  most 
beautiful  copper-plate  writing.  He 
was  original  in  his  spelling,  too: 
"  Sauceages, "  I  consider  a  gem  even  in 
the  eighteenth  century;  and  he  was 
surely  a  forerunner  of  the  modern  cock- 
ney, when  he  wrote,  "To  roast  an 
Hare." 

The  ladies  were  as  eager  to  vouch 
for  their  qualifications.  Mrs.  Mary 
Eale,  whose  Receipts  were  published  in 
1708,  was  Confectioner  to  Queen  Anne ; 
Mrs.  Charlotte  Mason  was  a  House- 
keeper who  had  had  "upwards  of  Thirty 
Years'  Experience  in  Families  of  the 
First  Fashion;"  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Raf- 
fald  held  the  same  position  to  the  Hon. 
Lady  Elizabeth  Warburton,  and  Mrs. 
Sarah  Martin,  to  Freeman  Bower, 
Esq.,  of  Bawtry,  — I  have  his  copy  of 
her  book,  with  receipts  in  his  own  hand- 
writing on  pages  inserted  for  the  pur- 
pose, with  a  note  testifying  to  their 
origin  by  his  great-nephew,  Canon  Jack- 
son !  Others  proudly  proclaimed  their 
town  or  country,  as  if  their  reputation 
made  further  detail  superfluous :  Mrs. 
Mary  Wilson  of  Hertfordshire,  Mrs. 
Sarah  Harrison  of  Devonshire,  Mrs.  Su- 
sannah Carter  of  Clerken well,  Mrs.  Ann 
Shackleford  of  Winchester.  And  then 
there  were  the  rivals  of  Edward  Kid- 
der:  Mrs.  Frazer,  Mrs.  Cleland,  and 
Mrs.  Maciver  taught  the  Arts  of  Cook- 
ery, Pastry,  and  Confectionery  in  Ed- 
inburgh, where,  if  M.  D.  is  to  be  be- 
lieved, Hannah  Glasse  joined  them  after 
her  adventures  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 
But  whatever  their  qualifications,  they 
are  to  be  counted  by  the  dozen,  so  that 
I  can  but  wonder  why  it  seemed  so  as- 
tonishing a  thing  for  Hannah  More, 


Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and  the  other 
Blue  Stockings  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury to  rush  into  print. 

The  seriousness  with  which  these 
cooks  and  housekeepers  and  professors 
took  themselves  was  reflected  in  their 
style.  An  occasional  seventeenth-cen- 
tury book,  reappearing  in  an  eighteenth- 
century  edition,  may  have  continued  to 
enjoy  something  of  popularity;  an  oc- 
casional new  book  at  the  very  beginning 
of  the  period  may  have  retained  some- 
thing of  the  old  picturesqueness.  The 
Collection  of  above  Three  Hundred  Re- 
ceipts fills  its  pages  with  Tansies  and 
Possets,  Syllabubs  and  Flummeries, 
still  recommends  a  dish  as  "the  best 
that  ever  was  tasted, "  and  still  advises 
you  "  to  put  in  a  little  shalot,  if  you  love 
it;  "  The  Queen's  Royal  Cookery  is  as 
flamboyant  with  decorative  adjectives 
as  any  queen's  closet.  But  as  time 
went  on,  the  pleasant  old  familiarity 
went  out  of  fashion,  and  ornament  was 
chastened.  The  literary  tendency  of 
the  age  was  toward  more  formal  dig- 
nity, a  greater  regularity  of  form.  In 
accordance  with  the  mode,  receipts  were 
written  with  a  businesslike  decision,  a 
professional  directness  that  allowed  no 
flowers  of  speech,,  Many  cooks  seem  to 
have  forestalled  or  copied  Dr.  Johnson 
in  the  effort  to  say  a  thing  as  pompously 
as  it  could  be  said ;  disdain  of  ornament 
led  many  to  a  matter  of  fact  bluntness 
that  is  appalling.  "  Stick  your  Pig  just 
above  the  breast-bone, "  says  Mrs.  Eliz- 
abeth Raffald  without  any  preamble, 
"run  your  knife  to  the  heart,  when 
it  is  dead,  put  it  in  cold  water. "  Who- 
ever, after  that,  would  eat  of  her  pig 
has  more  courage  than  I. 

Some  sort  of  order  was  also  intro- 
duced into  the  arrangement  of  receipts, 
in  the  place  of  the  haphazard  disorder 
of  the  old  MSS.  books.  The  change 
was  due,  in  a  large  measure,  to  French 
influence.  In  France,  the  art  of  cook- 
ery had  reached  a  much  higher  stage  of 
perfection  than  in  England.  The  Eng- 
lish might  rebel  against  the  fact,  and 


My   Cookery  Boohs. 


227 


they  did  in  good  earnest.      It  was  not 
only  the  Squire  of  Clod-Hall  who 

"  Classed  your  Kickshaws  and  Ragoog 
With  Popery  and  Wooden  Shoes." 

Steele  deplored  the  fashion  that  ban- 
ished the  "noble Sirloin  "  ignominiously 
"  to  make  way  for  French  Kickshaws, " 
and  he  held  a  French  ragout  to  be  "as 
pernicious  to  the  Stomach  as  a  glass 
of  spirits."  "What  work  would  our 
countrymen  have  made  at  Blenheim  and 
Ramillies,  if  they  had  been  fed  with 
fricassees  and  ragouts  ?  "  he  asks.  It 
was  the  "parcel  of  Kickshaws  contrived 
by  a  French  cook  "  that  gave  the  finish- 
ing touch  to  Matthew  Bramble's  dis- 
pleasure with  the  wife  of  his  friend 
Baynard.  "Their  meals  are  gross," 
was  one  of  Dr.  Johnson's  first  entries 
in  the  Diary  of  his  little  Tour  in 
France,  proving  forever  that  he  was  not 
the  "man  of  very  nice  discernment  in 
the  science  of  cookery  "  that  Boswell 
thought  him.  And,  at  home,  was  it 
not  of  a  certain  nobleman's  French  cook 
he  was  heard  to  say  with  vehemence, 
"I'd  throw  such  a  rascal  into  the 
river  "  ?  The  English  cooks  were  as 
outspoken.  Mrs.  Glasse's  Preface  is 
a  protest  against  "the  blind  Folly  of 
this  age  that  they  would  rather  be  im- 
posed on  by  a  French  Booby  than  give 
encouragement  to  a  good  English  Cook 
...  if  Gentlemen  will  have  French 
cooks,  they  must  pay  for  French 
tricks.''  E.  Smith  regretted  that  in 
her  book  she  had  to  include  a  few 
French  dishes,  "since  we  have,  to  our 
disgrace,  so  fondly  admired  the  French 
tongue,  French  modes,  and  also  French 
messes  "  Charles  Carter  lamented  that 
"some  of  our  Nobility  and  gentry  have 
been  too  much  attached  to  French  Cus- 
toms and  French  Cookery,  "  —  too  will- 
ing "  to  dress  even  more  delicious  Fare 
after  the  Humour  of  the  (perhaps  viti- 
ated) palates  of  some  great  Personages 
or  noted  Epicures  of  France."  It  was 
the  one  point  upon  which  all,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  were  agreed. 


But  protests  were  of  small  avail. 
Already,  in  his  Directions  to  Servants, 
Swift  had  found  it  a  long  time  since 
the  custom  began  among  the  people  of 
quality  to  keep  men  cooks  and  generally 
of  the  French  nation.  Patriotism,  I 
fear,  does  not  begin  in  the  stomach. 
French  cooks  presided  in  most  of  the 
big  houses ;  French  cooks  were  patron- 
ized by  royalty ;  French  ,  cooks  wrote 
cookery  books.  The  French  Family 
Cook  (1793)  was  but  a  belated  transla- 
tion of  the  famous  Cuisiniere  Bourgeoise 
(1746).  La  Chapelle,  who  published 
a  treatise,  was  a  Frenchman.  So  was 
Clermont.  Verral  studied  under  a 
Frenchman.  And  from  French  sources 
the  most  patriotic  were  not  ashamed  to 
steal.  Mrs.  Smith,  however  she  might 
object  to  French  messes,  must  still  ad- 
mit the  necessity  to  temporize,  justify- 
ing herself  by  including  only  "such  re- 
ceipts of  French  cookery  as  I  think  may 
not  be  disagreeable  to  English  palates." 
Mrs.  Glasse,  however  she  might  scorn 
the  French  Booby,  must  still  give  some 
of  her  dishes  "  French  names  to  distin- 
guish them,  because  they  are  known  by 
those  names, "  and  it  matters  not  if  they 
be  called  French  so  they  are  good.  The 
question  reduced  itself  simply  to  one  of 
demand  and  supply.  But  if  the  "  French 
Kickshaws"  had  been  so  bad  for  the  pub- 
lic as  patriots  preached,  the  study  of 
French  books  was  altogether  good  for 
the  preachers.  Under  the  sweet  civil- 
izing influence  of  France  the  barbarous 
medley  of  the  English  cookery  book 
disappeared.  A  roast  did  not  turn  up 
unexpectedly  between  a  sweet  and  a  sa- 
vory, or  a  fish  in  the  midst  of  the  soups, 
or  an  omelet  lost  among  the  vegeta- 
bles. Each  dish  was  duly  labeled  and 
entered  in  its  appropriate  chapter. 
Chemical,  Physical,  and  Chirurgical 
Secrets  were  banished  to  separate  vol- 
umes with  a  few  curious  exceptions.  "I 
shall  not  take  upon  me  to  meddle  in  the 
physical  way  farther  than  two  receipts, " 
writes  Mrs.  Glasse.  "One  is  for  the 
bite  of  a  mad  dog,  and  the  other  if  a 


228 


My   Cookery  Books. 


man  should  be  near  where  the  Plague 
is,  he  shall  be  in  no  danger."  And 
these  receipts  are  so  often  repeated  in 
rival  cookery  books  that  I  can  only  sup- 
pose there  were  many  who  believed  in 
earnest  what  Lord  Chesterfield  said  in 
jest  when,  six  years  after  Mrs.  Glasse's 
book  was  published,  he  wrote  to  his  son 
that  his  friend  Kreuningen  "  admits  no- 
body now  to  his  table,  for  fear  of  their 
communicating  the  plague  to  him,  or  at 
least  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog."  But  it 
was  no  easy  matter  for  the  ladies  to  re- 
linquish their  rights  to  prescribe.  If 
the  gentlewoman  of  the  day  still 

"  knew  for  sprains  what  bands  to  choose, 
Could  tell  the  sovereign  wash  to  use 
For  freckles,  and  was  learned  in  brews 
As  erst  Medea," 

it  would  not  have  done  for  the  self- 
appointed  instructors  of  the  sex  to  be 
behindhand  in  these  arts.  E.  Smith 
cannot  resist  giving  some  two  hundred 
receipts  "never  before  been  made  pub- 
lic," though  she  has  the  grace  to  print 
them  in  a  section  apart.  Mrs.  Harrison 
and  Mrs.  Price  both  undertake  to  make 
"  Every  man  his  own  Doctor, "  and  in 
the  undertaking  Mrs.  Price  supplies  a 
cure  that  I  quote  on  the  chance  of  its 
proving  useful,  for  I  fancy  the  malady 
continues  to  be  common,  so  afflicted  am 
I  with  it  myself.  "  For  the  Lethargy, " 
she  says,  "you  may  snuff  strong  vine- 
gar up  the  nose."  It  was  natural  at 
a  time  when  Compendiums,  Universal 
Visitors,  Dictionaries  of  Commerce, 
and  of  everything  else,  were  in  vogue, 
that  other  women  took  upon  themselves 
also,  by  means  of  Dictionaries,  and 
Magazines,  and  Companions,  and  Jew- 
els, and  Guides,  to  see  their  sex  com- 
fortably through  life  "from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave."  I  have  any  number  of 
ambitious  books  of  this  kind,  all  based 
on  The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman,  and  the 
performance  of  Mrs.  Hannah  Woolley 
of  seventeenth-century  fame.  Take  a 
few  headings  of  chapters  from  any  one 
chosen  at  random,  and  you  have  the 
character  of  all :  Of  Religion ;  The  Duty 


of  Virgins;  Of  Wives;  Of  Gravies, 
Soups,  Broths,  Pottages.  But  the  sys- 
tem, the  careful  division  of  subjects, 
now  become  indispensable,  is  observed 
even  in  these  compilations. 

The  new  love  of  order  had  one  draw- 
back. It  gave  writers  less  opportunity 
for  self-revelation.  I  miss  the  personal 
note  so  pleasant  in  the  older  books  of 
cookery,  that  is,  in  the  receipts  them- 
selves. One  collection  is  so  like  another 
I  can  hardly  tell  them  apart  unless  I 
turn  to  the  title-page  or  the  preface. 
But  here  ample  amends  are  made.  The 
cook  did  not  suppress  his  individuality 
meekly,  and,  fortunately  for  him,  the 
age  was  one  of  Prefaces  and  Dedica- 
tions. In  the  few  pages  where  he  still 
could  swagger,  he  made  up  for  the  many 
where  the  mode  forced  him  to  efface 
himself.  "Custom,"  says  John  Nott, 
in  1723,  to  the  "Worthy  Dames"  to 
whom  he  offers  his  Dictionary,  "has 
made  it  as  unfashionable  for  a  Book  to 
appear  without  an  Introduction,  as  for 
a  Man  to  appear  at  Church  without  a 
Neckcloth,  or  a  Lady  without  a  Hoop- 
petticoat.  "  "  It  being  grown  as  unfash- 
ionable for  a  Book  to  appear  in  public 
without  a  Preface,  as  for  a  Lady  to  ap- 
pear at  a  Ball  without  a  Hoop-petti- 
coat," says  Mrs.  Smith  in  1727,  her 
great  talent  being  for  plagiarism,  "I 
shall  conform  to  custom  for  Fashion's 
sake,  and  not  through  any  Necessity." 
Mr.  Hazlitt  thinks  Mrs.  Smith  un- 
usually observant;  he  should  have  re- 
membered the  library  at  her  disposal, 
and,  had  he  known  this  library  more 
intimately,  he  would  have  realized  how 
little  scruple  she  had  in  drawing  from 
it.  She  only  writes  because,  although 
already  there  are  "various  Books  that 
treat  on  this  subject  and  which  bear 
great  names  as  Cooks  to  Kings,  Princes 
and  Noblemen, "  most  of  them  have  de- 
ceived her  in  her  expectations,  so  im- 
practicable, whimsical,  or  unpalatable, 
are  the  receipts.  But  she  presents  the 
result  of  her  own  experience  *'  in  Fash- 
ionable and  Noble  Families, "  and  if  her 


My   Cookery  Books. 


229 


book  but  "prove  to  the  advantage  of 
many,  the  end  will  be  answered  that  is 
proposed  by  her  that  is  ready  to  serve 
the  Publick  in  what  she  may."  Each 
writer  in  turn  is  as  eager  to  find  a  rea- 
son for  his  or  her  help  in  glutting  the 
market.  The  author  of  the  Collection 
of  above  Three  Hundred  Receipts  is 
prompted  by  the  sole  "desire  of  doing 
good,"  in  which,  fortunately,  she  has 
been  aided  by  those  "who  with  a  Noble 
Charity  and  Universal  Benevolence  have 
exposed  to  the  World  such  invaluable 
secrets,"  as,  I  suppose,  "how  to  stew 
Cucumbers  to  eat  hot, "  or  "  to  make  the 
London  Wigs, "  —  gratitude,  above  all, 
being  due  to  the  Fair  Sex,  "who,  it  may 
be  because  of  the  greater  Tenderness  of 
their  Nature  or  their  greater  Leisure, 
are  always  found  most  Active  and  In- 
dustrious in  this,  as  well  as  in  all  other 
kinds  of  Charity.  O  Heavenly  Chari- 
ty !  "  —  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  William 
Gelleroy  has  learnt  during  service  with 
the  Lord  Mayor  that  "so  long  as  it  is 
the  fashion  to  eat,  so  long  will  cookery 
books  be  useful."  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Price,  the  healer  of  Lethargy,  thinks 
it  her  duty  to  show  the  world  how  to 
unite  "Economy  and  Elegance,"  and, 
as  an  assurance  of  her  ability,  breaks 
into  verse  on  her  title-page :  — 

"  Here  you  may  quickly  learn  with  care 

To  act  the  housewife's  part, 
And  dress  a  modern  Bill  of  Fare 
With  Elegance  and  Ant." 

Mrs.  Charlotte  Mason  knows  there  are 
many  books,  but  has  "never  met  with 
one  that  contained  any  instructions  for 
regulating  a  table."  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Moxon,  like  the  modest  author  to-day, 
shifts  the  responsibility  to  her  "hon- 
ored friends  who  first  excited  her  to  the 
publication  of  her  book,  and  who  have 
been  long  eye-witnesses  of  her  Skill  and 
Behaviour  in  the  Business  of  her  Call- 
ing." Mrs.  Elizabeth  Raffald,  reflect- 
ing upon  the  contempt  with  which  the 
many  volumes  already  published  were 
read,  seems  to  have  hoped  no  one  would 
find  her  out  if  she  boldly  borrowed  from 


Mrs.  Price  and  Mrs.  Glasse,  and  tried 
to  save  her  own  from  the  general  fate 
by  uniting  "Economy  and  Elegance," 
taking  the  very  words  out  of  Mrs. 
Price's  mouth,  and  by  seeing  that  it 
was  not  "  glossed  over  with  Hard  Names 
or  words  of  High  Stile,  but  wrote  in 
my  own  plain  language, "  barely  alter- 
ing Mrs.  Glasse 's  memorable  phrase. 
I  select  a  few  specimens  of  her  plain 
language :  "Hares  and  Rabbits  requires 
time  and  care, "  she  says,  with  a  cheer- 
ful disregard  of  grammar;  "Pigeons 
Transmogrified  "  is  a  term  I  should  re- 
commend to  the  Century  Company  for  a 
new  edition  of  their  Dictionary;  while 
upon  a  very  popular  dish  of  the  day  she 
bestows  the  name  "Solomon-gundy," 
as  if  she  fancied  that,  somehow,  King 
Solomon  were  responsible  for  it.  John 
Farley  hopes  his  book  is  distinguished 
from  others  by  "  Perspicuity  and  Regu- 
larity." But  I  might  go  on  quoting  in- 
definitely, for  almost  every  Preface  is 
a  masterpiece  of  its  kind,  so  pompous 
in  its  periods,  so  bombastic  in  its  elo- 
quence, until  I  begin  to  suspect  that 
if  Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare,  so  Dr. 
Johnson  must  have  written  Nott  and 
Lamb  and  Clermont  and  Farley ;  that 
if  Dr.  Hill  transformed  himself  into 
Hannah  Glasse,  so  Dr.  Johnson  must 
have  masqueraded  as  E.  Smith,  Eliza- 
beth Raffald,  and  a  whole  bevy  of  fair 
cooks  and  housekeepers. 

There  is  another  trait  shared  by  all 
these  cooks,  to  whom  I  should  do  scant 
justice  if  I  did  not  point  it  out.  This 
is  the  large  liberality  with  which  they 
practiced  their  art.  The  magnitude  of 
their  ideas,  at  times,  makes  me  gasp. 
I  have  been  often  asked  if,  with  such  a 
fine  collection  to  choose  from,  I  do  not 
amuse  myself  experimenting  with  the 
old  receipts.  But  all  our  flat  turned 
into  a  kitchen  would  not  be  large 
enough  to  cook  an  eighteenth-century 
dinner,  nor  our  year's  income  to  pay 
for  it.  The  proportions  used  in  each 
different  dish  are  gigantic.  What  Dr. 
King  wrote  in  jest  of  the  different 


230 


My   Cookery  Books. 


cooks  who,  "to  show  you  the  largeness 
of  their  soul,  prepared  you  Mutton 
swol'd  l  and  oxen  whole, "  was  virtually 
true.  For  a  simple  "Fricassy, "  you 
begin  with  half  a  dozen  chickens,  half 
a  dozen  pigeons,  half  a  dozen  sweet- 
breads, and  I  should  need  a  page  to  ex- 
plain what  you  finish  with  for  garni- 
ture. Fowls  disappeared  into  a  lamb 
or  other  meat  pie  by  the  dozen ;  a  sim- 
ple leg  of  mutton  must  have  its  garni- 
ture of  cutlets;  twelve  pounds  of  good 
meat,  to  say  nothing  of  odd  partridges, 
fowls,  turkeys,  and  ham,  went  into  the 
making  of  one  stew,  —  it  is  something 
stupendous  to  read.  And  then  the  end- 
less number  of  dishes  in  a  menu,  —  the 
insufferably  crowded  table.  A  century 
before,  Pepys  had  discovered  the  supe- 
rior merit  of  serving  "but  a  dish  at  a 
time  "  when  he  gave  his  fine  dinner  to 
Lord  Sandwich.  But  the  eighteenth- 
century  books  continue  to  publish  menus 
that  make  Gargantua's  appetite  seem 
mere  child's  play ;  their  plates  "exhib- 
iting the  order  of  placing  the  different 
dishes,  etc.,  on  the  table  in  the  most 
polite  way "  would  spoil  the  appetite 
of  the  bravest.  Forty- three  dishes 
are  symmetrically  arranged  for  a  single 
course  in  one  of  Vincent  La  Chapelle's 
plates,  and  La  Chapelle  was  a  French- 
man, and  in  England  enjoyed  Lord 
Chesterfield's  patronage.  Cooks  may 
have  got  so  advanced  as  no  longer  to 
believe  "that  Syllibubs  come  first  and 
Soups  the  last,"  but  quantity  was  still 
their  standard  of  merit.  Authorities 
may  have  begun  to  decree  that  "three 
courses  be  the  most."  But  consider 
what  a  course  meant.  Let  me  give  one 
menu  of  two  courses  as  an  average  ex- 
ample. It  is  for  a  July  day,  and  Mrs. 
Smith  is  the  artist:  "First  Course: 
Cock  Salmon  with  buttered  lobsters, 
Dish  of  Scotch  collops,  Chine  of  Veal, 
Venison  pasty,  Grand  Sallad,  Roasted 
geese  and  ducklings,  Patty  royal,  Roast- 
ed pig  larded,  Stewed  carps,  Dish  of 

1  "  Swol'd  Mutton  is  a  sheep  roasted  in  its 
Wool "  according-  to  Dr.  Lister  himself. 


chickens  boiled  with  bacon,  etc.,"  — 
that  etc.  is  expressive.  "Second 
Course :  Dish  of  partridges  and  quails, 
Dish  of  lobsters  and  prawns,  Dish  of 
ducks  and  tame  pigeons,  Dish  of  jel- 
lies, Dish  of  fruit,  Dish  of  marinated 
fish,  Dish  of  Tarts  of  sorts."  Add  a 
third  course  to  this  if  you  dare. 

At  first,  this  lavishness  perplexed 
me.  I  remembered  eighteenth-century 
dinners  as  simple  as  our  own.  For 
example,  Boswell's  with  Dr.  Johnson 
one  Easter  Sunday,  —  a  very  good  soup, 
a  boiled  leg  of  lamb  and  spinach,  a  veal 
pie,  and  rice  pudding, —  that  seems  rea- 
sonable. Or  again,  the  beef,  pudding, 
and  potatoes  to  which  Grub  Street 
was  invited  on  Sundays  by  the  suc- 
cessful author,  according  to  Smollett. 
Or  Stella's  breast  of  mutton  and  a  pint 
of  wine  when  she  dined  at  home  in  Dub- 
lin. "Two  plain  dishes,  with  two  or 
three  good-natured,  cheerful,  ingenious 
friends,"  was  Steele's  idea  of  a  good 
dinner.  But  then  there  is  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  picture.  Dr.  John- 
son's Gulosulus,  cultivating  the  art  of 
living  at  the  cost  of  others.  Swift,  in 
London,  sauntering  forth  of  a  morning 
deliberately  in  search  of  a  dinner  at 
somebody  else's  house  and  expense,  and 
if  none  of  the  great  men  with  great  es- 
tablishments invited  him,  dropping  in 
for  want  of  something  better,  and  with- 
out a  moment's  notice,  at  Mrs.  Van- 
homrigh's,  and  he  could  not  have  been 
a  more  severe  critic  had  he  had  the 
special  invitation  which  Dr.  Johnson 
thought  made  the  special  menu  an  obli- 
gation. "The  worst  dinner  I  ever  saw 
at  the  dean's  was  better,"  Swift  wrote 
to  Stella,  "  than  one  had  at  Sir  Thomas 
Mansel's, "  and  "yet  this  man  has  ten 
thousand  pounds  a  year  and  is  a  Lord 
of  the  Treasury !  "  At  the  Earl  of 
Abingdon's,  on  a  certain  Ash  Wednes- 
day, there  was  nothing  but  fish  that  was 
raw,  wine  that  was  poison,  candles  that 
were  tallow ;  and  yet  "  the  puppy  has 
twelve  thousand  pounds  a  year, "  though 
I  do  not  find  that  Swift  went  the  length 


My   Cookery  Books. 


231 


of  calling  his  host  puppy  in  print,  more 
outspoken  as  he  was  than  most  of  his 
contemporaries.  Swift  was  but  one  of 
a  large  crowd  of  hungry  men  in  search 
of  a  free  dinner  which  they  looked  upon 
as  their  right.  By  food  the  noble  Lord 
tamed  his  authors  and  secured  his  syco- 
phants ;  by  food  the  gracious  Lady  ruled 
her  salon.  "Whenever  you  meet  with 
a  man  eminent  in  any  way,  feed  him, 
and  feed  upon  him  at  the  same  time, " 
was  Lord  Chesterfield's  advice  to  his 
son.  Mrs.  Thrale  had  but  to  provide 
sweetmeats  to  make  her  evenings  a  suc- 
cess, Dr.  Johnson  thought.  Nor,  for 
that  matter,  has  the  bait  lost  its  cun- 
ning in  the  London  of  to-day.  Now 
the  eighteenth-century  cook  who  wrote 
books  was  a  snob.  He  would  always 
have  you  know  it  was  with  the  Tables 
of  Princes,  Ambassadors,  Noblemen, 
and  Magistrates  he  was  concerned ;  but 
rarely  would  he  devise  "the  least  expen- 
sive methods  of  providing  for  private 
families,"  and  then  it  must  be  "in  a 
very  elegant  manner."  He  had,  there- 
fore, to  design  on  a  large  scale,  to  adapt 
his  art  to  the  number  and  hunger  and 
fastidiousness  of  the  hanger-on.  And 
here,  I  think,  you  have  the  explanation. 
But  another  problem  I  have  hitherto 
been  unable  to  solve.  When  I  study  the 
receipts  of  the  period,  I  am  struck  by 
their  variety  and  excellence.  The  ten- 
dency to  over-seasoning,  to  the  mixing 
of  sweets  and  savories  in  one  dish,  had 
not  altogether  been  overcome ;  probably, 
I  am  afraid,  because  fresh  meat  was  not 
always  to  be  had,  and  suspicious  flavors 
had  to  be  disguised.  Some  "made 
dishes  "  you  know,  without  tasting  them, 
to  be  as  "wretched  attempts  "  as  Mac- 
laurin's  seemed  to  Dr.  Johnson.  How- 
ever, so  many  and  ingenious  were  the 
ways  of  preparing  soups,  sauces,  meats, 
poultry,  game,  fish,  vegetables,  and 
sweets,  the  gourmet  had  sufficient  chance 
to  steer  clear  of  the  tawdry  and  the 
crude.  Only  in  Voltaire's  witticism 
was  England  then  a  country  of  a  hun- 
dred religions  and  one  sauce.  Soup 


soared  above  the  narrow  oxtail  and  tur- 
tle ideal,  and  the  cook  roamed  at  will 
from  the  richest  bisque  to  the  simplest 
bouillon.  The  casserole  was  exalted 
and  shared  the  honors  with  the  honest 
spit.  Fricassees  and  ragouts  were  not 
yet  overshadowed  by  plain  roast  and 
boiled.  Vegetables  were  not  thought, 
when  unadorned,  to  be  adorned  the 
most.  And  as  for  oysters,  an  American 
could  not  have  been  more  accomplished 
in  frying,  scalloping,  stewing,  roasting, 
broiling,  and  boiling  them,  —  even  Swift 
gave  his  dear  little  M.  D.  a  receipt  for 
boiled  oysters,  which  must  have  been 
not  unlike  that  delicious  dish  of  mussels 
one  has  eaten  in  many  a  French  provin- 
cial hotel.  And  what  is  England  to- 
day ?  A  country  soupless  and  sauceless, 
consecrated  to  a  "  Chop  or  a  Steak,  sir !  " 
from  John  o'  Groat's  to  Land's  End, 
vowed  irrevocably  to  boiled  potatoes  and 
greeris,  without  as  much  as  a  grain  of 
salt  to  flavor  them.  How  did  it  hap- 
pen ?  What  was  the  reason  of  the  De- 
cline and  Fall  ?  Not  Tatler's  appeal  to 
his  fellow  countrymen  to  "  return  to  the 
food  of  their  forefathers,  and  reconcile 
themselves  to  beef  and  mutton."  That 
was  uttered  in  1710,  and  had  absolutely 
no  effect  upon  the  tendency  of  the  eigh- 
teenth-century cookery  books  that  fol- 
lowed. As  for  "the  common  people  of 
this  kingdom  [who]  do  still  keep  up  the 
taste  of  their  ancestors, "  never  yet  have 
they  set  the  fashion.  I  confess,  I  still 
remain  in  outer  darkness,  groping  for  a 
clue. 

If,  as  a  rule,  the  eighteenth-century 
books,  save  for  their  preface,  have  a 
strong  family  resemblance,  I  prize  the 
more  the  small  but  select  saving  rem- 
nant that  makes  for  individuality. 
There  are  books  that  stand  out  with  dis- 
tinction, in  my  estimate  at  least,  be- 
cause of  the  originality  of  the  title :  for 
instance,  Adam's  Luxury  and  Eve's 
Cookery;  or  the  Kitchen  Garden  Dis- 
played. (Printed  for  R.  Dodsley  in  Pall 
Mall,  1744.)  This  octavo  I  saw  first 
in  the  Patent  Library  collection  of 


232 


My  Cookery  Books. 


cookery  books,  never  resting  afterwards 
until  I  had  secured  a  copy  of  my  own, 
and  the  contents  would  have  to  be  more 
colorless  than  they  are  to  spoil  my  plea- 
sure in  the  name.  Now  the  charm  is 
in  the  illustrations ;  for  example,  The 
Honours  of  the  Table  or  Rules  for  Be- 
haviour during  meals  (by  the  author  of 
Principles  of  Politeness,  1791).  Most 
of  the  cookery  books  of  the  period  are 
content  with  the  frontispiece,  engraved 
on  copper  or  steel.  But  this  little  book 
has  tail-pieces  and  illustrations  scattered 
through  the  text,  described  in  catalogues 
and  bibliographies  as  "Woodcuts  by 
Bewick."  I  saw  it  also  first  at  the  Pa- 
tent Library,  and  before  the  ardor  of 
my  pursuit  had  cooled  to  the  investiga- 
tion point,  two  different  editions  had 
a  place  on  my  shelves :  one  printed  in 
London  at  the  Literary  Press,  1791, 
the  second  printed  in  Dublin  in  the  same 
year.  Then  I  found  that  the  wood  en- 
gravings —  it  is  a  mistake  to  call  them 
woodcuts,  and  one  might  as  well  be  pe- 
dantic in  these  matters  —  are  not  by 
Thomas  but  by  John  Bewick,  which 
makes  a  difference  to  the  collector.  But 
then  Bewick's  brother  is  not  to  be  de- 
spised, and  the  book  is  full  of  useful 
hints,  such  as  "eating  a  great  deal  is 
deemed  indelicate  in  a  lady  (for  her 
character  should  be  rather  divine  than 
sensual) ;  "  or,  "  if  any  of  the  company 
seem  backward  in  asking  for  wine,  it  is 
the  part  of  the  master  to  ask  or  invite 
them  to  drink,  or  he  will  be  thought  to 
grudge  his  liquor."  A  few  books  please 
me  because  of  the  tribute  their  learning 
pays  to  the  kitchen.  Among  these  the 
most  celebrated  is  Dr.  Lister's  edition 
of  Apicius  CoBlius,  published  in  1705, 
now  a  rare  book,  at  the  time  a  bomb- 
shell in  the  camp  of  the  antiquary,  who, 
living  in  the  country  and  hearing  of  it 
but  not  yet  seeing  it,  was  reduced  to 
such  "perplexity  of  mind"  that  "he 
durst  not  put  any  Catchup  in  his  Fish 
Sauce,  nor  have  his  beloved  Pepper, 
Oyl  and  Limon  with  his  Partridge," 
lest  "he  might  transgress  in  using 


something  not  common  to  the  Antients. " 
Another  is  The  Art  of  Cookery  (1708), 
in  imitation  of  Horace,  by  the  Dr.  King 
who  was  described,  two  years  later, 
by  Swift  to  Stella  as  "a  poor  starv- 
ing wit."  And,  indeed,  the  £32  5  0, 
said  to  have  been  paid  him  for  the 
poem  by  Lintot,  could  not  have  tided 
him  over  his  difficulties  as  a  thirsty 
man.  It  is  rather  a  ponderous  per- 
formance, with  here  and  there  flashes : 
probably  the  verses  were  some  of  those 
Pope  said  he  would  write  "in  a  tavern 
three  hours  after  he  could  not  speak." 
The  book  was  a  skit  really  on  Dr.  Lis- 
ter and  his  Apicius  Crelius  that,  for  the 
moment,  served  the  wit  as  a  target  for 
his  ridicule. 

But,  of  all,  the  books  I  love  most  are 
those  that  make  their  appeal  by  some 
unexpected  literary  association.  I  own 
to  a  genuine  emotion  when  I  found  it  was 
to  Lord  Chesterfield  that  Vincent  La 
Chapelle  dedicated  The  Modern  Cook, 
and  that  to  the  chef  in  his  kitchen  the 
noble  patron  offered  the  helping  hand  he 
later  refused  to  the  author  at  his  door. 
I  cannot  understand  why,  for  La  Cha- 
pelle, in  his  praise  of  his  lordship's  ex- 
alted qualities,  did  not  humble  himself 
more  completely  than  Johnson  when 
overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind, 
by  the  enchantment  of  his  lordship's 
address.  In  The  Gentle  Art  of  Toady- 
ing, the  author  of  the  eighteenth  century 
could  instruct  the  cook.  It  was,  how- 
ever, reserved  for  William  Verral  to 
give  me  the  greatest  thrill.  His  Com- 
plete System  of  Cookery  is  little  known 
even  to  bibliographers ;  its  receipts  do 
not  seem  exceptional,  perhaps  because 
they  have  been  so  freely  borrowed  by 
other  compilers ;  in  make-up  the  book 
scarcely  differs  from  the  average,  nor  is 
there  special  distinction  in  Verral 's  post 
at  the  time  of  his  writing,  —  he  was 
master  of  the  White  Hart  Inn,  Lewes, 
Sussex ;  "  no  more  than  what  is  vulgarly 
called  a  poor  publican  "  is  his  descrip- 
tion of  himself.  But  his  title-page  at 
the  first  glance  was  worth  more  to  me 


My   Cookery  Books. 


233 


than  a  whole  shelf  of  his  contempora- 
ries' big  fat  volumes.  Let  me  explain. 
By  no  great  man  in  the  annals  of  cook- 
ery have  I  been  so  puzzled  as  by  that 
once  famous  "  Chloe, "  French  cook  to 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  important 
enough  in  his  own  generation  to  swag- 
ger for  a  minute  in  the  Letters  of  Hor- 
ace Walpole  and  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu.  I  had  heard  of  Chloe,  the 
beloved  of  Daphnis;  I  had  heard  of 
Chloe,  the  rival  of  Steele's  Clarissa;  I 
had  even  heard  of  Chloe,  the  old  darky 
cook  of  the  South.  But  of  Chloe,  a 
Frenchman,  I  had  never  heard,  and  I 
knew,  without  consulting  the  Encyclo- 
paedia, he  simply  could  not  exist.  Who, 
then,  was  the  Duke  of  Newcastle's 
Chloe  ?  He  was  the  last  person  I  had 
in  my  mind  when  I  began  to  read  Ver- 
ral's  title,  but  by  the  time  I  got  to  the 
end  I  understood  :  A  Complete  Sys- 
tem of  Cookery,  In  which  is  set  forth 
a  Variety  of  genuine  Receipts ;  collected 
from  several  Years'  Experience  under 
the  celebrated  Mr.  de  St.  Clouet,  some- 
times since  Cook  to  his  Grace,  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle.  Clouet  —  Chloe  —  is 
it  not  as  near  and  neat  a  guess  as  could 
be  hoped  for  in  the  French  of  eigh- 
teenth-century London?  He  deserves 
his  fame,  for  his  receipts  are  excellent ; 
wisdom  in  all  he  says  about  soup ; 
genius  in  his  use  of  garlic.  Verral, 
moreover,  writes  an  Introductory  Pre- 
face, a  graceful  bit  of  autobiography, 
"to  which  is  added,  a  true  character  of 
Mons.  de  St.  Clouet ;  "  so  well  done  that 
there  is  scarcely  a  cook  in  history,  not 
Vatel,  not  Careme,  whom  I  now  feel  I 
know  better.  "An  honest  man, "  Ver- 
ral testifies,  "worthy  of  the  place  he 
enjoyed  in  that  noble  family  he  had  the 
honour  to  live  in,"  not  extravagant  as 
was  said,  but  "setting  aside  the  two 
soups,  fish,  and  about  five  gros  entrees 
(as  the  French  call  them)  he  has  with 
the  help  of  a  couple  of  rabbits  or  chick- 
ens, and  six  pigeons,  completed  a  table 
of  twenty-one  dishes  at  a  course,  with 


such  things  as  used  to  serve  only  for 
garnish  round  a  lump  of  great  heavy 
dishes  before  he  came."  Fortunately 
for  the  Duke  of  Newcastle's  purse  St. 
Clouet  must  still  have  been  with  him 
for  the  famous  banquets  celebrating  his 
installation  as  Chancellor  at  Cambridge, 
when,  according  to  Walpole,  his  cooks 
for  ten  days  massacred  and  confounded 
"all  the  species  that  Noah  and  Moses 
took  such  pains  to  preserve  and  distin- 
guish,"  and,  according  to  Gray,  every 
one  "was  very  owlish  and  tipsy  at 
night."  This  was  in  1749;  1759  is 
the  date  of  Verral' s  book,  by  which 
time  St.  Clouet  had  become  cook  to  the 
Mare'chal  de  Richelieu.  I  think  it  but 
due  to  him  to  recall  that  he  was  "of  a 
temper  so  affable  and  agreeable  as  to 
make  everybody  happy  around  him.  He 
would  converse  about  indifferent  matters 
with  me  (Verral)  or  his  kitchen  boy,  and 
the  next  moment,  by  a  sweet  turn  in  his 
discourse,  give  pleasure  by  his  good  be- 
haviour and  genteel  deportment,  to  the 
first  steward  in  the  family.  His  con- 
versation is  always  modest  enough,  and 
having  read  a  little,  he  never  wanted 
something  to  say,  let  the  topick  be  what 
it  would."  How  delightful  if  cooks  to- 
day brought  us  such  graceful  testimo- 
nials ! 

It  is  with  discoveries  of  this  kind  my 
Cookery  Books  reward  me  for  the  time 
—  and  worse,  the  money  —  I  spend 
upon  them.  I  never  pick  up  one  already 
in  my  collection,  well  as  I  may  know  it, 
without  wondering  what  puzzle  it  will 
unravel  for  me ;  I  never  buy  a  new  one 
without  seeing  in  it  the  possible  key  to 
a  mystery.  And  when  I  consider  how 
much  more  fruitful  in  such  rewards  my 
eighteenth-century  books  have  been  than 
my  seventeenth,  when  I  consider  the 
splendor  of  their  mock  heroics,  the  mag- 
nificence of  their  bombast,  I  waver  in 
my  old  allegiance  and  begin  to  think 
that,  after  all,  this  is  the  period  that 
charms  me  most  in  the  Literature  of  the 
Kitchen. 

Elizabeth  Robins. Pennell. 


234 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


THE  MOONSHINER  AT  HOME. 


AT  first  the  forestry  camp  was  looked 
upon  with  suspicion  by  the  mountain- 
eers, for  they  knew  the  foresters  were 
in  some  way  connected  with  the  govern- 
ment, and  the  government  it  is  whose 
officials  collect  revenue  and  arrest  men 
who  make  whiskey  without  paying  it. 
There  was  something  mysterious,  too, 
in  these  men  who  went  about  through 
the  woods  measuring  trees  and  making 
marks  in  little  blank  books.  This  might 
be  some  new  scheme  of  the  "  revenues  " 
to  entrap  the  unwary  among  the  moon- 
shining  population.  Then  the  real  pur- 
pose of  government  forestry  began  to 
dawn  upon  the  mountain  people,  and  we 
were  able  to  see  behind  the  veil  and 
catch  glimpses  of  the  moonshiner's  inner 
life. 

It  was  one  day  just  after  our  removal 
to  a  new  camp  on  the  roaring  Ocoee, 
near  Little  Frog  Mountain,  in  the 
southeasternmost  county  of  Tennessee, 
that  our  guide  became  communicative 
as  to  the  chief  interest  of  this  mountain 
region.  We  had  climbed  to  the  top  of 
Panther  Knob  to  study  the  topography 
of  the  region,  when  the  old  man,  point- 
ing across  the  unbroken  stretch  of  tree- 
tops  to  a  cove  through  which  rushed  a 
stony  mountain  stream,  said :  — 

"See  that  bunch  of  poplar  tops? 
That  's  where  they  got  my  brother  Silas 
when  they  sent  him  to  the  penitentiary. " 

The  remark  was  made  as  indifferent- 
ly as  though  the  guide  were  pointing 
out  the  place  where  a  deer  had  been 
killed  or  a  bee  tree  cut.  There  was  no 
apparent  evidence  of  a  sense  of  shame, 
and  none  of  the  assumed  indifference  of 
many  offenders  who  affect  to  despise  the 
hand  of  authority.  I  was  surprised, 
and  the  surprise  continued  until  I  had 
received  similar  confidences  from  a 
number  of  sources,  and  knew  that  going 
to  the  penitentiary  for  moonshining  is 
considered  no  disgrace. 


The  guide  paused  as  if  expecting 
the  conversation  would  be  continued. 
So,  adopting  the  mountain  phrase,  I 
asked,  — 

"Was  he  'stillin'  '?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  pause.  Then  the 
old  man  went  on,  speaking  slowly,  in 
a  manner  so  simple  and  straightforward 
as  to  be  almost  childlike :  — 

"  They  caught  him  when  he  was  run- 
nin'  off  his  first  batch,  and  hit  never 
done  him  a  bit  of  good.  Silas  always 
did  have  powerful  hard  luck.  He  got 
sent  to  the  penitentiary  that  time  for 
a  year.  When  he  got  out  hit  was  n't 
more  'n  a  month  till  they  had  him 
again.  Hit  would  n't  been  so  bad  if 
he  'd  made  something  out  of  hit.  When 
he  got  caught  again  I  told  him  if  I  was 
in  his  place  I  'd  never  go  near  another 
1  still.'" 

Then,  in  the  same  slow,  quiet  way, 
he  went  on  to  tell  of  Silas's  first  ar- 
rest, and  the  origin  of  a  mountain  feud 
which  brought  hatred  and  bloodshed  to 
East  Tennessee,  and  which  will  one  day 
end  in  a  battle.  The  story  of  Dave 
Payne's  capture  and  confession  was  told 
two  years  ago  in  the  dailies,  but  not 
the  troubles  that  led  up  to  it. 

"Silas  and  Milos  Wood  had  been 
makin'  a  *  still '  in  that  'ere  cove,  and 
Dave  Payne  wanted  to  go  in  with  'em. 
They  hadn't  any  use  for  another  man, 
and  they  told  Dave  so.  Dave  had  been 
'stillin'  '  over  on  the  other  side,  but 
he  'd  decided  to  turn  revenue,  and  was 
expectin'  his  commission  then.  Hit 
must  have  come  about  the  time  Silas 
got  his  'still '  goin',  for  he  was  drawin' 
off  his  first  batch,  and  had  his  back  to 
the  door  when  he  heard  some  one  yell. 
He  looked  'round  and  there  was  Dave 
Payne  with  a  shotgun  pointin'  at  Silas's 
head.  Of  course  Silas  surrendered. 
Then  Dave  went  down  to  the  Wood 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


235 


place  and  got  Milos.  Milos  paid  his 
fine  and  got  out,  but  Silas  went  to  the 
penitentiary  for  a  year. 

"There  was  powerful  hard  feelin's 
agin  Dave  after  that.  He  got  mad 
at  his  own  uncle  Bill  and  tried  to  have 
him  arrested.  Milos  Wood  told  him  he 
wanted  him  to  keep  to  the  other  side  of 
the  road  when  he  went  past  his  place, 
and  not  to  come  breshin'  up  agin  his 
palin's.  This  made  Dave  mad.  The 
next  time  he  got  drunk  he  went  right  up 
to  Milos 's  place  and  shot  him  through 
the  heart.  Old  man  Wood  come  to 
the  door  and  Dave  shot  him,  too." 

The  story  of  Dave  Payne's  capture 
is  old.  It  came  about  through  the  fact 
that  the  mountain  people,  despising  one 
of  their  fellows  who  "  turns  revenue, " 
made  up  a  posse  and  assisted  in  the 
search.  Dave  stayed  quietly  in  jail  un- 
til spring  when  he  broke  out.  Then 
came  commotion  in  the  mountains. 
Those  who  had  assisted  in  the  search 
got  out  their  rifles  and  still  carry  them. 
One  or  two  of  Dave's  relatives  turned 
against  him,  but  the  rest  remained  true. 
Now  the  two  parties  watch  each  other 
like  opposing  armies.  Some  day  when 
too  much  moonshine  has  beqn  imbibed 
there  will  be  a  quarrel.  Then  rifles 
will  crack,  and  when  the  echoes  have 
died  away  there  will  be  more  deaths  to 
avenge  and  new  scores  to  wipe  off  the 
mountain  slates. 

I  started  out  one  afternoon  to  visit 
the  scene  of  Silas's  capture,  and  the  jour- 
ney gave  me  considerable  insight  into 
moonshine  methods.  Up  the  river  trail 
some  three  miles  from  camp  is  one  of 
those  rushing  mountain  streams  which 
rise  in  the  timbered  coves  of  the  Unakas. 
It  came  roaring  from  the  rocky  woods, 
and  knew  no  sunlight  for  the  boughs  of 
laurel  and  rhododendron  intertwining  in 
solid  mass  above.  There  was  no  path 
upon  the  bank,  but  one  could  make  his 
way  up  the  course  by  stepping  from 
stone  to  stone  on  the  stream's  bottom. 
Half  a  mile  of  such  travel  and  I  came 
to  a  little  low  log  building.  A  part  of 


the  roof  had  fallen  in,  but  the  furnace, 
made  of  flat  slate  stones,  was  intact. 
So  was  the  trough,  which  led  to  a 
point  some  few  rods  up  the  run  and 
brought  down  a  stream  of  clear,  cold 
mountain  water,  for  use  in  the  distill- 
ing. The  barrels,  or  rather  gums,  for 
holding  malt  and  beer,  still  stood  about. 
Against  one  leaned  the  old  mash  stick 
with  which  the  brewing  liquid  was 
stirred.  With  no  trail  save  the  bed  of 
the  stream,  the  only  method  of  trans- 
porting hither  the  meal  was  to  pack  it 
on  the  shoulder.  When  one  pictures  to 
himself  two  men,  bent  half  double  with 
loads  of  meal,  plodding  up  the  rocky 
stream-bed,  plodding  down  again  after 
nights  of  labor  with  the  liquid  product, 
always  watched  and  always  watching, 
the  pathetic  smallness  of  the  whole  of- 
fense comes  over  him.  And  if  he  live 
for  a  time  among  these  poor  but  gen- 
erous mountain  folk,  he  is  very  likely 
to  go  forth  with  a  new  sympathy,  — 
almost  a  fellow  feeling  for  them.  I 
believe  every  one  in  the  forestry  camp 
felt,  before  the  sojourn  in  East  Tennes- 
see was  over,  a  sort  of  subconscious  an- 
tipathy to  revenue  officials ;  and  I  doubt 
not  that  every  one,  when  he  hears  of 
captures  and  killings  in  this  bit  of  the 
mountains,  will  be  suddenly  conscious 
that  his  involuntary  sympathies  are  with 
the  outlaws. 

Stories  are  numerous  of  revenue  men 
who  met  death  at  the  hands  of  the 
moonshiners.  One  hears  also  tales  of 
innocent  strangers,  shot  because  their 
urban  appearance  suggested  the  revenue 
man.  But  in  all  these  mountains  we 
could  learn  of  no  such  occurrence.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  instances  of  cap- 
tures and  tales  of  fights  tended  rather 
to  show  the  general  harmlessness  of  the 
distiller  save  when  in  local  troubles  he 
fights  his  fellow  mountaineer. 

Before  making  this  camp  on  the 
Ocoee  we  had  been  warned  to  look  out 
for  Garret  Heddon,  whose  career  has 
been  exploited  in  the  daily  papers,  and 
who  is  looked  upon  by  both  officials  and 


236 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


mountaineers  as  a  bad  man.  His  name 
first  came  before  the  criminal  world 
when  he  went  across  into  Alabama, 
quarreled  with  a  negro  about  a  boat, 
and  throwing  the  black  man  into  the 
river,  held  him  there  till  he  was  dead. 
For  this  Heddon  served  a  term  in  the 
Alabama  penitentiary.  Returning  to 
Tennessee,  he  was  twice  arrested  for 
moonshining,  but  each  time  the  evidence 
needed  to  convict  was  wanting.  Then 
came  the  deed  which  made  him  feared 
among  the  mountains.  I  have  the  story 
from  a  nephew  of  Heddon;  also  from 
his  best  friend,  to  whom  he  made  a  full 
statement.  I  have  it,  too,  from  an  ex- 
sheriff  who  investigated  the  case.  Go- 
ing to  the  house,  he  was  met  by  Hed- 
don who,  hospitable  even  in  strenuous 
times,  pointed  his  rifle  at  the  officer  and 
asked  him  to  sit  down  to  dinner.  The 
officer  accepted  the  invitation,  and  later, 
with  the  rifle  still  pointing  in  his  di- 
rection, went  away  without  attempting 
to  make  an  arrest. 

Garret  Heddon  and  his  brothers, 
Reilly  and  Bill,  and  half  a  dozen  other 
mountaineers,  were  at  work  in  one  of 
the  little  valleys.  They  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  splitting  shin- 
gles, while  moonshine  flowed  freely. 
Half  drunk,  Bill  Heddon  became  quar- 
relsome. He  was  a  hard  man  to  get 
along  with  at  his  best,  and  now  he  was 
looking  for  trouble  in  a  way  that  pro- 
mised to  end  disastrously.  He  started 
to  quarrel  with  Garret's  best  friend. 
Garret  told  him  to  stop.  Bill  paid  no 
attention,  but  grabbed  his  opponent 
around  the  neck  and  drew  his  knife. 
The  knife  was  not  far  from  the  man's 
throat  when  Garret's  rifle  cracked  and 
Bill  dropped  dead. 

Man  killing  in  the  mountains  is  com- 
mon, but  fratricide  is  not,  and  from  that 
tima  on  Garret  Heddon  was  looked  upon 
as  a  dangerous  man.  This  impression 
went  out  into  the  settlements,  and  when, 
some  weeks  later,  seven  revenue  men 
stole  into  the  neighborhood  to  arrest 
Reilly  Heddon  for  making  moonshine 


whiskey,  they  were  ready  to  shoot  Gar- 
ret at  sight. 

Gus  Heddon  told  me  the  story. 

"  I  was  in  the  '  still '  house, "  said  he, 
"and  I  had  n't  no  idee  the  revenues  was 
anywhere  'round.  I  was  stoopin'  over 
a  barrel  of  mash  when  some  one  said, 
'  Throw  up  your  hands . '  I  looked  '  round 
and  there  was  the  revenues  pointin'  their 
guns  at  me.  I  saw  they  done  had  me, 
so  I  give  up.  Then  I  looked  up  and 
saw  Silas  comin'  up  the  trail  with  a  bag 
of  meal.  I  yelled  at  him  to  run.  That 
made  the  revenues  mad,  and  they  said 
if  I  didn't  shut  up  they'd  kill  me. 
Silas  did  n't  have  sense  enough  to  run, 
and  come  right  down,  so  they  got  him. 
Then  they  marched  us  down  to  Reilly 's 
house,  and  got  Reilly  and  his  brother- 
in-law.  They  had  us  all  handcuffed  out 
in  front  of  the  house  when  some  one 
yelled  that  Garret  was  comin'.  I 
looked  up,  and  sure  enough  there  did 
come  Garret  ridin'  a  mule,  with  a  Win- 
chester across  the  saddle.  The  revenues 
was  powerful  'fraid  of  Garret  because 
since  his  trouble  over  Bill  he  says  he 
never  will  give  up,  and  everybody 
knows  he  means  it.  They  thought  when 
they  saw  him  comin'  that  he  meant  to 
kill  some  one.  Reilly  was  handcuffed 
to  one  of  the  revenues,  and  the  revenue 
was  so  badly  scared  he  tried  to  kill 
Reilly  with  his  shotgun.  He  shot  two 
shoots, holdin'  the  gun  in  his  right  hand. 
Reilly  pushed  the  barrel  away,  and  the 
shoots  went  into  the  ground.  Then  the 
revenues  jumped  into  the  house  and  be- 
hind the  corncrib,  and  begun  to  shoot 
at  Garret.  They  shot  seven  or  eight 
shoots  before  he  moved.  Then  he  slid 
off  his  mule  and  laid  down  behind  a  log. 

"The  revenues  threatened  to  kill  us 
if  we  didn't  go  out  and  get  Garret  to 
go  away.  We  told  'em  we  could  n't  do 
nothin'  with  Garret.  So  we  all  laid 
there  behind  the  house,  and  Garret  laid 
behind  his  log  with  his  Winchester 
scarin'  the  revenues  powerful  nigh  into 
fits.  When  it  got  too  dark  to  see  they 
took  us  and  sneaked  out." 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


237 


As  a  result  of  this  skirmish  Heddon's 
name  was  more  than  ever  feared.  Reilly 
was  sent  to  the  penitentiary  for  one 
year ;  Gus,  who  had  never  been  in  court 
before,  got  merely  four  months  in  jail, 
while  the  two  other  men  were  given 
short  terms  for  assisting  an  unlawful 
enterprise. 

We  had  been  warned  against  ventur- 
ing into  the  Heddon  settlement,  but  as 
the  dime  novel  idea  of  moonshiners  wore 
off,  we  were  all  more  or  less  ashamed 
of  our  first  fears.  Dressed  one  day  in 
garments  that  gave  no  opportunity  for 
concealing  weapons,  and  which,  there- 
fore, obviated  any  danger  of  being  mis- 
taken for  a  revenue  official,  I  threw  a 
camera  across  my  back  and  started  for 
the  neighborhood.  One  trail,  half  foot- 
path, half  wagon  road,  led  to  the  settle- 
ment, but  to  reach  it  I  would  have  to 
go  far  down  the  river.  So,  following 
the  directions  of  our  guide,  I  traveled 
a  half  marked  path  which  led  first  along 
the  bank  of  a  mountain  stream,  up  the 
mountain  side,  and  along  a  hard- wood 
covered  ridge.  Then  crossing  a  valley 
and  another  hill,  I  saw  beyond  an  open- 
ing in  the  forest.  It  was  a  strange  lit- 
tle clearing  on  the  hillsides.  The  whole 
might  be  compared  to  the  inside  of  an 
inverted  pyramid.  The  steep  sides  were 
cleared  fields,  while  in  the  apex  stood 
a  log  house  and  a  corncrib  beside  a  cold 
gushing  spring,  whose  waters  formed  a 
rivulet,  and  flowed  away  through  a  cleft 
where  one  corner  of  the  pyramid  had 
been  cut  away.  It  was  a  desolate  place 
in  every  sense,  and  in  the  poverty  of  its 
windowless  cabin  and  bleak  outlook  I 
could  see  excuse  for  almost  any  occupa- 
tion that  would  give  a  few  dollars  to 
buy  clothing  and  ammunition. 

A  path  led  down  to  the  cabin.  Dogs 
barked  at  my  approach,  and  a  face 
wreathed  in  masses  of  black  unkempt 
hair  was  extended  fearfully  from  behind 
the  door  casing.  Then  the  body  ap- 
peared, and  a  barefoot,  hungry-looking 
girl  of  eleven  years  stood  in  the  door- 
way. Several  smaller  children  followed. 


"Will  you  tell  me  who  lives  here?  " 
I  asked. 

"Reilly  Heddon  lives  here  when  he  's 
at  home,"  came  the  reply  in  quick  ac- 
cents. "But  he  ain't  here  now.  He  's 
in  the  penitentiary.  He  's  my  daddy." 

"Do  you  care  if  I  take  a  picture  of 
the  house  ?  " 

"Mammy  ain't  got  no  money  to  pay 
fur  it.  We  live  pretty  hard  since  daddy 
got  caught.  There  comes  mammy, 
now." 

A  woman  approached.  Her  feet  and 
head  were  bare.  She  had  a  hoe  in  her 
hand,  and  came  from  hoeing  corn  on  the 
hillside.  Her  hair  was  black,  and  her 
jet  black  eyes  had  a  fierce  intelligence 
in  them.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  hag- 
gard, worried  look,  the  face  would  have 
been  a  handsome  one.  Like  most  moun- 
tain people,  she  was  talkative,  and  told 
of  her  husband's  arrest,  of  the  fight, 
and  of  the  various  circumstances  attend- 
ing his  conviction.  Through  the  story 
ran  the  characteristic  mountain  frank- 
ness. There  was  no  thought  of  shame 
or  disgrace  in  her  husband's  imprison- 
ment. It  was  a  mere  matter  of  course 
that  a  man  who  "stills  "  will  some  time 
fall  prey  to  the  "  revenues, "  and  a  con- 
viction is  merely  a  misfortune  compar- 
able to  the  capture  of  a  soldier  in  war- 
time. 

Once  a  shade  of  suspicion  seemed  to 
flash  across  the  woman's  mind.  I  had 
seen  a  little  oven-like  arrangement  of 
stone  some  five  feet  square  by  four  high, 
and  thinking  it  might  be  an  interesting 
feature  of  mountain  life,  asked  what  it 
was. 

"Oh,  that's  just  a  drier.  I  dry 
fruit  in  it.  I  tell  folks  hit 's  my  'still  ' 
house,  and  some  of  them  comes  power 
ful  nigh  to  believin'  hit;  but  hit  ain't, 
Hit  's  just  a  drier  my  husband  mado 
before  he  went  to  the  penitentiary." 

I  asked  the  way  to  Garret  Heddon' s, 
and  following  down  the  creek  through 
the  missing  corner  of  the  pyramid,  1 
passed  the  place  where  Bill  Heddon  met 
his  death,  and  winding  with  the  trail 


238 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


to  the  top  of  a  ridge,  came  to  another 
little  clearing  set  down  in  the  prevail- 
ing woods.  There,  squatting  beside  a 
mountain  stream,  was  a  log  cabin  as  old 
and  picturesque  as  any  in  this  part  of 
Tennessee.  This  is  the  home  of  Gar- 
ret Heddon,  a  man  feared  by  revenue 
officials  and  mountaineers  alike,  yet 
loved,  too,  by  the  latter,  for,  as  they 
say,  he  is  "clever,"  and  will  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  a  friend,  a  fact 
which  was  emphasized  when  his  defense 
of  a  comrade  made  him  a  fratricide. 
Yet  these  very  same  men  who  would 
fight  for  him  have  a  way  of  shaking  their 
heads  and  saying  that  if  Garret  Heddon 
became  their  enemy  they  would  move 
out  of  the  country  "powerful  quick." 

I  wanted  to  meet  Heddon,  so  I 
climbed  the  fence  which  separates  woods 
from  clearing.  Instantly  three  savage- 
looking  hounds  set  up  a  baying  and 
started  toward  me.  At  the  same  time 
a  man's  haggard  face  appeared  at  a 
loophole  in  the  wall. 

"What  d'  ye  want  ?  "  roared  a  voice. 

"Call  off  your  dogs.  I  want  to  know 
the  way  to  the  forestry  camp." 

"Follow  right  along  that  'ere  trail 
till  you  come  to  the  river, "  roared  the 
voice  again. 

"I  want  to  take  a  picture  of  your 
house.  May  I?" 

"A  what?     A  picture?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  take  pictures  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  take  a  picture  of  my  lit- ' 
tie  boy?" 

"Sure!" 

"Then  I  reckon  you  'd  better  come 
in." 

The  dogs,  that  had  stood  like  a  fir- 
ing squad  awaiting  orders  to  execute  the 
condemned,  were  called  back.  The  man 
with  the  haggard  face  met  me  at  the 
door. 

"Come  right  in  and  take  a  cheer. 
The  woman  's  out  in  the  field,  but  she  '11 
be  back  after  a  bit  to  fix  the  boy  up. 
Beckon  you  ain't  in  no  hurry." 


He  was  some  six  feet  tall,  but  his 
shoulders  stooped,  and  he  looked  less 
the  mountain  bad  man  than  the  broken- 
down  farmer.  His  hair  had  been  coal 
black,  but  plentiful  white  streaks  were 
making  their  advent.  Apparently  it 
had  not  been  combed  for  days,  for  it 
stuck  out  in  mats  and  tangles  from 
under  the  edges  of  a  frayed  and  ragged 
black  felt  hat.  His  beard  was  short 
and  scrubby,  grizzled  like  his  hair.  His 
eyes  were  bluish  gray,  and  when  he 
spoke  there  was  a  look  in  them  which  I 
have  seen  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one 
politician, — a  look  which  says,  "I 
know  you  and  you  know  me,  and  you 
know  I  'm  telling  things  which  are  not 
true  because  it  is  part  of  my  business 
to  do  so."  Much  frayed  suspenders, 
fastened  by  nails,  held  up  a  pair  of 
threadbare  black  trousers.  A  dark  cal- 
ico shirt  hung  open  in  front  displaying 
a  sun-browned  chest.  When  the  man 
walked,  it  was  with  a  decided  limp,  the 
result  of  wearing  manacles  in  an  Ala- 
bama chain  gang. 

The  cabin  had  one  room.  At  the  end 
was  an  immense  stone  fireplace,  and  on 
either  side  of  this  a  loophole  or  window 
some  six  by  eight  inches  in  area.  There 
were  no  other  windows  than  these,  and 
there  was  about  the  whole  interior  a 
gloominess  which  might  prove  discon- 
certing to  an  official  coming  suddenly 
in  from  the  sunny  outside.  A  table 
rested  against  one  wall,  and  over  this 
was  a  shelf  on  which  stood  half  a  dozen 
quart  bottles,  some  tin  cans,  and  a  few 
dishes.  In  the  end  opposite  the  fire- 
place were  two  beds.  At  the  head  of 
one  stood  a  brace  of  repeating  rifles,  a 
Marlin  and  a  Winchester,  so  placed  as 
to  be  within  easy  reach  of  the  sleeper. 
The  walls  were  as  bare  as  the  floor  save 
for  the  wings  and  tails  of  some  half- 
dozen  wild  turkeys  which  hung  from 
nails  and  pegs. 

My  host  sat  down  between  me  and 
the  rifles. 

"Powerful  glad  to  have  you  come 
along,"  he  began.  "I  've  been  want- 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


239 


in'  for  a  right  smart  time  to  have  a  pic- 
ture of  my  boy,  but  I  don't  jest  like  to 
go  out  to  town  to  get  it.  There  comes 
the  woman.  She  '11  be  gettin'  dinner. 
Take  your  cheer  with  you  and  let 's  go 
out  under  the  trees." 

I  stepped  outside  and  sat  down  under 
an  oak  that  stood  beside  the  creek. 
Heddon  followed  with  a  chair  in  one 
hand  and  his  Winchester  in  the  other. 

"I  reckoned  maybe  you  'd  like  to  see 
my  Winchester, "  said  he,  and  the  twin- 
kle in  his  eyes  became  more  distinct. 
"That 's  the  best  Winchester  I  ever 
saw.  I  killed  all  them  turkeys  with  it. 
The  sights  was  n't  good  when  I  got  it, 
but  I  took  it  to  town  and  had  that  piece 
of  silver  put  on  in  front.  That 's  bright 
enough  so  I  can  draw  down  fine.  Jest 
look  at  it."  He  handed  me  the  gun, 
but  that  was  the  farthest  it  got  from 
his  hand.  While  we  talked  in  the  shade 
it  lay  across  his  knees.  When  we  sat 
down  to  dinner  it  stood  against  the  wall 
at  his  right  hand. 

Now  a  haggard-faced  woman  came 
along  the  trail  with  four  children  at  her 
heels.  The  youngest  was  a  toddling  boy 
of  two  years.  This  was  the  father's  fa- 
vorite, the  one  whose  picture  was  to  be 
taken.  A  few  minutes  later  a  smooth- 
faced, good-looking  young  mountaineer 
came  from  the  other  way.  This  was 
Gus  Heddon,  Garret's  nephew. 

"  Got  any  dram  in  camp  ?  "  asked  my 
host,  when  the  children  had  gone  by. 
The  term  was  new  and  I  hesitated. 

"Drink,  I  mean!" 

"No.  There  does  not  seem  to  be 
any  one  that  sells  it  around  here." 

"Maybe  I've  got  a  little  in  the 
house.  I  don't  know.  Reckon  maybe 
there  's  enough  for  a  drink." 

He  limped  to  the  house  and  brought 
out  a  quart  bottle. 

"That 's  good  whiskey,"  I  said. 

"Maybe  I  can  get  some  more." 
Now  the  eyes  sparkled  and  shone. 

"Here,  Gus,"  he  called.  "Jump  on 
the  mule  and  see  if  you  can't  find  us 
some  more  dram.  Here  's  some  money 


to  pay  for  it,"  and  drawing  a  purse 
from  his  pocket  he  offered  the  young 
man  a  silver  coin.  All  this  time  his 
eyes  were  saying,  "This  is  for  appear- 
ances, but  of  course  we  both  under- 
stand." 

"Tell  you  what, "  he  said,  turning  to 
me.  "If  you  all  can't  get  nothin'  to 
drink,  maybe  I  can  help  you.  Now, 
I  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  whis- 
key myself,  except  to  drink  it  up,  but 
I  guess  maybe  I  can  help  you  get  a  lit- 
tle. I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do.  I  '11 
come  over  to  camp  some  night  a  little 
late." 

Not  wanting  to  outstay  my  welcome 
I  asked  if  the  boy  might  not  be  ready 
for  his  picture. 

"  Reckon  we  '11  have  somethin'  to  eat 
before  you  take  that,"  said  he.  "We 
live  pretty  hard  up  here,  but  I  reckon 
you  can  eat  one  meal  of  our  grub  if  we 
live  on  it  all  the  time." 

We  had  for  dinner  hot  corn  bread, 
bacon,  fresh  pork,  coffee,  young  onions, 
and  black  honey.  The  honey  was  from 
a  bee  tree,  the  pork  the  flesh  of  a  wild 
mountain  hog,  fattened,  I  doubt  not,  on 
refuse  from  the  "still."  There  was 
but  one  table  knife.  That  came  to 
me.  Garret  and  Gus  ate  with  their 
jackknives,  and  when  my  host  fin- 
ished eating,  he  wiped  each  side  of  the 
blade  on  his  trousers  leg,  and  then 
closing  it  put  it  back  into  his  pocket. 
Gus  and  I  had  saucers  for  our  coffee 
cups,  but  the  rest  had  none.  There 
was  no  sugar  for  the  coffee  and  no  but- 
ter for  the  bread. 

The  conversation  turned  to  guns. 

"Reckon  you've  seen  these  rifles 
that  shoot  steel  bullets  ?  "  asked  Garret. 
"Well,  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  them. 
Had  seven  men  shootin'  at  me  with  'em 
one  day  'bout  a  year  ago,  and  they  nev- 
er touched  me." 

"How  was  that?  "  I  asked. 

Then  followed  an  account  of  the  fight 
at  Reilly's  house.  Garret  said  he  had 
been  riding  past  on  his  way  to  the  river, 
when,  before  he  saw  them,  the  men  be- 


240 


The  Moonshiner  at  Home. 


gan  shooting  at  him.  He  told  the  story 
much  as  Gus  had  told  it.  There  was  no 
bragging  of  his  own  part  in  the  affair, 
and  the  whole  tone  of  the  narrative 
smacked  more  of  a  great  joke  on  the 
"revenues  "  than  of  a  feat  creditable  to 
himself. 

"Why  didn't  you  shoot  back?"  I 
ventured. 

"Reckoned  it  wasn't  much  use," 
said  he.  "I  couldn't  see  'em  because 
they  got  behind  the  house  and  corner ib. 
And  then  I  knew  that  if  I"  went  to 
shootin'  for  luck  they  'd  kill  the  boys 
they  had  handcuffed.  So  I  jest  laid 
behind  the  log  with  my  Winchester  and 
kep'  'em  scared. 

"Reilly  ain't  havin'  such  a  powerful 
hard  time  in  the  penitentiary.  He 
can't  eat  what  they  give  'em  there,  so 
they  let  him  buy  whatever  grub  he 
wants.  We  send  him  money  to  do  it. 
I  send  him  five  dollars  a  month,  and 
the  old  man  sends  him  a  little.  He 
says  he  weighs  thirty  pounds  more  than 
he  did  when  he  went.  But  he  did  hate 
powerful  to  go." 

Dinner  over,  the  four  children  were 
taken  out  to  be  photographed.  There 
was  a  pretty  little  girl  of  ten,  two  quiet 
boys  of  six  and  eight,  besides  the  two 
year  old  favorite.  This  spoiled  child 
refused  to  have  his  face  washed. 

"Let  him  come  without  washin'," 
said  the  father.  "You  see  we  can't 
make  him  do  anything.  He 's  the 
worst  little  skunk  you  ever  saw.  When 
he  gets  mad  at  anybody  he  '11  take  a 
knife  and  say,  i  I  '11  cut  your  neck.'  I 
lick  all  of  'em  but  him.  I  want  to  see 
how  he  '11  come  out  and  grow  up  with- 
out lickin'." 

Why  is  this  boy  the  favored  child  of 
his  father?  May  there  not  be  in  the 
baby  that  takes  a  knife  and,  toddling 
across  the  floor,  threatens  to  cut  his 
sister's  "neck  "  the  same  wild  instinct 
which  led  the  father  to  shoot  his  bro- 
ther and  drown  his  enemy?  Perhaps 
this  common  instinct  is  the  subtle  link 
of  sympathy  between  father  and  boy. 


There  are  strange  things  in  human  na- 
ture. One  of  these  is  the  development 
of  a  man  who  really  does  what  the  rest 
of  us  would  like  to  do  in  our  worst  mo- 
ments, but  which  we  do  not,  a  man 
whose  finger  is  steady  on  the  trigger 
when  a  touch  means  murder,  and  whose 
unimaginative  eye  does  not  see  the  aw- 
ful consequences  in  time  to  check  the 
criminal  impulse.  Garret  Heddon  is 
such  a  man.  In  his  neighborhood  are 
other  men  who  have  killed  their  fellows, 
but  they  fear  to  quarrel  with  Garret 
Heddon  because,  as  they  all  say,  "he  '11 
do  jest  what  he  says  he  '11  do,  no  mat- 
ter if  he  has  to  kill  his  whole  family." 

Pathetic  in  the  extreme  is  the  out- 
look for  these  children.  They  must 
spend  their  childhood  in  the  midst  of 
alarms.  Their  father's  hand  is  ever 
near  a  rifle.  His  eye  is  always  on  the 
trail.  Some  day  he  will  walk  out  of 
the  cabin  never  to  come  back.  If  he 
is  the  man  his  neighbors  believe,  he  will 
die  with  a  smoking  rifle  in  his  hands 
and  the  lust  of  battle  in  his  heart. 

But,  however  he  may  die,  his  chil- 
dren grow  up  to  carry  weapons  and  dis- 
till forbidden  liquors.  The  gospel  of 
their  people  teaches  them  to  hate  the 
revenue  man  as  their  natural  enemy. 
There  will  come  years  of  work  in  hid- 
den mountain  distilleries,  arrests,  prison 
walls,  battles,  murders,  and  who  can 
tell  what  else  ?  Yet  through  it  all  they 
will  be  following  the  precepts  that  came 
to  them  in  the  cradle,  —  living  the  best 
life  they  know. 

My  host  said  he  would  show  me  the 
way  to  camp,  but  before  we  started  he 
took  out  his  pocketbook  and  asked  how 
much  he  should  pay  me  for  the  pictures. 
When  I  declined  to  accept  money  a 
pained  look  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
he  said,  — 

"I  want  to  pay.  We  live  pretty 
hard  up  here,  but  we  can  pay  what  we 
owe." 

I  explained  that  since  I  was  not  tak- 
ing pictures  for  money  I  would  no  sooner 
allow  him  to  pay  for  a  photograph  of  his 


The  Short  Story. 


241 


children  than  he  would  allow  me  to  pay 
for  my  dinner. 

Now  he  was  satisfied,  and  going  into 
the  house,  brought  out  the  beard  of  a 
wild  turkey. 

"Reckon you  don't  have  many  tur- 
keys like  that  up  North.  That  beard 
came  off  of  the  biggest  gobbler  I  ever 
saw.  Won't  you  take  it  along?  " 

I  was  pleased  to  accept  the  gift,  for 
the  beard  would  make  a  pretty  trophy 
for  the  wall  of  a  far-off  den.  Then  I 
asked  if  I  might  not  take  my  host's 
picture. 

"No,"  said  he  with  emphasis.  "I 
don't  let  anybody  take  mine."  For 
reasons  which  seemed  sufficient  I  did 
not  insist. 

Then  he  spoke  a  few  words  with  Gus. 
The  latter  went  into  the  house,  and 
from  a  bin  in  the  loft  took  down  a  sack 


of  corn.  This  he  shouldered,  and  then 
started  down  a  side  trail  toward  a  mill, 
—  a  little  water  mill  with  a  capacity 
of  some  dozen  bushels  a  day.  I  could 
mentally  follow  that  corn  from  the  dry- 
ing place  in  the  loft  to  the  mill,  and 
thence  to  the  distillery.  Now  Garret 
threw  the  Winchester  over  his  shoulder 
and  said,  — 

"I  '11  show  you  the  way  to  camp." 

We  went  down  the  stream,  climbed 
the  ridge,  and  walked  to  a  point  where 
our  path  branched. 

"That  trail  will  take  you  to  camp," 
he  said.  "Reckon  I  'd  better  not  go 
any  farther.  Remember,  I  'm  comin' 
over  to  camp  one  of  these  nights  a  lit- 
tle late." 

When  I  looked  back  from  the  bottom 
of  the  ridge  he  still  stood  leaning  on 
his  rifle  at  the  forks  of  the  trail. 

Leonidas  Hubbard,  Jr. 


THE  SHORT  STORY. 


THE  initial  difficulty  in  discussing 
the  Short  Story  is  that  old  danger  of 
taking  one's  subject  either  too  seriously 
or  else  not  seriously  enough.  If  one 
could  but  hit  upon  the  proper  key,  at 
the  outset,  one  might  possibly  hope  to 
edify  the  strenuous  reader  and  at  the 
same  time  to  propitiate  the  frivolous. 
Let  us  make  certain  of  our  key,  there- 
fore, by  promptly  borrowing  one !  And 
we  will  take  our  hint  as  to  the  real  na- 
ture of  the  short  story  from  that  indis- 
putable master  of  the  long  story,  Thack- 
eray. In  his  Roundabout  Paper  On 
a  Lazy  Idle  Boy  there  is  a  picture, 
all  in  six  lines,  of  "a  score  of  white- 
bearded,  white-robed  warriors,  or  grave 
seniors  of  the  city,  seated  at  the  gate 
of  Jaffa  or  Beyrout,  and  listening  to  the 
story-teller  reciting  his  marvels  out  of 
The  Arabian  Nights."  That  picture, 
symbol  as  it  was  to  Thackeray  of  the 
story-teller's  role,  may  well  hover  in 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  16 


the  background  of  one's  memory  as  he 
discourses  of  the  short  story  as  a  form 
of  literary  art. 

Is  it  a  distinct  form,  with  laws  and 
potencies  that  differentiate  it  sharply 
from  other  types  of  literature?  This 
question  is  a  sort  of  turnstile,  through 
which  one  must  wriggle,  or  over  which 
one  must  boldly  leap,  in  order  to  reach 
our  field  of  investigation.  Some  of 
the  Atlantic's  readers  are  familiar  with 
a  magazine  article  written  many  years 
ago  by  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  entitled 
The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-story,  and 
recently  revised  and  issued  as  a  little 
volume.1  It  will  be  observed  that  Pro- 
fessor Matthews  spells  Short-story  with 
a  hyphen,  and  claims  that  the  Short- 
story,  hyphenated,  is  something  very 
different  from  a  story  that  merely  hap- 

1  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-story.  By 
BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  D.  C.  L.  New  York : 
Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  1901. 


242 


The  Short  Story. 


pens  to  be  short.  It  is,  he  believes,  a 
distinct  species ;  an  art-form  by  itself ; 
a  new  literary  genre,  in  short,  charac- 
terized by  compression,  originality,  in- 
genuity, a  touch  of  fantasy,  and  by  the 
fact  that  no  love  interest  is  needed  to 
hold  its  parts  together.  Mr.  Matthews 
gives  pertinent  illustrations  of  these 
characteristics,  and  comments  in  inter- 
esting fashion  upon  recent  British  and 
American  examples  of  the  Short-story. 
But  one  is  tempted  to  ask  if  the  white- 
bearded,  white-robed  warriors  at  the 
gate  of  Jaffa  were  not  listening,  centu- 
ries and  centuries  ago,  to  tales  marked 
by  compression,  originality,  ingenuity, 
a  touch  of  fantasy,  and  all  the  other 
"notes  "  of  this  new  type  of  literature. 
The  critical  trail  blazed  so  plainly  by 
the  professor  of  dramatic  literature  at 
Columbia  has  been  followed  by  several 
authors  of  recent  volumes  devoted  to 
the  art  of  short  story  writing.  Dr. 
Nettleton's  Specimens  of  the  Short 
Story  l  is  a  carefully  edited  little  book 
containing  eight  examples  of  different 
phases  of  narrative  art.  Lamb's  The 
Superannuated  Man  illustrates  the 
Sketch;  Irv ing's  Rip  van  Winkle,  the 
Tale;  Hawthorne's  The  Great  Stone 
Face,  the  Allegory;  Foe's  The  Pur- 
loined Letter,  the  Detective  Story; 
Thackeray's  Phil  Fogarty,  the  Bur- 
lesque; Dickens 's  Dr.  Manette's  Man- 
uscript, the  Story  of  Incident;  Bret 
Harte's  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  the 
Local  Color  Story,  and  Stevenson's 
Markheim,  the  Psychological  Story. 
The  range  of  another  new  volume  is  still 
wider,  as  may  be  inferred  from  its  title, 2 
The  World's  Greatest  Short  Stories. 
It  is  edited  by  Sherwin  Cody,  who 
published  some  years  ago  an  anonymous 
treatise  on  The  Art  of  Short  Story 
Writing.  Mr.  Cody  prints,  with  brief 

1  Specimens  of  the  Short  Story.    Edited  with 
Introductions  and  Notes,  by  GEORGE  HENRY 
NETTLE-TON,  Ph.  D.     New  York :  Henry  Holt 
&Co.     1901. 

2  Selections  from  The  World's  Greatest  Short 


expository  introductions,  stories  from 
Boccaccio,  The  Arabian  Nights,  Irving, 
Balzac,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Poe, 
Hawthorne,  Maupassant,  Mr.  Kipling, 
Mr.  Barrie,  and  Mr.  Arthur  Morrison. 
And  there  has  lately  been  issued  still 
another  handbook,  entitled  Short  Story 
Writing.3  Like  the  preceding  volume, 
it  was  conceived  in  Chicago,  and  its 
breezy,  wholesome  Philistinism  is  tem- 
pered with  reverent  quotation  from  Mr. 
Brander  Matthews,  Poe,  and  Munsey's 
Magazine,  and  with  much  useful  infor- 
mation for  the  benefit  of  the  young  au- 
thor. The  Introduction  begins  with 
this  extraordinary  statement:  "The 
short  story  was  first  recognized  as  a 
distinct  class  of  literature  in  1842,  when 
Poe's  criticism  of  Hawthorne  called 
attention  to  the  new  form  of  fiction." 
But  story-telling,  surely,  is  as  old  as  the 
day  when  men  first  gathered  round  a 
camp-fire,  or  women  huddled  in  a  cave ! 
The  study  of  comparative  folk-lore  is 
teaching  us  every  day  how  universal  is 
the  instinct  for  it.  Even  were  we  to 
leave  out  of  view  the  literature  of  oral 
tradition,  and  take  the  earlier  written 
literature  of  any  European  people,  for 
instance,  the  tales  told  by  Chaucer  and 
some  of  his  Italian  models,  we  should 
find  these  modern  characteristics  of 
"  originality, "  "  ingenuity, "  and  the 
rest  in  almost  unrivaled  perfection,  and 
perhaps  come  to  the  conclusion  of  Chau- 
cer himself,  as  he  exclaims  in  whimsical 
despair,  "There  is  no  new  thing  that 
is  not  old !  " 

And  yet  if  the  question  be  put  point- 
blank,  "Do  not  such  short  story  writ- 
ers as  Stevenson,  Mr.  Kipling,  Miss 
Jewett,  Bret  Harte,  Daudet  —  not  to 
mention  Poe  and  Hawthorne  —  stand 
for  a  new  movement,  a  distinct  type  of 
literature  ?  "  one  is  bound  to  answer 

Stories.  By  SHERWIN  CODY.  Chicago:  A. 
C.  McClurg  &  Co.  1902. 

8  Short  Story  Writing.  A  Practical  Treatise 
on  the  Art  of  the  Short  Story.  By  CHARLES 
RAYMOND  BARRETT,  Ph.  B.  New  York  :  The 
Baker  and  Taylor  Co. 


The  Short  Story. 


243 


"Yes."  Here  is  work  that  contrasts 
very  strongly,  not  only  with  the  Italian 
novella  and  other  mediaeval  types,  but 
even  with  the  English  and  American 
tales  of  two  generations  ago.  Where 
lies  the  difference  ?  For  Professor  Bran- 
der  Matthews  and  his  Chicago  disciples 
are  surely  right  in  holding  that  there  is 
a  difference.  It  is  safer  to  trace  it,  how- 
ever, not  in  the  external  characteristics 
of  this  modern  work,  every  single  fea- 
ture of  which  can  easily  be  paralleled  in 
prehistoric  myths,  but  rather  —  as  Mr. 
Cody,  indeed,  seems  in  part  to  do  —  in 
the  attitude  of  the  contemporary  short 
story  writer  toward  his  material,  and  in 
his  conscious  effort  to  achieve  under  cer- 
tain conditions  a  certain  effect.  And 
it  is  true  that  no  one  has  defined  this 
conscious  attitude  and  aim  so  clearly  as 
Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

In  that  perpetually  quoted  essay 
upon  Hawthorne's  Tales  written  in 
1842  — one  of  the  earliest  and  to  this 
day  one  of  the  best  criticisms  of  Haw- 
thorne —  Poe  remarks :  — 

"  Were  I  bidden  to  say  how  the  high- 
est genius  could  be  most  advantageously 
employed  for  the  best  display  of  its  own 
powers,  I  should  answer,  without  hesi- 
tation —  in  the  composition  of  a  rhymed 
poem,  not  to  exceed  in  length  what 
might  be  perused  in  an  hour.  Within 
this  limit  alone  can  the  highest  order 
of  true  poetry  exist.  I  need  only  here 
say,  upon  this  topic,  that,  in.  almost  all 
classes  of  composition,  the  unity  of  ef- 
fect or  impression  is  a  point  of  the 
greatest  importance.  It  is  clear,  more- 
over, that  this  unity  cannot  be  thor- 
oughly preserved  in  productions  whose 
perusal  cannot  be  completed  at  one  sit- 
ting. We  may  continue  the  reading  of 
a  prose  composition,  from  the  very  na- 
ture of  prose  itself,  much  longer  than 
we  can  persevere,  to  any  good  purpose, 
in  the  perusal  of  a  poem.  This  latter, 
if  truly  fulfilling  the  demands  of  the 
poetic  sentiment,  induces  an  exaltation 
of  the  soul  which  cannot  be  long  sus- 
tained. All  high  excitements  are  ne- 


cessarily transient.  Thus  a  long  poem 
is  a  paradox.  And  without  unity  of 
impression  the  deepest  effects  cannot  be 
brought  about.  .  .  . 

"Were  I  called  upon,  however,  to 
designate  that  class  of  composition 
which,  next  to  such  a  poem  as  I  have 
suggested,  should  best  fulfill  the  de- 
mands of  high  genius  —  should  offer  it 
the  most  advantageous  field  of  exertion 
—  I  should  unhesitatingly  speak  of  the 
prose  tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here 
exemplified  it.  I  allude  to  the  short 
prose  narrative,  requiring  from  a  half- 
hour  to  one  or  two  hours  in  its  perusal. 
The  ordinary  novel  is  objectionable, 
from  its  length,  for  reasons  already 
stated  in  substance.  As  it  cannot  be 
read  at  one  sitting,  it  deprives  itself, 
of  course,  of  the  immense  force  deriv- 
able from  totality.  Worldly  interests 
intervening  during  the  pauses  of  perusal, 
modify,  annul,  or  counteract,  in  a  great- 
er or  less  degree,  the  impressions  of  the 
book.  But  simple  cessation  in  reading 
would,  of  itself,  be  sufficient  to  destroy 
the  true  unity.  In  the  brief  tale,  how- 
ever, the  author  is  enabled  to  carry  out 
the  fullness  of  his  intention,  be  it  what 
it  may.  During  the  hour  of  perusal 
the  soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the  writer's 
control.  There  are  no  external  or 
extrinsic  influences  —  resulting  from 
weariness  or  interruption. 

"A  skillful  literary  artist  has  con- 
structed a  tale.  If  wise,  he  has  not 
fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate 
his  incidents ;  but  having  conceived, 
with  deliberate  care,  a  certain  unique 
or  single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he 
then  invents  such  incidents,  — he  then 
combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid 
him  in  establishing  this  preconceived  ef- 
fect. If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend 
not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect, 
then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In 
the  whole  composition  there  should  be 
no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency, 
direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre- 
established  design.  And  by  such  means, 
with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture  is  at 


244 


The  Short  Story. 


length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind 
of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a  kin- 
dred art,  a  sense  of  the  fullest  satisfac- 
tion. The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been 
presented  unblemished,  because  undis- 
turbed ;  and  this  is  an  end  unattainable 
by  the  novel." 

If  we  assent  to  Poe's  reasoning  we 
are  at  once  upon  firm  ground.  The 
short  story  in  prose  literature  corre- 
sponds, then,  to  the  lyric  in  poetry; 
like  the  lyric,  its  unity  of  effect  turns 
largely  upon  its  brevity ;  and  as  there 
are  well-known  laws  of  lyric  structure 
which  the  lyric  poet  violates  at  his  peril 
or  obeys  to  his  triumph,  so  the  short 
story  must  observe  certain  conditions 
and  may  enjoy  certain  freedoms  that 
are  peculiar  to  itself.  Doubtless  our 
professional  story-tellers  seated  before 
the  gate  of  Jaffa  or  Beyrout  had  ages 
ago  a  naive  instinctive  apprehension  of 
these  principles  of  their  art,  but  it  is 
equally  true  that  the  story-writers  of 
our  own  day,  profiting  by  the  accumu- 
lated experience  of  the  race,  respond- 
ing quickly  to  international  literary  in- 
fluences, prompt  to  learn  from  and  to 
imitate  one  another,  are  consciously 
and  no  doubt  self  -  consciously  study- 
ing their  art  as  it  has  never  been  studied 
before.  Every  magazine  brings  new 
experiments  in  method,  or  new  varia- 
tions of  the  old  themes,  and  it  would 
speak  ill  for  the  intelligence  of  these 
workmen  if  there  could  be  no  registra- 
tion of  results.  Some  such  registration 
may  at  any  rate  be  attempted,  without 
being  unduly  dogmatic,  and  without 
making  one's  pleasure  in  a  short  story 
too  solemn  and  heart- searching  an  af- 
fair. 

Every  work  of  fiction,  long  or  short, 
depends  for  its  charm  and  power  —  as 
we  are  nowadays  taught  in  the  very 
schoolroom  —  upon  one  or  all  of  three 
elements :  the  characters,  the  plot,  and 
the  setting.  Here  are  certain  persons, 
doing  certain  things,  in  certain  circum- 
stances, —  and  the  fiction- writer  tells  u.s 


about  one  or  another  or  all  three  of  these 
phases  of  his  theme.  Sometimes  he 
creates  vivid  characters,  but  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  them  ;  sometimes 
he  invents  very  intricate  and  thrilling 
plots,  but  the  men  and  women  remain 
nonentities;  sometimes  he  lavishes  his 
skill  on  the  background,  the  milieu,  the 
manners  and  morals  of  the  age,  —  the 
all-enveloping  natural  forces  or  historic 
movements,  while  his  heroes  and  hero- 
ines are  hurriedly  pushed  here  and  there 
into  place,  like  dolls  at  a  dolls'  tea  par- 
ty. But  the  masters  of  fiction,  one  need 
hardly  say,  know  how  to  beget  men  and 
women,  and  to  make  them  march  toward 
events,  with  the  earth  beneath  their  feet 
and  overhead  the  sky. 

Suppose  we  turn  to  the  first  of  these 
three  potential  elements  of  interest,  and 
ask  what  are  the  requirements  of  the 
short  story  as  regards  the  delineation 
of  character.  Looking  at  the  charac- 
ters alone,  and  not,  for  the  moment,  at 
the  plot  or  the  setting,  is  there  any  dif- 
ference between  the  short  story  and  the 
novel  ?  There  is  this  very  obvious  dif- 
ference :  if  it  is  a  character-story  at  all, 
the  characters  must  be  unique,  original 
enough  to  catch  the  eye  at  once. 

Everybody  knows  that  in  a  novel  a 
commonplace  person  may  be  made  in- 
teresting by  a  deliberate,  patient  expo- 
sition of  his  various  traits,  precisely  as 
we  can  learn  to  like  very  uninteresting 
persons  in  real  life  if  circumstances 
place  them  day  after  day  at  our  elbows. 
Who  of  us  would  not  grow  impatient 
with  the  early  chapters  of  The  New- 
comes,  for  instance,  or  The  Antiquary, 
if  it  were  not  for  our  faith  that  Thack- 
eray and  Scott  know  their  business,  and 
that  every  one  of  those  commonplace 
people  will  contribute  something  in  the 
end  to  the  total  effect?  And  even 
where  the  gradual  development  of  char- 
acter, rather  than  the  mere  portrayal 
of  character,  is  the  theme  of  a  novelist, 
as  so  frequently  with  George  Eliot,  how 
colorless  may  be  the  personality  at  the 
outset,  how  narrow  the  range  of  thought 


The  Short  Story. 


245 


and  experience  portrayed!  Yet,  in 
George  Eliot's  own  words,  "these  com- 
monplace people  have  a  conscience,  and 
have  felt  the  sublime  prompting  to  do 
the  painful  right."  They  take  on  dig- 
nity from  their  moral  struggle,  whether 
the  struggle  ends  in  victory  or  defeat. 
By  an  infinite  number  of  subtle  touches 
they  are  made  to  grow  and  change  be- 
fore our  eyes,  like  living,  fascinating 
things. 

But  all  this  takes  time,  —  far  more 
time  than  is  at  the  disposal  of  the  short 
story  writer.  If  his  special  theme  be 
the  delineation  of  character,  he  dare  not 
choose  colorless  characters ;  if  his  theme 
is  character-development,  then  that  de- 
velopment must  be  hastened  by  striking 
experiences,  —  like  a  plant  forced  in  a 
hothouse,  instead  of  left  to  the  natural 
conditions  of  sun  and  cloud  and  shower. 
For  instance,  if  it  be  a  love  story,  the 
hero  and  heroine  must  begin  their  de- 
cisive battle  at  once,  without  the  advan- 
tage of  a  dozen  chapters  of  preliminary 
skirmishing.  If  the  hero  is  to  be  made 
into  a  villain  or  a  saint,  the  chemistry 
must  be  of  the  swiftest ;  that  is  to  say, 
unusual  forces  are  brought  to  bear  upon 
somewhat  unusual  personalities.  It  is 
an  interesting  consequence  of  this  neces- 
sity for  choosing  the  exceptional  rather 
than  the  normal,  that  so  far  as  the  char- 
acter-element is  concerned  the  influence 
of  the  modern  short  story  is  thrown 
upon  the  side  of  romanticism  rather  than 
of  realism. 

And  yet  it  is  by  no  means  necessary 
that  the  short  story  should  depend  upon 
character-drawing  for  its  effect.  If  its 
plot  be  sufficiently  entertaining,  comi- 
cal, novel,  thrilling,  the  characters  may 
be  the  merest  lay  figures  and  yet  the 
story  remain  an  admirable  work  of  art. 
Poe's  tales  of  ratiocination,  as  he  loved 
to  call  them,  like  The  Gold-Bug,  The 
Purloined  Letter,  or  his  tales  of  pseu- 
do-science, like  The  Descent  into  the 
Maelstrom,  are  dependent  for  none  of 
their  power  upon  any  interest  attaching 
to  character.  The  exercise  of  the  pure 


logical  faculty,  or  the  wonder  and  the 
terror  of  the  natural  world,  gives  scope 
enough  for  that  consummate  craftsman. 
We  have  lately  lost  one  of  the  most 
ingenious  and  delightful  of  American 
story-writers,  whose  tales  of  whimsical 
predicament  illustrate  this  point  very 
perfectly.  Given  the  conception  of 
u  Negative  Gravity, "  what  comic  possi- 
bilities unfold  themselves,  quite  without 
reference  to  the  personality  of  the  ex- 
perimenter !  I  should  be  slow  to  assert 
that  the  individual  idiosyncrasies  of  the 
passengers  aboard  that  remarkable  ves- 
sel The  Thomas  Hyke  do  not  heighten 
the  effect  produced  by  their  singular 
adventure,  but  they  are  not  the  essence 
of  it.  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  remains 
a  perpetual  riddle,  does  it  not,  precisely 
because  it  asks :  "  What  would  a  woman 
do  in  that  predicament  ?  "  Not  what 
this  particular  barbarian  princess  would 
do,  for  the  author  cunningly  neglected 
to  give  her  any  individualized  traits. 
We  know  nothing  about  her ;  so  that 
there  are  as  many  answers  to  the  riddle 
as  there  are  women  in  the  world.  We 
know  tolerably  well  what  choice  would  be 
made  in  those  circumstances  by  a  spe- 
cific woman  like  Becky  Sharp  or  Doro- 
thea Casaubon  or  Little  Em'ly;  but  to 
affirm  what  a  woman  would  decide  ? 
Ah,  no;  Mr.  Stockton  was  quite  too 
clever  to  attempt  that. 

Precisely  the  same  obliteration  of 
personal  traits  is  to  be  noted  in  some 
tales  involving  situations  that  are  meant 
to  be  taken  very  seriously  indeed.  The 
reader  will  recall  Poe's  story  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition,  entitled  The  Pit 
and  the  Pendulum.  The  unfortunate 
victim  of  the  inquisitors  lies  upon  his 
back,  strapped  to  the  stone  floor  of  his 
dungeon.  Directly  above  him  is  sus- 
pended a  huge  pendulum,  a  crescent  of 
glittering  steel,  razor-edged,  which  at 
every  sweep  to  and  fro  lowers  itself 
inch  by  inch  toward  the  helpless  captive. 
As  he  lies  there,  gazing  frantically  upon 
the  terrific  oscillations  of  that  hissing 
steel,  struggling,  shrieking,  orcalculat- 


246 


The  Short  Story. 


ing  with  the  calmness  of  despair,  Poe 
paints  with  extraordinary  vividness  his 
sensations  and  his  thoughts.  But  who 
is  he  ?  He  is  nobody,  —  anybody,  — 
he  is  John  Doe  or  Richard  Roe,  —  he 
is  man  under  mortal  agony,  — not  a 
particular  man;  he  has  absolutely  no 
individuality,  save  possibly  in  the  in- 
genuity by  means  of  which  he  finally 
escapes.  I  should  not  wish  to  imply 
that  this  is  a  defect  in  the  story.  By 
no  means.  Poe  has  wrought  out,  no 
doubt,  precisely  the  effect  he  intended : 
the  situation  itself  is  enough  without 
any  specific  characterization;  and  yet 
suppose  we  had  Daniel  Deronda  strapped 
to  that  floor,  or  Mr.  Micawber,  or  Ter- 
ence Mulvaney?  At  any  rate,  the  sen- 
sations and  passions  and  wily  stratagems 
of  these  distinct  personalities  would  be 
more  interesting  than  the  emotions  of 
Poe's  lay  figure.  The  novelist  who 
should  place  them  there  would  be  bound 
to  tell  us  what  they  —  and  no  one  else 
—  would  feel  and  do  in  that  extremity 
of  anguish.  Not  to  tell  us  would  be  to 
fail  to  make  the  most  of  the  artistic 
possibilities  of  the  situation.  Poe's 
task,  surely,  was  much  less  complex. 
The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum  is  perfect  in 
its  way,  but  if  the  incident  had  been 
introduced  into  a  novel  a  different  per- 
fection would  have  been  demanded. 

Nor  is  it  otherwise  if  we  turn  to  that 
third  element  of  effect  in  fiction,  name- 
ly, the  circumstances  or  events  envelop- 
ing the  characters  and  action  of  the 
tale.  The  nature  of  the  short  story  is 
such  that  both  characters  and  action 
may  be  almost  without  significance, 
provided  the  atmosphere  —  the  place 
and  time  —  the  background  —  is  artis- 
tically portrayed.  Here  is  the  source 
of  the  perennial  pleasure  to  be  found  in 
Mr.  P.  Deming's  simple  Adirondack 
Stories.  If  the  author  can  discover -to 
us  a  new  corner  of  the  world,  —  as  Mr. 
Norman  Duncan  and  Mr.  Jack  London 
have  done  in  the  current  number  of  this 
magazine,  or  sketch  the  familiar  scene  to 
our  heart's  desire,  like  Mr.  Colton  and 


Miss  Alice  Brown,  or  illumine  one  of 
the  great  human  occupations,  as  war, 
or  commerce,  or  industry,  he  has  it  in 
his  power,  through  this  means  alone,  to 
give  us  the  fullest  satisfaction.  The 
modern  feeling  for  landscape,  the  mod- 
ern curiosity  about  social  conditions, 
the  modern  aesthetic  sense  for  the  char- 
acteristic rather  than  for  the  beautiful 
as  such,  all  play  into  the  short  story 
writer's  hands.  Many  a  reader,  no 
doubt,  takes  up  Miss  Wilkins's  stories, 
not  because  he  cares  much  about  the 
people  in  them  or  what  the  people  do, 
but  just  to  breathe  for  twenty  minutes 
the  New  England  air  —  if  in  truth  that 
be  the  New  England  air!  You  may 
even  have  homesickness  for  a  place  you 
have  never  seen,  —  some  Delectable 
Duchy  in  Cornwall,  a  window  in  Thrums, 
a  Calif  ornian  mining  camp  deserted  be- 
fore you  were  born,  —  and  Mr.  Quiller 
Couch,  or  Mr.  Barrie,  or  Bret  Harte 
will  take  you  there,  and  that  is  all  you 
ask  of  them.  The  popularity  which 
Stephen  Crane's  war  stories  enjoyed  for 
a  season  was  certainly  not  due  to  his 
characters,  for  his  personages  had  no 
character,  not  even  names,  —  nor  to  the 
plot,  for  there  was  none.  But  the  sights 
and  sounds  and  odors  and  colors  of  War 
—  as  Crane  imagined  War  —  were  plas- 
tered upon  his  vacant-minded  heroes 
as  you  would  stick  a  poster  to  a  wall, 
and  the  trick  was  done.  In  other  words, 
the  setting  was  sufficient  to  produce  the 
intended  effect. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  many  sto- 
ries, and  these  perhaps  of  the  high- 
est rank,  avail  themselves  of  all  three 
of  these  modes  of  impression.  Bret 
Harte 's  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  Mr. 
Cable's  Posson  Jone,  Mr.  Aldrich's 
Marjorie  Daw,  Mr.  Kipling's  The  Man 
Who  Would  be  King,  Miss  Jewett's 
The  Queen's  Twin,  Miss  Wilkins's  A 
New  England  Nun,  Dr.  Kale's  The 
Man  Without  a  Country,  present  people 
and  events  and  circumstances,  blended 
into  an  artistic  whole  that  defies  analy- 
sis. But  because  we  sometimes  re- 


The  Short  Story. 


247 


ceive  compound  measure,  pressed  down 
and  running  over,  we  should  not  forget 
that  the  cup  of  delight  may  be  filled  in 
a  simpler  and  less  wonderful  way. 

This  thought  suggests  the  considera- 
tion of  another  aspect  of  our  theme, 
namely,  the  opportunity  which  the  short 
story,  as  a  distinct  type  of  literature, 
gives  to  the  writer.  We  have  seen  in- 
directly that  it  enables  him  to  use  all 
his  material,  to  spread  before  us  any 
hints  in  the  fields  of  character  or  ac- 
tion or  setting,  which  his  notebook 
may  contain.  Mr.  Henry  James's  sto- 
ries very  often  impress  one  as  chips  from 
the  workshop  where  his  novels  were 
built ;  —  or,  to  use  a  less  mechanical 
metaphor,  as  an  exploration  of  a  tempt- 
ing side  path,  of  whose  vistas  he  had 
caught  a  passing  glimpse  while  pursuing 
some  of  his  retreating  and  elusive  major 
problems. 

It  is  obvious  likewise  that  the  short 
story  gives  a  young  writer  most  valu- 
able experience  at  the  least  loss  of  time. 
He  can  tear  up  and  try  again.  Alas, 
if  he  only  would  do  so  a  little  of  tener ! 
He  can  test  his  fortune  with  the  public 
through  the  magazines,  without  waiting 
to  write  his  immortal  book.  For  older 
men  in  whom  the  creative  impulse  is 
comparatively  feeble,  or  manifested  at 
long  intervals  only,  the  form  of  the 
short  story  makes  possible  the  produc- 
tion of  a  small  quantity  of  highly  fin- 
ished work.  But  these  incidental  ad- 
vantages to  the  author  himself  are  not 
so  much  to  our  present  purpose  as  are 
certain  artistic  opportunities  which  his 
strict  limits  of  space  allow  him. 

In  the  brief  tale,  then,  he  may  be 
didactic  without  wearying  his  audience. 
Not  to  entangle  one's  self  in  the  inter- 
minable question  about  the  proper  lim- 
its of  didacticism  in  the  art  of  fiction, 
one  may  assert  that  it  is  at  least  as  fair 
to  say  to  the  author,  "  You  may  preach 
if  you  wish,  but-  at  your  own  risk, "  as 
it  is  to  say  to  him,  "You  shall  not 
preach  at  all,  because  I  do  not  like  to 
listen."  Most  of  the  greater  English 


fiction-writers,  at  any  rate,  have  the 
homiletic  habit.  Dangerous  as  this 
habit  is,  uncomfortable  as  it  makes  us 
feel  to  get  a  sermon  instead  of  a  story, 
there  is  sometimes  no  great  harm  in  a 
sermonette.  "This  is  not  a  tale  ex- 
actly. It  is  a  tract,"  are  the  opening 
words  of  one  of  Mr.  Kipling's  stories, 
and  the  tale  is  no  worse  —  and  like- 
wise, it  is  true,  no  better  —  for  its  pro- 
fession of  a  moral  purpose.  Many  a 
tract,  in  this  generation  so  suspicious 
of  its  preachers,  has  disguised  itself  as 
a  short  story,  and  made  good  reading, 
too.  For  that  matter,  not  to  grow 
quite  unmindful  of  our  white-robed, 
white-bearded  company  sitting  all  this 
time  by  the  gate  of  Jaffa,  there  is  a 
very  pretty  moral,  as  Mr.  Cody  has 
taken  pains  to  point  out,  even  in  the 
artless  tale  of  Aladdin's  Lamp. 

The  story-writer,  furthermore,  has 
this  advantage  over  the  novelist,  that 
he  can  pose  problems  without  answering 
them.  When  George  Sand  and  Charles 
Dickens  wrote  novels  to  exhibit  certain 
defects  in  the  organization  of  human 
society,  they  not  only  stated  their  case, 
but  they  had  their  triumphant  solution 
of  the  difficulty.  So  it  has  been  with 
the  drama,  until  very  recently.  The 
younger  Dumas  had  his  own  answer  for 
every  one  of  his  problem-plays.  But 
with  Ibsen  came  the  fashion  of  staging 
your  question  at  issue,  in  unmistakable 
terms,  and  not  even  suggesting  that  one 
solution  is  better  than  another.  "  Here 
are  the  facts  for  you,"  says  Ibsen; 
"here  are  the  modern  emotions  for  you ; 
my  work  is  done."  In  precisely  simi- 
lar fashion  does  a  short  story  writer  like 
Maupassant  fling  the  facts  in  our  face, 
brutally,  pitilessly.  We  may  make  what 
we  can  of  them ;  it  is  nothing  to  him. 
He  poses  his  grim  problem  with  surpass- 
ing skill,  and  that  is  all.  A  novel 
written  in  this  way  grows  intolerable, 
and  one  may  suspect  that  the  contem- 
porary problem-novel  is  apt  to  be  such 
an  unspeakable  affair,  not  merely  for  its 
dubious  themes  and  more  than  dubious 


248 


The  Short  Story. 


style,  but  because  it  reveals  so  little 
power  to  "lay  "  the  ghosts  it  raises. 

Again,  the  short  story  writer  is  al- 
ways asking  us  to  take  a  great  deal  for 
granted.  He  begs  to  be  allowed  to 
state  his  own  premises.  He  portrays, 
for  instancej  some  marital  comedy  or 
tragedy,  ingeniously  enough.  We  re- 
tort, "  Yes ;  but  how  could  he  have  ever 
fallen  in  love  with  her  in  the  first 
place  ?  "  "  Oh, "  replies  the  author  off- 
hand, "that  is  another  story."  But  if 
he  were  a  novelist,  he  would  not  get 
off  so  easily.  He  might  have  to  write 
twenty  chapters,  and  go  back  three  gen- 
erations, to  show  why  his  hero  "fell  in 
love  with  her  in  the  first  place."  All 
that  any  fiction  can  do  —  very  naturally 
—  is  to  give  us,  as  we  commonly  say, 
a  mere  cross-section  of  life.  There  are 
endless  antecedents  and  consequents 
with  which  it  has  no  concern;  but  the 
cross-section  of  the  story-writer  is  so 
much  thinner  that  he  escapes  a  thousand 
inconveniences  and  even  then  considers 
it  beneath  him  to  explain  his  miracles. 

What  is  more,  the  laws  of  brevity 
and  unity  of  effect  compel  him  to  omit, 
in  his  portrayal  of  life  and  character, 
many  details  that  are  unlovely.  Un- 
less, like  some  very  gifted  fiction-writ- 
ers of  our  time,  he  makes  a  conscien- 
tious search  for  the  repulsive,  it  is  easy 
for  him  to  paint  a  pleasant  picture. 
Bret  Harte's  earliest  stories  show  this 
happy  instinct  for  the  aesthetic,  for 
touching  the  sunny  places  in  the  lives 
of  extremely  disreputable  men.  His 
gamblers  are  exhibited  in  their  charm- 
ing mood ;  his  outcasts  are  revealed  to 
us  at  the  one  moment  of  self-denying 
tenderness  which  insures  our  sympathy. 
Such  a  selective  method  is  perfectly 
legitimate  and  necessary :  The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp  and  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat  each  contains  but  slightly 
more  than  four  thousand  words.  All 
art  is  selective,  for  that  matter,  but 
were  a  novelist  to  take  the  person- 
ages of  those  stories- and  exhibit  them 
as  full-length  figures,  he  would  be  bound 


to  tell  more  of  the  truth  about  them,  un- 
pleasant as  some  of  the  details  would  be. 
Otherwise  he  would  paint  life  in  a  whol- 
ly wrong  perspective.  Bret  Harte's 
master,  Charles  Dickens,  did  not  always 
escape  this  temptation  to  juggle  with 
the  general  truth  of  things;  the  pupil 
escaped  it,  in  these  early  stories  at 
least,  simply  because  he  was  working 
on  a  different  scale. 

The  space  limits  of  the  short  story 
allow  its  author  likewise  to  make  artis- 
tic use  of  the  horrible,  the  morbid,  the 
dreadful,  —  subjects  too  poignant  to 
give  any  pleasure  if  they  were  forced 
upon  the  attention  throughout  a  novel. 
The  Black  Cat,  The  Murders  in  the 
Rue  Morgue,  The  Descent  into  the 
Maelstrom,  are  admirable  examples  of 
Poe's  art,  but  he  was  too  skillful  a 
workman  not  to  know  that  that  sort  of 
thing  if  it  be  done  at  all  must  be  done 
quickly.  Four  hundred  pages  of  The 
Black  Cat  would  be  impossible. 

And  last  in  our  list  of  the  distinct 
advantages  of  the  art-form  we  are  con- 
sidering is  the  fact  that  it  allows  a  man 
to  make  use  of  the  vaguest  suggestions, 
a  delicate  symbolism,  a  poetic  impres- 
sionism, fancies  too  tenuous  to  hold  in 
the  stout  texture  of  the  novel.  Wide  is 
the  scope  of  the  art  of  fiction ;  it  in- 
cludes even  this  borderland  of  dreams. 
Poe's  marvelous  Shadow,  a  Parable; 
Silence,  a  Fable;  Hawthorne's  The 
Hollow  pf  the  Three  Hills,  or  The  Snow- 
Image  ;  many  a  prose  poem  that  might 
be  cited  from  French  and  Russian  writ- 
ers ;  —  these  illustrate  the  strange  beau- 
ty and  mystery  of  those  twilight  places 
where  the  vagrant  imagination  hovers 
for  a  moment  and  flutters  on. 

It  will  be  seen  that  all  of  the  op- 
portunities that  have  been  enumerated 
—  the  opportunity,  namely,  for  inno- 
cent didacticism,  for  posing  problems 
without  answering  them,  for  stating  ar- 
bitrary premises,  for  omitting  unlovely 
details  and,  conversely,  for  making 
beauty  out  of  the  horrible,  and  finally 
for  poetic  symbolism  —  are  connected 


The  Short  Story. 


249 


with  the  fact  that  in  the  short  story 
the  powers  of  the  reader  are  not  kept 
long  upon  the  stretch.  The  reader 
shares  in  the  large  liberty  which  the 
short  story  affords  to  the  author.  This 
type  of  prose  literature,  like  the  lyric 
in  poetry,  is  such  an  old,  and  simple, 
and  free  mode  of  expressing  the  artist's 
personality !  As  long  as  men  are  inter- 
esting to  one  another,  as  long  as  the  in- 
finite complexities  of  modern  emotion 
play  about  situations  that  are  as  old  as 
the  race,  so  long  will  there  be  an  op- 
portunity for  the  free  development  of 
the  short  story  as  a  literary  form. 

Is  there  anything  to  be  said  upon  the 
other  side  ?  Are  the  distinct  advantages 
of  this  art-form  accompanied  by  any 
strict  conditions,  upon  conformity  to 
which  success  depends  ?  For  the  brief 
tale  demands,  of  one  who  would  reach 
the  foremost  skill  in  it,  two  or  three 
qualities  that  are  really  very  rare. 

It  calls  for  visual  imagination  of  a 
high  order:  the  power  to  see  the  ob 
ject ;  to  penetrate  to  its  essential  na- 
ture; to  select  the  one  characteristic 
trait  by  which  it  may  be  represented. 
A  novelist  informs  you  that  his  heroine, 
let  us  say,  is  seated  in  a  chair  by  the 
window.  He  tells  you  what  she  looks 
like:  her  attitude,  figure,  hair  and 
eyes,  and  so  forth.  He  can  do  this, 
and  very  often  seems  to  do  it,  without 
really  seeing  that  individual  woman  or 
making  us  see  her.  His  trained  pencil 
merely  sketches  some  one  of  the  same 
general  description,  of  about  the  equiv- 
alent hair  and  eyes,  and  so  forth  — 
seated  by  that  general  kind  of  window. 
If  he  does  not  succeed  in  making  her 
real  to  us  in  that  pose,  he  has  a  hun- 
dred other  opportunities  before  the 
novel  ends.  Recall  how  George  Eliot 
pictures  Dorothea  in  Middlemarch,  now 
in  this  position,  now  in  that.  If  one 
scene  does  not  present  her  vividly  to  us, 
the  chances  are  that  another  will,  and 
in  the  end,  it  is  true,  we  have  an  abso- 
lutely distinct  image  of  her.  The  short 


story  writer,  on  the  other  hand,  has  but 
the  one  chance.  His  task,  compared 
with  that  of  the  novelist,  is  like  bring- 
ing down  a  flying  bird  with  one  bullet, 
instead  of  banging  away  with  a  whole 
handful  of  birdshot  and  having  another 
barrel  in  reserve.  Study  the  descrip- 
tive epithets  in  Stevenson's  short  sto- 
ries :  how  they  bring  down  the  object ! 
What  an  eye !  And  what  a  hand !  No 
adjective  that  does  not  paint  a  picture 
or  record  a  judgment ;  and  if  it  were 
not  for  a  boyish  habit  of  showing  off 
his  skill  and  doing  trick  shots  for  us 
out  of  mere  superfluity  of  cleverness, 
what  judge  of  marksmanship  would  re- 
fuse Master  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  the 
prize  ? 

An  imagination  that  penetrates  to 
the  very  heart  of  the  matter;  a  verbal 
magic  that  recreates  for  us  what  the 
imagination  has  seen ;  —  these  are  the 
tests  of  the  tale-teller's  genius.  A 
novel  may  be  high  up  in  the  second 
rank  —  like  Trollope's  and  Bulwer- 
Lytton's  —  and  lack  somehow  the  lit- 
erary touch.  But  the  only  short  sto- 
ries that  survive  the  year  or  the  decade 
are  those  that  have  this  verbal  finish, 
—  "fame's  great  antiseptic,  style." 
To  say  that  a  short  story  at  its  best 
should  have  imagination  and  style  is 
simple  enough.  To  hunt  through  the 
magazines  of  any  given  month  and  find 
such  a  story  is  a  very  different  matter. 
Out  of  the  hundreds  of  stories  printed 
every  week  in  every  civilized  country, 
why  do  so  few  meet  the  supreme  tests  ? 
To  put  it  bluntly,  does  this  form  of  lit- 
erature present  peculiar  attractions  to 
mediocrity  ? 

For  answer,  let  us  look  at  some  of 
the  qualities  which  the  short  story  fails 
to  demand  from  those  who  use  it.  It 
will  account  in  part  for  the  number  of 
short  stories  written. 

Very  obviously,  to  write  a  short  story 
requires  no  sustained  power  of  imagina- 
tion. So  accomplished  a  critic  as  Mr. 
Henry  James  believes  that  this  is  a 
purely  artificial  distinction ;  he  thinks 


250 


The  Short  Story. 


that  if  you  can  imagine  at  all,  you  can 
keep  it  up.  Ruskin  went  even  farther. 
Every  feat  of  the  imagination,  he  de- 
clared, is  easy  for  the  man  who  per- 
forms it ;  the  great  feat  is  possible  only 
to  the  great  artist,  yet  if  he  can  do  it 
at  all,  he  can  do  it  easily.  But  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  does  not  the  power  re- 
quired to  hold  steadily  before  you  your 
theme  and  personages  and  the  whole 
little  world  where  the  story  moves  cor- 
respond somewhat  to  the  strength  it 
takes  to  hold  out  a  dumb-bell?  Any 
one  can  do  it  for  a  few  seconds ;  but  in 
a  few  more  seconds  the  arm  sags ;  it  is 
only  the  trained  athlete  who  can  endure 
even  to  the  minute's  end.  For  Haw- 
thorne to  hold  the  people  of  The  Scar- 
let Letter  steadily  in  focus  from  Novem- 
ber to  February,  to  say  nothing  of  six 
years'  preliminary  brooding,  is  surely 
more  of  an  artistic  feat  than  to  write 
a  short  story  between  Tuesday  and  Fri- 
day. The  three  years  and  nine  months 
of  unremitting  labor  devoted  to  Mid- 
dlemarch  does  not  in  itself  afford  any 
criterion  of  the  value  of  the  book ;  but 
given  George  Eliot's  brain  power  and 
artistic  instinct  to  begin  with,  and  then 
concentrate  them  for  that  period  upon 
a  single  theme,  and  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  result  is  a  masterpiece.  "Jan 
van  Eyck  was  never  in  a  hurry, "  — 
says  Charles  Reade  of  the  great  Flem- 
ish painter  in  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth,  —  "Jan  van  Eyck  was  never  in 
a  hurry,  and  therefore  the  world  will 
not  forget  him  in  a  hurry." 

This  sustained  power  of  imagination 
and  the  patient  workmanship  that  keeps 
pace  with  it  are  ndf  demanded  by  the 
brief  tale.  It  is  a  short  distance  race, 
and  any  one  can  run  it  indifferently 
well. 

Nor  does  the  short  story  demand  of 
its  author  essential  sanity ;  breadth  and 
tolerance  of  view.  How  morbid  does 
the  genius  of  a  Hoffmann,  a  Poe,  a 
Maupassant  seem,  when  placed  along- 
side the  sane  and  wholesome  art  of 
Scott  and  Fielding  and  Thackeray! 


Sanity,  balance,  naturalness ;  the  novel 
stands  or  falls  in  the  long  run  by  these 
tests.  But  your  short  story  writer  may 
be  fit  for  a  madhouse  and  yet  compose 
tales  that  shall  be  immortal.  In  other 
words,  we  do  not  ask  of  him  that  he 
shall  have  a  philosophy  of  life,  in  any 
broad,  complete  sense.  It  may  be  that 
Professor  Masson,  like  a  true  Scotch- 
man, insisted  too  much  upon  the  intel- 
lectual element  in  the  art  of  fiction 
when  he  declared,  "Every  artist  is  a 
thinker  whether  he  knows  it  or  not,  and 
ultimately  no  artist  will  be  found  great- 
er as  an  artist  than  he  was  as  a  thinker. " 
But  he  points  out  here  what  must  be 
the  last  of  the  distinctions  we  have 
drawn  between  the  short  story  and  the 
novel.  When  we  read  Old  Mortality, 
or  Pendennis,  or  Daniel  Deronda,  we 
find  in  each  book  a  certain  philosophy, 
"a  chart  or  plan  of  human  life."  Con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  held  or  for- 
mulated, it  is  nevertheless  there.  The 
novelist  has  his  theory  of  this  general 
scheme  of  things  which  enfolds  us  all, 
and  he  cannot  write  his  novel  without 
betraying  his  theory.  "He  is  a  thinker 
whether  he  knows  it  or  not." 

But  the  story- writer,  with  all  respect 
to  him,  need  be  nothing  of  the  sort. 
He  deals  not  with  wholes,  but  with  frag- 
ments; not  with  the  trend  of  the  great 
march  through  the  wide  world,  but  with 
some  particular  aspect  of  the  procession 
as  it  passes.  His  story  may  be,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  merest  sketch  of  a  face, 
a  comic  attitude,  a  tragic  incident ;  it 
may  be  a  lovely  dream,  or  a  horrid 
nightmare,  or  a  page  of  words  that 
haunt  us  like  music.  Yet  he  need  not 
be  consistent ;  he  need  not  think  things 
through.  One  might  almost  maintain 
that  there  is  more  of  an  answer,  im- 
plicit or  explicit,  to  the  great  problems 
of  human  destiny  in  one  book  like  Van- 
ity Fair  or  Adam  Bede  than  in  all  of 
Mr.  Kipling's  one  hundred  and  sixty 
short  stories  taken  together,  —  and  Mr. 
Kipling  is  indubitably  the  most  gifted 
story-teller  of  our  time. 


The  Short  Story. 


251 


Does  not  all  this  throw  some  light 
upon  the  present  popularity  of  the  short 
story  with  authors  and  public  alike? 
Here  is  a  form  of  literature  easy  to 
write  and  easy  to  read.  The  author 
is  often  paid  as  much  for  a  story  as  he 
earns  from  the  copyrights  of  a  novel, 
and  it  costs  him  one  tenth  the  labor. 
The  multiplication  of  magazines  and 
other  periodicals  creates  a  constant  mar- 
ket, with  steadily  rising  prices.  The 
qualities  of  imagination  and  style  that 
go  to  the  making  of  a  first-rate  short 
story  are  as  rare  as  they  ever  were,  but 
one  is  sometimes  tempted  to  think  that 
the  great  newspaper  and  magazine  read- 
ing public  bothers  itself  very  little  about 
either  style  or  imagination.  The  pub- 
lic pays  its  money  and  takes  its  choice. 

And  there  are  other  than  these  me- 
chanical and  commercial  reasons  why 
the  short  story  now  holds  the  field.  It 
is  a  kind  of  writing  perfectly  adapted 
to  our  over-driven  generation,  which 
rushes  from  one  task  or  engagement  to 
another,  and  between  times,  or  on  the 
way,  snatches  up  a  story.  Our  habit 
of  nervous  concentration  for  a  brief 
period  helps  us  indeed  to  crowd  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  into  the  half -hour  of 
perusal;  our  incapacity  for  prolonged 
attention  forces  the  author  to  keep  with- 
in that  limit,  or  exceed  it  at  his  peril. 

It  has  been  frequently  declared  that 
this  popularity  of  the  short  story  is  un- 
favorable to  other  forms  of  imaginative 
literature.  Many  English  critics  have 
pointed  out  that  the  reaction  against 
the  three- volume  novel,  and  particularly 
against  George  Eliot,  has  been  caused 
by  the  universal  passion  for  the  short 
story.  And  the  short  story  is  fre- 
quently made  responsible  for  the  alleged 
distaste  of  Americans  for  the  essay. 
We  are  told  that  nobody  reads  magazine 
poetry,  because  the  short  stories  are  so 
much  more  interesting. 

In  the  presence  of  all  such  brisk  gen- 
eralizations, it  is  prudent  to  exercise  a 
little  wholesome  skepticism.  No  one 
really  knows.  Each  critic  can  easily 


find  the  sort  of  facts  he  is  looking  for. 
American  short  stories  have  probably 
trained  the  public  to  a  certain  expecta- 
tion of  technical  excellence  in  narrative 
which  has  forced  American  novel-writ- 
ers to  do  more  careful  work.  But  there 
are  few  of  our  novel-writers  who  exhib- 
it a  breadth  and  power  commensurate 
with  their  opportunities,  and  it  is  precise- 
ly these  qualities  of  breadth  and  pow- 
er which  an  apprenticeship  to  the  art 
of  short  story  writing  seldom  or  never 
seems  to  impart.  The  wider  truth,  after 
all,  is  that  literary  criticism  has  no  ap- 
paratus delicate  enough  to  measure  the 
currents,  the  depths  and  the  tideways, 
the  reactions  and  interactions  of  literary 
forms.  Essays  upon  the  evolution  of 
literary  types,  when  written  by  men  like 
M.  Brunetiere,  are  fascinating  reading, 
and  for  the  moment  almost  persuade  you 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  real  evo- 
lution of  types,  that  is,  a  definite  re- 
placement of  a  lower  form  by  a  higher. 
But  the  popular  Caprice  of  an  hour  upsets 
all  your  theories.  Mr.  Ho  wells  had  no 
sooner  proved,  a  few  years  ago,  that  a 
certain  form  of  realism  was  the  finally 
evolved  type  in  fiction,  than  the  great 
reading  public  promptly  turned  around 
and  bought  Treasure  Island.  That  does 
not  prove  Treasure  Island  a  better  story 
than  Silas  Lapham;  it  proves  simply 
that  a  trout  that  will  rise  to  a  brown 
hackle  to-day  will  look  at  nothing  but 
a  white  miller  to-morrow;  and  that 
when  the  men  of  the  ice  age  grew  tired 
of  realistic  anecdotes  somebody  yawned 
and  poked  the  fire  and  called  on  a  ro- 
manticist. One  age,  one  stage  of  cul- 
ture, one  mood,  calls  for  stories  as  naive, 
as  grim  and  primitive  in  their  stark  sav- 
agery as  an  Icelandic  saga ;  another  age, 
another  mood,  — nay,  the  whim  that 
changes  in  each  one  of  us  between  morn- 
ing and  evening,  —  chooses  stories  as 
deliberately,  consciously  artificial  as  The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.  Both  types 
are  admirable,  each  in  its  own  way, 
provided  both  stir  the  imagination. 
For  the  types  will  come  and  go  and 


252 


The   Cave  of  Adullam. 


come  again ;  but  the  human  hunger  f or 
fiction  of  some  sort  is  never  sated. 
Study  the  historical  phases  of  the  art  of 
fiction  as  closely  as  one  may,  there  come 
moments  —  and  perhaps  the  close  of  an 
essay  is  an  appropriate  time  to  confess 
it  —  when  one  is  tempted  to  say  with 
Wilkie  Collins  that  the  whole  art  of 
fiction  can  be  summed  up  in  three  pre- 
cepts: "Make  'em  laugh;  make  'em 
cry;  make  'em  wait." 

The  important  thing,  the  really  sug- 
gestive and  touching  and  wonderful 
thing,  is  that  all  these  thousands  of  con- 
temporary and  ephemeral  stories  are 
laughed  over  and  cried  over  and  waited 
for  by  somebody.  They  are  read,  while 
the  "  large  still  books  "  are  bound  in  full 
calf  and  buried.  Do  you  remember  Po- 
mona in  Rudder  Grange  reading  aloud 
in  the  kitchen  every  night  after  she  had 
washed  the  dishes,  spelling  out  with 
blundering  tongue  and  beating  heart: 
"  Yell  —  after  —  yell  —  resounded  — 
as  —  he  —  wildly  —  sprang  "  —  Or 
"Ha  —  ha  —  Lord  —  Marmont  — 
thundered  —  thou  —  too  —  shalt  — 
suffer  "  ?  We  are  all  more  or  less  like 


Pomona.  We  are  children  at  bottom, 
after  all  is  said,  children  under  the 
story-teller's  charm.  Nansen's  stout- 
hearted comrades  tell  stories  to  one  an- 
other while  the  Arctic  ice  drifts  onward 
with  the  Fram ;  Stevenson  is  nicknamed 
The  Tale-Teller  by  the  brown-limbed 
Samoans ;  Chinese  Gordon  reads  a  story 
while  waiting  —  hopelessly  waiting  — 
at  Khartoum.  What  matter  who  per- 
forms the  miracle  that  opens  for  us  the 
doors  of  the  wonder- world  ?  It  may  be 
one  of  that  white-bearded  company  at 
the  gate  of  Jaffa ;  it  may  be  an  ardent 
French  boy  pouring  out  his  heart  along 
the  bottom  of  a  Paris  newspaper;  it 
may  be  some  sober- suited  New  England 
woman  in  the  decorous  pages  of  The 
Atlantic  Monthly;  it  may  be  some 
wretched  scribbler  writing  for  his  sup- 
per. No  matter,  if  only  the  miracle 
is  wrought ;  if  we  look  out  with  new 
eyes  upon  the  many-featured,  habitable 
world;  if  we  are  thrilled  by  the  pity 
and  the  beauty  of  this  life  of  ours,  itself 
brief  as  a  tale  that  is  told ;  if  we  learn 
to  know  men  and  women  better,  and  to 
love  them  more. 

B.  P. 


THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM. 


"I  HAVE  often  thought,"  said  the 
young  minister,  "  that  your  house  might 
be  called  the  Cave  of  Adullam." 

Miss  Lucretia  Blaine  adjusted  her 
glasses,  as  if  they  might  help  her  to 
some  mental  insight,  and  then  illogi- 
cally  directed  her  puzzled  gaze  at  him 
over  their  top.  She  was  short  and 
plump,  with  brown  eyes  and  an  abun- 
dance of  bright  hair  lapsing  into  dun 
maturity.  There  was  so  much  of  the 
haii'  that  it  was  difficult  to  manage,  and 
she  had  wound  it  in  a  sort  of  crown. 
So  it  happened  that  she  carried  her  head 
in  a  fashion  that  looked  like  haughtiness 
and  belied  the  patient  seeking  of  her 


dove's  eyes.  She  was  not  much  given 
to  reading,  even  Bible  reading,  and  the 
minister's  pictorial  talk  perplexed  her. 
It  was  vaguely  discomfiting,  in  a  way, 
much  like  the  minister  himself.  He 
was  a  short  and  muscular  man,  with  a 
scholarly  forehead,  a  firm  mouth,  and 
eyeglasses  magnificently  set  in  gold. 
He  had  always  disturbed  Miss  Lucretia, 
coming  as  he  did  after  a  mild  and  fad- 
ing pulpit  dynasty.  She  could  never 
understand  how  he  knew  so  much,  at 
his  time  of  life,  about  human  trials  and 
their  antidotes ;  his  autocracy  over  the 
moral  world  was  even  too  bracing,  too 
insistent.  Now  she  took  off  her  glasses 


The   Cave  of  Adullam. 


253 


and  laid  them  down,  regarding  him  with 
that  blurred,  softened  look  which  is  the 
gift  of  eyes  unused  to  freedom. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she,  "as  I 
rightly  understand." 

"The  Cave  of  Adullam!"  repeated 
the  minister,  in  his  pulpit  manner. 
"  David  was  there,  if  you  remember,  in 
the  time  of  his  banishment,  '  and  every 
one  that  was  in  distress,  and  every  one 
that  was  in  debt,  and  every  one  that 
was  discontented  gathered  themselves 
unto  him.'  It  was  a  refuge.  Your 
house  appeals  to  me,  in  a  figurative 
sense,  as  being  somewhat  the  same 
thing.  The  poor,  the  unfortunate,  flee 
hither  to  you.  This  is  the  Cave  of 
Adullam." 

New  trouble  added  itself  to  Miss  Lu- 
cretia's  look.  This  unnecessary  classify- 
ing merely  greatened  her  accepted  load. 
She  only  saw  herself  pottering  about, 
doing  her  chores  and  serving  the  people 
who  were  mysteriously  meted  out  to  her. 
Life  was  very  simple  until  it  became 
complicated  by  words. 

"Well,"  said  she  vaguely,  "I  guess 
there  's  a  good  many  such  places,  if  all 
was  known." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  minister,  "we 
all  have  some  earthly  refuge." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  cousin 
'Cretia  's  got !  "  came  a  young  voice 
from  the  doorway,  —  a  woman's  voice, 
melodious,  full.  There  stood  Lucrece, 
a  distant  relative  defined  within  some 
limit  of  cousinship.  She  was  tall  and 
strenuous,  a  girl  all  life  and  the  desire 
of  life.  Her  pose  had  an  unconsidered 
beauty;  her  muscles,  whether  in  rest 
or  action,  obeyed  according  purposes 
and  wrought  out  harmony.  The  minis- 
ter caught  his  breath  as  her  face  flow- 
ered upon  him  like  some  exotic  bloom. 
He  had  a  young  wife  at  home,  and  her 
he  truly  cherished;  yet  no  one  could 
look  upon  Lucrece  and  continue  quite 
unmoved. 

Miss  Lucretia  only  smiled  at  her. 
She  was  used  to  the  incursions  of  the 
young  and  passionate  thing.  Dealing 


with  the  hot  moods  Lucrece  engendered 
seemed  more  or  less  like  feeding  a  tame 
leopard  in  the  kitchen. 

"I  'd  like  to  know,"  continued  Lu- 
crece rapidly,  in  her  moving  contralto, 
"what  refuge  cousin  'Cretia 's  had! 
There  's  great-uncle  Pike  in  the  parlor 
chamber.  He  's  got  dropsy.  He  likes 
it.  There  's  cousin  Mary  Poole  in  the 
west  room.  She  's  got  nerves.  Cousin 
'Cretia  's  had  to  hear  her  clack  from 
sunrise  to  sunset  for  going  on  nine 
years.  Mary  Poole  and  uncle  Pike 
have  got  their  refuge,  both  of  'em. 
Where  's  cousin  ' Cretia' s?  " 

"  There,  there !  "  counseled  Lucre- 
tia. "You  come  in,  dear,  an'  se' 
down." 

The  minister  cleared  his  throat.  He 
was  momentarily  dashed  by  this  on- 
slaught of  the  human,  and  the  natural 
man  in  him  agreed  with  Lucrece.  Yet 
officially  he  could  not  concur. 

"  All  these  trials, "  said  he,  with  no 
abatement  of  his  former  emphasis,  "will 
be  stars  in  her  crown  of  rejoicing." 

"Oh!"  returned  the  girl  bitingly. 
She  came  in  and  stood  by  the  mantel, 
her  head  held  high,  as  if  it  carried  a 
weight  she  scorned.  "But  what  about 
now?  They  're  having  their  refuge 
now.  What  about  cousin  'Cretia's?" 

"  Crechy !  "  came  a  wheezing  voice 
from  above.  "Crechy,  you  step  up  here 
a  minute !  " 

This  might  have  been  a  signal  for 
concerted  effort.  Another  voice,  dra- 
matically muffled,  issued  from  the  west 
room. 

"Crechy,  you  mind  what  I  say !  You 
come  in  here  first !  Crechy,  you  come !  " 

Lucretia  rose  in  haste  and  made  her 
capable  way  out  of  the  room,  fitting  on 
her  glasses  as  she  went. 

"  There !  "  said  Lucrece  triumphant- 
ly, having  seen  the  proving  of  her  point, 
"they  're  both  calling  on  her  at  once. 
That 's  what  they  do.  They  're  neck 
and  neck  when  it  comes  to  trouble.  If 
one  finds  a  feather  endwise  in  the  bed, 
the  other  falls  over  a  square  in  the  car- 


254 


The  Cave  of  Adullam. 


pet.      And    cousin    'Cretia  's    got    to 
smooth  it  all  out." 

The  minister  felt  his  poverty  of  re- 
source. The  young  creature  interro- 
gating him  at  white  heat  would  have 
flouted  his  divine  commonplaces.  He 
knew  that,  and  decided,  with  true  hu- 
mility, that  he  should  only  be  able  to 
meet  her  after  a  season  of  prayer. 

"I  cannot  account  for  it,"  he  said, 
rising  with  dignity.  "I  fear  I  must  be 
going.  Please  say  good-by  to  Miss 
Lucretia. " 

The  girl  accompanied  him  to  the 
door  with  all  the  outward  courtesy  due 
him  and  his  office ;  but  her  mind  seemed 
suddenly  to  be  elsewhere.  She  shook 
hands  with  him ;  and  then,  as  he  walked 
down  the  path  between  beds  of  velvet 
pinks,  her  fighting  blood  rose  once  more, 
and  she  called  lightly  after  him,  "  What 
about  cousin  'Cretia?  " 

But  he  made  no  answer,  nor  did  she 
wait  for  one.  On  the  heels  of  her 
question  she  turned  back  into  the  sit- 
ting-room and  flung  herself  at  full 
length  on  the  broad  lounge,  where  she 
lay  tapping  the  white  line  of  her  teeth 
with  an  impatient  finger.  Presently 
Lucretia  came  down  the  stairs  and,  en- 
tering the  room,  gave  a  quick  look 
about.  Her  eyes  interrogated  Lucrece. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  carelessly, 
"he  's  gone.  He  thinks  I  'm  awful." 

Lucretia  sat  down  again  by  the  win- 
dow and  took  up  her  work.  There  was 
an  abiding  stillness  about  her.  She  was 
very  palpably  a  citizen  of  the  world, 
and  yet  not  of  it,  as  if  some  film  lay 
between  her  and  the  things  that  are. 

"Have  both  of  'em  had  a  drink  of 
water  ?  "  asked  the  girl  satirically. 

"Yes,  both  of  'em!" 

"  Have  they  ordered  what  they  want 
for  supper  ?  " 

A  slow  smile  indented  the  corners  of 
Lucretia' s  mouth.  "Well,"  said  she 
indulgently,  "I  b'lieve  they  did  men- 
tion it." 

"I  bet  they  did!  And  to-morrow 
it  '11  be  just  the  same,  and  to-morrow, 


and  to-morrow.  It 's  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  Caves  of  Adullam.  Where  's 
your  cave  ?  " 

Lucretia  dropped  her  work  and  gazed 
at  the  girl  with  unseeing  eyes.  She 
had  the  remote  look  of  one  who  con- 
jures up  visions  at  will.  "Don't  you 
worry, "  said  she.  "I  don't  mind  them 
no  more  than  the  wind  that  blows." 

"Well,"  said  Lucrece  moodily,  "I 
suppose  everybody  's  got  to  have  some- 
thing. Only  it  seems  as  if  you  had 
everything.  They  all  come  and  sponge 
on  you.  So  do  I.  To-day  I  'm  mad- 
der 'n  a  hatter,  and  I  put  for  you." 

Lucretia 's  glance  returned  to  a  per- 
ception of  tangible  things. 

"What  is  it,  Lucrece?" 

The  girl  spoke  with  the  defiance  of 
one  who  combats  tears. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  be  married." 

"Why  not?" 

"All  the  money  Tom  saved  he  put 
in  with  his  father.  He  wants  it  out 
now,  to  go  into  the  lumber  business, 
and  his  father  won't  let  him  have  it. 
And  Tom  's  got  nothing  to  show  for  it." 

Lucretia  sat  motionless,  a  slow  flush 
rising  into  her  face.  One  might  have 
said  she  looked  ashamed.  The  room 
was  very  still.  A  bee  buzzed  into  the 
entry,  and  described  whorled  circlets 
of  flight.  The  sound  of  his  wandering 
was  loud,  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
significance. 

"  That  means  putting  off  our  marry- 
ing for  a  year  or  two, "  said  Lucrece  in- 
differently. Then,  having  cried  a  few 
tears  and  angrily  wiped  them  away  with 
her  hand,  she  crushed  her  pink  cheek 
into  the  sofa  pillow  for  a  moment,  and, 
as  if  she  flung  aside  an  unworthy  mood, 
rose  to  her  feet  with  a  spring. 

"  Tom  pretty  much  hates  his  father, " 
said  she.  "He's  ashamed  to  be  the 
son  of  a  miser.  He  's  afraid  he  might 
catchit.  But  he  need  n't  worry.  Tom's 
as  good  as  they  make  'em. "  She  walked 
to  the  door  and  then,  returning,  stooped 
over  Miss  Lucretia  and  kissed  the  top 
of  her  head.  "Don't  you  mind,"  said 


The  Cave  of  Adullam. 


255 


she.  "It  '11  all  come  out  right.  I  'm 
just  like  them  two  upstairs,  only  mine  's 
temper  where  they  've  got  nerves  and 
dropsy.  Why,  cousin  'Cretia,  what  is 
it?" 

Two  tears  were  rolling  down  Lucre- 
tia's  cheeks.  They  splashed  upon  her 
hand.  Lucrece  had  never  seen  her  look 
so  moved  and  broken. 

"Why,"  said  the  girl,  "you  taking 
it  so  hard  as  that,  just  my  being  mar- 
ried? It 's  only  put  off." 

Lucretia  rose  and  folded  her  work 
conclusively.  Her  cheeks  were  pink  un- 
der their  tears,  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"Don't  you  worry,  dear,"  said  she, 
a  humorous  smile  beginning  to  flicker 
on  her  lips.  "I  s'pose  I  can  have  my 
mad  fit,  too,  can't  I?  There!  you  run 
along  now.  I  've  got  to  get  in  the 
clo'es." 

It  was  a  dismissal  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
and  Lucrece  wenfc  wonderingly  away. 
At  the  door  she  hesitated. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  across  lots,"  said 
she.  "There  's  old  Armstrong  coming 
up  the  road.  I  can't  talk  to  him  as  I 
feel  now."  She  took  the  narrow  path 
skirting  the  house  front,  and  stepped 
over  the  low  stone  wall  into  the  or- 
chard. There  she  walked  away  with 
a  lilting  motion,  and  still  with  the 
erect  pose  of  one  who  carries  a  burden 
lightly. 

Miss  Lucretia  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  sunny  room,  so  still  that  all  the  lit- 
tle noises  of  the  day  seemed  loud  about 
her.  There  was  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  the  booming  of  bees  on  the  jes- 
samine sprays,  and  chiefly  the  thick- 
ened beating  of  her  heart.  Suddenly, 
as  if  mounting  thought  had  cast  her 
forth  on  one  great  wave,  she  hurried 
out  of  doors  and  down  the  path  to  the 
gate.  There,  her  hand  on  the  palings, 
she  waited  for  Dana  Armstrong.  Yet 
she  did  not  glance  at  him,  as  he  came 
striding  along  the  road,  but  into  the 
green  field  opposite,  and  again  her  eyes 
had  the  unseeing  look  of  one  to  whom 
visions  are  more  palpable  than  fact. 


Dana  Armstrong  was  over  sixty,  but 
he  carried  himself  like  a  youth,  with 
the  free  step  and  sinewy  vigor  of  one 
whose  time  is  yet  to  come.  And  still, 
in  spite  of  that  assertive  strength,  the 
years  had  marked  him  with  their  tell- 
tale tracery.  His  cheeks  were  deeply 
scored  with  long,  crisp  lines ;  his  mouth 
dropped  slightly  at  the  corners.  The 
gray  eyes  were  cold,  though  a  fanciful 
mind  might  have  found  in  them  some 
promise,  however  unfulfilled,  some  hint 
of  blue. 

"  Dana  Armstrong, "  called  Miss  Lu- 
cretia, "  you  come  here !  I  want  to  talk 
with  you." 

He  quickened  his  walk,  his  eyes 
warming  a  little  at  sight  of  her.  She 
swung  open  the  gate,  and  he  stepped  in- 
side. 

"Anything  happened?"  he  asked 
concernedly. 

"No.      You  come  in  a  minute." 

She  preceded  him  along  the  path,  her 
short  steps  breaking  in  upon  the  time 
of  his.  They  crossed  the  sun-lighted 
entry  into  her  sitting-room,  and  there 
Dana  took  off  his  hat  with  a  grave  de- 
liberation much  like  reverence.  It  had 
been  years  since  he  entered  this  room, 
and  the  memory  of  time  past  shook  him 
a  little,  dulled  as  he  was  by  the  routine 
of  life  and  its  expediency. 

"Be  seated,"  said  Miss  Lucretia, 
taking  her  accustomed  place  by  the  win- 
dow. He  laid  his  hand  upon  a  chair, 
and  then  withdrew  it.  This  had  been 
grandfather  Elaine's  chosen  spot,  and 
he  remembered  how  the  old  man  used 
to  sit  there  thumbing  over  his  well-worn 
jokes  when  Dana  Armstrong  came  court- 
ing the  girl  Lucretia,  all  those  years 
ago.  He  could  not  have  taken  the  chair 
without  disturbing  some  harmony  of  re- 
membrance ;  so  he  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
where  Lucrece  had  lain,  and  held  his 
hat  before  him  in  his  stiff,  half -bashful 
way. 

"I  hear  Tom  ain't  goin'  to  be  mar- 
ried this  year,"  said  Miss  Lucretia, 
"him  and  my  Lucrece!"  Her  voice 


256 


The  Cave  of  Adullam. 


came  from  an  aching  throat.  It  sound- 
ed harsh  and  dry. 

Armstrong  started  slightly. 

"Well!  "  said  he. 

"I  'm  told  Tom's  money  's  in  with 
yours,  an'  you  won't  give  it  up  to 
him." 

Dana's  eyes  darkened.  His  forehead 
contracted  into  those  lines  she  remem- 
bered from  a  vivid  past,  when  his  face 
made  her  one  book  of  life,  to  be  conned 
with  loyal  passion.  Yet  she  was  not 
looking  at  him  now ;  there  was  no  need. 
Only  it  was  the  young  Dana,  not  the 
old  one,  who  sat  there.  That  gave  her 
courage.  She  could  throw  herself  back 
into  that  time  when  no  mischance  had 
come  between  them,  and  speak  with  the 
candor  of  youth  itself,  which  scorns  to 
compromise.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor. 
Little  shadows  were  playing  in  it,  and 
once  the  bulk  of  a  humming  bird  swept 
past.  The  sunlight  had  a  curious  look, 
as  if  in  that  small  compass  lay  the  sum- 
mer and  all  the  summers  she  had  lived, 
witnesses  now  to  her  true  testimony. 
She  began  in  an  unmoved  voice,  and 
Dana  listened.  She  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing from  a  dream,  and  inch  by  inch 
the  dream  crept  nearer  him,  and  gradu- 
ally enfolded  him  without  his  will. 

"When  I  heard  that,  not  an  hour 
ago,  I  says  to  myself,  '  Ain't  Dana 
Armstrong  got  over  the  love  o'  money? 
Ain't  he  killed  that  out  of  him  yet?  '  " 

"There,  there!  "  said  Dana  hastily, 
exactly  as  he  had  used  to  check  her 
years  ago. 

"No,  it  ain't  any  use  to  say  '  There, 
there !  '  But  she  was  not  speaking  as 
the  girl  was  wont  to  speak.  The  girl 
had  been  quick-tempered,  full  of  be- 
seechings,  hot  commendation,  wild  re- 
proach. "We  've  got  to  talk  things 
over.  It 's  a  good  many  years,  Dana, 
since  you  an'  I  were  goin'  to  be  mar- 
ried that  fall,  an'  you  give  me  up  be- 
cause my  sister  was  in  consumption,  an' 
you  would  n't  have  her  live  with  us." 

He  turned  full  upon  her,  and  seemed 


to  question  her  face,  the  stillness  of  her 
attitude.  These  were  strange  words  to 
be  spoken  in  the  clear  New  England 
air.  They  shook  him,  not  only  from 
their  present  force,  but  because  they 
held  authority  from  what  had  been. 
They  seemed  to  be  joining  it  to  what 
still  was,  and  he  felt  the  continuity  of 
life  in  a  way  bewilderingly  new.  His 
voice  trembled  as  he  answered  with 
some  passion,  — 

"I  did  n't  give  you  up!  " 

"No,  not  in  so  many  words.  You 
only  said  Lindy  might  live  for  years. 
You  said  there  'd  be  doctors'  bills,  an' 
my  time  all  eat  up  waitin'  an'  tendin' 
—  an'  so  I  told  you  we  would  n't  con- 
sider it  any  more.  An'  you  went  an' 
married  Rhody  Bond,  an'  she  helped 
you  save  —  an'  you  got  rich." 

The  words,  meagre  as  they  were, 
smote  blightingly  upon  him.  He  saw 
his  life  in  all  its  barrenness.  Yet  he 
was  not  the  poorer  through  that  revela- 
tion. A  window  had  been  opened,  dis- 
closing a  tract  of  land  he  had  hitherto 
seen  only  by  inches.  It  was  hopelessly 
sterile,  —  but  the  window  was  wide 
and  he  could  breathe,  though  chokingly. 
The  woman's  voice  sounded  thin  and 
far  away. 

"I  thought  when  I  lost  you  my  heart 
broke.  I  don't  know  now  what  hap- 
pened. Somethin'  did;  for  after  that 
I  was  different.  For  I  did  set  by  you. 
I  knew  your  faults,  an'  they  'most 
killed  me :  that  is,  one  o£  'em  did,  — 
your  lovin'  money  so.  But  even  that 
never  'd  ha'  separated  us  if  it  had  n't 
bid  fair  to  hurt  somebody  that  could  n't 
fight  for  herself.  Nothin'  could  ever 
have  separated  us."  She  spoke  reck- 
lessly, as  if  none  but  the  great  emotions 
were  worth  her  thought.  In  spite  of 
outer  differences,  she  was  curiously  like 
the  young  Lucrece.  There  was  the  same 
audacity,  the  courage  strong  enough  to 
challenge  life  and  all  its  austere  min- 
istrants.  But  still  she  did  not  look  at 
him.  If  she  had  looked,  it  might  have 
been  impossible  to  go  on. 


The   Cave  of  Adullam. 


257 


"I  did  n't  give  you  up,  Dana  Arm- 
strong,"  said  she.  "I  never  give  you 
up  one  minute." 

The  man  leaned  forward  and  bent  his 
brows  upon  her,  over  burning  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked, 
with  the  harshness  of  emotion  leashed 
and  held. 

"I  never  give  you  up  one  minute. 
When  Lindy  died,  I  was  here  all  alone. 
You  were  married  then,  but  I  set  by 
you  as  much  as  ever.  I  didn't  even 
blame  you  for  choosin'  money  instead 
o'  me.  I  could  n't  blame  you  for  any- 
thing, any  more  'n  if  you  was  my  own 
child.  You  could  hurt  me.  You  could 
n't  make  me  blame  you."  Her  voice 
ended  in  one  of  those  lingering  falls 
that  stir  the  heart.  It  was  quite  un- 
considered.  She  had  as  yet  no  purpose 
in  moving  him,  even  by  the  simplest 
eloquence :  only  her  own  life  was  elo- 
quent to  her,  and  she  could  not  voice  it 
save  with  passion. 

"  I  thought  it  all  over, "  she  said  rap- 
idly, like  one  giving  long  considered 
testimony.  "I  thought  it  over  that 
summer  you  an'  Rhody  moved  into  the 
new  house.  I  used  to  set  here  nights, 
with  the  moon  streamin'  in  through  the 
elms  an'  consider  it.  I  knew  I  could 
n't  give  you  up,  and  it  come  over  me  it 
wa'n't  needful  I  should.  I  prayed  to 
God.  I  made  a  bargain  with  Him.  I 
said,  *  If  I  won't  speak  to  him,  or  look 
at  him,  or  sin  in  my  thoughts,  You  let 
me  have  some  part  of  him !  '  An'  God 
was  willin'.  From  that  time  on  it  was 
as  if  you  an'  me  lived  here  together : 
only  it  was  our  souls.  I  never  touched 
your  life  with  Rhody.  I  never  wanted 
to.  Only  every  day  I  talked  to  you. 
I  told  you  how  I  wanted  you  to  be  good. 
I  tried  to  be  good  myself.  I  tried  to  do 
all  I  could  for  them  that  was  in  need. 
But  I  never  lived  my  life  with  'em,  even 
when  I  was  tendin'  upon  'em  an'  gettin' 
kind  of  achy  trottin'  up  an'  down  stairs. 
You  an'  me  were  always  together,  your 
soul  an'  mine.  The  minister  says  every- 
body has  a  refuge.  I  guess  he  'd  say 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  17 


that  was  my  refuge.  He  'd  say  'twas 
my  cave."  Her  voice  broke  upon  the 
word,  and  she  laughed  a  little  in  a 
whimsical  fashion. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  his 
face  softened  in  an  uncomprehending 
sympathy.  But  she  seemed  not  to  see 
the  movement,  and  went  on. 

"There  was  no  harm  in  it.  I  've 
come  to  the  conclusion  we  can  set  by 
folks  as  much  as  we  've  a  mind  to,  so 
long  as  we  don't  clutch  an'  grab,  —  so 
long  as  it  's  all  spirit.  I  don't  know 
what  spirit  is,  but  I  know  it 's  suthin' 
we  've  got  to  take  account  of  in  this 
world,  same  as  any  other.  Well,  I 
went  with  you,  step  an'  step.  When 
little  Tom  was  born  I  could  have  eat 
him  up,  I  loved  him  so." 

Famished  mother-longing  had  come 
into  her  voice,  and  thenceforward  she 
spoke  recklessly.  Rehearsing  her  de- 
votion to  the  man,  she  bound  herself  in 
stiffer  phrasing;  when  it  came  to  the 
child,  she  could  name  the  great  name  * 
and  feel  no  shyness  over  it. 

"Up  to  then,  I'd  said  my  prayers 
for  you.  Then  I  had  the  boy  to  pray 
for  —  him  and  you.  When  he  went  to 
school,  he  was  stronger  'n'  heartier  'n 
any  of  'em,  an'  I  was  proud  of  him. 
When  he  begun  to  wait  on  my  Lucrece, 
I  got  sort  of  acquainted  with  him,  an* 
I  says  to  myself,  '  He  don't  set  by 
money  the  way  his  father  did. '  An'  I 
thanked  my  God  for  that." 

Dana's  hands  were  trembling.  He 
put  up  one  of  them  to  cover  his  betray- 
ing mouth. 

"I  kep'  near  you  every  step  o' 
the  way,"  said  Lucretia  mercilessly. 
"  When  you  got  the  better  o'  yourself 
an'  give  the  town  that  schoolhouse,  I 
kneeled  down  an'  thanked  God.  When 
you  done  suthin'  mean,  I  tried  to  go 
through  it  with  you  an'  make  you  see 
how  mean  it  was.  I  ain't  been  away 
from  you  a  minute,  Dana  Armstrong, 
not  a  minute  all  your  life.  I  've  tried 
to  help  you  live  it  the  best  that  ever  I 
knew  how." 


258 


The   Cave  of  Adullam. 


The  man  started  up  in  irrepressible 
passion.  "  God !  "  he  said  brokenly. 
"If  I  'd  only  known !  "  But  he  could 
not  have  told  what  it  was  he  should 
have  known.  This  was  only  a  blind 
arraignment  of  a  sterile  past. 

"When  Rhody  died,"  said  the  wo- 
man, with  the  least  little  break  in  her 
voice,  "I  guess  I  dropped  away  a  mite. 
I  could  n't  do  no  less.  Seemed  as  if 
'twould  be  stretchin'  out  my  hand  to 
you,  an'  that  I  never  did." 

"I  come  over  here  a  year  an'  a  day 
after  she  died, "  said  Dana  hotly.  "  You 
wouldn't  so  much  as  walk  downstairs 
to  see  me !  " 

"No,"  answered  Lucretia  softly,  "I 
wouldn't." 

"You  wouldn't  take  the  gift  of 
me!  " 

"Them  things  were  past  an'  gone," 
she  told  him  gently,  as  if  she  feared  to 
bruise  some  piteous  memory.  "There  's 
a  time  for  all  things.  The  minister  said 
so  last  Sunday.  The  time  for  some 
things  ain't  ever  gone  by ;  but  for  some 
it  is.  If  you  an'  I  could  have  grown 
old  together  "  —  A  spasm  contracted 
her  face,  and  it  was  a  moment  before 
she  could  go  on.  "But  we  are  old,  an' 
we  've  got  there  by  different  roads. 
'T  would  be  like  strangers  livin'  to- 
gether. But  our  souls  ain't  strangers. 
Mine  has  lived  with  you,  day  in,  day 
out,  for  forty  year." 

Pure  joy  possessed  her.  She  was 
transfigured.  Her  face  flushed,  her 
eyes  shone,  each  with  a  spark  in  it,  a 
look  not  altogether  of  this  earth.  She 
was  radiant  with  some  undefined  hope : 
perhaps  of  that  sort  bred,  not  of  cir- 
cumstance, but  out  of  things  unseen. 
The  man  was  chiefly  puzzled,  as  if  he 
had  been  called  on  to  test  an  unsuspect- 
ed bond.  This  plain  speaking  about  the 
eternal  was  quite  new  to  him.  It  had 
an  echo  of  Sunday  talk,  and  yet  with- 
out that  weariness  attendant  on  stiff 
clothes  and  lulling  tunes.  He  seemed 
to  be  standing  in  a  large  place  where 
there  was  great  air  to  breathe.  Hith- 


erto he  had  been  the  servant  of  things 
palpable.  Now  it  began  to  look  as  if 
things  were  but  the  tools  of  Life,  and 
Life  herself,  august,  serene,  sat  there  in 
the  heavens  beside  her  master,  God,  in 
untouched  sovereignty. 

"There!  "  said  Lucretia  suddenly,  as 
if  she  broke  a  common  dream.  "I 
only  wanted  to  tell  you  how  I  've  bat- 
tled to  have  you  do  what 's  right.  I 
don't  know  as  I  've  earned  anything  of 
you  by  battlin',  for  maybe  you  'd  ha' 
forbidden  it  if  you  'd  had  your  way. 
But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  there  's  things 
fightin'  for  your  soul,  an'  you  better 
think  twice  afore  you  kill  out  anything 
in  them  that 's  young.  Tom  an'  Lu- 
crece  —  they  've  got  it  all  before  'em. 
You  let  'em  come  together  afore  it 's 
any  ways  too  late."  The  note  of  plead- 
ing in  her  voice  seemed  as  much  for 
herself  as  for  another.  She  might  have 
been  demanding  compensation  for  her 
years.  She  had  shown  him  the  late 
blooming  of  her  life,  for  him  to  justify. 
Something  he  mysteriously  owed  her, 
and,  with  that  obedience  men  give  to 
women  when  the  cry  is  loud  and  clear, 
he  knew  it.  must  be  paid.  He  rose  and 
stood  regarding  her.  His  face  worked. 
His  eyes  held  blue  fire.  He  felt  young 
again,  invincible.  But  though  thoughts 
were  crowding  on  him,  he  had  only  one 
word  for  them,  and  that  her  name. 

"Lucretia!" 

"What  is  it?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

He  hesitated  and  then  broke  forth 
blunderingly,  like  a  boy.  "Should  you 
just  as  soon  I  'd  come  in  here,  once  a 
week  or  so  ?  " 

She  answered  as  a  mother  might  who 
refuses  because  she  must,  for  hidden 
reasons. 

"I  don't  think  we  've  any  call  to  see 
much  of  one  another.  We  've  both  got 
a  good  deal  to  think  over,  an'  if  Tom 
an'  Lucrece  should  get  them  a  house, 
you  'd  want  to  run  round  often  an'  set 
with  them." 

He  bent  his  head  in  an  acquiescent 
courtliness,  and  went  haltingly  out  at 


Rapids  at  Night. 


259 


the  door.  Miss  Lucretia  sat  there,  her 
hands  dropped  loosely  in  her  lap,  not 
thinking,  but  aware  of  life,  as  if  the 
years  were  leaves  fluttering  down  about 
her  in  autumnal  air.  They  prophesied 
no  denial,  nor  hardly  yet  decay:  only 
change,  the  prelude  to  winter  and  then 
again  to  spring.  She  sat  there  until  a 
voice  came  querulously,  — 

"Ain't  it  'most  supper  time?  You 
come  up  here !  I  '11  ventur'  you  forgot 
to  blaze  the  fire !  " 

Next  morning,  a  little  after  ten, 
Miss  Lucretia  went  into  the  garden,  to 
do  her  weeding.  The  sun  lay  hotly  on 
her  hair  and  burnished  it  to  gold.  Her 
cheeks  were  warm  with  sunlight  and  her 
hands  thick  coated  with  the  soil.  Life 
and  the  love  of  it  were  keen  within  her, 
strong  enough  to  grip  eternal  things, 
sane,  commonplace  like  these  of  earth, 
and  make  them  hers  forever. 

The  gate  clanged,  and  then  there 
came  a  rush  of  skirts.  Lucrece  was  on 
her  like  a  swooping  wind. 

"Cousin  'Cretia !  "  she  cried.  "Cou- 
sin 'Cretia!  Get  up  here!  I  've  got 
to  speak  to  you." 

Miss  Lucretia  rose  and  found  the 
throbbing  creature  ready  to  grasp  and 
hold  her.  Young  Lucrece  was  lovely, 


like  the  morning.  The  moodiness  of 
yesterday  had  quite  gone  out  of  her. 
Sweet,  quivering  sentience  animated 
her,  obedient  to  the  call  of  life.  Her 
beauty  clothed  her  like  a  veil :  it  seemed 
a  wedding  veil. 

"What  do  you  think?  "  she  said  rap- 
idly, in  a  tone  like  the  brooding  note  of 
birds.  "Mr.  Armstrong  's  paid  over 
all  Tom's  money,  every  cent.  And  he  's 
given  him  the  deed  of  the  house  in  the 
Hollow.  And  this  morning  he  came 
over  and  kissed  me  —  old  Armstrong 
did !  —  and  said  he  hoped  we  'd  be  mar- 
ried right  away.  I  'm  awful  happy, 
cousin  'Cretia!  " 

Lucretia  stood  there  holding  the 
trowel  in  her  earthy  hand.  Her  voice 
dropped  liquidly. 

"  Did  he  ?  "  she  said,  not  looking  at 
Lucrece  at  all.  'Did  he?  " 

The  tension  of  her  tone  struck  keenly 
on  the  girl  and  moved  her  to  some  won- 
der. 

"What  makes  you  so  pretty,  cousin 
'Cretia?  "  she  asked,  half  timorous  be- 
cause the  other  woman  seemed  so  far 
away.  "What  makes  you  speak  so? 
Is  it  because  I  'm  glad  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Lucretia  softly. 
"An'  I'm  glad,  too!  " 

Alice  Brown. 


RAPIDS  AT  NIGHT. 

HEBE  at  the  roots  of  the  mountains, 

Between  the  sombre  legions  of  cedars  and  tamaracks, 

The  rapids  charge  the  ravine : 

A  little  light,  cast  by  foam  under  starlight, 

Wavers  about  the  shimmering  stems  of  the  birches  : 

Here  rise  up  the  clangorous  sounds  of  battle, 

Immense  and  mournful. 

Far  above  curves  the  great  dome  of  darkness 

Drawn  with  the  limitless  lines  of  the  stars  and  the  planets. 

Deep  at  the  core  of  the  tumult, 

Deeper  than  all  the  voices  that  cry  at  the  surface, 

Dwells  one  fathomless  sound, 

Under  the  hiss  and  cry,  the  stroke  and  the  plangent  clamor. 


260  Bret  Harte. 

(0  human  heart  that  sleeps, 

Wild  with  rushing  dreams  and  deep  with  sadness !) 

The  abysmal  roar  drops  into  almost  silence, 

While  over  its  sleep  plays  in  various  cadence, 

Innumerous  voices  crashing  in  laughter; 

Then  rising  calm,  overwhelming, 

Slow  in  power, 

Rising  supreme  in  utterance, 

It  sways,  and  reconquers  and  floods  all  the  spaces  of  silence, 

One  voice,  deep  with  the  sadness, 

That  dwells  at  the  core  of  all  things. 

There  by  a  nest  in  the  glimmering  birches, 
Speaks  a  thrush  as  if  startled  from  slumber, 
Dreaming  of  Southern  ricefields, 
The  moted  glow  of  the  amber  sunlight, 
Where  the  long  ripple  roves  among  the  reeds. 

Above  curves  the  great  dome  of  darkness, 

Scored  with  the  limitless  lines  of  the  stars  and  the  planets; 

Like  the  strong  palm  of  Ged, 

Veined  with  the  ancient  laws, 

Holding  a  human  heart  that  sleeps, 

Wild  with  rushing  dreams  and  deep  with  the  sadness, 

That  dwells  at  the  core  of  all  things. 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott. 


BRET  HARTE. 

BRET  HARTE  would  still  have  been  a  not  of  perception  but  of  creation.     The 

genius  and  a  great  writer  if  gold  had  proof  of  this  creative  power  is  that  the 

never  been  discovered  in  California ;  but  characters  portrayed  by  it  are  submitted 

history  records  no  happier  union  of  the  to  various  exigencies  and  influences ;  they 

man  and  the  hour  than  his  advent  to  the  grow,  develop,  —  yes,  even  change,  and 

Pacific  coast  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  yet  retain  their  harmony  and  consisten- 

pioneers.    Some  writers  of  fiction,  those  cy.    The  development  of  character,  or  at 

who  have  the  very  highest  form  of  ere-  least  the  gradual  revelation  of  character, 

ative  imagination,  are  able  from  their  forms  the  peculiar  charm  of  the  novel, 

own  minds  to  spin  out  the  web  and  woof  as  distinguished  from  the  short  story, 
of  the  characters  that  they  describe  ;  and         A  few  great  novels  have  indeed  been 

it  makes  little  difference  where  they  live  written  by  authors  who  did  not  possess 

or  what  literary  material  lies  about  them,  this  highest  form  of  creative  genius,  es- 

It  is  true  that  even  such  writers  do  not  pecially  by  Dickens  ;  but  no  novel  was 

construct  their  heroes  and  heroines  quite  ever  written  without  betraying  the  au- 

out  of  whole  cloth ;  they  have  a  shred  thor's  deficiency  in  this  respect,  if  the 

or  two  to  begin  with.     But  their  work  deficiency  existed.     It  is  betrayed  in  the 

is  in  the  main  and  essentially  the  result  case  both  of  Kipling  and  Bret  Harte, 


Bret  Harte. 


261 


each  of  whom  has  written  a  novel,  and  in 
each  case  the  book  is  a  failure.  Gabriel 
Conroy,  Bret  Harte's  novel,  is  so  bad  as 
a  whole,  though  abounding  in  gems,  its 
characters  are  so  inconsistent  and  con- 
fused, its  ending  so  incomprehensible, 
that  it  produces  upon  the  reader  the  ef- 
fect of  a  nightmare.  It  is  evident  that 
he  took  little  interest  in  it,  and  it  rein- 
forces the  impression,  derived  from  a 
careful  study  of  his  stories  and  con- 
firmed by  his  own  statement,  that  his 
characters  were  copied  from  life.  But 
they  were  copied  with  the  insight  and 
with  the  emphasis  of  genius. 

The  ability  to  read  human  nature  as 
Bret  Harte  could  read  it  is  almost  as  rare 
as  the  higher  form  of  creative  ability. 
How  little  do  we  know  even  of  those 
whom  we  see  every  day,  whom  we  have 
lived  with  for  years !  Let  a  man  ask 
himself  what  his  friend,  or  his  wife,  or  his 
son  would  do  in  some  supposable  emer- 
gency :  how  they  would  take  this  or  that 
injury  or  affront,  good  or  bad  fortune,  a 
great  sorrow  or  great  happiness,  a  sud- 
den temptation,  the  treachery  of  a  friend. 
Let  him  ask  himself  any  such  question, 
and  it  is  almost  certain  that,  if  he  is  hon- 
est with  himself,  he  will  have  to  admit 
that  he  can  only  conjecture  what  would 
be  the  result.  This  is  not  because  human 
nature  is  inconsistent ;  the  law  of  char- 
acter is  as  immutable  as  any  other  law : 
it  is  because  human  nature  eludes  us. 

But  it  did  not  elude  Bret  Harte.  One 
who  was  intimate  with  him  in  Califor- 
nia says :  u  He  found  endless  enjoy- 
ment in  the  people  whom  he  saw  and 
met  casually.  He  read  their  characters 
as  if  they  were  open  books."  Another 
early  friend  of  his,  Mr.  Noah  Brooks, 
in  his  reminiscences  of  Bret  Harte  nar- 
rates the  following :  "In  Sacramento 
he  and  I  met  Colonel  Starbottle,  who 
had,  of  course,  another  name.  He  wore 
a  tall  silk  hat  and  loosely  fitting  clothes, 
and  he  carried  on  his  left  arm  by  its 
crooked  handle  a  stout  walking  stick. 
The  colonel  was  a  dignified  and  benig- 


nant figure  ;  in  politics  he  was  every- 
body's friend.  A  gubernatorial  election 
was  pending,  and  with  the  friends  of 
Haight  he  stood  at  the  hotel  bar,  and  as 
they  raised  their  glasses  to  their  lips  he 
said :  <  Here  's  to  the  Coming  Event ! ' 
Nobody  asked  at  that  stage  of  the  can- 
vass what  the  coming  event  would  be, 
and  when  the  good  colonel  stood  in  the 
same  place  with  the  friends  of  Gorham 
he  gave  the  same  toast,  '  The  Coming 
Event.'  " 

The  reader  will  recognize  the  picture 
at  once,  even  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  colonel  carried  his  cane. 

Bret  Harte  (christened  Francis  Brett) 
was  born  in  Albany,  New  York,  Au- 
gust 25,  1839,  of  an  ancestry  which,  it 
is  said,  combined  the  English,  German, 
and  Hebrew  strains.  His  father  was  a 
teacher  of  Greek  in  the  Albany  Female 
College,  but  he  died  while  his  son  was 
still  a  child,  and  Bret  Harte's  only  in- 
struction was  obtained  in  the  Albany 
public  schools,  and  ceased  when  he  was 
thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old.  At  the 
age  of  eleven  he  wrote  a  poem  called 
Autumn  Musings,  which  was  published 
in  the  New  York  Sunday  Atlas,  but  the 
household  critics  treated  it  with  that 
frank  severity  which  is  peculiar  to  rela- 
tives, and  the  youthful  poet  wrote  no 
more,  so  far  as  anybody  knows,  until  he 
electrified  the  world  with  The  Heathen 
Chinee. 

In  the  spring  of  1854,  Mrs.  Harte  and 
her  son  sailed  for  California,  —  an  ad- 
venturous step  for  a  poor  widow  with 
a  boy  of  fifteen ;  but  no  woman  not  ad- 
venturous could  have  borne  such  a  son. 
Upon  their  arrival  at  San  Francisco,  Bret 
Harte  walked  thence  to  Sonoma,  where 
he  started  a  school.  The  school  soon 
closed  its  doors,  but  so  long  as  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  remains,  it  will  survive  in  the 
pages  of  Cressy.  In  all  literature  there 
are  no  children  drawn  with  more  sym- 
pathy, more  insight,  more  subtlety,  more 
tenderness  than  those  sketched  by  Bret 
Harte.  He  apprehended  both  the  sav- 


262 


Bret  Harte. 


agery  and  the  innocence  of  childhood. 
Every  reader  is  the  happier  for  having 
known  that  handsome  and  fastidious  boy 
Rupert  Filgee,  who,  secure  in  his  avowed 
predilection  for  the  tavern-keeper's  wife, 
rejected  the  advances  of  contemporary 
girls.  "And  don't  you,"  to  Octavia 
Dean,  "go  on  breathing  over  my  head 
like  that.  If  there  's  anything  I  hate, 
it 's  having  a  girl  breathing  around  me. 
Yes,  you  were !  I  felt  it  in  my  hair." 

Upon  the  failure  of  the  school,  Bret 
Harte  tried  mining,  but  that,  too,  proved 
unprofitable.  Later,  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, he  became  a  deputy  collector  of 
taxes,  and  was  sent  into  the  lawless  min- 
ing camps,  where  no  taxes  had  ever  been 
collected.  But  the  miners  yielded  to 
the  unarmed  boy  what  armed  men  had 
not  been  able  to  extort,  and,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  his  superiors,  he  returned  to  San 
Francisco  with  the  taxes  in  his  pouch. 
Afterward  he  became  a  messenger  for 
Wells,  Fargo  &  Company's  Express,  and 
traveled  upon  the  box  of  a  stagecoach, 
presumably  with  Yuba  Bill  as  the  driver. 
It  was  a  dangerous  business :  his  prede- 
cessor had  been  shot  through  the  arm 
by  a  highwayman,  his  successor  was 
killed  ;  but  he  escaped  without  injury. 
"  He  bore  a  charmed  life,"  writes  an- 
other of  his  early  friends,  Mr.  C.  W. 
Stoddard.  "  Probably  his  youth  was  his 
salvation,  for  he  ran  a  thousand  risks, 
yet  seemed  only  to  gain  in  health  and 
spirits."  Later,  he  drifted  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, where  he  began  by  setting  type 
for  a  newspaper ;  from  that  he  soon 
passed  into  being  a  contributor  to  the 
newspapers,  writing,  among  other  things, 
The  Heathen  Chinee,  the  Condensed 
Novels,  and  his  first  story,  M'liss,  which 
was  published  in  the  Golden  Era.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  held  the  position 
of  Secretary  in  the  United  States  Mint, 
a  sinecure,  or  very  nearly  that,  such  as 
in  the  good  old  days  was  properly  be- 
stowed upon  literary  men.  In  1868  he 
became  the  editor  of  the  Overland 
Monthly,  and  finally  he  served  for  a 


brief  period  as  Professor  of  Literature 
in  a  San  Francisco  college. 

It  will  thus  be  perceived  that  Bret 
Harte  knew  by  personal  experience 
almost  every  form  of  life  in  California ; 
and  it  was  such  a  life  as  probably  the 
world  never  saw  before,  as,  almost  cer- 
tainly, it  will  never  see  again. 

When  Bret  Harte  first  became  fa- 
mous he  was  accused  of  misrepresenting 
California  society.  A  philosophic  and 
historical  writer  of  great  ability  once 
spoke  of  the  "  perverse  romanticism  "  of 
his  tales ;  and  since  his  death  these  accu- 
sations, if  they  may  be  called  such,  have 
been  renewed  in  San  Francisco  with  bit- 
terness. It  is  strange  that  Californians 
themselves  should  be  so  anxious  to  strip 
from  their  state  the  distinction  which 
Bret  Harte  conferred  upon  it,  —  so  anx- 
ious to  show  that  its  heroic  age  never  ex- 
isted, that  life  in  California  has  always 
been  just  as  commonplace,  respectable, 
and  uninteresting  as  it  is  anywhere  else 
in  the  world.  But  be  this  as  it  may, 
the  records,  the  diaries,  journals,  and 
narratives  written  by  pioneers  them- 
selves, and,  most  important  of  all,  the 
daily  newspapers  published  in  San 
Francisco  and  elsewhere  from  1849  to 
1859,  fully  corroborate  Bret  Harte's  as- 
sertion that  he  described  only  what  he 
saw  and,  in  almost  every  case,  only 
what  actually  occurred.  The  fact  is 
that  Bret  Harte  merely  skimmed  the 
cream  from  the  surface.  The  pioneers 
and  those  who  followed  them  in  the 
early  fifties  were  mainly  young  men, 
many  of  them  well  educated,  and  most 
of  them  far  above  the  average  in  vigor 
and  enterprise.  They  were  such  men 
as  enlist  in  the  first  years  of  a  war ;  and 
few  wars  involve  more  casualties  than 
fell  to  their  lot.  They  were  sifted 
again  and  again  before  the  survivors 
reached  their  destination.  Many  were 
killed  by  the  Apaches  in  the  valleys 
of  the  Rio  Grande  and  the  Colorado ; 
many  died  of  hunger  and  thirst ;  many 
had  no  other  food  during  the  last  part 


Bret  Harte. 


263 


of  their  journey  than  the  putrefying 
bodies  of  the  horses  and  oxen  that  had 
perished  along  the  way. 

In  the  story  called  Liberty  Jones's 
Discovery,  Bret  Harte  has  sketched  the 
wan  and  demoralized  appearance  of  a 
party  of  emigrants  who  just  managed  to 
reach  the  promised  land.  Many  were 
caught  by  storms  in  the  late  autumn,  and 
were  snowed  up  in  the  mountains.  In 
Gabriel  Conroy  are  described  the  suffer- 
ings of  such  a  party,  a  few  of  whom 
were  rescued  in  the  spring ;  and  the  hor- 
rors which  Bret  Harte  relates  are  only 
the  actual  facts  of  the  case  upon  which 
his  account  is  based.  Those  who  came 
by  sea  had  to  face  a  long,  wearisome 
voyage  in  lumbering  craft,  besides  the 
deadly  Panama  fever,  and  the  possible 
violence  of  the  half-breeds  on  the  Isth- 
mus, who  killed  fifty  out  of  one  ship's 
company. 

Nor  was  life  in  California  easy  :  the 
toil  was  severe,  the  food  often  bad,  the  ex- 
posure productive  of  rheumatism.  Still 
more  wearing  upon  the  nervous  system 
were  the  excitements,  the  chances  and 
changes  of  a  miner's  life.  It  has  been 
remarked  of  the  California  pioneers,  as 
of  the  veterans  of  the  Civil  War,  that 
they  have  grown  old  prematurely.  Few 
of  them  acquired  wealth.  Marshall,  the 
sawmill  foreman,  who  discovered  those 
deposits  which  in  five  years  produced  gold 
to  the  tune  of  $50,000,000,  died  poor. 
No  millionaires  are  found  among  the 
"  Forty-Niners,"  those  time-worn  asso- 
ciates who  gather  annually  to  celebrate 
their  achievements  beneath  the  folds  of 
the  Bear  Flag,  —  the  ensign  of  a  prema- 
ture, half-comic,  half-heroic  attempt  to 
wrest  from  Spain  what  was  then  an  out- 
lying and  neglected  province.  Pioneers 
do  not,  as  a  rule,  gather  wealth;  they 
make  it  possible  for  the  shrewd  men  who 
come  after  them  to  do  so. 

But  the  California  pioneers  enjoyed  an 
experience  that  was  better  than  wealth. 
They  had  their  hour.  The  conditions  of 
society  then  prevailing  were  those  which 


the  Almighty  and  the  American  Consti- 
tution intended  should  prevail  on  this 
continent,  but  from  which  we  are  daily 
drifting  further  and  further.  All  men 
felt  that,  whether  they  were  born  so  or 
not,  they  had  become  free  and  equal. 
Social  distinctions  were  rubbed  out.  A 
man  was  judged  by  his  conduct ;  not  by 
his  bank  account,  nor  by  the  class,  the 
family,  the  club,  or  the  church  to  which 
he  belonged.  Where  all  are  rich  equality 
must  prevail,  and  how  could  any  one  be 
poor  when  the  simplest  kind  of  labor  was 
rewarded  at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  per 
day  ;  when  the  average  miner  "  cleaned 
up  "  twenty  or  thirty  dollars  as  the  fruit 
of  his  day's  work,  and  a  taking  of  from 
three  hundred  to  five  hundred  dollars  a 
week  for  weeks  together  was  not  uncom- 
mon. Servants  received  about  $150  a 
month ;  and  washerwomen  acquired  for- 
tunes and  founded  families.  It  was 
cheaper  to  send  one's  clothes  to  China  to 
be  laundered,  and  some  thrifty  persons 
availed  themselves  of  the  fact. 

Everybody  was  young.  A  man  of 
fifty  with  a  gray  beard  was  pointed  out 
as  a  curiosity.  A  woman  created  more 
excitement  in  the  streets  of  San  Fran- 
cisco than  an  elephant  or  a  giraffe  ;  and 
little  children  were  followed  by  admir- 
ing crowds  eager  to  kiss  them,  to  shake 
their  hands,  to  hear  their  voices,  and 
humbly  begging  permission  to  make 
them  presents  of  gold  nuggets  and 
miners'  curiosities.  Almost  everybody 
was  making  money ;  nobody  was  ham- 
pered by  past  mistakes  or  misdeeds  ;  all 
records  had  been  wiped  from  the  slate ; 
the  future  was  full  of  possibilities  ;  and 
the  dry,  stimulating  climate  of  Cali- 
fornia added  its  intoxicating  effect  to 
the  general  buoyancy  of  feeling.  Best 
of  all,  men  were  thrown  upon  their  own 
resources ;  they  themselves,  and  not 
a  highly  organized  police  and  a  brave 
fire  department,  protected  their  lives 
and  their  property.  We  pay  more 
dearly  than  we  think  for  such  conven- 
iences. The  taxes  which  they  involve 


264 


Bret  Harte. 


are  but  a  small  part  of  the  bill,  —  the 
training  in  manliness  and  self-reliance 
which  we  lose  by  means  of  them  is  a 
much  more  serious  matter.  In  the 
mining  camps  of  California,  as  in  the 
mediaeval  towns  of  England,  every  man 
was  his  own  policeman,  fireman,  car- 
penter, mason,  and  general  functionary, 
—  nay,  he  was  his  own  judge,  jury, 
sheriff,  and  constable.  With  pistol  and 
bowie  knife,  he  protected  his  gold,  his 
claim,  and  his  honor.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  Anglo-Saxon  nature,  left  to 
itself  and  freed  from  the  restraints  of  a 
more  or  less  effete  public  opinion,  which 
causes  it  to  resent  an  insult  with  what- 
ever weapons  are  sanctioned  by  custom 
in  the  absence  of  law. 

In  the  early  days  of  California  soci- 
ety reverted  to  this  militant,  heroic  type. 
The  reversion  was  inevitable  under  the 
circumstances,  and,  it  was  greatly  as- 
sisted by  the  social  predominance  of  the 
Southern  element.  The  class  represented 
and  partly  caricatured  in  Colonel  Star- 
bottle  was  numerous,  and,  for  reasons 
which  we  have  not  space  to  recall,  was 
even  more  influential  than  its  numbers 
warranted.  An  editorial  defense  of 
dueling  was  published  in  a  San  Fran- 
cisco paper  of  Southern  proclivities. 
The  senior  editor  of  the  Alta  California 
was  killed  in  a  duel ;  and  at  another 
time  an  assistant  editor  of  the  same 
paper  published  a  long  letter,  in  which, 
with  an  unconscious  humor  worthy  of 
Colonel  Starbottle  himself,  he  denied 
the  charge  of  having  sought  two  rival 
editors  with  homicidal  intent.  "  I  had 
simply  resolved,"  he  wrote,  "to  pro- 
nounce Messrs.  Crane  and  Rice  pol- 
troons and  cowards,  and  to  spit  in  their 
faces  ;  and  had  they  seen  fit  to  resent 
it  on  the  spot,  I  was  prepared  for  them." 
In  those  early  days,  when  it  was  impos- 
sible to  turn  a  neighbor  in  distress  over 
to  the  police,  or  to  a  hospital,  or  to  some 
society,  charitable  or  uncharitable,  or  to 
dismiss  him  with  a  soup-ticket,  —  in 
that  barbarous  time,  men  were  not  only 


more  warlike,  they  were  more  generous, 
more  ready  to  act  upon  that  instinctive 
feeling  of  pity,  which  is  the  basis  of  all 
morality.  In  short,  the  shackles  of  con- 
ventionality and  tradition  were  cast  off, 
and  the  primeval  instincts  of  humanity 
—  the  instincts  of  pride,  of  pugnacity, 
and  of  pity  —  asserted  themselves. 

Such  was  the  society  in  which  Bret 
Harte,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  "  a  truant 
schoolboy,"  to  use  his  own  words,  was 
plunged.  Few  writers  have  shown  more 
well-bred  reticence  about  themselves,  but 
we  have  seen  how  varied  was  his  experi- 
ence, and  we  catch  a  single  glimpse  of 
him  in  the  exquisite  poem,  that  "  spray 
of  Western  pine,"  which  he  laid  upon 
the  grave  of  Dickens  :  — 

"  Perhaps  't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

"  The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 

While  the  whole  camp  with  '  Nell '  on  English 
meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way." 

The  extent  of  the  influence  which 
Dickens  exercised  upon  Bret  Harte  has 
been  much  discussed,  and  the  critics  com- 
monly agree  that  this  influence  was  whol- 
ly bad.  It  is  true  that  on  the  surface  we 
see  only  the  bad  effects  of  it,  —  certain 
faults  of  style,  certain  mannerisms,  a  cer- 
tain mawkishness  of  sentiment.  Bret 
Harte  had  a  morbid  passion  for  splitting 
infinitives,  and  he  misuses  a  few  words, 
such  as  "  gratuitous  "  and  "  aggravat- 
ing," with  malice  aforethought.  The 
truth  is  that  a  spice  of  self-will,  a  modest 
but  radical  unconventionality  were  just 
as  much  parts  of  his  character  as  was  the 
fastidiousness  which  in  general  controlled 
his  style. 

Occasionally,  moreover,  he  lapses  into 
a  strange,  pompous,  involved  manner, 
making  his  heroes  and  heroines,  in  mo- 
ments of  passion  or  excitement,  deliver 
themselves  in  a  way  which  seems  ludi- 
crously out  of  place,  as,  for  example,  in 


Bret  Harte. 


265 


Susy,  where  Clarence  says :  "  If  I  did 
not  know  you  were  prejudiced  by  a  foolish 
and  indiscreet  woman,  I  should  believe 
you  were  trying  to  insult  me  as  you  have 
your  adopted  mother,  and  would  save  you 
the  pain  of  doing  both  in  her  house  by 
leaving  it  now  and  forever."  Or,  again, 
in  A  Secret  of  Telegraph  Hill,  where 
Herbert  Bly  says  to  the  gambler,  whom 
he  has  surprised  in  his  room  hiding  from 
the  vigilance  committee  :  "  Whoever  you 
may  be,  I  am  neither  the  police  nor  a 
spy.  You  have  no  right  to  insult  me  by 
supposing  that  I  would  profit  by  a  mis- 
take that  made  you  my  guest,  and  that  I 
would  refuse  you  the  sanctuary  of  the 
roof  that  covers  your  insult  as  well  as 
your  blunder."  And  yet  the  speaker  is 
not  meant  to  be  a  prig. 

So  again  he  imitates,  or  at  least  re- 
sembles, Dickens  when  he  admires  his 
heroes  in  the  wrong  place,  representing 
them  as  saying  or  doing  something  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  their  real  character, 
and  hardly  to  be  described  by  any  other 
word  than  that  of  vulgar.  The  reader 
will  remember  that  passage  in  Our  Mu- 
tual Friend,  where  Eugene  Wrayburn, 
in  his  interview  with  the  schoolmaster, 
taking  advantage  of  both  his  natural  su- 
periority and  the  superiority  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  happen  to  be 
placed,  treats  the  schoolmaster  with  an 
arrogance  which  Dickens  evidently  feels 
to  be  the  natural  manner  of  a  fine  gen- 
tleman, but  which  is  really  an  example 
of  that  want  of  chivalry  which  is  the 
essence  of  an  ungentlemanly  character. 
Bret  Harte  in  several  places  makes  Jack 
Hamlin  act  in  almost  precisely  the  same 
manner,  playing  the  part  of  a  bully  in 
respect  to  men  who  were  inferior  to  him 
socially,  and  inferior  also  in  that  capa- 
city to  shoot  quickly  and  accurately, 
which  made  Mr.  Hamlin  formidable. 
Such,  for  example,  was  Hamlin's  treat- 
ment of  Jenkinson,  the  tavern-keeper, 
whom  the  inimitable  Enriquez  Saltello 
described  with  Spanish  courtesy  as  "  our 
good  Jenkinson,  our  host,  our  father ;  " 


or  again,  in  Gabriel  Conroy,  where 
Hamlin  insults  the  porter  and  threatens, 
as  Bret  Harte  says,  falling  into  the  man- 
ner as  well  as  the  spirit  of  Dickens  at 
his  very  worst,  "  to  forcibly  dislodge 
certain  vital  and  necessary  organs  from 
the  porter's  body." 

On  the  whole,  however,  it  seems  high- 
ly probable  that  Bret  Harte  derived 
more  good  than  bad  from  his  admiration 
for  Dickens.  The  reading  of  Dickens 
must  have  stimulated  his  boyish  imagi- 
nation, must  have  quickened  that  sym- 
pathy with  the  weak  and  suffering,  with 
the  downtrodden,  with  the  waifs  and 
strays,  with  the  outcasts  of  society,  which 
is  the  keynote  of  both  writers.  Senti- 
ment and  satire  are  the  two  moulds  in 
one  or  the  other  of  which  must  be  cast 
all  portrayal  or  discussion  of  human  na- 
ture provided  that  it  has  any  emotional 
character,  —  is  anything  more  than  cold- 
ly analytical.  Sentiment  furnishes  the 
subjective,  and  satire  the  objective  meth- 
od. Sentiment  is  sympathy,  and  satire 
is  antipathy.  Swift's  weapon  was  satire  ; 
that  of  Lamb  was  sentiment  sharpened 
by  satire.  Sterne  dealt  almost  entirely 
with  sentiment.  Thackeray  could  use 
both  instruments  with  equal  skill,  but  he 
is  known  chiefly  as  a  satirist ;  whereas 
Dickens  was  strong  in  sentiment,  and 
commonly  failed  when  he  resorted  to 
satire.  Sentiment  is  an  infinitely  more 
valuable  quality  than  satire.  Satire  is 
merely  destructive,  whereas  sentiment  is 
constructive.  Becky  Sharp  is  a  warn- 
ing ;  but  Colonel  Newcome  is  an  inspira- 
tion. Satire  convicts  :  sentiment  regen- 
erates. The  most  that  satire  can  do  is  to 
clear  the  ground,  to  lay  bare  the  follies 
and  vices  of  human  nature,  to  show  how 
the  thing  ought  not  to  be  done.  This  is 
an  important  and  necessary  office ;  but 
sentiment  goes  much  further  :  it  prompts 
to  action  ;  it  supplies  the  dynamic  force 
of  benevolence,  of  affection,  of  ambi- 
tion. It  makes  the  tears  flow,  the  blood 
kindle.  Satire  is  almost  as  objection- 
able as  reform  ;  and  reformers  are  noto- 


266 


Bret  Harte. 


riously  unlovely  persons.  The  reformer, 
like  the  satirist,  can  tear  down,  but  he 
cannot  build  up  ;  and  it  is  so  much  more 
important  to  build  than  to  destroy  that 
the  office  of  the  man  of  sentiment  is  far 
more  valuable  to  the  world  than  that  of 
the  man  of  satire.  This  is  the  justifica- 
tion of  that  popular  judgment  which, 
despite  the  critics,  sets  Dickens  above 
Thackeray.  Dickens,  though  perhaps 
the  inferior,  both  as  man  and  artist,  is 
worth  more  to  the  world. 

Bret  Harte,  like  Dickens,  deals  main- 
ly with  sentiment,  but,  unlike  Dickens, 
he  is  a  master  of  satire  as  well.  His 
satire  is  directed  chiefly  against  that  pe- 
culiar form  of  cold  and  hypocritical 
character  which  sometimes  survives  as 
the  very  dregs  of  Puritanism.  This  is 
the  type  which  he  has  portrayed  with 
almost  savage  intensity  in  the  character 
of  a  woman  who  combines,  sensuality  and 
deceit  with  the  most  orthodox  form  of 
Protestantism  and  horse -hair  sofa  re- 
spectability. Occasionally  Bret  Harte's 
humor  takes  a  satirical  form,  as  when, 
after  describing  how  a  stranger  was 
shot  and  nearly  killed  in  a  mining  camp, 
he  speaks  of  a  prevailing  impression  in 
the  camp  "  that  his  misfortune  was  the 
result  of  the  defective  moral  quality  of 
his  being  •  a  stranger  ;  "  or  again  in 
Cressy,  where  Mrs.  McKinstry,  the 
stern  survivor  of  a  Kentucky  vendetta, 
is  said  to  have  u  looked  upon  her  daugh- 
ter's studies  and  her  husband's  interest 
in  them  as  a  weakness  that  might  in 
process  of  time  produce  an  infirmity  of 
homicidal  purpose,  and  become  enervat- 
ing of  eye  and  trigger  finger.  '  The  old 
man's  worrits  hev  sorter  shook  out  a  lit- 
tle of  his  sand,'  she  explained." 

In  the  main,  however,  Bret  Harte 
was  a  writer  of  sentiment,  and  that  is 
why  he  is  so  beloved.  Sentiment  re- 
solves itself  into  humor  and  pathos ;  and 
both  humor  and  pathos  are  said  to  con- 
sist in  the  perception  of  incongruities. 
In  humor,  there  is  the  perception  of 
some  incongruity  which  excites  derision 


and  a  smile  ;  in  pathos,  there  is  the  per- 
ception of  some  incongruity  which  ex- 
cites pity  and  a  tear.  It  would  hardly 
be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  in  no 
other  writer  in  the  world  are  humor 
and  pathos  so  nearly  the  same  as  they 
are  in  Bret  Harte.  There  are  sentences 
and  paragraphs  in  his  stories  and  poems 
which  might  make  one  reader  laugh  and 
another  weep,  or  which,  more  likely  yet, 
would  provoke  a  mingled  smile  and  tear. 
Perhaps  the  most  consummate  example 
of  this  is  found  in  the  tale,  How  Santa 
Glaus  came  to  Simpson's  Bar. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  Johnny, 
after  greeting  the  Christmas  guests  in 
his  "  weak,  treble  voice,  broken  by  that 
premature  hoarseness  which  only  vaga- 
bondage and  the  habit  of  premature  self- 
possession  can  give,"  and  after  hospita- 
bly setting  out  the  whiskey  bottle  and 
some  craxjkers,  creeps  back  to  bed,  and  is 
then  accosted  by  Dick  Bullen,  the  hero 
of  the  story. 

"  *  Hello,  Johnny  !  you  ain't  goin'  to 
turn  in  agin,  are  ye  ? '  said  Dick. 

" '  Yes,  I  are,'  responded  Johnny  de- 
cidedly. 

"  '  Why,  wot 's  up,  old  fellow  ? ' 

"  « I  'm  sick.' 

"  l  How  sick  ?  ' 

"  *  I  Ve  got  a  f evier,  and  childblains, 
and  roomatiz,'  returned  Johnny,  and  van- 
ished within.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  added  in  the  dark,  apparently  from 
under  the  bedclothes,  — '  And  biles ! ' 

"  There  was  an  embarrassing  silence. 
The  men  looked  at  each  other  and  at 
the  fire." 

I  might  quote  many  similar  passages. 
There  is  one  in  Gabriel  Conroy  which 
describes  Oily,  Gabriel's  little  sister,  get- 
ting out  of  bed  to  ask  what  it  was  that 
seemed  to  be  troubling  him.  "  She  went 
up  to  him  so  softly  that  she  startled  him, 
—  shaking  a  drop  of  water  on  the  hand 
that  she  suddenly  threw  around  his  neck. 
*  You  ain't  worrying  about  that  woman, 
Gabe?'" 

" '  No,'   said   Gabriel,   with  a  laugh. 


Bret  Harte. 


267 


Oily  looked  down  at  her  hand.  Gabriel 
looked  up  at  the  roof.  '  There  is  a  leak 
thar  that  has  got  to  be  stopped  to-mor- 
row. Go  to  bed,  Oily,  or  you  '11  take 
your  death.'  " 

In  discussing  Bret  Harte,  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  separate  substance  from 
style.  The  style  is  so  good,  so  exactly 
adapted  to  the  ideas  which  he  wishes 
to  convey,  that  one  can  hardly  imagine 
it  to  be  different.  Some  thousands  of 
years  ago,  an  Eastern  sage  remarked 
that  he  "  would  like  to  write  a  book 
such  that  everybody  should  conceive 
that  he  might  have  written  it  himself, 
and  yet  so  good  that  nobody  else  could 
have  written  the  like."  This  is  the 
ideal  which  Bret  Harte  fulfilled.  Al- 
most everything  said  by  any  one  of  his 
characters  is  so  accurate  an  expression 
of  that  character  as  to  seem  inevitable. 
It  is  felt  at  once  to  be  just  what  such  a 
character  must  have  said.  Given  the 
character,  the  words  follow;  and  any- 
body could  set  them  down  !  This  is  the 
fallacy  underlying  that  strange  feeling, 
which  every  reader  must  have  experi- 
enced, of  the  apparent  easiness  of  writing 
an  especially  good  or  telling  conversation 
or  soliloquy. 

In  Bret  Harte,  at  his  best,  the  choice 
of  words,  the  balance  of  the  sentences, 
the  rhythm  of  the  paragraphs,  are  very 
nearly  perfect.  He  had  an  ear  for  style 
just  as  some  persons  have  an  ear  for  mu- 
sic. In  conciseness,  in  artistic  restraint, 
he  is  the  equal  of  Turgenieff,  of  Haw- 
thorne, of  Newman.  All  this  could  not 
have  been  achieved  without  effort.  Bret 
Harte  had  the  conscience  of  an  artist,  if 
he  had  no  other  conscience ;  his  master- 
pieces were  slowly  and  painfully  forged. 
"  One  day,"  wrote  Mr.  C.  W.  Stoddard, 
who  was  his  friend  in  California,  "I 
found  him  pacing  the  floor  of  his  office 
in  the  United  States  Branch  Mint.  He 
was  knitting  his  brows  and  staring  at 
vacancy.  I  wondered  why.  He  was 
watching  and  waiting  for  a  word.  .  .  . 
I  suggested  one  ;  it  would  not  answer ;  it 


must  be  a  word  of  two  syllables,  or  the 
rhythm  of  the  sentence  would  suffer. 
Fastidious  to  a  degree,  he  could  not 
overlook  a  lack  of  finish  in  a  manuscript 
offered  him.  He  had  a  special  taste 
in  the  choice  of  titles,  and  I  have  known 
him  to  alter  the  name  of  an  article  two 
or  three  times,  in  order  that  the  table  of 
contents  might  read  handsomely  and 
harmoniously." 

The  truth  is,  Bret  Harte  was  essen- 
tially an  artist,  with  all  the  peculiarities, 
mental  and  moral,  which  are  commonly 
associated  under  that  name ;  and  this 
fact  explains  some  apparent  anomalies 
in  his  career.  Why  did  he  leave  and 
never  revisit  California  ?  Why  did  he 
make  his  home  in  England  ?  Bret  Harte 
left  California  when  the  glamour  had  de- 
parted from  it,  when,  if  not  in  the  state 
generally,  at  least  in  San  Francisco, 
where  he  was  living,  a  calculating  com- 
mercialism had  in  some  degree  replaced 
the  generous  mood  of  earlier  days.  It 
is  well  known  that  respectable  San  Fran- 
cisco stood  aghast  at  The  Luck  of  Roar- 
ing Camp,  the  alarm  having  been  sound- 
ed by  a  feminine  proof-reader  who  was 
shocked  by  what  she  conceived  to  be  the 
indecency  of  the  tale.  Not  equally  well 
known  is  the  contrasting  fact,  now  record- 
ed, that  another  young  girl,  an  assistant 
in  the  office  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
first  called  Mr.  Fields' s  attention  to  the 
story,  upon  its  publication  in  the  Over- 
land Monthly  ;  and  Mr.  Fields,  having 
read  it,  wrote  that  letter,  soliciting  a  con- 
tribution to  the  Atlantic,  which,  as  Bret 
Harte  himself  has  related,  encouraged 
him  and  confounded  his  critics.  Even 
the  sense  of  humor  must  have  been  weak- 
ened in  a  community  which  insisted  that 
the  newspapers  should  skip  lightly  over 
the  facts  of  a  recent  and  destructive 
earthquake,  lest  Eastern  capital  should 
become  alarmed. 

Nor  did  Bret  Harte  find  elsewhere  in 
this  country  any  rest  for  the  sole  of  his 
foot.  Fate  took  him  to  Cambridge,  — 
a  spot  which,  with  all  its  virtues,  could 


268 


The  Princess  of  Make- Believe. 


hardly  have  been  congenial  to  a  poet  who 
had  breathed  the  free  air  of  the  Sierras. 
New  York  and  Boston  were  only  one  de- 
gree less  crude  than  San  Francisco,  and 
almost  as  provincial.  In  London,  he 
doubtless  found  not  only  a  more  literary 
and  artistic  atmosphere,  but  also  a  great- 
er simplicity,  —  a  cultivated  simplicity 
different  from,  and  yet  essentially  resem- 
bling the  unsophisticated  naturalness  of 
a  mining  camp.  Bret  Harte's  incapa- 
city to  generalize,  to  deal  with  abstract 
notions  or  general  propositions,  is  an- 
other trait  of  the  artistic  nature.  Every- 
thing presented  itself  to  him  in  a  con- 
crete form.  He  seldom  attempts  to 
point  the  moral  of  his  tales,  and  when 
he  does  so  he  is  apt  to  go  astray.  Nor 
is  it  easy  to  persuade  one's  self  that  Bret 
Harte  was  a  very  conscientious  man,  or 
that  he  was  actuated  by  lofty  motives. 
Finally,  there  can  be  discerned  in  him 
that  streak  of  coarseness  which  so  often 
accompanies  extreme  refinement  and  fas- 
tidiousness. 

But  this  is  all  that  can  be  said  in  dis- 
paragement; and  one  blushes  to  have 
said  it,  when  one  reflects  upon  the  no- 
bility of  the  characters  with  whom  Bret 


Harte  has  enriched  the  world.  It  is  re- 
lated that  of  all  his  stories  he  himself 
preferred  Tennessee's  Partner  ;  and  this 
is  easy  to  believe,  because  the  hero  of 
that  tale  is  actuated  by  love  and  pity 
entirely  unalloyed,  without  the  slightest 
admixture  of  passion  or  self-interest. 
We  must  not  stop  to  call  the  roll  of 
Bret  Harte's  heroes  and  heroines  ;  two 
characters  only  shall  be  mentioned,  and 
first  that  of  the  schoolmistress  in  the  Idyl 
of  Red  Gulch,  who,  true  to  her  New 
England  instincts  and  training,  gathers 
her  white  skirts  about  her  and  flies  from 
the  temptation,  though  few  would  now 
call  it  such,  which  involved  the  happi- 
ness of  her  life.  Not  Hawthorne  him- 
self could  have  conceived  a  character 
actuated  by  purer  motives,  or  could  have 
told  the  story  more  delicately.  The  sec- 
ond is  the  Rose  of  Tuolumne,  that  beau- 
tiful figure,  as  brave,  as  womanly,  as 
passionate  as  Juliet,  who,  in  garments 
stained  with  the  blood  of  the  man  whom 
she  loved,  dared  his  cowardly  rival  to 
turn  his  pistol  upon  her.  Such  women 
make  the  mothers  of  heroes,  and  the 
genius  who  can  portray  them  is  an  ele- 
ment in  the  formation  of  an  heroic  race. 
H.  C.  Merwin. 


THE   PRINCESS   OF   MAKE-BELIEVE. 


THE  Princess  was  washing  dishes.  On 
her  feet  she  would  barely  have  reached 
the  rim  of  the  great  dish-pan,  but  on  the 
soap-box  she  did  very  well.  A  grimy 
calico  apron  trailed  to  the  floor. 

"  Now  this  golden  platter  I  must  wash 
extry  clean,"  the  Princess  said.  "  The 
Queen  is  ve-ry  particular  about  her  gold- 
en platters.  Last  time,  when  I  left  one 
o'  the  corners  —  it 's  such  a  nextremely 
heavy  platter  to  hold  —  she  gave  me  a 
scold —  oh,  I  mean  —  I  mean  she  tapped 
me  a  little  love  pat  on  my  cheek  with  her 
golden  spoon." 


It  was  a  great  brown-veined,  stone- 
ware platter,  and  the  arms  of  the  Prin- 
cess ached  with  holding  it.  Then,  in  an 
unwary  instant,  it  slipped  out  of  her  soap- 
sudsy  little  fingers  and  crashed  to  the 
floor.  Oh !  oh  !  the  Queen  !  the  Queen  ! 
She  was  coining !  The  Princess  heard 
her  shrill,  angry  voice,  and  felt  the  jar 
of  her  heavy  steps.  There  was  the  space 
of  an  instant  —  an  instant  is  so  short !  — 
before  the  storm  broke. 

"  You  little  limb  o'  Satan  !  That 's  my 
best  platter,  is  it  ?  Broke  all  to  bits,  eh  ? 
I  '11  break  "  —  But  there  was  a  flurry 


The  Princess  of  Make-Believe. 


269 


of  dingy  apron  and  dingier  petticoats, 
and  the  little  Princess  had  fled.  She  did 
not  stop  till  she  was  in  her  Secret  Place 
among  the  willows.  Her  small  lean  face 
was  pale,  but  undaunted. 

"  Th-the  Queen  is  n't  feeling  very  well 
to-day,"  she  panted.  "  It 's  wash-day  up 
at  the  Castle.  She  never  enjoys  herself 
on  wash-days.  And  then  that  golden 
platter  —  I  'm  sorry  I  smashed  it  all  to 
flinders  !  When  the  Prince  comes  I  shall 
ask  him  to  buy  another." 

The  Prince  had  never  come,  but  the 
Princess  waited  for  him  patiently.  She 
sat  with  her  face  to  the  west  and  looked 
for  him  to  come  through  the  willows  with 
the  red  sunset  light  filtering  across  his 
hair.  That  was  the  way  the  Prince  was 
coming,  though  the  time  was  not  set.  It 
might  be  a  good  while  before  he  came, 
and  then  again  —  you  never  could  tell ! 

"  But  when  he  does,  and  we  've  had 
a  little  while  to  get  acquainted,  then  I 
shall  say  to  him,  '  Hear,  O  Prince,  and 
give  ear  to  my  —  my  petition  !  For  ver- 
ily, verily,  I  have  broken  many  golden 
platters  and  jasper  cups  and  saucers, 
and  the  Queen,  long  live  her !  is  sore  — 


sore ' "  — 

The  Princess  pondered  for  the  forgot- 
ten word.  She  put  up  a  little  lean  brown 
hand  and  rubbed  a  tingling  spot  on  her 
temple  —  ah,  not  the  Queen!  It  was 
the  Princess  —  long  live  her !  —  who  was 
"sore." 

"  <  I  beseech  thee,  O  Prince,'  I  shall 
say,  4  buy  new  golden  platters  and  jas- 
per cups  and  saucers  for  the  Queen,  and 
then  shall  I  verily,  verily  be  —  be '  "  — 

Oh,  the  long  words  —  how  they  slipped 
out  of  reach !  The  little  Princess  sighed 
rather  wearily.  She  would  have  to  re- 
hearse that  speech  so  many  times  before 
the  Prince  came.  Suppose  he  came  to- 
night !  Suppose  she  looked  up  now,  this 
minute,  toward  the  golden  west  and  he 
was  there,  swinging  along  through  the 
willow  canes  toward  her ! 

But  there  was  no  one  swinging  along 
through  the  willows.  The  yellow  light 


flickered  through  —  that  was  all.  Some- 
where, a  long  way  off,  sounded  the  mo- 
notonous hum  of  men's  voices.  Through 
the  lace-work  of  willow  twigs  there 
showed  the  faintest  possible  blur  of  col- 
or. Down  beyond,  in  the  clearing,  the 
Castle  Guards  in  blue  jean  blouses  were 
pulling  stumps.  The  Princess  could  not 
see  their  dull,  passionless  faces,  and  she 
was  glad  of  it.  The  Castle  Guards  de- 
pressed her.  But  they  were  not  as  bad 
as  the  Castle*  Guardesses.  They  were 
mostly  old  women  with  bleared,  dim  eyes, 
and  they  wore  such  faded  —  silks. 

"  My  silk  dress  is  rather  faded,"  mur- 
mured the  little  Princess  wistfully.  She 
smoothed  down  the  scant  calico  skirt 
with  her  brown  little  fingers.  The  patch 
in  it  she  would  not  see. 

"  I  shall  have  to  have  the  Royal  Dress- 
maker make  me  another  one  soon.  Let 
me  see,  —  what  color  shall  I  choose  ?  I  'd 
like  my  gold-colored  velvet  made  up. 
I  'm  tired  of  wearing  royal  purple  dresses 
all  the  time,  though  of  course  I  know 
they  're  appropriater.  I  wonder  what 
color  the  Prince  would  like  best?  I 
should  rather  choose  that  color." 

The  Princess's  little  brown  hands  were 
clasped  about  one  knee,  and  she  was  rock- 
ing herself  slowly  back  and  forth,  her 
eyes,  wistful  and  wide,  on  the  path  the 
Prince  would  come.  She  was  tired  to- 
day and  it  was  harder  to  wait. 

"  But  when  he  comes  I  shall  say, 
4  Hear,  O  Prince.  Verily,  verily,  I  did 
not  know  which  color  you  would  like  to 
find  me  dressed  —  I  mean  arrayed  —  in, 
and  so  I  beseech  thee  excuse  — pardon, 
I  mean  mine  infirmity.'  " 

The  Princess  was  not  sure  of  "  infirm- 
ity," but  it  sounded  well.  She  could  not 
think  of  a  better  word. 

"  And  then  —  I  think  then  —  he  will 
take  me  in  his  arms,  and  his  face  will  be 
all  sweet  and  splendid  like  the  Mother 
o'  God's  in  the  picture,  and  he  will  whis- 
per, —  I  don't  think  he  will  say  it  out 
loud,  —  oh,  I  'd  rather  not !  —  '  Verily, 
Princess,'  he  will  whisper,  <  Oh,  verily, 


270 


The  Princess  of  Make-Believe. 


verily,  thou  hast  found  favor  in  my  sight ! ' 
And  that  will  mean  that  he  does  n't  care 
what  color  I  am,  for  he  —  loves  —  me." 

Lower  and  lower  sank  the  solemn  voice 
of  the  Princess.  Slower  and  slower 
rocked  the  little  lean  body.  The  birds 
themselves  stopped  singing  at  the  end. 
In  the  Secret  Place  it  was  very  still. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  —  not  verily  !  " 
breathed  the  Princess,  in  soft  awe.  For 
the  wonder  of  it  took  her  breath  away. 
She  had  never  in  her  life  been  loved, 
and  now,  at  this  moment,  it  seemed  so 
near!  She  thought  she  heard  the  foot- 
steps of  the  Prince. 

They  came  nearer.  The  crisp  twigs 
snapped  under  his  feet.  He  was  whis- 
tling. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  look  !  —  I  can't  !  " 
gasped  the  little  Princess,  but  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  west,  —  she  had  always 
known  it  would  be  from  the  west,  —  and 
lifted  closed  eyes  to  his  coming.  When 
he  got  to  the  Twisted  Willow  she  might 
dare  to  look,  —  to  the  Little  Willow 
Twins,  anyway. 

"  And  I  shall  know  when  he  does,"  she 
thought.  "  I  shall  know  the  minute  !  " 

Her  face  was  rapt  and  tender.  The 
miracle  she  had  made  for  herself,  —  the 
gold  she  had  coined  out  of  her  piteous 
alloy,  —  was  it  not  come  true  at  last  ?  — 
Verily,  verily? 

Hush !  Was  the  Prince  not  coming 
through  the  willows  ?  And  the  sunshine 
was  trickling  down  on  his  hair  !  The 
Princess  knew,  though  she  did  not  look. 

"  He  is  at  the  Twisted  Willow,"  she 
thought.  "  Now  he  is  at  the  Little  Wil- 
low Twins."  But  she  did  not  open  her 
eyes.  She  did  not  dare.  This  was  a 
little  different,  she  had  never  counted  on 
being  afraid. 

The  twigs  snapped  louder  and  nearer 
—  now  very  near.  The  merry  whistle 
grew  clearer,  and  then  it  stopped. 

"  Hullo ! " 

Did  princes  say  "  hullo  !  "  The  Prin- 
cess had  little  time  to  wonder,  for  he  was 
there  before  her.  She  could  feel  his 


presence  in  every  fibre  of  her  trembling 
little  being,  though  she  would  not  open 
her  eyes  for  very  fear  that  it  might  be 
somebody  else.  No,  no,  it  was  the 
Prince  !  It  was  his  voice,  clear  and  ring- 
ing, as  she  had  known  it  would  be.  She 
put  up  her  hands  suddenly  and  covered 
her  eyes  with  them  to  make  surer.  It 
was  not  fear  now,  but  a  device  to  put 
off  a  little  longer  the  delight  of  seeing 
him. 

"  I  say,  hullo  !  Have  n't  you  got  any 
tongue  ?  " 

"  Oh,  verily,  verily,  —  I  mean  hear, 

0  Prince,  I  beseech,"  she  panted.     The 
boy's  merry  eyes  regarded  the  shabby 
small  person  in  puzzled  astonishment. 
He  felt  an  impulse  to  laugh  and  run 
away,  but  his  royal  blood  forbade  either. 
So  he  waited. 

"  You  are  the  Prince,"  the  little  Prin- 
cess cried.  "  I  've  been  waiting  the  long- 
est time,  —  but  I  knew  you  'd  come," 
she  added  simply.  "  Have  you  got  your 
velvet  an'  gold  buckles  on  ?  I  'm  goin' 
to  look  in  a  minute,  but  I  'm  waiting  to 
make  it  spend." 

The  Prince  whistled  softly.  "  No,"  he 
said  then,  "  I  did  n't  wear  them  clo'es 
to-day.  You  see,  my  mother  "  — 

"  The  Queen,"  she  interrupted,  "  you 
mean  the  Queen  ?  " 

"  You  bet  I  do !  She  's  a  reg'lar-built- 
er !  Well,  she  don't  like  to  have  me 
wearin'  out  my  best  clo'es  every  day," 
he  said  gravely. 

"  No,"  eagerly,  "  nor  mine  don't. 
Queen,  I  mean,  —  but  she  is  n't  a  mo- 
ther, mercy,  no  !  I  only  wear  silk 
dresses  every  day,  not  my  velvet  ones. 
This  silk  one  is  getting  a  little  faded." 
She  released  one  hand  to  smooth  the 
dress  wistfully.  Then  she  remembered 
her  painfully  practiced  little  speech  and 
launched  into  it  hurriedly. 

"  Hear,  O  Prince.  Verily,  verily,  I 
did  not  know  which  color  you  'd  like  to 
find  me  dressed  in  —  I  mean  arrayed. 

1  beseech  thee  to  excuse  —  oh,  pardon, 
I  mean  "  — 


Sill's  Poetry. 


271 


But  she  got  no  further.  She  could 
endure  the  delay  no  longer,  and  her  eyes 
flew  open. 

She  had  known  his  step ;  she  had  known 
his  voice.  She  knew  his  face.  It  was  ter- 
ribly freckled,  and  she  had  not  expected 
freckles  on  the  face  of  the  Prince.  But 
the  merry,  honest  eyes  were  the  Prince's 
eyes.  Her  gaze  wandered  downward  to 
the  homemade  clothes  and  bare,  brown 
legs,  but  without  uneasiness.  The  Prince 


had  explained  about  his  clothes.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  shy,  glad  little  cry,  the 
Princess  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

The  royal  blood  flooded  the  face  of  the 
Prince  and  filled  in  all  the  spaces  be- 
tween its  little  gold-brown  freckles.  But 
the  Prince  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  His 
lips  formed  for  words  and  she  thought 
he  was  going  to  say,  "  Verily,  Princess, 
thou  hast  found  favor  "  — 

"  Le'  's  go  fishin',"  the  Prince  said. 
Annie  Hamilton  Donnell. 


SILL'S  POETRY. 


THE  appearance  of  the  Poems  of  Ed- 
ward Rowland  Sill  as  one  of  the  Lim- 
ited Editions  of  the  Riverside  Press 
draws  attention  to  a  poetic  reputation 
singularly  gradual  and  persistent  in  its 
growth.  It  is  nearly  thirty-five  years 
since  the  first  slender  volume  of  Sill's 
work  came  from  the  press  of  Leypoldt 
&  Holt  in  New  York.  It  was  followed 
at  long  intervals  by  four  other  thin 
books,  of  which  the  later  issues  were  in 
part  reprints,  and  now,  fifteen  years 
after  the  poet's  death,  the  first  col- 
lection approximating  completeness  is 
ready. 

The  causes  for  the  slow  growth  of 
Sill's  fame  are  not  difficult  to  find.  He 
was  notably  unconcerned  for  his  repu- 
tation. Most  of  his  poems  appeared 
unsigned  or  over  a  nom  de  plume,  and 
his  poetry  was  of  the  undramatic,  re- 
flective order  that  lends  itself  but  indif- 
ferently to  wide  republication  or  quo- 
tation. It  was,  moreover,  peculiarly 
personal  in  its  appeal.  The  secret  of 
Longfellow's  popularity  as  a  poet,  it 
has  been  remarked,  is  that  he  "ex- 
presses a  universal  sentiment  in  the  sim- 
plest and  most  melodious  manner. "  Sill 
had  no  such  secret.  He  had  not  the 
secret  of  form :  he  never  approached 
Longfellow's  mastery  of  melody.  He 
had  even  less  the  secret  of  matter.  The 


sentiments  he  dealt  with  were  not  uni- 
versal, but  markedly  individual.  He 
did  not  voice  the  general  mood,  but  the 
tingling  personal  thought  that  was  stir- 
ring in  his  own  mind.  He  once  made 
the  distinction  in  one  of  his  charming 
bits  of  prose  between  the  uses  of  prose 
and  verse,  —  that  prose  is  the  language 
of  one's  profession,  verse  the  language 
of  one's  heart.  Content  with  giving  ex- 
pression to  his  own  moods,  reflections, 
and  sentiments,  he  was  not  concerned 
for  the  effect  upon  the  public,  and  he 
has  been  sought  not  by  the  general 
throng  of  readers,  but  by  the  constantly 
growing  number  who  have  found  their 
experience  reflected  in  his,  who  have 
found  themselves  in  sympathy  with  the 
struggle,  the  doubt,  the  hope  that  are 
voiced  in  his  verses. 

Sill  was,  as  the  late  Mr.  H.  E.  Scud- 
der  admirably  put  it  in  reviewing  the 
little  volume  called  Poems  in  the  At- 
lantic fifteen  years  ago,  a  "  battling 
spirit."  Such  his  inheritance,  his  tem- 
perament, and  his  environment  united 
to  make  him.  He  was  born  of  New  Eng- 
land stock,  and  joined  the  two  strains  of 
preacher  and  of  doctor,  which  in  other 
times  were  conceived  to  possess  a  subtle 
opposition,  as  standing  for  rival  devo- 
tions, to  body  and  to  spirit.  His  father 
and  grandfather  were  physicians,  but  his 


272 


Sill's  Poetry. 


mother's  father  and  grandfather  were 
ministers,  and  the  antinomy  which  we 
may  imagine  dimly  suggested  in  his 
ancestry  was  more  fully  realized  by  his 
lack  of  health,  which  kept  him  on  the 
verge  of  invalidism  all  his  life,  and 
made  him  sadly  familiar  with  the  un- 
ending feud  of  sense  and  soul.  He  was 
born,  too,  into  an  environment  of  moral 
and  spiritual  struggle.  His  youth  was 
passed  in  the  time  of  preparation  for 
the  Civil  War.  He  was  an  undergradu- 
ate at  Yale  when  Darwin's  Origin  of 
Species  appeared  to  open  a  strife  of 
opinions  hardly  less  significant  in  the 
world  of  thought  than  the  great  war  was 
in  the  world  of  affairs. 

What  share  each  of  the  elements  of 
strife  had  in  Sill's  life  it  is  not  easy  to 
say,  but  together  they  gave  its  prevail- 
ing tone  of  unrest  that  classed  him 
among  the  Stoics  of  his  time,  and  made 
him,  with  Matthew  Arnold  and  Arthur 
Hugh  Clough,  a  poet  of  doubt  and  spir- 
itual struggle.  His  best  known  poem 
is  a  prayer ;  the  one  which  most  nearly 
shares  that  place  is  a  song  of  the  bat- 
tlefield; the  most  musical  and  equable 
of  his  longer  poems,  The  Venus  of  Milo, 
is  of  the  strife  between  the  higher  and 
the  lower  love ;  the  most  frequently  re- 
curring note  in  his  lyrics  is  that  of  de- 
sire, of  a  soul  disquieted,  of  longing  and 
aspiration.  This  turmoil  of  spirit  wa^s 
a  true  reflection  of  Sill's  inner  state. 
For  years  he  was  in  doubt  what  he  was 
to  do.  He  had  expected,  while  an  un- 
dergraduate, to  enter  the  ministry,  but 
left  college  out  of  heart  for  it;  after 
six  years  in  the  West  he  returned  to 
Cambridge  still  undetermined.  This 
long  uncertainty,  which  closed  in  the 
realization  that  he  could  not  find  his 
place  in  the  profession  of  his  choice, 
gets  frequent  voice  in  his  poems.  The 
experience  of  religious  doubt  which  to 
sensitive  and  devout  souls  comes  with 
mortal  pangs  has  had  few  more  touching 
and  wistful  expressions  than  he  gave  it 
in  the  last  stanza  of  Spring  Twilight. 
In  another  poem,  The  Thrush,  there  is 


added  to  the  note  of  wistfulness  and 
sympathy  a  somewhat  pathetic  touch  of 
regret,  as  if  he  questioned  whether  the 
price  in  capacity  for  pain  that  marks 
the  scale  of  rank  in  nature  were  not 
too  high  a  price  to  pay  for  man's  differ- 
ence from  the  bird. 

Sill's  intense  sensibility  to  the  pain 
and  ache  of  the  world,  and  to  the  pathos 
of  human  fate,  came  to  utterance  in  the 
plaintive  verses,  A  Foolish  Wish,  with 
their  poignant  refrain  "Before  I  go," 
voicing  the  world-old  shrinking  from 
death  like  a  thin  echo  from  Omar's 

"  Yet  ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 

Rose!" 

but  made  more  touching  by  their  chid- 
ing of  self  and  their  sense  of  larger 
issues :  — 

"  'T  is  a  child's  long-ing,  on  the  beach  at  play  : 

'  Before  I  go,' 
He  begs  the  beckoning  mother,  '  Let  me  stay 

One  shell  to  throw  !  ' 
'T  is  coming  night ;  the  great  sea  climbs  the 

shore,  — 

'  Ah,  let  me  toss  one  little  pebble  more, 
Before  I  go!'" 

So  his  refined  consciousness  of  the 
discords  of  life  and  its  ceaseless  contest 
drove  him  to  ask  the  old,  unanswered 
questions,  —  of  the  nature  of  things  and 
men,  and  the  constitution  of  the  uni- 
verse. He  did  not  find  the  world  as 
Browning  found  it,  subject  to  man's 
control,  but  perceived  that, 

"  Sullen  earth  can  sever  souls 
Far  as  the  Pleiades." 

A.nd  as  to  man's  place  in  it,  he  wrote, 
with  at  least  a  touch  of  scorn,  in  The 
Hermitage,  — 

"  'T  is  ludicrous  that  man  should  think  he 

roams 

Freely  at  will  a  world  planned  for  his  use. 
Lo,  what  a  mite  he  is !     Snatched  hither  and 

yon, 

Tossed  round  the  sun,  and  in  its  orbit  flashed 
Round  other  centres,  orbits  without  end ; 
His  bit  of  brain  too  small  to  even  feel 
The  spinning  of  the  little  hailstone,  Earth. 
So  his  creeds  glibly  prate  of  choice  and  will, 
When  his  whole  fate  is  an  invisible  speck 
Whirled  through  the  orbits  of  Eternity." 


SHI'S  Poetry. 


273 


And  in  a  briefer  poem,  Five  Lives, 
he  makes  a  parable  of  the  utter  ephem- 
eralness  of  human  life,  its  pitiful  triv- 
iality, the  folly  of  its  ambitions,  the 
futility  of  its  aims,  the  emptiness  of 
its  honors.  A  community  of  Infusoria 
in  a  drop  of  water  is  the  figure  under 
which  he  presents  human  society,  and 
the  end  of  it  is 

"  The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 
.  .  .  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his 
stone." 

But  this  merely  scornful  rendering  of 
Vanitas  Vanitatum  could  satisfy  no  one, 
least  of  all  so  earnest  a  soul  as  Sill. 
It  serves  only  to  express  a  mood  and 
sheds  no  light  on  the  deeper  aspects  of 
life.  Far  profounder  is  the  poem,  The 
Fool's  Prayer,  of  which  Professor  Royce 
has  made  such  impressive  use  in  the 
final  chapter  of  his  Spirit  of  Modern 
Philosophy.  In  this  there  is  sadness 
but  no  scorn.  It  touches  on  the  lack 
of  dramatic  cohesion  in  the  universe, 
the  apparent  triviality  of  the  causes  of 
sorrow,  in  some  respects  the  most  per- 
plexing element  in  life :  — 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 
'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end  ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend." 

These  are  the  deeper  notes  of  Sill's 
message,  and  to  some  measure  color  all 
his  work.  Yet  they  do  not  justify  the 
impression  that  the  poems  are  predom- 
inantly sombre.  Though  the  mood 
never  rises  to  serenity,  it  does  partake 
of  that  Wordsworthian  calm  based  on 

"  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering." 

As  Sill  wrote  a  friend  in  one  of  his  later 
years,  he  came  in  time  to  feel,  "  how  life 
is  a  pretty  fair  general  thing  after  all, 
and  how  happiness  evidently  is  n't  the 
only  thing  the  gods  consider  good  for 
man."  For  the  most  part  the  poems 
VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  538.  18 


are  bright-spirited,  cheerful  with  a  sort 
of  deliberate  cheerfulness;  for  Sill  re- 
sembled Stevenson  in  this,  that  he  took 
the  "great  task  of  happiness  "  as  a  true 
obligation.  More  contemplative  by  na- 
ture, more  given  to  seeking  the  springs 
of  motive,  Sill  lacked  the  merry  dar- 
ing, the  unquenchable  high  spirits  of  his 
fellow  invalid  and  craftsman.  Closer 
kin  in  spirit  to  Arnold  and  Amiel  than 
to  Stevenson,  he  turned  like  them  to  na- 
ture, and  found  in  the  vast  calm  and  sub- 
limity of  the  Western  mountains,  as  they 
in  the  Alps,  soothing  for  his  spirit. 
He  has  nowhere  put  this  better  than  in 
the  lines  On  a  Picture  of  Mt.  Shasta 
by  Keith :  — 

"  How  should  a  man  be  eager  or  perturbed 
Within  this  calm  ?  .  .  . 

Seest  thou  yon  blur  far  up  the  icy  slope, 
Like  a  man's  footprint  ?     Half  thy  little  town 
Might  hide  there,  or  be  buried  in  what  seems 
From  yonder  cliff  a  curl  of  feathery  snow, 
Still  the  far  peak  would  keep  its  frozen  calm, 
Still  at  the  evening  on  its  pinnacle 
Would  the  one  tender  touch  of  sunset  dwell, 
And  o'er  it  nightlong  wheel  the  silent  stars. 

What  is  this  breathing  atom,  that  his  brain 
Should  build  or  purpose  aught  or  aught  desire, 
But  stand  a  moment  in  amaze  and  awe, 
Rapt  on  the  wonderfulness  of  the  world  ?  " 

With  the  process  of  the  years  there 
came  to  Sill  other  consolation  than  that 
of  nature.  The  ministry  of  calm,  im- 
personal, and  exterior  forces  was  sup- 
plemented by  a  growing  mellowness 
within.  His  doubt  lost  its  bitterness 
and  softened  into  a  not  unkindly  irony ; 
his  perplexity  took  on  some  coloring  of 
faith  and  trust.  The  poem  entitled 
Roland  may  be  a  true  forecast  of  the 
port  he  might  have  made,  as  it  was  a 
true  account  of  the  course  he  was  on. 
The  last  stanza  of  this  poem,  — 

"  The  weary  doubt  if  all  is  good, 

The  doubt  if  all  is  ill, 
He  left  to  Him  who  leaves  to  us 
To  know  that  all  is  well," 

and  the  concluding  lines  of  A  Morning 
Thought,  — 


\\ 


274 


Sill's  Poetry. 


"And  what  if   then,  while  the  still    morning 

brightened. 
And  freshened  in  the   elm   the   Summer's 

breath, 

Should  gravely  smile  on  me  the  gentle  angel 
And  take  my  hand  and  say,  '  My  name   is 
Death,' " 

are  admirable  expressions  of  the  cau- 
tious wistful  faith,  more  hopeful  than 
secure,  that  is  typical  of  our  time. 

We  have  given  close  attention  to  the 
personal  aspects  of  Sill's  poetry,  its 
self-revelator^  character,  —  not  that  it 
is  in  any  close  sense  autobiographical, 
but  there  are  correspondences  deeper 
far  than  those  of  time  and  place,  —  be- 
cause Sill  was  essentially  a  poet  of  per- 
sonality, and  could  reach » the  general 
heart  only  in  the  measure  that  he  faith- 
fully interpreted  his  own.  This  pre- 
occupation with  the  inner  life  had  im- 
portant consequences  for  his  work.  It 
made  him  vastly  more  concerned  for  the 
substance  than  the  form  of  his  poems. 
We  miss  in  his  work  some  familiar 
graces,  —  sensuous  charm  of  language, 
warmth  and  breadth  of  feeling.  Though 
here  and  there  we  come  upon  lines  of 
simple  native  beauty,  — of  minutely 
appropriate  words,  like 

"  Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 
New  peace  when  evening's  violet  veil  is  drawn," 
from  The  Venus  of  Milo;   the  line 
"  And  hear  the  oratorio  of  the  sea," 
from  The  Hermitage,  and 

"  All  the  holy  hills  and  sacred  waters  ; 

When  the  sea- wind  swings  its  evening  censer," 

from  The  Singer's  Confession,  — we 
miss  the  perfect  union  of  music  and 
truth  that  delights  us  in  the  masters  of 
poetry,  finding  no  Spenserian  delight  in 
melodious  sounds,  nor  yet  the  quieter 
Wordsworthian  richness  and  depth  of 
harmony. 

The  robuster  side  of  life  was  in  fact 
hidden  from  Sill.  With  all  his  zest  for 
life,  his  eager,  flashing  interest  in  the 
thousand  facets  of  existence,  he  lacked 
that  deeper  appetency,  that  gusto  which 
marks  the  large,  vigorous  nature,  and 


gives  rise  to  that  high  form  of  courage 
which  we  call  humor.  This  Sill,  in 
common  with  Arnold  and  Clough, 
lacked,  and  though  he  possessed  irony, 
which  is  humor  at  a  lower  stage,  —  hu- 
mor on  the  defensive,  —  there  remained 
an  apparent  void.  Sure  as  we  may  be 
that  if  Sill  had  lived  he  would  have  ar- 
rived at  greater  mastery  of  form,  in- 
creased grace  and  flexibility  of  phrase, 
we  must  consider  this  lack  beyond  rem- 
edy. It  was  a  limitation  he  shared 
with  Arnold  and  Clough,  and  may  ac- 
count in  all  of  them  for  a  certain  nar- 
rowness of  range.  But  in  coming  from 
the  work  of  the  two  elder  poets  to  Sill's 
we  feel  a  sense  of  contraction.  There 
is  about  their  poetry  an  ampler  air.  It 
is  not  alone  that  Sill's  poems  are  more 
personal,  more  lyrical,  but  they  show, 
perhaps  because  they  have  taken  rise 
upon  a  soil  less  cultivated,  less  opulent 
of  historical  and  literary  associations, 
a  more  confined  aspect.  In  spite  of  a 
similar  temper  and  a  common  heritage 
of  unrest,  they  possess  less  amplitude 
and  poise  of  power.  No  poem  of  Sill's 
voices  the  perplexity  and  confusion  of 
human  fate  in  tones  so  impersonal  and 
sure  as  Arnold's  Dover  Beach.  It  is 
the  same  note  as  Sill  has  sounded  in 
The  Fool's  Prayer,  and  in  the  passage 
which  we  have  quoted  from  The  Her- 
mitage, but  beside  Arnold's  fuller  tone 
how  slender  seems  this  pipe.  Similarly 
on  the  side  of  hope,  though  Sill  went 
farther  than  Clough,  he  came  to  no  such 
clear-voiced  utterance  of  faith  as  that  in 
Say  not  the  Struggle  naught  Availeth. 
With  all  his  limitations  —  and  they 
suffice  to  determine  his  rank  among  the 
minor  poets  even  of  his  own  time  — 
Sill  holds  a  secure  place  in  the  hearts 
of  his  readers  because  of  his  uncompro- 
mising idealism.  His  clear  devotion  to 
the  ideal  gives  the  key  to  which  most 
of  his  songs  are  set,  and  explains,  in 
spite  of  the  often  sombre  nature  of  their 
subjects,  the  general  luminous  effect  of 
his  poems,  which  is  like  that  of  sunlit 
spaces,  of  shining  surfaces.  No  doubt 


Books  New  and  Old. 


275- 


the  brevity  of  the  poems,  the  pellucid 
quality  of  the  thought,  and  the  finish  of 
detail  have  much  to  do  with  it,  but  we 
feel  in  such  a  poem  as  The  Things  that 
will  not  Die  a  passion  for  perfection 
that  is  a  sufficient  source  of  illumina- 
tion, and  is  the  thing  that  must  suffice, 
if  anything  can,  to  keep  Sill's  fame 
alive :  — 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  neither  golden  sky, 
Nor  violet  lights  that  linger  on  the  hill, 

Nor  ocean's  wistful  blue  shall  satisfy, 

But  they  shall  fill 
With  wild  unrest  and  endless  longing  still 

The  soul  whose  hope  beyond  them  all  must  lie. 

"  And  I  rejoice  that  love  shall  never  seem 

So  perfect  as  it  ever  was  to  be, 
But  endlessly  that  inner  haunting  dream 
Each  heart  shall  see 

Hinted  in  every  dawn's  fresh  purity, 
Hopelessly  shadowed  in  each  sunset's  gleam." 

In  this  fine  strain  of  ardor  and  aspi- 
ration, with  its  minor  chords  of  the 
sadness  attending  all  beauty  and  the 
passing  of  all  living,  Sill  has  beaten  his 


music  out.  This  is  his  native  song. 
Yet  even  here  his  kinship  to  Clough  is 
apparent.  It  is  the  note  the  elder  poet 
sounded  in,  "I  have  seen  holier  things 
than  these."  Sill's  spiritual  affinity  to 
Clough  is  in  fact  too  close  to  be  con- 
cealed. They  were  much  alike  in  their 
outward  lives  as  well  as  in  their  inner 
moods.  Both  were  of  infirm  health; 
both  found  their  lifework  in  teaching; 
both  died  before  their  lives  or  their 
tasks  seemed  near  completion.  And 
what  Lowell  wrote  of  Clough  might, 
with  some  modifications  of  time  and 
place,  be  applied  to  Sill:  "We  have 
a  foreboding  that  Clough,  imperfect  as 
he  was  in  many  respects,  and  dying  be- 
fore he  had  subdued  his  sensitive  tem- 
perament to  the  sterner  requirements 
of  his  art,  will  be  thought,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  to  have  been  the  truest 
expression  in  verse  of  the  moral  and 
intellectual  tendencies,  the  doubt  and 
struggle  towards  settled  convictions,  of 
the  period  in  which  he  lived." 

W.  B.  P. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


SUMMER  FICTION. 


MOST  people  work  pretty  hard  in 
summer,  but  subscribe  to  a  theory  of 
idleness;  for  whatever  contrary  prac- 
tice one  may  fall  into  under  stress  of 
special  conditions,  in  summer  it  is  one's 
real  business  to  be  idle,  and  one's  sol- 
emn duty  to  be  gay.  Corollary  to  this 
melancholy  proposition  are  the  theories 
of  the  summer  girl,  of  summer  music, 
and  of  summer  reading.  There  are,  of 
course,  books  which  especially  fit  the 
unforced  holiday  mood ;  as  a  class  they 
will  be  light,  free,  somewhat  detached 
from  problems  and  from  passions,  a  lit- 
tle pleasant,  a  little  commonplace,  per- 
haps. They  fit  a  mood  rather  than  a 
season;  but  it  may  be  partly  a  sign  of 


the  season  as  well  as  of  a  natural  reac- 
tion, that  few  of  the  novels  which  have 
been  published  during  the  past  few 
months  belong  to  the  dread  historical 
genus.  The  truth  is,  not  even  pure  ro- 
mance looks  its  best  in  the  strong  light 
of  midsummer ;  its  glamour  belongs  to 
the  fireside  and  the  softly  shaded  lamp. 
In  August  all  this  cut-and-thrust  busi- 
ness is  out  of  place :  it  lowers  the  spir- 
its in  the  very  act  of  raising  the  tem- 
perature. What  we  want  is  life,  but 
the  cool  life  of  sanity,  well  below  the 
fever  heat ;  we  resent  the  artificial  stim- 
ulation, grateful  enough  at  another  sea- 
son, offered  by  the  licensed  victualers 
of  romance.  There  is  no  better  time  to 


276 


Books  New  and*  Old. 


take  one's  Jane  Austen  than  while  the 
dog-star  burns. 

The  books  which  are  here  recom- 
mended for  summer  reading  have  this 
in  common:  they  are  not  artificial  and 
they  are  not,  with  one  possible  excep- 
tion, over-intense .  They  may  be  counted 
upon,  as  a  showman  may  say,  to  reach 
the  sympathy  without  tickling  the  sen- 
sibilities, and  to  stir  the  brain  agree- 
ably without  getting  upon  the  nerves. 

If  he  desires  the  quality  of  pure  ef- 
fervescence, the  reader  cannot  do  better 
than  to  take  the  earliest  opportunity 
of  acquaintance  with  The  Lady  Para- 
mount.1 He  will  not  find  that  the  level 
of  The  Cardinal's  Snuff-box  has  been 
quite  reached;  but  that  was  not  to  be 
expected.  It  may  seem,  in  spite  of  our 
premise,  that  the  conception  of  this 
story  is  a  little  artificial.  In  the  ear- 
lier tale  the  unlikeliness  of  the  situation 
was  reduced  to  a  minimum  without  be- 
ing waived  or,  a  worse  error,  deprecated. 
In  The  Lady  Paramount  a  certain  loss  of 
delicacy  is  perceptible,  of  a  distinction 
dependent  on  subtleties  of  sentiment 
and  phrase,  a  distinction  more  nearly 
resembling  Sterne's  than  any  other  writ- 
er's. For  one  thing  the  motive  is  in  all 
respects  lighter  and  broader  than  that 
of  The  Cardinal's  Snuff-box,  though  the 
properties  are  similar.  There  is  the 
same  Anglo-Italian  atmosphere,  there 
are  the  same  delicate  descriptions  and 
glancing  dialogue.  "It  was  gay  June 
weather,  in  a  deep  green  English  park : 
a  park  in  the  south  of  England,  near 
the  sea,  where  parks  are  deepest  and 
greenest,  and  June  weather,  when  it 
is  n't  grave,  is  gayest.  Blackbirds  were 
dropping  their  liquid  notes,  thrushes 
were  singing,  hidden  in  the  trees.  Here 
and  there,  in  spaces  inclosed  by  hurdles, 
sheep  browsed  or  drowsed,  still  faintly 
a-blush  from  the  shearing.  The  may 
was  in  bloom,  the  tardy  may,  and  the 
laburnum.  The  sun  shone  ardently,  and 
the  air  was  quick  with  the  fragrant  re- 

1  The  Lady  Paramount.    By  HENRY  HAK- 
New  York :  John  Lane.     1902. 


sponses  of  the  earth."  In  this  key  the 
story  begins  and  ends.  Susanna,  with 
her  piquancy,  strength,  and  beauty,  is 
the  younger  sister  of  Mr.  Harland's 
earlier  heroine ;  she  and  her  anticipated 
move  in  a  similar  artfully  interrupted 
solitude  for  two.  But  the  total  effect 
of  the  later  story  is  quite  different, 
mainly  because  at  all  junctures  an  un- 
accountable low-comedy  element  insists 
upon  thrusting  itself  forward.  It  does 
not  matter  to  the  discriminating  listener 
how  melodious  a  serenade  may  be  pro- 
gressing under  one  window  if  somebody 
is  bellowing  a  ragtime  ditty  under  the 
next.  The  affected  clown  Adrian  could 
very  happily  be  spared  from  the  delight- 
ful group  at  Craf ord  New  Manor :  alto- 
gether delightful  except  for  their  com- 
promising toleration  of  that  facetious 
person.  And  for  the  Protestant  taste, 
at  least,  unable  as  it  is  entirely  to 
sink  the  man  in  the  office,  that  serving 
of  the  mass  by  Adrian  must  mar  the 
brief  scene  in  the  chapel,  the  effect  of 
which  is  otherwise  so  perfect.  Mr. 
Harland's  heroines  are  a  charming  type, 
sparkling  and  feminine,  thoroughly  mod- 
ern, but  by  no  means  the  latest  novelty 
in  womanhood. 

It  is  a  little  hard  to  say  how  they 
differ  from  Penelope  and  Mrs.  Wiggin's 
other  vivacious  adventuresses.  But 
there  is  a  difference.  It  may  arise 
partly  from  the  fact  that  Mr.  Harland, 
being  a  man,  is  in  love  with  his  own 
sweet  ladies,  while  Mrs.  Wiggin  is, 
through  no  fault  of  her  own,  simply 
able  to  see  that  men  might  be  in  love 
with  hers.  Certainly  her  heroines  do 
not  lack  the  quality  of  sex ;  if  they  lack 
anything  of  its  charm,  it  is  because  their 
femininity  is  altogether  unabashed.  A 
mere  man  is  not  sure  that  he  enjoys  this 
humorous  exposure  of  the  feminine  point 
of  view.  He  admires  the  idea  of  a  neat 
reticence  veiling  the  operations  of  the 
feminine  mind  and  heart.  It  is  right 
for  man  to  blurt,  but  too  free  speech  in 
woman  connotes  a  certain  baldness,  and 
the  glory  of  a  woman  is  otherwise  con- 


Books  New  and   Old. 


277 


ditioned.  The  adventures  of  the  Goose 
Girl  at  Barbury  Green  l  are  of  the  play- 
ful Penelope  sort,  and  her  comments 
on  life  rural  and  urban  have  a  famil- 
iar pungency,  not  to  say  impudence. 
u  There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  feminine 
as  a  hen, "  says  the  Goose  Girl  unblush- 
ingly.  We  feel  that  she  deserves  the 
rebuke  Celia  once  bestowed  upon  Rosa- 
lind.  Rosalind  knew  how  to  be  flippant 
at  times,  but  she  did  not  make  a  busi- 
ness of  it. 

Having  said  this,  I  might  well  hesi- 
tate to  name  the  one  among  all  heroines 
recently  invented,  the  first  sight  of  whom 
induces  love  as  a  matter  of  course :  the 
"  Virgie  "  of  that  very  charming  story, 
The  Master  of  Caxton.2  Virgie  is  un- 
deniably flippant,  often  to  the  point  of 
bad  taste,  sometimes  to  the  point  of 
barbarity  even.  But  her  superiority 
over  the  Goose  Girl,  and  over  the  Lady 
Paramount  as  well,  is  that  she  is  real; 
not  an  alias  or  a  fancy,  but,  with  all  her 
faults,  an  incarnation  of  the  actual  hu- 
man femininity  in  which,  as  a  rule,  the 
hen  and  the  heroine  are  equally  defi- 
cient. What  she  is  speaks  eloquently 
in  her  favor  no  matter  what  her  tongue 
may  testify.  But  how  do  we  know  her 
for  what  she  is  ?  Where  do  we  get  tkis 
sense  of  the  richness  and  fineness  of  a 
nature  which  we  have  many  reasons  to 
disapprove  of?  I  suppose  we  can  pre- 
tend to  answer  the  question  only  by  con- 
ceding the  fact  that  in  some  indefinable 
way  we  feel  her  to  have  been  created 
and  not  invented  at  all.  It  is  not  al- 
together clear  whether  her  creator 
grasped  her  significance  or  not ;  whether 
the  comparatively  colorless  interlocu- 
tress, Cassandra  Dale,  plays  the  part  of 
foil  by  design  or  by  accident.  Never 
mind :  here  is  the  one  vital  figure  to  ac- 
cept and  give  thanks  for.  There  are 
other  interesting  figures.  Mr.  Peyton- 
Call  appears  at  the  outset  to  be  a  con- 

1  The   Diary   of  a   Goose   Girl.     By  KATE 
DOUGLAS  WIGGIN.     Boston   and  New  York: 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1902. 

2  The  Master  of  Caxton.     By  HILDEGARDE 


ventional  exemplar  of  patrician  indo- 
lence, but  we  are  not  long  in  discovering 
that  his  lassitude  is  a  role  and  not  a 
true  thing.  The  Dale  boys  are  of  strong 
individuality,  especially  Bud,  like  the 
lilies  for  beauty  and  idleness,  and  a 
thorough  good  fellow.  The  whole  story 
is  worthy  of  gratitude ;  a  clean,  simple, 
straightforward  tale. 

So  is  The  Virginian, 8  —  and  some- 
thing more.  Mr.  Wister  may  be  said 
to  have  given  us  a  final  apotheosis  of  the 
cowboy :  a  type  which  the  author  la- 
ments in  his  preface  as  already  obsolete. 
The  Virginian  is  a  figure  of  splendor, 
and  of  splendor  all  the  more  irresistible 
because  our  recognition  of  it  does  not 
depend  upon  what  the  author  says  about 
him,  though  he  has  a  good  deal  to  say. 
Strong  and  shrewd,  and  gentle  in  all 
senses  except  the  sense  of  formal  breed- 
ing, the  Virginian  wins  his  successes 
fairly  by  force  of  character.  His  early 
career  as  we  know  it  at  the  beginning 
of  the  story  gives  no  decided  promise 
of  success.  He  ran  away  at  fourteen, 
and  during  the  ten  years  following 
picked  up  very  little  book  education. 
When  he  falls  under  the  sway  of  the 
little  schoolmistress  and  is  inspired  to 
read,  he  retains  his  practical  acuteness, 
and  judges  by  his  own  canons.  "I  have 
read  that  play  Othello,"  he  writes. 
"No  man  should  write  down  such  a 
thing.  Do  you  know  if  it  is  true  ?  I 
have  seen  one  worse  affair  down  in 
Arizona.  He  killed  his  little  child  as 
well  as  his  wife,  but  such  things  should 
not  be  put  down  in  fine  language  for 
the  public.  I  have  read  Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet. That  is  beautiful  language,  but 
Romeo  is  no  man.  I  like  his  friend 
Mercutio  that  gets  killed.  He  is  a 
man.  If  he  had  got  Juliet  there  would 
have  been  no  foolishness  and  trouble." 
This  is  the  respectable  judgment  of  a 
man  of  action,  reared  in  what  Mr.  Wis- 

BROOKS.  New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1902. 

3  The  Virginian.    By  OWEN  WISTER.    New 
York  :  The  Macmillan  Company.     1902. 


278 


Books  New  and  Old. 


ter  calls  "the  great  playground  for 
young  men, "  not  holding  himself  above 
any  of  its  work  or  play,  and  satisfied  to 
refine  upon  its  standards  rather  than  to 
change  them.  Some  of  the  cowboy  play 
is  decidedly  rough,  not  to  say  vicious, 
as  the  East  knows  sufficiently  well.  The 
Virginian's  biographer  frankly  makes 
allowance,  as  in  his  comment  upon 
a  scene  in  a  Rocky  Mountain  saloon: 
"Youth  untamed  sat  here  for  an  idle 
moment,  spending  easily  its  hard-earned 
wages.  City  saloons  rose  into  my  vision, 
and  I  instantly  preferred  this  Rocky 
Mountain  place.  More  of  death  it  un- 
doubtedly saw,  but  less  of  vice,  than  did 
its  New  York  equivalents.  And  death 
is  a  thing  much  cleaner  than  vice. 
Moreover,  it  was  by  no  means  vice  that 
was  written  upon  these  wild  and  manly 
faces.  Even  where  baseness  was  visi- 
ble, baseness  was  not  uppermost.  Dar- 
ing, laughter,  endurance,  — these  were 
what  I  saw  upon  the  countenances  of  the 
cowboys.  And  this  very  first  day  of  my 
knowledge  of  them  marks  a  date  with 
me.  For  something  about  them,  and 
the  idea  of  them,  smote  my  American 
heart,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  it,  nor 
ever  shall,  as  long  as  I  live.  In  their 
flesh  our  natural  passions  ran  tumultu- 
ous ;  but  often  in  their  spirit  sat  hidden 
a  true  nobility,  and  often  beneath  its 
unexpected  shining  their  figures  took  on 
heroic  stature." 

Nothing  draws  one  more  strongly  to 
the  Virginian,  the  type  of  this  nobility, 
than  his  savage  health,  moral  as  well  as 
physical.  There  are,  indeed,  certain 
acknowledged  facts  of  his  early  expe- 
rience which  might  be  cited  to  the  con- 
trary. "He  told  me  of  a  Thanksgiv- 
ing visit  to  town  that  he  had  made  with 
Steve, "  says  the  narrator,  long  after  we 
have  learned  to  trust  the  Virginian. 
"'  We  was  just  colts  then,'  he  said. 
He  dwelt  on  their  coltish  doings,  their 
adventures  sought  and  wrought  in  the 
perfect  fellowship  of  youth.  '  For 
Steve  and  me  most  always  hunted  in 
couples  back  in  them  gamesome  years, ' 


he  explained.  And  he  fell  into  the  ele- 
mental talk  of  sex ;  such  talk  as  would 
be  an  elk's  or  tiger's;  and  spoken  so 
by  him,  simply  and  naturally,  as  we 
speak  of  the  seasons,  or  of  death,  or  of 
any  actuality,  it  was  without  offense. 
But  it  would  be  offense  should  I  repeat 
it."  The  Virginian's  code  was  the  code 
of  his  fellows.  But  he  was  incapable 
of  meanness ;  he  had  never,  we  are  sure, 
harmed  a  weaker  than  himself,  as  he 
had  never  (according  to  an  ill-advised 
phrase  to  the  mother  of  his  betrothed) 
"killed  for  pleasure  or  profit." 

If  his  schoolmistress,  Molly  Wood, 
lacks  this  superb  aboriginal  simplicity, 
her  New  England  blood  and  training 
are  at  fault.  She  cannot  quite  free 
herself  from  conventional  qualms,  but 
is  essentially  fine-grained  and  sound,  fit 
to  be  grafted  upon  this  wild  offshoot 
of  a  good  Southern  stock.  And  the 
great  triumphs  of  her  love,  first  over 
social,  and  second  over  moral  fastidious- 
ness, give  one  the  impression  of  a  richer 
if  not  more  charming  personality  than 
Bud  Dale's  Virgie. 

The  Wyoming  in  which  the  action  of 
Owen  Wister's  story  takes  place  has 
much  in  common  with  the  California  of 
Bret  Harte.  Substituting  cattle  for 
gold,  the  conditions  are  very  similar: 
a  society  of  men,  a  society  untrammeled 
and  unaided  by  the  machinery  of  civil- 
ization. But  Owen  Wister's  interpre- 
tation of  that  life  is  very  different  from 
his  predecessor's.  In  his  last  book,1 
as  the  title  indicates,  Bret  Harte  re- 
turned to  the  trail  which  he  himself  had 
blazed,  and  which  the  feet  of  his  suc- 
cessors had  turned  into  one  of  the  thor- 
oughfares of  American  fiction.  There 
could  in  the  nature  of  things  be  only 
one  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp;  but  the 
tales  here  collected  retain  much  of  the 
old  flavor,  and  even  renew  our  acquain- 
tance with  ancient  favorites,  notably 
Colonel  Starbottle  and  Mr.  Hamlin. 

1  Openings  in  the  Old  Trail.  By  BRET 
HARTE.  Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton, 
Mifflin&Co.  1902. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


279 


Bret  Harte's  treatment  of  the  char- 
acter of  Jack  Hamlin  suggests  very  well 
his  limitations  as  an  interpreter  of  West- 
ern life.  He  was  interested  in  the 
people  who  live  in  the  far  West,  and  in 
the  things  which  happen  there,  as  a  con- 
noisseur in  the  materials  of  fiction  ra- 
ther than  as  a  passionate  student.  We 
do  not,  of  course,  ask  for  statistics,  or 
a  complete  philosophy,  or  a  long  face, 
from  the  creative  artist.  Mr.  Wister 
offers  none  of  these  things.  Yet  he 
contrives  in  the  very  act  of  pleasing  us 
to  make  us  think ;  Bret  Harte  was  con- 
tent to  make  us  wonder.  He  was  not 
greatly  concerned,  therefore,  that  his 
reading  of  that  life  should  be  profoundly 
significant;  it  must  be  picturesque. 
Mr.  Jack  Hamlin  is  a  rascal  under  a 
film  of  smooth  manners.  Part  of  his 
attraction  consists  in  our  knowledge  of 
his  rascality,  a  lure  a  good  many  centu- 
ries older  than  Jack  Hamlin  or  Jack 
Sheppard.  Owen  Wister 's  Virginian 
is  a  gentleman  under  a  coat  of  rough- 
ness. This  also  is  an  immemorial  type 
of  hero.  So  far  as  they  are  individuals, 
it  is  proper  that  one  should  get  as  much 
pleasure  out  of  one  type  as  out  of  the 
other.  But  the  reader  can  hardly  yield 
to  Jack  Hamlin  and  the  Virginian  the 
immunities  of  the  individual.  If  the 
phenomena  of  the  West  really  interest 
him,  he  will  find  himself  considering 
the  claims  of  each  in  turn  to  be  taken 
as  representative  of  the  frontier  phase 
of  civilization.  And  weighed  in  such 
a  mood,  Mr.  Jack  Hamlin,  with  all  his 
fascinations,  is  found  wanting;  one 
must  be  lightly  pleased  with  him,  or 
not  at  all.  The  Virginian  (who  may 
never  become  as  famous  as  Mr.  Hamlin) 
is  far  more  edifying.  For  all  of  that 
young  vigorous  integrity  which  Mr. 
Wister  takes  to  be  the  sound  base  of  the 
frontiersman's  character  is  embodied  in 
this  healthy,  jesting,  deeply  loving,  vic- 
torious cowboy  of  his. 

1  The  Desert  and  the  Sown.  By  MARY  HAL- 
LOCK  FOOTE.  Boston  and  New  York  :  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1902. 


The  Desert  and  the  Sown,1  unlike 
most  of  its  predecessors  by  the  same 
hand,  can  hardly  be  called  a  Western 
story.  Part  of  the  action  takes  place 
in  the  West,  it  is  true,  but  the  central 
figure  is  Eastern  born  and  bred,  and  his 
problem  would  have  been  no  problem 
at  all  to  the  Virginian.  Under  gross 
provocation,  and  then  mainly  by  acci- 
dent, he  kills  a  man.  Human  law  can- 
not touch  him,  but  he  feels  himself 
under  the  ban  of  a  higher  ruling.  He 
therefore  chooses  to  disappear,  though 
desertion  of  his  young  wife  and  child  is 
involved,  and  to  devote  himself  to  a 
lifelong  penance  of  solitude.  No  fron- 
tiersman would  have  brooded  over  the 
killing  of  a  man  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  but  this  Adam  Bogardus,  with 
his  inherited  rigidity  of  mind,  cannot 
get  away  from  the  fact  that  according 
to  the  code  of  the  East,  the  only  code 
for  him,  he  is,  technically,  a  criminal. 
So  he  suffers,  like  Hamlet,  a  bitter  pen- 
alty for  having  fallen  upon  a  day  for 
the  urgencies  of  which  moral  refinement 
could  only  disqualify  him.  With  his 
painful  fidelity  to  his  vow,  his  reluc- 
tance to  accept  favors  from  the  son  to 
whom  fortune  at  last  makes  him  known, 
and  his  final  renunciation  of  his  tardily 
restored  family,  Bogardus  comes  very 
near  being  a  tragic  figure.  We  may 
turn  with  some  relief  to  a  story  of  far 
less  complication,  though  a  story  of  the 
Old  World. 

Bread  and  Wine 2  reminds  one 
strongly  of  some  of  the  peasant  idyls  of 
George  Sand's.  The  peasant,  hardy  as 
his  life  is,  has  almost  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  the  frontiersman;  his  lim- 
itations are  more  difficult  to  make  pic- 
turesque, and  his  virtues  are  hardly 
spectacular  enough  for  the  purposes  of 
fiction.  His  qualities  are  idyllic  ra- 
ther than  heroic.  Mrs.  King's  style 
is  sympathetic  and  restrained,  exactly 
fitted  for  the  treatment  of  this  simple 

2  Bread  and  Wine.  By  MAUDE  EGERTON 
KING.  Boston  and  New  York:  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1902. 


280 


Books  New  and  Old. 


episode  in  the  married  life  of  her  two 
peasants  of  Graubiinden.  It  is  pleasant 
to  find  America  producing  so  delicate 
an  example  of  the  genre  which  the  Lat- 
ins are  wont  to  manage  so  much  better 
than  we.  For  a  taste  of  the  sweetness 
and  purity  of  its  style,  we  may  quote 
the  concluding  sentence  of  the  tale: 
"By  this  time  the  twilight  sky  had 
deepened  and  darkened  all  about  the 
stars  so  that  the  eye  could  see  how 
many  and  large  and  bright  they  were; 
and  night,  like  an  unspoken  benediction, 
came  down  upon  Sertig  Do"rfli." 

To  speak  of  The  Rescue l  in  this  con- 
nection would  be  incongruous  if  it  were 
not  for  the  simplicity  and  clarity  of 
manner  which  it  possesses  in  common 
with  the  story  of  which  we  have  just 
spoken.  Its  theme  is  unusual,  and  by 
no  means  simple ;  a  theme  possible  only 
for  the  student  of  a  sophisticated,  not 
to  say  decadent  society.  Henry  James 
might  have  hit  upon  it,  though  his  treat- 
ment of  it  would  have  been  more  delib- 
erately subtle,  and  one  is  not  sure  that 
matters  would  have  been  allowed  to  turn 
out  as  well  as  they  do.  Not  that  Miss 
Sedgwick  employs  the  living  happy  ever 
after  solution;  the  most  sanguine  han- 
dling could  hardly  have  brought  that 
about.  The  conclusion  is  sombre, 
though  it  is  as  favorable  as  it  can  well 
be  under  the  conditions.  No  special 
considerations  whatever  can  make  the 
marriage  of  a  man  of  thirty  to  a  woman 
of  forty-seven  a  comfortable  consumma- 
tion. It  must  be  in  an  even  stronger 
sense  than  usual  a  beginning  rather  than 
an  end.  But  to  have  brought  about 
such  a  beginning,  so  that  the  fact  seems 
to  have  some  degree  of  propriety  and 
even  palatability,  is  a  rare  feat.  Per- 
haps feat  is  not  the  word  to  use,  for 
unusual  as  the  relation  between  Damier 
and  Madame  Vicaud  is,  it  cannot  have 
seemed  to  the  author  abnormal  or  even 
improbable;  and  in  the  end,  I  think 

1  The  Rescue.  By  ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDG- 
WICK. New  York :  The  Century  Company. 
1902. 


it  does  not  seem  so  to  the  reader.  The 
conception  of  Claire,  one  may  have  two 
minds  about.  Bad  daughters  do  some- 
times come  of  good  mothers,  and  the 
paternity  in  this  case  was  as  bad  as  it 
well  could  have  been.  But  Claire  comes 
dishearteningly  near  being  the  totally 
depraved  nature  which  Shakespeare  and 
experience  teach  us  does  not  exist.  We 
see  in  the  end  that  she  does  not  quite 
achieve  this ;  and  we  even  come  to  sus- 
pect that  without  the  counter-irritant 
of  her  mother's  intolerable  virtue  and 
refinement,  her  own  heart  and  manners 
might  have  developed  naturally  to  a 
point  of  respectability  at  least. 

Damier  escapes  being  inconsiderable 
by  virtue  of  his  extreme  sensitiveness 
and  the  invincible  ardor  of  his  feeling 
for  Madame  Vicaud.  One  feels,  nev- 
ertheless, that  in  spite  of  her  disadvan- 
tage in  years  and  experience,  she  brings 
more  heart  to  their  union  than  her  young 
lover  is  capable  of.  Their  likeness  in 
point  of  intensity,  almost  as  much  as 
their  disparity  in  years,  suggests  that  as 
we  leave  them  Madame  Vicaud  has  been 
rescued,  not  from  trouble  altogether, 
but  from  futility. 

There  is  a  temptation  to  enlarge  a 
little  upon  the  literary  quality  of  the 
story.  The  Virginian  would  not  have 
cared  for  it ;  he  probably  would  have 
failed  to  understand  Damier,  even  if 
he  had  not  classed  him  with  Romeo. 

"She  pressed  his  hand,  still  smiling 
at  him,  and  then,  resuming  her  sewing, 
*  Sit  near  me, '  she  said,  '  so  I  can  see 
that  you  are  not  fancying  that  I  am 
harsh  with  you !  ' 

"At  such  moments  he  could  see  in 
her  eyes,  that  caressed  one,  made  sweet- 
est amends  to  one,  touches  of  what  must 
once  have  been  enchanting  roguish- 
ness. 

"'  But  I  am  still  going  to  risk  your 
harshness,'  he  said.  .  .  .  '  I  don't  want 
to  justify  man's  ways  to  man;  and  yet 
ordinary  human  nature,  with  its  al- 
most inevitable  self-regarding  instinct, 
its  climb  toward  happiness,  its  ugly 


French  Memoirs  in  English. 


281 


struggle  for  successful  attainment  of  it, 
is  more  successful  than  cruel  toward 
unhappiness.  .  .  .  And  then  you  must 
remember  —  I  must,  for  how  often  I 
have  struggled  with  these  thoughts  — 
that  misfortune  is  a  mask,  a  disguise. 
One  can't  be  recognized  and  known 
when  one  wears  it;  one  can't  show 


one's  self ;  if  one  could  there  would  per- 
haps be  responses.'  ' 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  fairer  not 
to  quote  this.  It  is  like  attempting  to 
show  the  {lawlessness  of  a  crystal  by 
knocking  off  a  chip  at  random.  The 
crystal  is  marred,  and  the  fragment  it- 
self appears  insignificant. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


FRENCH   MEMOIKS   IN  ENGLISH. 


EVERY  additional  volume  of  the  Ver- 
sailles Historical  Series  —  a  series  now 
extending  in  time  from  Brantome's  Book 
of  the  Ladies  to  the  Memoirs  of  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  and  Count  Fersen  — 
deepens  the  reader's  impression  of  the 
excellent  manner  in  which  the  transla- 
tor and  editor  and  the  publishers  have 
worked  together  to  produce  in  English 
a  social  and,  in  certain  aspects,  a  po- 
litical history  of  seventeenth  and  eigh- 
teenth century  France  drawn  from  the 
memoirs  and  correspondence  of  those 
who  were  a  part  of  the  tale  they  told. 
Brant6me's  Dames  Illustres  is  in  truth 
somewhat  too  early  to  fit  naturally  into 
the  scheme,  yet  no  one  will  be  likely  to 
wish  it  away.  The  books,  attractive  in 
their  make-up,  are  really  embellished 
and  enriched  by  a  generous  number  of 
well-selected  and  admirably  reproduced 
portraits,  —  pictures  often  pleasingly  un- 
hackneyed. Of  course  Miss  Wormeley's 
most  important  and  difficult  task  was  in 
dealing  with  the  greatest  of  all  French 
memoir  writers.  To  reduce  Saint-Simon 
to  one  fourth  of  his  true  size  called  not 
only  for  large  omissions,  but  for  much 
condensation  as  well.  The  reader  may 
think  that  at  least  one  or  two  volumes 
more  might  have  been  allowed  him,  but, 
as  it  is,  Miss  Wormeley  has  done  wonders 

1  Diary  and  Correspondence  of  Count  Axel 
Fersen,  Grand-Marshal  of  Sweden,  relating  to  the 
Court  of  France.  Translated  by  KATHARINE 


in  retaining  so  many  of  the  indispensable 
passages  and  in  keeping  the  continuity 
of  the  narrative.  Her  merits  as  a  trans- 
lator no  longer  need  to  be  dwelt  upon ; 
her  editorial  notes  are  concise  and  to  the 
purpose,  and  more  of  them  would  have 
been  welcome.  No  one,  for  instance, 
will  be  likely  to  read  even  an  abridg- 
ment of  Saint-Simon  without  wishing 
for  some  more  definite  knowledge  of  his 
later  life  than  is  to  be  gleaned  from  scat- 
tered hints,  for  some  account  of  his  chil- 
dren and  their  children,  —  in  short,  the 
after  history  of  the  house.  And  such 
information  can  be  put  in  very  small 
compass. 

One  of  the  latest  volumes  of  the  series 
is  devoted  to  a  selection  from  those  pa- 
pers of  Count  Fersen,  collected  and  pub- 
lished by  his  grandnephew.1  There  is 
no  figure  so  noble  in  the  court  of  the 
last  days  of  old  France  as  the  young 
Swede,  in  describing  whom  the  much 
misused  word  "  chivalrous  "  in  its  best 
meaning  is  instinctively  used.  As  mod- 
est as  brave,  as  unassuming  as  accom- 
plished, honorable,  upright,  true,  in  that 
atmosphere  of  falsehood  and  self-seek- 
ing, he  must  have  seemed  to  the  girl- 
queen,  the  object  of  his  romantic  but 
profoundly  respectful  admiration,  and 
whose  most  loyal  and  devoted  friend  he 

PKESCOTT  WORMEIIEY.  Boston  :  Hardy,  Pratt 
&  Co.  1902. 


French  Memoirs  in  English. 


was  to  remain  till  her  life's  end,  some- 
thing very  like  a  visitant  from  another 
sphere.  To  the  attractive  stranger  with 
"  the  handsomest  face,  the  quickest  in- 
telligence "  Parisian  society  showed  its 
most  amiable  and  engaging  aspect,  but 
that  he  "  thought  nobly  and  with  singu- 
lar loftiness  "  was  beyond  its  ken.  That 
a  gracious  word  from  the  queen  was  suf- 
ficient excuse  for  calumniating  her  in  a 
court  where  all  gossip  was  vile  Fersen 
soon  learned,  and  was  thereby  strength- 
ened in  his  resolve  to  join  the  expedi- 
tion to  America.  As  an  aide-de-camp 
to  the  Comte  de  Rochambeau  he  served 
till  the  end  of  the  war,  and  the  letters 
of  so  clear-sighted  an  observer  have  a 
special  interest,  when  we  remember  how 
often  the  French  element  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War  has  been  a  subject  to  treat 
romantically  rather  than  historically.  On 
parting  with  his  chief,  he  says,  "  M.  de 
Rochambeau  was  the  only  man  capable 
of  commanding  us  here,  and  of  main- 
taining that  perfect  harmony  which  has 
reigned  between  two  nations,  so  differ- 
ent in  manners,  morals,  and  language, 
and  who  at  heart  do  not  like  each  other." 
Count  Axel,  himself,  did  not  learn  great- 
ly to  like  his  allies,  but  he  could  also  view 
his  comrades  from  the  outside. 

It  is  a  matter  for  regret  that  the  fear 
of  a  domiciliary  visit  impelled  the  friend 
to  whom  Fersen  had  entrusted  his  diary 
from  1780  to  1791  to  destroy  it.  Thus 
were  lost  his  daily  notes  during  the  Amer- 
ican war,  and  his  observations  in  the  last 
years  of  the  old  order  and  the  first  of 
the  great  upheaval,  —  observations  of  a 
very  competent  and  sane  looker-on,  shar- 
ing neither  the  illusions  nor  the  frenzies 
of  the  time.  Early  in  1791  he  writes 
to  his  father,  and  after  recalling  the  fa- 
vors shown  him  by  the  king  and  queen 
in  happier  days,  he  says :  "  I  should  be 
vile  and  ungrateful  if  I  abandoned  them 
now  when  they  can  do  nothing  more  for 

1  Letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  with  Notes 
on  her  Life  and  Character  by  D'Alembert, 
Marmontel,  De  Guibert,  etc.,  and  an  Introduc- 


me,  and  while  I  have  still  the  hope  of 
being  useful  to  them.  To  all  the  many 
kindnesses  with  which  they  loaded  me 
they  have  now  added  a  flattering  distinc- 
tion —  that  of  confidence."  How  well » 
he  deserved  that  trust  need  not  be  said. 
He  organized  the  flight  to  Varennes, 
successful  so  long  as  he  controlled  it; 
later  he  revisited  Paris,  at  the  risk  of 
his  life,  with  new  plans ;  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  his  own  sovereign,  the  one 
disinterested  royal  friend  of  the  hapless 
prisoners,  he  traveled  from  court  to  court 
doing  everything  that  absolute  devotion 
could  inspire  in  a  man  both  wise  and 
capable,  fully  conscious  of  the  all  but 
treachery  of  the  French  princes,  the  fol- 
lies of  the  emigres,  the  madness  in  Paris, 
yet  hoping  against  hope  till  the  long- 
drawn  tragedy  ended.  And  little  but 
disappointment  and  sorrow  were  to  mark 
his  later  years,  though  he  rose  to  high 
honor  in  his  own  country.  But  Sweden 
was  torn  by  dissensions,  and  the  question 
of  the  royal  succession  was  the  cause  of 
virulent  animosities.  While  Count  Fer- 
sen was  officially  superintending  a  state 
function,  on  June  20,  1810,  he  was  torn 
from  his  carriage  by  a  body  of  rioters 
and  tortured  to  death,  —  one  of  the  most 
senseless  and  brutal  of  all  mob  murders. 
It  was  the  nineteenth  anniversary  of  the 
flight  to  Varennes. 

All  the  other  works  in  this  collection, 
whatever  may  be  their  biographic  inter- 
est, are  distinctly  historical,  but  the  Let- 
ters of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse1  are  em- 
phatically, it  may  be  said  poignantly, 
personal  in  their  appeal.  They  give  us 
scarcely  a  glimpse  of  that  salon,  where 
daily  gathered  encyclopaedists,  academi- 
cians, philosophers,  churchmen,  distin- 
guished strangers,  most  brilliant  but  di- 
verse elements  held  and  harmonized  by 
a  woman  without  beauty,  name,  or  for- 
tune, but  with  measureless  charm,  exqui- 
site tact,  delicate  insight,  quick  sympathy, 

tion  by  C.  A.  Sainte-Beuve.  Translated  by 
KATHARINE  PRESCOTT  WORMELEY.  Boston: 
Hardy,  Pratt  &  Co.  1902. 


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283 


and,  above  all,  never  failing  power  of 
drawing  forth  the  best  in  every  guest. 
Those  of  her  letters  which  chanced  to  be 
preserved  are  the  record,  still  palpitating 
with  life,  of  the  passion,  or,  it  may  be 
said,  the  two  passions,  which  like  con- 
suming fires  burnt  away  the  writer's  life. 
They  belong  to  the  little  group  of  the 
great  love-letters  of  the  world,  and  as  in 
the  century  that  has  passed  since  their 
publication  no  earlier  attempt  has  been 
made  to  translate  them,  the  volume  can 
be  accepted  thankfully,  even  if  it  stands 
somewhat  by  itself  among  its  present 


companions.  The  story  of  this  brilliant 
and  most  unhappy  woman,  vivified  by 
her  letters,  impresses  itself  so  strongly 
upon  some  readers,  that  they  feel  a  pe- 
culiar interest  in  following  the  career, 
yet  incomplete,  of  a  contemporary  hero- 
ine, who  appears  to  be  in  the  intention 
of  her  gifted  creator  a  reincarnation  in 
another  country  and  century  of  Julie 
de  Lespinasse.  In  considering  the  de- 
generate state  into  which  the  noble  art 
of  historic  fiction  has  fallen,  this  method 
of  restoring  a  distinguished  figure  of  the 
past  has  much  to  commend  it. 

S.  M.  F. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


THERE  is  an  experience  in  reading 
Verse  In  which  I  dare  say  is  very  com- 
Prose.  mon,  but  don't  remember 

hearing  anybody  speak  of.  You  are 
jogging  along  comfortably  through  some 
quiet  prose  country,  enjoying  the  fine 
weather  and  good  plain  company,  when 
you  are  brought  up  short  by  an  unex- 
pected obstacle  in  the  road,  —  the  noon- 
day spectre  of  metre.  As  if  it  were  n't 
bad  enough  to  write  poetry  of  purpose, 
and  with  plain  intent  to  kill,  here  we  must 
have  the  thing  doing  itself,  imposing  its 
marshaled  iambics  or  rearing  its  horrid 
front  of  anapests  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  humdrum  surroundings. 

Poets,  it  is  interesting  to  note,  are 
not  likely  to  make  this  mistake ;  they 
have  too  much  respect  for  both  poetry 
and  prose ;  they  would  as  soon  think  of 
breaking  into  a  two-step  at  a  crowded 
reception,  or  going  to  market  in  ragtime. 
It  is  a  pretty  frequent  slip  among  prose 
writers  :  witness  the  well-known  passages 
in  Lorna  Doone,  and  in  Dickens,  pas- 
sim ;  or,  to  compare  small  things  with 
great,  the  opening  paragraphs  in  Mr. 
Seton-Thompson's  recent  story  of  The 
Kootenay  Ram :  — 


"  So  in  this  land  of  long,  long  winter  night, 
Where   Nature   stints   her  joys  for  six   hard 

months, 

Then  owns  her  debt  and  pays  it  all  at  once, 
The  spring  is  glorious  compensation  for 
The  past.     Six  months'  arrears  of  joy  are  paid 
In  one  vast  lavish  outpour." 

And  so  on  ;  very  decent  blank  verse,  such 
as  even  a  Markham  might  not  be  ashamed 
to  sign  to. 

Now  there  is,  of  course,  only  one  thing 
to  be  said  of  such  sham  prose  as  this  :  it 
is  an  affront  to  the  ear  and  to  the  un- 
derstanding. Whether  he  is  conscious 
of  it  or  not,  the  writer  has  been  guilty 
of  a  "  break."  Yet  I  must  admit  that 
for  my  part,  without  believing  in  metri- 
cal prose,  or  even  in  rhythmical  prose  as 
a  set  product,  my  skepticism  has  a  pro- 
viso. For  now  and  then  in  reading  the 
soberest  prose,  I  am  conscious  of  a  sud- 
den exquisite  thrill  such  as  may  follow 
the  lone  voice  of  a  Bird  in  the  dark,  or 
the  discovery  of  a  single  pure  blossom 
somewhere  among  the  rocks  above  the 
snow  line  :  I  have  stumbled,  that  is,  on 
a  fragment  of  pure  poetry.  And  often 
when  I  come  to  examine  the  few  little 
words  which  have  moved  me,  I  am  not 
able  to  find  much  in  them  but  music, 


284 


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and,  as  a  rule,  the  formal  music  of  metre. 
Perhaps  the  refrain  echoes  for  days  upon 
that  inward  ear  which  also  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  bliss  of  solitude. 
Sometimes  it  slowly  fades ;  and  some- 
times it  abides,  to  develop  into  some 
fuller  metrical  form.  And  then  it  is  I 
who  must  plead  guilty. 

Reading  over  FitzGerald's  letters  not 
long  ago,  two  such  refrains  took  posses- 
sion of  me.  Oddly  enough,  they  both 
suggested  the  anapestic  measure,  with 
which  I  believe  Old  Fitz  never  meddled ; 
and  both  eventually  shaped  themselves 
into  something  a  little  like  triolets,  not 
at  all  like  FitzGerald,  and,  I  should  say, 
not  very  much  like  me.  Never  mind  : 
here  they  are,  and  the  refrains,  at  least, 
worth  reading :  — 


Grass  will  be  green,  if  the  tide  should  be  out, 
And  ct  seat  in  the  arbor  for  no  one  but  you  ; 

There  will  be  swallows  and  robins  about : 

Grass  will  be  green,  if  the  tide  should  be  out. 

Pleasant  to  wing  to  the  offing,  no  doubt, 
Yet  the  nether  but  mimics  the  loftier  blue, 
And  by  sea  or  by  land  I  have  comfort  for 
two: 

Grass  will  be  green,  if  the  tide  should  be  out. 


I  was  looking  for  Keats   and  I  stumbled  on 

Browne, 

Browne,  the  hydriotaphic  :  a  whimsical  turn, 
I  thought,  of  the  die,  from  a  seer  to  a  clown, 
"  What !  a  pedant  on  urns  for  the  Bard  of 

The  Urn  ? 

Nay,  then,  old  Incinerability,  burn  !  " 
Half  a  pace  from  the  hearth  I  paused  —  fal- 
tered —  sat  down  .  .  . 
Thumbed  a  leaf  —  smiled  —  read  on  ...  and 

forgot  to  return : 

I  was  looking  for  Keats  and  I  stumbled  on 
Browne. 

I  WONDER  if  any  readers  of  the  At- 
Beltand  lantic  will  sympathize  with 
Button.  me  in  liking  and  disliking 
certain  words  for  their  own  sake,  with  a 
kind  of  personal  feeling.  Just  as  one 
enjoys  or  dislikes  encountering  certain 
acquaintances  from  something  in  them- 
selves, apart  from  the  transactions  in 
which  they  are  encountered,  so  there 


are  certain  words  which  it  makes  me 
feel  better  to  see,  hear,  or  use ;  and 
others  which  produce  exactly  the  op- 
posite effect. 

I  do  not  mean  the  dislike  I  have  to 
certain  words  as  ugly  and  intensive 
aliens  (  "  f urriners  "  expresses  the  feel- 
ing) which  seem  taken  up  by  a  sort  of 
fad,  without  any  necessity  derived  from 
a  want  in  our  own  tongue.  Macaulay 
has  justly  commented  on  the  offensive- 
ness  of  Dryden's  putting  "fraicheur" 
for  "freshness."  But  my  special  aver- 
sions in  this  way  are  aliens  masquerad- 
ing as  natives,  and  presenting  a  mien 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 

"  Pedagogy !  "  What  self-respecting 
teachers  can  desire  their  noble  calling 
travestied  by  this  name,  uncouth  to  look 
at,-  and  uncouth  to  say,  misused  Greek 
passing  through  unnatural  German  into 
bad  English!  Every  one  who  studies 
Greek  —  but  that  we  are  told  nowa- 
days we  should  not  —  knows  that  a 
"pedagogue  "  is  not  a  schoolmaster  at 
all,  but  the  slave  who  escorted  boys  to 
and  from  school  to  guard  them  from 
immoral  associates.  One  may  forgive 
"pedagogue  "  in  consideration  of  its  al- 
ways having  a  certain  air  of  joke,  —  it 
just  suits  Shakespeare's  Holof ernes. 
But  to  think  there  is  any  technical  pro- 
priety in  calling  the  art  or  science  of 
teaching  pedagogy !  Granting  that  we 
must  have  a  Greek  name  for  a  science, 
the  proper  word  is  psedeutics,  more  ac- 
curate at  once  and  more  euphonious. 

And  "silhouetted."  Are  we  to  be 
saddled  forever  with  this  needless  coin- 
age from  a  French  word,  which  in  its 
own  language  is  remarkably  like  slang  ? 
Every  writer  seems  bound  to  haul  it  in 
by  main  force.  A  lover  of  nature,  kept 
in  all  day  by  the  raging  sun,  goes  out 
at  the  softer  hours  to  gaze  on  a  line  of 
mountain  peaks,  standing  in  dark  out- 
line against  the  golden  glow  of  sunset, 
—  and  he  must  needs  dub  them  "  sil- 
houetted !  "  A  French  noun  violently 
turned  into  an  English  participial  ad- 
jective, —  and  to  what  end  ?  with  what 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


285 


profit  ?  A  recent  writer  speaks  of  Gen- 
eral Grant's  and  General  Sherman's 
profiles  "en  silhouette."  Why  not  say 
that  their  hats  were  "  en  chapeau, "  and 
their  trousers  "en  pantalon "  ?  The 
Matterhorn,  that  awful  monster  that 
looks  down  on  Zermatt  to  see  what  new 
climber  it  may  devour,  to  be  spoken  of 
as  "parsimonious- French-ministered  " 
against  the  deep  blue ! 

No !  I  refer  to  pure  English  words, 
—  words  we  use  every  day,  and  cannot 
possibly  dispense  with,  slipping  as  they 
do  from  our  mouths  without  effort ;  yet 
which  to  me  are  not  mere  tokens  of 
thought,  but  friends  and  enemies. 
"Button."  I  cannot  hear  or  use  this 
word  without  feeling  fidgety.  It  re- 
minds me  of  the  days  when  I  knew  I 
was  a  boy,  and  was  treated  as  a  child ; 
when  I  was  dressed  and  undressed  by 
female  hands,  and  taunted  by  my  elder 
brother,  who  dressed  himself;  a  slave 
and  victim  to  a  mass  of  needless  and  sor- 
did details  in  nursery  life,  devised  by  a 
bevy  of  empresses  to  exalt  their  own  au- 
tocracy and  circumscribe  my  manly  lib- 
erty. Oh,  how  blest  and  exalted  in  those 
days  seemed  to  me  savages,  Romans, 
Greeks,  Arabs,  anybody  who  was  not 
confined  by  buttons ;  such  an  earthborn 
word.  In  Scott's  magnificent  picture 
of  the  chivalrous.  James  IV.  there  is 
to  me  a  note  of  repulsion  when  I  read 
"  His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 

Was  buttoned  with  a  ruby  rare." 
Couldn't  Sir  Walter  have  made  it  a 
stud,  or  "knop, "  or  anything  but  a  but- 
ton, —  a  base  thing  of  horn  or  bone  or 
cloth  —  not  of  ruby  ? 

"Belt."  There  's  a  word  for  you! 
A  grand,  manly,  classic,  chivalrous, 
athletic  word ;  the  symbol  of  emanci- 
pation, of  dressing  yourself,  of  the 
"toga,"  or  rather  the  "tunica  virilis." 
There  is  richness  and  energy  in  the  very 
sound,  the  very  look.  It  suggests  a 
man,  all  succinct  and  equipped  whether 
for  fields  of  peace  or  fields  of  war ;  his 
needful  garments  confined  and  support- 
ed by  a  band  to  be  proud  of.  In  con- 


trast to  the  monarch  described  above, 
how  thoroughly  satisfactory  is  Lord 
William  Howard,  as  he  advances  — 
fifty  years  too  soon,  indeed  —  to  the 
siege  of  Branksome,  — - 

"  His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt  ; 
Whence  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Call  noble  Howard,  '  Belted  Will.'  " 

Gallant  John  Gilpin  trusted  to  both 
belt  and  button;  and  how  much  more 
faithful  was  the  former  than  the  latter ! 
Truly,  to  one  who  appreciates  the  whole 
force  of  language  words  may  be  ene- 
mies or  friends. 

I  HAVE  read  with  interest  the  expe- 
The  Rem-  riences  of  some  of  your  con- 
^nces  of  a  tr^utors'  ^  venture  to  give 
Contribu-  those  of  another.  In  the 
early  days  of  my  efforts  to 
reform  the  world,  when  I  was  a  some- 
what callow  youth,  I  had  sent  a  few  ar- 
ticles to  leading  newspapers.  I  felt  very 
much  gratified  and  elated  when  I  read 
them  in  cold  type.  The  idea  that  any 
editor  would  pay  for  them  had  never  en- 
tered my  head.  One  day  I  was  taking 
lunch  with  one  of  my  friends  of  the  news- 
paper press  who  got  his  living  by  his 
work,  and  he  asked  me  how  much  I 
charged  by  the  column.  "  Charge !  "  said 
I,  "  you  don't  suppose  I  expect  to  be  paid, 
do  you  ?  I  am  only  a  duffer  at  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  am  only  too  glad  to  see 
my  articles  in  print."  "  But,"  said  my 
friend,  "that's  not  fair.  A  man  who 
can  write  as  you  do  has  no  business  to 
take  our  bread  from  us  by  serving  as  a 
space  writer  without  pay."  I  did  not 
then  know  exactly  what  he  meant  by 
"  space  writer,"  but  I  said  nothing. 

There  was  a  question  pending  in  which 
I  felt  a  great  interest,  and  when  I  got 
home  I  said  to  myself,  "  By  Jove !  I  will 
write  an  article  for  The  Atlantic  Month- 
ly, and  try  it  on."  I  will  confess  that 
I  devoted  a  whole  rainy  Sunday  to  this 
work  of  necessity  and  charity.  The 
words  ran  off  the  end  of  my  pen  without 


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any  conscious  effort  on  my  part,  and  as 
I  had  never  studied  English  grammar, 
and  always  use  the  shortest  words  I  can 
find,  when  I  read  my  article  over  I 
thought  it  was  clear  and  strong,  and  that 
every-day  business  folks  who  do  not  care 
much  for  philosophic  dissertations  might 
get  some  ideas  from  it.  I  had  a  fair 
copy  made  by  one  of  my  clerks,  and  I 
sent  it  to  the  editor.  The  article  was 
accepted  promptly,  put  in  type,  and  duly 
appeared.  I  have  forgotten  what  it  was 
about.  When  in  December  I  received 
a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars  I  con- 
fess that  I  was  astounded !  I  looked  at 
the  check,  —  I  laid  it  down,  —  I  took 
it  up  again  and  said  to  myself,  "  I  never 
earned  this  money.  My  double,  of  whom 
I  have  always  had  an  inner  consciousness, 
did  this.  What  would  he  do  with  the 
money  ?"  My  double  then  put  an  idea 
into  my  head  that  Christmas  was  coming. 
I  invested  the  cash  in  presents  for  the 
children  and  others,  to  their  great  de- 
light. But  after  that  I  charged  for  space 
writing  in  the  newspapers,  and  put  the 
money  mostly  into  books. 

Sequel :  The  next  Christmas  was  near, 
and  my  little  girl  of  about  six  said, 
"  What  are  you  going  to  give  us  for 
presents  this  year,  papa  ?  "  To  which 
I  replied,  "  Not  much  ;  I  can't  spare  the 
money  this  year."  To  this  the  enfant 
terrible  responded,  "Why  don't  you 
write  another  article  for  the  Atlantic  ? 
Anybody  can  do  that !  "  Presently  I 
received  an  invitation  to  dine  with  the 
contributors,  and  when  called  upon  to 
make  a  few  remarks  I  began  to  tell  this 
little  story.  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
cause  some  hilarity  at  dinners  of  my 
business  friends.  You  may  imagine  the 
shock  to  my  mind  when  the  remark  that 
the  hundred  dollars  did  n't  seem  to  be- 
long to  me  was  met  by  a  shout  of  ob- 
loquy and  derision.  I  recovered,  and 
presently  I  repeated  the  remark  of  my 
little  girl,  "  Anybody  can  do  that !  " 
Then  came  a  turmoil!  I  was  threat- 
ened with  bottles,  pie  plates,  and  other 


missiles,  but  the  stern  Chairman  read 
the  Riot  Act,  and  I  escaped  without  per- 
sonal injury. 

I  once  knew  a  little  about  editors  and 
publishers.  I  know  them  a  good  deal 
better  now.  My  relations  with  them 
have  been  uniformly  pleasant  and  profit- 
able. When  I  send  out  some  good  copy 
which  one  refuses  I  am  very  sure  that 
another  will  take  it,  and  I  am  rarely  mis- 
taken. Having  had  about  forty  years' 
experience  of  a  desultory  kind,  I  have 
been  inclined  to  turn  editor  myself  as  a 
recreation  for  old  age. 

My  advice  to  young  contributors  who 
want  to  instruct  their  fellows  would  be  : 

1.  Be  sure  that  you  know  enough  to 
get  your  own  living  by  hard  work  before 
you  begin  to  write. 

2.  If  you  feel  an  impulse  to  instruct 
your   fellows,  be  sure    that   you    know 
your  subject  so  well  that  you  can  make 
it  clear  to  them. 

3.  Use  the  shortest  words,  but  don't 
try  to  be  literary  or  make  any  attempt 
at  style.     The  subject  makes  the  style  if 
you  know  it.    Set  up  one  William  Shake- 
speare as  your  model.     Omitting  proper 
names  and  geographical  expressions,  he 
averages  only  four  letters  to  a  word,  and 
is  unique  among  writers  in  using  more 
words  of  four  letters  each  than  of  three. 

I  AM  not  a  millionaire  myself.  I  am 
On  a  Certain  not  even  worried  by  the  pros- 
ginalitytn1  Pect  °^  having  eventually  to 
Millionaires.  face  ^e  millionaires'  respon- 
sibilities, but  I  do  not  fail,  as  I  hope,  to 
appreciate  their  good  points.  They  are, 
taken  as  a  whole,  unostentatious.  They 
are  indisputably  generous.  They  are 
eminently  patriotic.  But  not  even  their 
most  uncritical  admirers  can  deny  that 
they  are  sadly  deficient  in  originality. 
One  ought  perhaps  to  qualify  this  word 
of  disparagement.  In  the  game  of  Com- 
merce they  commonly  evince  an  appall- 
ing fertility  of  resource.  But  if  they 
showed  no  more  originality  in  making 
money  than  they  do  in  giving  it  away 
for  charitable  purposes  they  would  have 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


287 


remained  paupers  along  with  the  rest  of 
us.  In  their  philanthropic  essays  they 
follow  one  another  like  lost  sheep,  in  the 
same  beaten  track,  endlessly  endowing 
universities,  and  forever  founding  pub- 
lic libraries.  Their  imagination  seems 
atrophied  except  on  the  acquisitive  side. 
One  picks  up  the  Morning  Light  only  to 
read  that  Millionaire  A  has  given  two 
hundred  thousand,  to  build  a  biological 
laboratory.  One  glances  at  the  Evening 
Shade  only  to  find  that  Millionaire  B 
has  donated  another  million  for  a  school 
of  veterinary  surgery. 

The  benumbing  effect  of  riches  upon 
the  millionaire's  faculty  of  initiative  was 
illustrated  recently  in  striking  fashion  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Cecil  Rhodes.  Here  was 
a  man  who  had,  we  are  told,  a  genuine 
contempt  for  riches  merely  as  riches. 
His  imagination  blocked  out  the  map  of 
South  Africa  before  the  Muse  of  History 
had  dipped  her  pen  in  her  ink  bottle. 
His  possessions  lifted  him  beyond  "  the 
dreams  of  avarice."  Moreover,  he  cher- 
ished the  far-reaching  hope  of  "  work- 
ing "  his  fellow  beings  "  a  perpetual 
peace."  Surely  we  might  expect  as  the 
result  of  Mr.  Rhodes's  bequests  a  veri- 
table Jameson  raid  upon  the  anti-social 
foes  of  humanity.  What  does  he  en- 
join upon  his  trustees  ?  To  send  half 
a  hundred  American  boys  and  half  a 
dozen  German  youths  to  be  educated  at 
that  u  home  of  lost  causes,"  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford  !  Somehow  or  other,  be- 
nevolence seems  to  take  the  nerve  out  of 
the  millionaire.  Sooner  or  later  they  all 
reecho  Robert  Morris's  plaint,  —  "  Ex- 
perience hath  taught  me  to  be  cautious 
even  when  trying  to  do  good." 

Is  there,  then,  no  opportunity  for  ori- 
ginality or  noble  venturesomeness  in  the 
domain  of  philanthropy  ?  May  the  lover 
of  his  kind  never 

"  mount  to  Paradise 
By  the  stairway  of  Surprise  ?  " 

Are  colleges  and  libraries  and  hospitals 
and  missions  to  monopolize  the  business 
of  social  betterment  ?  Why  not  found 


an  independent  Theatre  or  an  incorrupt- 
ible Press?  If  the  popular  aesthetic 
sense  must  needs  be  cultivated,  why  not 
found  a  national  Anti-Landscape  Adver- 
tising League  ?  Are  none  of  the  ap- 
proaches to  Utopia  untried  ?  Why  not 
institute  a  propaganda  against  the  use 
of  patent  medicines  ?  They  are  said  on 
good  authority  to  absorb  more  money 
annually  than  the  national  drink  bill ; 
and  they  fail  to  give  even  the  momentary 
exhilaration  that  must  be  set  to  the  credit 
of  that  poor  creature,  small  beer. 

Indeed,  the  only  likely  capacity  for 
promising  social  experimentation  that 
any  millionaire  has  shown  of  late  is  Mr. 
Carnegie's  offer  to  pay  the  Philippine 
solatium  of  twenty  millions  for  the  privi- 
lege of  assuring  the  Filipinos  that  they 
should  be  free.  Mr.  Carnegie  is  on  the 
right  track.  The  big  profits  from  altru- 
istic investments  are  coming  only  to 
those  who  take  big  risks,  not  to  those  who 
are  content  with  such  Savings  Bank  in- 
terest as  the  orphan's  gratitude  or  the 
widow's  prayers. 

If  all  this  be  insufficient  to  move  the 
phlegmatic  millionaire  philanthropists, 
let  them  reflect  upon  the  history  of  be- 
nevolent and  educational  foundations. 
How  many  of  these  foundations  have 
outlived  a  century  ?  Did  the  French 
Revolution  spare  the  pious  donations 
of  ecclesiastical  patrons  ?  How  many 
millions  of  pounds  have  been  given  to 
benefices  in  England,  and  yet  how  many 
donors  have  thereby  won  themselves  an 
everlasting  name  ?  Who  besides  Wil- 
liam of  Wykeham  ?  Moth  may  fret  and 
rust  ruin,  but  the  ravages  of  Confis- 
cation are  greater  than  all.  Will  our 
friends,  the  Socialists,  if  once  they  get 
into  the  saddle,  hesitate  to  confiscate 
wealth  because  it  is  in  the  hands  of  uni- 
versities, or  in  the  trust  funds  of  public 
libraries  ? 

The  moral  of  all  this  is,  my  dear  mil- 
lionaires, that  Fame  is  difficult  to  se- 
cure and  harder  to  perpetuate  ;  and  that 
Fame  builded  on  the  lines  of  conventional 


288 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


benevolence  cannot  be  said  to  be  peren- 
nius  cere. 

IT  has  been  paradoxically  affirmed 
In  Memo-  that  "  no  man  who  deserves  a 
riam.  monument  ever  ought  to  have 

one, "  which  is  a  puzzling  way  of  saying 
that  the  deserving  man  has  one  already, 
erected  by  his  genius,  his  originality, 
or  his  philanthropy,  and  that,  in  view 
of  this,  his  friends  and  countrymen 
may  well  refrain  from  setting  up  a  petty 
marble  slab  in  memory  of  the  departed. 

What  is  more  sadly  comic  or  incon- 
gruous than  the  imposing  medley  of 
stone  and  marble  in  a  great  cemetery? 
The  towering  columns  loom  over  the 
resting  places  of  such  small  citizens. 
The  "dove  of  peace"  alights  where  it 
would  never  have  brooded  of  its  free 
will.  The  guardian  angel  bends  over 
the  vixen's  tomb,  while  mediocre  bits 
of  slate  denote  the  graves  of  many 
saintly  and  gifted  pilgrims. 

Yet  it  is  best  to  pause  before  one  at- 
tempts to  criticise  the  apparent  incon- 
sistency and  incongruity  and  strange 
misrepresentation  spread  out  before 
him.  Well  is  it  to  reflect  that  these 
same  monuments  are  not  the  emblems 
of  the  departed,  but  the  insignia  of  the 
living. 

These  awkward  blocks  and  heathen 
urns  and  dreadful  graven  images  are 
the  expression  of  living  human  hearts. 
This  mournful  medley  of  badly  sculp- 
tured marbles  is  but  their  pitiful  en- 
deavor to  render  final  tribute  to  their 
beloved  ones,  and  to  insure  perpetual 
remembrance  of  names  and  dates  that 
mean  so  much  to  them. 

The  monuments  have  naught  to  do 
with  those  that  rest  beneath  them ;  they 
speak  not  of  the  travelers  gone,  but  of 
those  left  behind.  These  blocks  and 
columns  belong  not  to  the  city  of  the 
dead,  but  are  the  property  of  living  ar- 


chitects. They  tell  us  naught  of  the 
departed,  but  merely  something  of  their 
friends.  Have  they  good  taste  ?  Much 
money?  Are  they  pretentious,  or  sen- 
timental ? 

So  with  the  epitaphs.  We  read  them 
and  take  note  that  the  remaining  rela- 
tives were  fond  of  scriptural  quotations, 
or  poetry.  This  composition  was  done 
to  show  the  rhymer's  skill  rather  than 
to  set  forth  the  merits  of  the  dead. 
These  sorrowing  friends  doted  on  deco- 
rative scrolls,  those,  upon  ornamental 
lettering.  The  owner  of  this  lot  does 
not  forget  to  bring  his  individual  offer- 
ing of  potted  plants,  while  the  proprie- 
tor of  that  grand  iron-fenced  inclosure 
leaves  the  selection  of  flowers  to  the 
gardener. 

Let  him  who  gazes  at  the  innumer- 
able monuments  of  stone  and  marble 
fail  to  exclaim,  "  Behold  the  city  of  the 
dead !  "  Rather  let  him  muse  on  this 
curious  description  of  the  surviving 
multitude.  This  inartistic  and  conglom- 
erate mass  of  ugly  slabs  voices  their 
sentiment  and  pictures  them  alone. 

These  are  their  crude  and  primitive 
devices.  Some  day  perchance  they  will 
look  back  upon  it  all  and  wonder. 

The  city  of  the  dead  lies  all  below 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  wrapped  in  the 
tender  folds  of  nature's  burial  shroud. 
Over  this  peaceful  vale  mother  earth 
spreads  a  delicate  green  verdure.  Wild 
roses  waft  their  fragrance  upon  the  gen- 
tle breezes.  Up  from  stout  hearts  spring 
sturdy  oaks  and  splendid  pines.  The 
weeping  willows  droop  over  the  gentle 
sleepers,  and  maples,  birches,  and  as- 
pens murmur  their  soothing  lullabies 
above  the  weary  and  the  heavy  laden. 
Life  more  abundant  and  more  beautiful 
everywhere  thrills  and  has  its  being. 
This  is  the  city  of  the  dead  that^are 
not  dead,  but  have  awakened. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
iftaga?ine  of  literature^,  ^cience^  art,  anD 

VOL.  XC.—  SEPTEMBER,  1902.  — No.  D XXXIX. 


OF  THE  TRAINING  OF  BLACK  MEN. 


FROM  the  shimmering  swirl  of  waters 
where  many,  many  thoughts  ago  the 
slave-ship  first  saw  the  square  tower  of 
Jamestown  have  flowed  down  to  our  day 
three  streams  of  thinking :  one  from  the 
larger  world  here  and  over-seas,  saying, 
the  multiplying  of  human  wants  in  cul- 
ture lands  calls  for  the  world-wide  co- 
operation of  men  in  satisfying  them. 
Hence  arises  a  new  human  unity,  pull- 
ing the  ends  of  earth  nearer,  and  all 
men,  black,  yellow,  and  white.  The 
larger  humanity  strives  to  feel  in  this 
contact  of  living  nations  and  sleeping 
hordes  a  thrill  of  new  life  in  the  world, 
crying,  If  the  contact  of  Life  and 
Sleep  be  Death,  shame  on  such  Life. 
To  be  sure,  behind  this  thought  lurks 
the  afterthought  of  force  and  dominion, 
—  the  making  of  brown  men  to  delve 
when  the  temptation  of  beads  and  red 
calico  cloys. 

The  second  thought  streaming  from 
the  death-ship  and  the  curving  river  is 
the  thought  of  the  older  South :  the  sin- 
cere and  passionate  belief  that  some- 
where between  men  and  cattle  God  cre- 
ated a  tertium  quid,  and  called  it  a 
Negro,  —  a  clownish,  simple  creature, 
at  times  even  lovable  within  its  limita- 
tions, but  straitly  foreordained  to  walk 
within  the  Veil.  To  be  sure,  behind  the 
thought  lurks  the  afterthought,  —  some 
of  them  with  favoring  chance  might 
become  men,  but  in  sheer  self-defense 
we  dare  not  let  them,  and  build  about 
them  walls  so  high,  and  hang  between 
them  and  the  light  a  veil  so  thick,  that 


they  shall  not  even  think  of  breaking 
through. 

And  last  of  all  there  trickles  down 
that  third  and  darker  thought,  the 
thought  of  the  things  themselves,  the 
confused  half-conscious  mutter  of  men 
who  are  black  and  whitened,  crying  Lib- 
erty, Freedom,  Opportunity  —  vouch- 
safe to  us,  O  boastful  World,  the  chance 
of  living  men !  To  be  sure,  behind  the 
thought  lurks  the  afterthought:  sup- 
pose, after  all,  the  World  is  right  and 
we  are  less  than  men?  Suppose  this 
mad  impulse  within  is  all  wrong,  some 
mock  mirage  from  the  untrue  ? 

So  here  we  stand  among  thoughts  of 
human  unity,  even  through  conquest  and 
slavery;  the  inferiority  of  black  men, 
even  if  forced  by  fraud ;  a  shriek  in  the 
night  for  the  freedom  of  men  who  them- 
selves are  not  yet  sure  of  their  right 
to  demand  it.  This  is  the  tangle  of 
thought  and  afterthought  wherein  we 
are  called  to  solve  the  problem  of  train- 
ing men  for  life. 

Behind  all  its  curiousness,  so  attrac- 
tive alike  to  sage  and  dilettante,  lie  its 
dim  dangers,  throwing  across  us  shad- 
ows at  once  grotesque  and  awful.  Plain 
it  is  to  us  that  what  the  world  seeks 
through  desert  and  wild  we  have  with- 
in our  threshold,  —  a  stalwart  laboring 
force,  suited  to  the  semi-tropics;  if, 
deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  Zeitgeist,  we 
refuse  to  use  and  develop  these  men, 
we  risk  poverty  and  loss.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  seized  by  the  brutal  after- 
thought, we  debauch  the  race  thus  caught 


290 


Of  the  Training  of  Black  Men. 


in  our  talons,  selfishly  sucking  their 
blood  and  brains  in  the  future  as  in  the 
past,  what  shall  save  us  from  national 
decadence  ?  Only  that  saner  selfishness 
which,  Education  teaches  men,  can  find 
the  rights  of  all  in  the  whirl  of  work. 

Again,  we  may  decry  the  color  pre- 
judice of  the  South,  yet  it  remains  a 
heavy  fact.  Such  curious  kinks  of  the 
human  mind  exist  and  must  be  reckoned 
with  soberly.  They  cannot  be  laughed 
away,  nor  always  successfully  stormed 
at,  nor  easily  abolished  by  act  of  legis- 
lature. And  yet  they  cannot  be  encour- 
aged by  being  let  alone.  They  must 
be  recognized  as  facts,  but  unpleasant 
facts ;  things  that  stand  in  the  way  of 
civilization  and  religion  and  common 
decency.  They  can  be  met  in  but  one 
way :  by  the  breadth  and  broadening  of 
human  reason,  by  catholicity  of  taste 
and  culture.  And  so,  too,  the  native 
ambition  and  aspiration  of  men,  even 
though  they  be  black,  backward,  and  un- 
graceful, must  not  lightly  be  dealt  with. 
To  stimulate  wildly  weak  and  untrained 
minds  is  to  play  with  mighty  fires ;  to 
flout  their  striving  idly  is  to  welcome 
a  harvest  of  brutish  crime  and  shameless 
lethargy  in  our  very  laps.  The  guid- 
ing of  thought  and  the  deft  coordination 
of  deed  is  at  once  the  path  of  honor  and 
humanity. 

And  so,  in  this  great  question  of  re- 
conciling three  vast  and  partially  con- 
tradictory streams  of  thought,  the  one 
panacea  of  Education  leaps  to  the  lips 
of  all :  such  human  training  as  will  best 
use  the  labor  of  all  men  without  enslav- 
ing or  brutalizing ;  such  training  as  will 
give  us  poise  to  encourage  the  prejudices 
that  bulwark  society,  and  stamp  out 
those  that  in  sheer  barbarity  deafen  us 
to  the  wail  of  prisoned  souls  within  the 
Veil,  and  the  mounting  fury  of  shackled 
men. 

But  when  we  have  vaguely  said  Edu- 
cation will  set  this  tangle  straight,  what 
have  we  uttered  but  a  truism  ?  Train- 
ing for  life  teaches  living;  but  what 
training  for  the  profitable  living  to- 


gether of  black  men  and  white  ?  Two 
hundred  years  ago  our  task  would  have 
seemed  easier.  Then  Dr.  Johnson 
blandly  assured  us  that  education  was 
needful  solely  for  the  embellishments  of 
life,  and  was  useless  for  ordinary  ver- 
min. To-day  we  have  climbed  to  heights 
where  we  would  open  at  least  the  outer 
courts  of  knowledge  to  all,  display  its 
treasures  to  many,  and  select  the  few 
to  whom  its  mystery  of  Truth  is  re- 
vealed, not  wholly  by  truth  or  the  ac- 
cidents of  the  stock  market,  but  at  least 
in  part  according  to  deftness  and  aim, 
talent  and  character.  This  programme, 
however,  we  are  sorely  puzzled  in  car- 
rying out  through  that  part  of  the  land 
where  the  blight  of  slavery  fell  hardest, 
and  where  we  are  dealing  with  two 
backward  peoples.  To  make  here  in 
human  education  that  ever  necessary 
combination  of  the  permanent  and  the 
contingent  —  of  the  ideal  and  the  prac- 
tical in  workable  equilibrium  —  has 
been  there,  as  it  ever  must  in  every  age 
and  place,  a  matter  of  infinite  experi- 
ment and  frequent  mistakes. 

In  rough  approximation  we  may  point 
out  four  varying  decades  of  work  in 
Southern  education  since  the  Civil  War. 
From  the  close  of  the  war  until  1876 
was  the  period  of  uncertain  groping  and 
temporary  relief.  There  were  army 
schools,  mission  schools,  and  schools  of 
the  Freedman's  Bureau  in  chaotic  dis- 
arrangement, seeking  system  and  coop- 
eration. Then  followed  ten  years  of 
constructive  definite  effort  toward  the 
building  of  complete  school  systems  in 
the  South.  Normal  schools  and  colleges 
were  founded  for  the  freedmen,  and 
teachers  trained  there  to  man  the  pub- 
lic schools.  There  was  the  inevitable 
tendency  of  war  to  underestimate  the 
prejudices  of  the  master  and  the  igno- 
rance of  the  slave,  and  all  seemed  clear 
sailing  out  of  the  wreckage  of  the  storm. 
Meantime,  starting  in  this  decade  yet 
especially  developing  from  1885  to 
1895,  began  the  industrial  revolution 
of  the  South.  The  land  saw  glimpses 


Of  the   Training  of  Black  Men. 


291 


of  a  new  destiny  and  the  stirring  of  new 
ideals.  The  educational  system  striv- 
ing to  complete  itself  saw  new  obstacles 
and  a  field  of  work  ever  broader  and 
deeper.  The  Negro  colleges,  hurriedly 
founded,  were  inadequately  equipped, 
illogically  distributed,  and  of  varying 
efficiency  ana  grade ;  the  normal  and 
high  schools  were  doing  little  more  than 
common  school  work,  and  the  common 
schools  were  training  but  a  third  of  the 
children  who  ought  to  be  in  them,  and 
training  these  too  often  poorly.  At 
the  same  time  the  white  South,  by  rea- 
son of  its  sudden  conversion  from  the 
slavery  ideal,  by  so  much  the  more 
became  set  and  strengthened  in  its  ra- 
cial prejudice,  and  crystallized  it  into 
harsh  law  and  harsher  custom;  while 
the  marvelous  pushing  forward  of  the 
poor  white  daily  threatened  to  take  even 
bread  and  butter  from  the  mouths  of 
the  heavily  handicapped  sons  of  the 
freedmen.  In  the  midst,  then,  of  the 
larger  problem  of  Negro  education 
sprang  up  the  more  practical  question 
of  work,  the  inevitable  economic  quan- 
dary that  faces  a  people  in  the  transi- 
tion from  slavery  to  freedom,  and  espe- 
cially those  who  make  that  change  amid 
hate  and  prejudice,  lawlessness  and 
ruthless  competition. 

The  industrial  school  springing  to  no- 
tice in  this  decade,  but  coming  to  full 
recognition  in  the  decade  beginning  with 
1895,  was  the  proffered  answer  to  this 
combined  educational  and  economic  cri- 
sis, and  an  answer  of  singular  wisdom 
and  timeliness.  From  the  very  first  in 
nearly  all  the  schools  some  attention  had 
been  given  to  training  in  handiwork, 
but  now  was  this  training  first  raised  to 
a  dignity  that  brought  it  in  direct  touch 
with  the  South' s  magnificent  industrial 
development,  and  given  an  emphasis 
which  reminded  black  folk  that  before 
the  Temple  of  Knowledge  swing  the 
Gates  of  Toil. 

Yet  after  all  they  are  but  gates,  and 
when  turning  our  eyes  from  the  tempo- 
rary and  the  contingent  in  the  Negro 


problem  to  the  broader  question  of  the 
permanent  uplifting  and  civilization  of 
black  men  in  America,  we  have  a  right 
to  inquire,  as  this  enthusiasm  for  mate- 
rial advancement  mounts  to  its  height, 
if  after  all  the  industrial  school  is  the 
final  and  sufficient  answer  in  the  train- 
ing of  the  Negro  race ;  and  to  ask  gen- 
tly, but  in  all  sincerity,  the  ever  recur- 
ring query  of  the  ages,  Is  not  life  more 
than  meat,  and  the  body  more  than  rai- 
ment? And  men  ask  this  to-day  all 
the  more  eagerly  because  of  sinister 
signs  in  recent  educational  movements. 
The  tendency  is  here,  born  of  slavery  and 
quickened  to  renewed  life  by  the  crazy 
imperialism  of  the  day,  to  regard  human 
beings  as  among  the  material  resources 
of  a  land  to  be  trained  with  an  eye  sin- 
gle to  future  dividends.  Race  preju- 
dices, which  keep  brown  and  black  men 
in  their  "places,"  we  are  coming  to  re- 
gard as  useful  allies  with  such  a  theory, 
no  matter  how  much  they  may  dull  the 
ambition  and  sicken  the  hearts  of  strug- 
gling human  beings.  And  above  all,  we 
daily  hear  that  an  education  that  en- 
courages aspiration,  that  sets  the  lofti- 
est of  ideals  and  seeks  as  an  end  culture 
and  character  rather  than  bread-win- 
ning, is  the  privilege  of  white  men  and 
the  danger  and  delusion  of  black. 

Especially  has  criticism  been  directed 
against  the  former  educational  efforts 
to  aid  the  Negro.  In  the  four  periods 
I  have  mentioned,  we  find  first,  bound- 
less, planless  enthusiasm  and  sacrifice; 
then  the  preparation  of  teachers  for  a 
vast  public  school  system;  then  the 
launching  and  expansion  of  that  school 
system  amid  increasing  difficulties ;  and 
finally  the  training  of  workmen  for  the 
new  and  growing  industries.  This  de- 
velopment has  been  sharply  ridiculed  as 
a  logical  anomaly  and  flat  reversal  of 
nature.  Soothly  we  have  been  told  that 
first  industrial  and  manual  training 
should  have  taught  the  Negro  to  work, 
then  simple  schools  should  have  taught 
him  to  read  and  write,  and  finally,  af- 
ter years,  high  and  normal  schools  could 


292 


Of  the  Training  of  Black  Men. 


have  completed  the  system,  as  intelli- 
gence and  wealth  demanded. 

That  a  system  logically  so  complete 
was  historically  impossible,  it  needs  but 
a  little  thought  to  prove.  Progress  in 
human  affairs  is  more  often  a  pull  than 
a  push,  surging  forward  of  the  excep- 
tional man,  and  the  lifting  of  his  duller 
brethren  slowly  and  painfully  to  his  van- 
tage ground.  Thus  it  was  no  accident 
that  gave  birth  to  universities  centuries 
before  the  common  schools,  that  made 
fair  Harvard  the  first  flower  of  our  wil- 
derness. So  in  the  South :  the  mass  of 
the  freedmen  at  the  end  of  the  war 
lacked  the  intelligence  so  necessary  to 
modern  workingmen.  They  must  first 
have  the  common  school  to  teach  them 
to  read,  write,  and  cipher.  The  white 
teachers  who  flocked  South  went  to  es- 
tablish such  a  common  school  system. 
They  had  no  idea  of  founding  colleges ; 
they  themselves  at  first  would  have 
laughed  at  the  idea.  But  they  faced, 
as  all  men  since  them  have  faced,  that 
central  paradox  of  the  South,  the  so- 
cial separation  of  the  races.  Then  it 
was  the  sudden  volcanic  rupture  of  near- 
ly all  relations  between  black  and  white, 
in  work  and  government  and  family 
life.  Since  then  a  new  adjustment  of 
relations  in  economic  and  political  af- 
fairs has  grown  up  —  an  adjustment 
subtle  and  difficult  to  grasp,  yet  singu- 
larly ingenious,  which  leaves  still  that 
frightful  chasm  at  the  color  line  across 
which  men  pass  at  their  peril.  Thus, 
then  and  now,  there  stand  in  the  South 
two  separate  worlds ;  and  separate  not 
simply  in  the  higher  realms  of  social  in- 
tercourse, but  also  in  church  and  school, 
on  railway  and  street  car,  in  hotels  and 
theatres,  in  streets  and  city  sections,  in 
books  and  newspapers,  in  asylums  and 
jails,  in  hospitals  and  graveyards.  There 
is  still  enough  of  contact  for  large  eco- 
nomic and  group  cooperation,  but  the 
separation  is  so  thorough  and  deep,  that 
it  absolutely  precludes  for  the  present 
between  the  races  anything  like  that 
sympathetic  and  effective  group  train- 


ing and  leadership  of  the  one  by  the 
other,  such  as  the  American  Negro  and 
all  backward  peoples  must  have  for  ef- 
fectual progress. 

This  the  missionaries  of  '68  soon 
saw;  and  if  effective  industrial  and 
trade  schools  were  impractical  before 
the  establishment  of  a  common  school 
system,  just  as  certainly  no  adequate 
common  schools  could  be  founded  until 
there  were  teachers  to  teach  them. 
Southern  whites  would  not  teach  them ; 
Northern  whites  in  sufficient  numbers 
could  not  be  had.  If  the  Negro  was  to 
learn,  he  must  teach  himself,  and  the 
most  effective  help  that  could  be  given 
him  was  the  establishment  of  schools  to 
train  Negro  teachers.  This  conclusion 
was  slowly  but  surely  reached  by  every 
student  of  the  situation  until  simulta- 
neously, in  widely  separated  regions, 
without  consultation  or  systematic  plan, 
there  arose  a  series  of  institutions  de- 
signed to  furnish  teachers  for  the  un- 
taught. Above  the  sneers  of  critics  at 
the  obvious  defects  of  this  procedure 
must  ever  stand  its  one  crushing  re- 
joinder :  in  a  single  generation  they  put 
thirty  thousand  black  teachers  in  the 
South ;  they  wiped  out  the  illiteracy  of 
the  majority  of  the  black  people  of  the 
land,  and  they  made  Tuskegee  possible. 

Such  higher  training  schools  tended 
naturally  to  deepen  broader  develop- 
ment :  at  first  they  were  common  and 
grammar  schools,  then  some  became 
high  schools.  And  finally,  by  1900, 
some  thirty-four  had  one  year  or  more 
of  studies  of  college  grade.  This  de- 
velopment was  reached  with  different 
degrees  of  speed  in  different  institutions : 
Hampton  is  still  a  high  school,  while 
Fisk  University  started  her  college  in 
1871,  and  Spelman  Seminary  about 
1896.  In  all  cases  the  aim  was  iden- 
tical :  to  maintain  the  standards  of  the 
lower  training  by  giving  teachers  and 
leaders  the  best  practicable  training; 
and  above  all  to  furnish  the  black  world 
with  adequate  standards  of  human  cul- 
ture and  lofty  ideals  of  life.  It  was 


Of  the  Training  of  Black  Men. 


293 


not  enough  that  the  teachers  of  teach- 
ers should  be  trained  in  technical  nor- 
mal methods ;  they  must  also,  so  far  as 
possible,  be  broad-minded,  cultured  men 
and  women,  to  scatter  civilization  among 
a  people  whose  ignorance  was  not  sim- 
ply of  letters,  but  of  life  itself. 

It  can  thus  be  seen  that  the  work  of 
education  in  the  South  began  with  higher 
institutions  of  training,  which  threw  off 
as  their  foliage  common  schools,  and 
later  industrial  schools,  and  at  the  same 
time  strove  to  shoot  their  roots  ever 
deeper  toward  college  and  university 
training.  That  this  was  an  inevitable 
and  necessary  development,  sooner  or 
later,  goes  without  saying ;  but  there  has 
been,  and  still  is,  a  question  in  many 
minds  if  the  natural  growth  was  not 
forced,  and  if  the  higher  training  was 
not  either  overdone  or  done  with  cheap 
and  unsound  methods.  Among  white 
Southerners  this  feeling  is  widespread 
and  positive.  A  prominent  Southern 
journal  voiced  this  in  a  recent  editorial : 

"The  experiment  that  has  been  made 
to  give  the  colored  students  classical 
training  has  not  been  satisfactory.  Even 
though  many  were  able  to  pursue  the 
course,  most  of  them  did  so  in  a  parrot- 
like  way,  learning  what  was  taught,  but 
not  seeming  to  appropriate  the  truth  and 
import  of  their  instruction,  and  gradu- 
ating without  sensible  aim  or  valuable 
occupation  for  their  future.  The  whole 
scheme  has  proved  a  waste  of  time,  ef- 
forts, and  the  money  of  the  state." 

While  most  fair-minded  men  would 
recognize  this  as  extreme  and  over- 
drawn, still  without  doubt  many  are 
asking,  Are  there  a  sufficient  number  of 
Negroes  ready  for  college  training  to 
warrant  the  undertaking  ?  Are  not  too 
many  students  prematurely  forced  into 
this  work  ?  Does  it  not  have  the  effect 
of  dissatisfying  the  young  Negro  with 
his  environment?  And  do  these  grad- 
uates succeed  in  real  life  ?  Such  natural 
questions  cannot  be  evaded,  nor  on  the 
other  hand  must  a  nation  naturally 
skeptical  as  to  Negro  ability  assume  an 


unfavorable  answer  without  careful  in- 
quiry and  patient  openness  to  convic- 
tion. We  must  not  forget  that  most 
Americans  answer  all  queries  regarding 
the  Negro  a  priori,  and  that  the  least 
that  human  courtesy  can  do  is  to  listen 
to  evidence. 

The  advocates  of  the  higher  educa- 
tion of  the  Negro  would  be  the  last  to 
deny  the  incompleteness  and  glaring  de- 
fects of  the  present  system :  too  many 
institutions  have  attempted  to  do  col- 
lege work,  the  work  in  some  cases  has 
not  been  thoroughly  done,  and  quantity 
rather  than  quality  has  sometimes  been 
sought.  But  all  this  can  be  said  of 
higher  education  throughout  the  land : 
it  is  the  almost  inevitable  incident  of 
educational  growth,  and  leaves  the 
deeper  question  of  the  legitimate  de- 
mand for  the  higher  training  of  Negroes 
untouched.  And  this  latter  question 
can  be  settled  in  but  one  way  —  by  a 
first-hand  study  of  the  facts.  If  we 
leave  out  of  view  all  institutions  which 
have  not  actually  graduated  students 
from  a  course  higher  than  that  of  a  New 
England  high  school,  even  though  they 
be  called  colleges ;  if  then  we  take  the 
thirty-four  remaining  institutions,  we 
may  clear  up  many  misapprehensions  by 
asking  searchingly,  What  kind  of  insti- 
tutions are  they,  what  do  they  teach,  and 
what  sort  of  men  do  they  graduate? 

And  first  we  may  say  that  this  type 
of  college,  including  Atlanta,  Fisk  and 
Howard,  Wilberf  orce  and  Lincoln,  Bid- 
die,  Shaw,  and  the  rest,  is  peculiar,  al- 
most unique.  Through  the  shining  trees 
that  whisper  before  me  as  I  write,  I 
catch  glimpses  of  a  boulder  of  New  Eng- 
land granite,  covering  a  grave,  which 
graduates  of  Atlanta  University  have 
placed  there :  — 

"  IN  GRATEFUL  MEMORY  OF  THEIR 
FORMER  TEACHER  AND  FRIEND 
AND  OF  THE  UNSELFISH  LIFE  HE 

LIVED,  AND  THE  NOBLE  WORK  HE 
WROUGHT;  THAT  THEY,  THEIR 
CHILDREN,  AND  THEIR  CHIL- 
DREN'S CHILDREN  MIGHT  BB 

BLESSED." 


294 


Of  the  Training  of  Black  Men. 


This  was  the  gift  of  New  England 
to  the  freed  Negro:  not  alms,  but  a 
friend ;  not  cash,  but  character.  It  was 
not  and  is  not  money  these  seething 
millions  want,  but  love  and  sympathy, 
the  pulse  of  hearts  beating  with  red 
blood ;  a  gift  which  to-day  only  their 
own  kindred  and  race  can  bring  to  the 
masses,  but  which  once  saintly  souls 
brought  to  their  favored  children  in  the 
crusade  of  the  sixties,  that  finest  thing 
in  American  history,  and  one  of  the  few 
things  untainted  by  sordid  greed  and 
cheap  vainglory.  The  teachers  in  these 
institutions  came  not  to  keep  the  Ne- 
groes in  their  place,  but  to  raise  them 
out  of  their  places  where  the  filth  of 
slavery  had  wallowed  them.  The  col- 
leges they  founded  were  social  settle- 
ments; homes  where  the  best  of  the 
sons  of  the  freedmen  came  in  close  and 
sympathetic  touch  with  the  best  tradi- 
tions of  New  England.  They  lived  and 
ate  together,  studied  and  worked,  hoped 
and  barkened  in  the  dawning  light. 
In  actual  formal  content  their  curricu- 
lum was  doubtless  old-fashioned,  but  in 
educational  power  it  was  supreme,  for 
it  was  the  contact  of  living  souls. 

From  such  schools  about  two  thou- 
sand Negroes  have  gone  forth  with  the 
bachelor's  degree.  The  number  in  it- 
self is  enough  to  put  at  rest  the  argu- 
ment that  too  large  a  proportion  of  Ne- 
groes are  receiving  higher  training.  If 
the  ratio  to  population  of  all  Negro 
students  throughout  the  land,  in  both 
college  and  secondary  training,  be  count- 
ed, Commissioner  Harris  assures  us  "it 
must  be  increased  to  five  times  its  pre- 
sent average  "  to  equal  the  average  of 
the  land. 

Fifty  years  ago  the  ability  of  Negro 
students  in  any  appreciable  numbers  to 
master  a  modern  college  course  would 
have  been  difficult  to  prove.  To-day 
it  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  four  hun- 
dred Negroes,  many  of  whom  have  been 
reported  as  brilliant  students,  have  re- 
ceived the  bachelor's  degree  from  Har- 
vard, Yale,  Oberlin,  and  seventy  other 


leading  colleges.  Here  we  have,  then, 
nearly  twenty-five  hundred  Negro  grad- 
uates, of  whom  the  crucial  query  must 
be  made,  How  far  did  their  training 
fit  them  for  life  ?  It  is  of  course  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  collect  satisfactory 
data  on  such  a  point,  —  difficult  to  reach 
the  men,  to  get  trustworthy  testimo- 
ny, and  to  gauge  that  testimony  by  any 
generally  acceptable  criterion  of  suc- 
cess. In  1900,  the  Conference  at  Atlan- 
ta University  undertook  to  study  these 
graduates,  and  published  the  results. 
First  they  sought  to  know  what  these 
graduates  were  doing,  and  succeeded  in 
getting  answers  from  nearly  two  thirds 
of  the  living.  The  direct  testimony  was 
in  almost  all  cases  corroborated  by  the 
reports  of  the  colleges  where  they  grad- 
uated, so  that  in  the  main  the  reports 
were  worthy  of  credence.  Fifty-three 
per  cent  of  these  graduates  were  teach- 
ers, —  presidents  of  institutions,  heads 
of  normal  schools,  principals  of  city 
school  systems,  and  the  like.  Seven- 
teen per  cent  were  clergymen ;  another 
seventeen  per  cent  were  in  the  profes- 
sions, chiefly  as  physicians.  Over  six 
per  cent  were  merchants,  farmers,  and 
artisans,  and  four  per  cent  were  in  the 
government  civil  service.  Granting 
even  that  a  considerable  proportion  of 
the  third  unheard  from  are  unsuccess- 
ful, this  is  a  record  of  usefulness.  Per- 
sonally I  know  many  hundreds  of  these 
graduates,  and  have  corresponded  with 
more  than  a  thousand ;  through  others 
I  have  followed  carefully  the  life-work 
of  scores ;  I  have  taught  some  of  them 
and  some  of  the  pupils  whom  they  have 
taught,  lived  in  homes  which  they  have 
builded,  and  looked  at  life  through  their 
eyes.  Comparing  them  as  a  class  with 
my  fellow  students  in  New  England  and 
in  Europe,  I  cannot  hesitate  in  saying 
that  nowhere  have  I  met  men  and  wo- 
men with  a  broader  spirit  of  helpfulness, 
with  deeper  devotion  to  their  life-work, 
or  with  more  consecrated  determination 
to  succeed  in  the  face  of  bitter  difficul- 
ties than  among  Negro  college-bred  men. 


Of  the  Training  of  Black  Men. 


295 


They  have,  to  be  sure,  their  proportion 
of  ne'er-do-weels,  their  pedants  and  let- 
tered fools,  but  they  have  a  surprisingly 
small  proportion  of  them  ;  they  have  not 
that  culture  of  manner  which  we  instinc- 
tively associate  with  university  men, 
forgetting  that  in  reality  it  is  the  herit- 
age from  cultured  homes,  and  that  no 
people  a  generation  removed  from  slav- 
ery can  escape  a  certain  unpleasant  raw- 
ness and  gaucherie,  despite  the  best  of 
training. 

With  all  their  larger  vision  and  deep- 
er sensibility,  these  men  have  usually 
been  conservative,  careful  leaders .  They 
have  seldom  been  agitators,  have  with- 
stood the  temptation  to  head  the  mob, 
and  have  worked  steadily  and  faithfully 
in  a  thousand  communities  in  the  South. 
As  teachers  they  have  given  the  South 
a  commendable  system  of  city  schools 
and  large  numbers  of  private  normal 
schools  and  academies.  Colored  col- 
lege-bred men  have  worked  side  by  side 
with  white  college  graduates  at  Hamp- 
ton ;  almost  from  the  beginning  the 
backbone  of  Tuskegee's  teaching  force 
has  been  formed  of  graduates  from  Fisk 
and  Atlanta.  And  to-day  the  institute 
is  filled  with  college  graduates,  from  the 
energetic  wife  of  the  principal  down  to 
the  teacher  of  agriculture,  including 
nearly  half  of  the  executive  council  and 
a  majority  of  the  heads  of  departments. 
In  the  professions,  college  men  are 
slowly  but  surely  leavening  the  Negro 
church,  are  healing  and  preventing  the 
devastations  of  disease,  and  beginning  to 
furnish  legal  protection  for  the  liberty 
and  property  of  the  toiling  masses.  All 
this  is  needful  work.  Who  would  do 
it  if  Negroes  did  not  ?  How  could  Ne- 
groes do  it  if  they  were  not  trained  care- 
fully for  it  ?  If  white  people  need  col- 
leges to  furnish  teachers,  ministers, 
lawyers,  and  doctors,  do  black  people 
need  nothing  of  the  sort? 

If  it  be  true  that  there  are  an  appre- 
ciable number  of  Negro  youth  in  the  land 
capable  by  character  and  talent  to  re- 
ceive that  higher  training,  the  end  of 


which  is  culture,  and  if  the  two  and  a 
half  thousand  who  have  had  something 
of  this  training  in  the  past  have  in  the 
main  proved  themselves  useful  to  their 
race  and  generation,  the  question  then 
comes,  What  place  in  the  future  devel- 
opment of  the  South  ought  the  Negro 
college  and  college-bred  man  to  occupy  ? 
That  the  present  social  separation  and 
acute  race  sensitiveness  must  eventually 
yield  to  the  influences  of  culture  as  the 
South  grows  civilized  is  clear.  But 
such  transformation  calls  for  singular 
wisdom  and  patience.  If,  while  the 
healing  of  this  vast  sore  is  progressing, 
the  races  are  to  live  for  many  years  side 
by  side,  united  in  economic  effort,  obey- 
ing a  common  government,  sensitive  to 
mutual  thought  and  feeling,  yet  subtly 
and  silently  separate  in  many  matters 
of  deeper  human  intimacy  — -  if  this  un- 
usual and  dangerous  development  is  to 
progress  amid  peace  and  order,  mutual 
respect  and  growing  intelligence,  it  will 
call  for  social  surgery  at  once  the  deli- 
catest  and  nicest  in  modern  history.  It 
will  demand  broad-minded,  upright  men 
both  white  and  black,  and  in  its  final 
accomplishment  American  civilization 
will  triumph.  So  far  as  white  men  are 
concerned,  this  fact  is  to-day  being  re- 
cognized in  the  South,  and  a  happy  re- 
naissance of  university  education  seems 
imminent.  But  the  very  voices  that 
cry  Hail !  to  this  good  work  are,  strange 
to  relate,  largely  silent  or  antagonistic 
to  the  higher  education  of  the  Negro. 

Strange  to  relate !  for  this  is  certain, 
no  secure  civilization  can  be  built  in  the 
South  with  the  Negro  as  an  ignorant, 
turbulent  proletariat.  Suppose  we  seek 
to  remedy  this  by  making  them  laborers 
and  nothing  more :  they  are  not  fools, 
they  have  tasted  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 
and  they  will  not  cease  to  think,  will 
not  cease  attempting  to  read  the  riddle 
of  the  world.  By  taking  away  their 
best  equipped  teachers  and  leaders,  by 
slamming  the  door  of  opportunity  in  the 
faces  of  their  bolder  and  brighter  minds, 
will  you  make  them  satisfied  with  their 


296 


Of  the  Training  of  Slack  Men. 


lot?  or  will  you  not  rather  transfer 
their  leading  from  the  hands  of  men 
taught  to  think  to  the  hands  of  un- 
trained demagogues  ?  We  ought  not  to 
forget  that  despite  the  pressure  of  pov- 
erty, and  despite  the  active  discourage- 
ment and  even  ridicule  of  friends,  the 
demand  for  higher  training  steadily  in- 
creases among  Negro  youth :  there  were, 
in  the  years  from  1875  to  1880,  twenty- 
two  Negro  graduates  from  Northern  col- 
leges; from  1885  to  1890  there  were 
forty-three,  and  from  1895  to  1900, 
nearly  100  graduates.  From  Southern 
Negro  colleges  there  were,  in  the  same 
three  periods,  143,  413,  and  over  500 
graduates.  Here,  then,  is  the  plain 
thirst  for  training ;  by  refusing  to  give 
this  Talented  Tenth  the  key  to  know- 
ledge can  any  sane  man  imagine  that 
they  will  lightly  lay  aside  their  yearn- 
ing and  contentedly  become  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water  ? 

No.  The  dangerously  clear  logic  of 
the  Negro's  position  will  more  and  more 
loudly  assert  itself  in  that  day  when 
increasing  wealth  and  more  intricate 
social  organization  preclude  the  South 
from  being,  as  it  so  largely  is,  simply  an 
armed  camp  for  intimidating  black  folk. 
Such  waste  of  energy  cannot  be  spared 
if  the  South  is  to  catch  up  with  civiliza- 
tion. And  as  the  black  third  of  the  land 
grows  in  thrift  and  skill,  unless  skill- 
fully guided  in  its  larger  philosophy,  it 
must  more  and  more  brood  over  the  red 
past  and  the  creeping,  crooked  present, 
until  it  grasps  a  gospel  of  revolt  and  re- 
venge and  throws  its  new-found  energies 
athwart  the  current  of  advance.  Even 
to-day  the  masses  of  the  Negroes  see 
all  too  clearly  the  anomalies  of  their 
position  and  the  moral  crookedness  of 
yours.  You  may  marshal  strong  in- 
dictments against  them,  but  their  coun- 
ter-cries, lacking  though  they  be  in  for- 
mal logic,  have  burning  truths  within 
them  which  you  may  not  wholly  ignore, 
O  Southern  Gentlemen !  If  you  deplore 
their  presence  here,  they  ask,  Who 
brought  us  ?  When  you  shriek,  Deliver 


us  from  the  vision  of  intermarriage, 
they  answer,  that  legal  marriage  is  in- 
finitely better  than  systematic  concubi- 
nage and  prostitution.  And  if  in  just 
fury  you  accuse  their  vagabonds  of  vio- 
lating women,  they  also  in  fury  quite 
as  just  may  wail :  the  rape  which  your 
gentlemen  have  done  against  helpless 
black  women  in  defiance  of  your  own 
laws  is  written  on  the  foreheads  of  two 
millions  of  mulattoes,  and  written  in  in- 
effaceable blood.  And  finally,  when  you 
fasten  crime  upon  this  race  as  its  pecu- 
liar trait,  they  answer  that  slavery  was 
the  arch-crime,  and  lynching  and  law- 
lessness its  twin  abortion;  that  color 
and  race  are  not  crimes,  and  yet  they 
it  is  which  in  this  land  receive  most 
unceasing  condemnation,  North,  East, 
South,  and  West. 

I  will  not  say  such  arguments  are 
wholly  justified  —  I  will  not  insist  that 
there  is  no  other  side  to  the  shield ;  but 
I  do  say  that  of  the  nine  millions  of 
Negroes  in  this  nation,  there  is  scarcely 
one  out  of  the  cradle  to  whom  these 
arguments  do  not  daily  present  them- 
selves in  the  guise  of  terrible  truth.  I 
insist  that  the  question  of  the  future  is 
how  best  to  keep  these  millions  from 
brooding  over  the  wrongs  of  the  past  and 
the  difficulties  of  the  present,  so  that 
all  their  energies  may  be  bent  toward  a 
cheerful  striving  and  cooperation  with 
their  white  neighbors  toward  a  larger, 
juster,and  fuller  future.  That  one  wise 
method  of  doing  this  lies  in  the  closer 
knitting  of  the  Negro  to  the  great  indus- 
trial possibilities  of  the  South  is  a  great 
truth.  And  this  the  common  schools 
and  the  manual  training  and  trade 
schools  are  working  to  accomplish. 
But  these  alone  are  not  enough.  The 
foundations  of  knowledge  in  this  race, 
as  in  others,  must  be  sunk  deep  in  the 
college  and  university  if  we  would  build 
a  solid,  permanent  structure.  Internal 
problems  of  social  advance  must  inevi- 
tably come,  — problems  of  work  and 
wages,  of  families  and  homes,  of  mor- 
als and  the  true  valuing  of  the  things 


Of  the   Training  of  Black  Men. 


297 


of  life ;  and  all  these  and  other  inevi- 
table problems  of  civilization  the  Negro 
must  meet  and  solve  largely  for  himself, 
by  reason  of  his  isolation ;  and  can  there 
be  any  possible  solution  other  than  by 
study  and  thought  and  an  appeal  to  the 
rich  experience  of  the  past  ?  Is  there 
not,  with  such  a  group  and  in  such  a 
crisis,  infinitely  more  danger  to  be  ap- 
prehended from  half -trained  minds  and 
shallow  thinking  than  from  over-educa- 
tion and  over-refinement?  Surely  we 
have  wit  enough  to  found  a  Negro  col- 
lege so  manned  and  equipped  as  to  steer 
successfully  between  the  dilettante  and 
the  fool.  We  shall  hardly  induce  black 
men  to  believe  that  if  their  bellies  be 
full  it  matters  little  about  their  brains. 
They  already  dimly  perceive  that  the 
paths  of  peace  winding  between  honest 
toil  and  dignified  manhood  call  for  the 
guidance  of  skilled  thinkers,  the  loving, 
reverent  comradeship  between  the  black 
lowly  and  black  men  emancipated  by 
training  and  culture. 

The  function  of  the  Negro  college  t>hen 
is  clear :  it  must  maintain  the  standards 
of  popular  education,  it  must  seek  the 
social  regeneration  of  the  Negro,  and  it 
must  help  in  the  solution  of  problems 
of  race  contact  and  cooperation.  And 
finally,  beyond  all  this,  it  must  develop 
men.  Above  our  modern  socialism,  and 
out  of  the  worship  of  the  mass,  must 
persist  and  evolve  that  higher  individ- 
ualism which  the  centres  of  culture 
protect ;  there  must  come  a  loftier  re- 
spect for  the  sovereign  human  soul  that 
seeks  to  know  itself  and  the  world  about 


it ;  that  seeks  a  freedom  for  expansion 
and  self  -  development ;  that  will  love 
and  hate  and  labor  in  its  own  way,  un- 
trammeled  alike  by  old  and  new.  Such 
souls  aforetime  have  inspired  and  guid- 
ed worlds,  and  if  we  be  not  wholly  be- 
witched by  our  Rhine-gold,  they  shall 
again.  Herein  the  longing  ef  black  men 
must  have  respect:  the  rich  and  bitter 
depth  of  their  experience,  the  unknown 
treasures  of  their  inner  life,  the  strange 
rendings  of  nature  they  have  seen,  may 
give  the  world  new  points  of  view  and 
make  their  loving,  living,  and  doing  pre- 
cious to  all  human  hearts.  And  to  them- 
selves in  these  the  days  that  try  their 
souls  the  chance  to  soar  in  the  dim  blue 
air  above  the  smoke  is  to  their  finer 
spirits  boon  and  guerdon  for  what  they 
lose  on  earth  by  being  black. 

I  sit  with  Shakespeare  and  he  winces 
not.  Across  the  color  line  I  move  arm 
in  arm  with  Balzac  and  Dumas,  where 
smiling  men  and  welcoming  women  glide 
in  gilded  halls.  From  out  the  caves  of 
Evening  that  swing  between  the  strong- 
limbed  earth  and  the  tracery  of  the  stars, 
I  summon  Aristotle  and  Aurelius  and 
what  soul  I  will,  and  they  come  all  gra- 
ciously with  no  scorn  nor  condescension. 
So,  wed  with  Truth,  I  dwell  above  the 
Veil.  Is  this  the  life  you  grudge  us, 
0  knightly  America  ?  Is  this  the  life 
you  long  to  change  into  the  dull  red 
hideousness  of  Georgia?  Are  you  so 
afraid  lest  peering  from  this  high  Pis- 
gah,  between  Philistine  and  Amalekite, 
we  sight  the  Promised  Land? 

W.  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois. 


298 


The   White  Feather. 


THE  WHITE  FEATHER. 


THE   MAJOR  S    STORY. 


IN  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights  the 
vizier's  daughter,  Shahraza"d,  told  all 
the  stories ;  but  in  our  single  stance  the 
tales  were  told  by  five  men,  gathered 
round  the  hearthstone  of  a  New  Eng- 
land roadside  tavern,  in  which  they  had 
sought  shelter  from  a  blizzard  and  were 
snow-bound  for  the  night.  The  sleigh- 
ing party  thus  circumstanced  found 
themselves,  after  supper,  in  a  comfort- 
able sitting-room  with  a  blazing  fire  of 
hemlock  logs  in  front  of  them,  and  for 
lack  of  more  original  entertainment  fell 
to  story-telling.  Though  each  of  the 
five  narratives  which  then  took  shape  in 
the  firelight  had  its  own  proper  raison 
d'etre,  I  shall  reproduce  only  one  of 
them  here.  The  narrative  so  special- 
ized owes  its  consequence,  such  as  it  is, 
to  the  fact  that  the  narrator  —  nearly  a 
personal  stranger  to  me  —  was  obliged 
to  leave  it  in  a  manner  unfinished,  and 
that  I,  by  singular  chance,  was  able  to 
supply  what  might  be  called  the  sequel. 

This  story,  which  I  have  named  The 
White  Feather,  was  related  by  a  Mas- 
sachusetts veteran  of  the  Civil  War, 
who  had  left  one  arm  behind  him  on  the 
field  and  in  the  record  of  his  regiment 
a  reputation  for  great  bravery.  The 
Major,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  had 
received  a  military  education  at  a  pe- 
riod when  the  army  held  out  but  scant 
inducements,  and  had  turned  aside  from 
it  to  study  law.  At  the  beginning  of 
hostilities  in  '61  he  offered  his  services 
to  the  Federal  government,  and  was 

placed  upon  the  staff  of  General , 

with  the  rank  of  captain.  The  grade 
of  major  was  afterward  won  in  a  Massa- 
chusetts regiment.  Severely  wounded 
at  Spottsylvania  Court  House,  and  per- 
manently disabled,  he  resigned  his  com- 
mission, and,  after  a  long  invalidism, 
took  to  the  law  again. 


With  the  fullest  claim  to  the  later 
title  of  judge,  he  prefers  to  be  thought 
of  and  addressed  as  the  Major.  To- 
day, his  sinewy,  erect  figure  and  clear 
blue  eyes,  gentle  and  resolute  by  turns 
behind  their  abattis  of  gray  eyebrow, 
give  no  hint  of  his  threescore  years  and 
ten,  especially  when  he  is  speaking. 

"Some  men,"  began  the  Major,  set- 
ting his  half  emptied  tumbler  a  little 
farther  back  from  the  edge  of  the  table, 
"some  men  have  a  way  of  impressing 
us  at  sight  as  persons  of  indomitable 
will,  or  dauntless  courage,  or  sterling 
integrity  —  in  short,  as  embodiments 
of  this  or  that  latent  quality,  although 
they  may  have  given  no  evidence  what- 
ever of  possessing  the  particular  attri- 
bute in  question.  We  unhesitatingly 
assume  how  they  would  act  under  cer- 
tain imaginable  circumstances  and  con- 
ditions. A  gesture,  a  glance  of  the 
eye,  a  something  in  the  intonation  of 
the  voice,  hypnotizes  us,  and  we  at  once 
accept  as  real  what  may  be  only  a  fig- 
ment of  our  own  creating.  My  story, 
if  it 's  what  you  would  call  a  story, 
deals  incidentally  with  one  of  these  cu- 
rious prepossessions." 

The  Major  paused  a  moment,  and 
beat  a  soft  tattoo  with  two  fingers  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  as  if  he  were  wait- 
ing for  his  thoughts  to  fall  into  line. 

"At  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  Jeffer- 
son Kane  was  in  his  senior  year  at  West 
Point.  The  smoke  of  that  first  gun 
fired  in  Charleston  harbor  had  hardly 
blown  away  when  he  withdrew  from  the 
Academy  —  to  cast  his  lot,  it  was  sur- 
mised, with  that  of  his  native  state,  as 
many  another  Southron  in  like  circum- 
stances was  doing;  for  Kane  belonged 
to  an  old  Southland  family.  On  the 
contrary,  he  applied  for  service  in  the 


The    White  Feather. 


299 


army  of  the  North  —  in  the  then  nebu- 
lous Army  of  the  Potomac.  Men  of 
his  training  were  sorely  needed  at  the 
moment,  and  his  application  was  im- 
mediately granted. 

"Kane  was  commissioned  first  lieu- 
tenant and  provisionally  assigned  for 
duty  in  a  camp  of  instruction  somewhere 
in  Massachusetts,  at  Readville,  if  I  re- 
collect. There  he  remained  until  the 
early  part  of  '62,  doing  important  work, 
for  the  recruits  that  passed  through  his 
hands  came  out  finished  soldiers,  so  far 
as  drill  was  involved.  Then  Kane  was 
ordered  to  the  front,  and  there  I  fell  in 
with  him  —  a  tall,  slender  young  man, 
with  gray  eyes  and  black  hair,  which  he 
wore  rather  long,  unlike  the  rest  of  us, 
who  went  closely  cropped,  Zouave  fash- 
ion. I  ought  to  say  here  that  though 
I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  at  this  time, 
I  am  now  aware  that  the  impression  he 
produced  upon  me  was  somewhat  vague. 
His  taking  sides  with  the  North  pre- 
sumably gave  mortal  offense  to  his  fam- 
ily ;  but  he  never  talked  of  himself  or  of 
the  life  he  had  left  behind  him  in  the 
South.  Without  seeming  to  do  so,  he 
always  avoided  the  topic. 

"From  the  day  Kane  joined  our  regi- 
ment, which  formed  part  of  Stahl's 
brigade,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  young 
fellow  destined  to  distinguish  himself 
above  the  common.  It  was  no  ordinary 
regiment  into  which  he  had  drifted. 
Several  of  the  companies  comprising  it 
were  made  up  of  the  flower  of  New  Eng- 
land youth  —  college  seniors,  profes- 
sional men,  men  of  wealth  and  social 
rating.  But  Kane  was  singled  out  from 
the  throng,  and  stood  a  shining  figure. 

"I  cannot  quite  define  what  it  was 
that  inspired  this  instant  acceptance  of 
him.  Perhaps  it  was  a  blending  of  sev- 
eral things  —  his  judicial  coolness,  his 
soldierly  carriage,  the  quiet  skill  and 
tact  with  which  he  handled  men  drawn 
from  peaceful  pursuits  and  new  to  the 
constraints  of  discipline ;  men  who  a 
brief  space  before  were  persons  of  con- 
sideration in  their  respective  towns  and 


villages,  but  were  now  become  mere 
pawns  on  the  great  chessboard  of  war. 
At  times  they  had  to  be  handled  gin- 
gerly, for  even  a  pawn  will  turn. 
Kane's  ready  efficiency,  and  the  mod- 
esty of  it  —  the  modesty  that  always 
hitches  on  to  the  higher  gifts  —  natu- 
rally stimulated  confidence  in  him.  His 
magnetic  Southern  ways  drew  friends 
from  right  and  left.  Then  he  had  the 
prestige  of  the  West  Pointer.  But  al- 
lowing for  all  this,  it  is  not  wholly  clear 
what  it  was  that  made  him,  within  the 
space  of  a  month,  the  favorite  of  the 
entire  regiment  and  the  idol  of  Com- 
pany A,  his  own  company.  That  was 
the  position  he  attained  with  apparently 
no  effort  on  his  part.  Company  A 
would  have  died  for  him,  to  a  man. 
Among  themselves,  round  the  mess  ta- 
ble, they  didn't  hide  their  opinion  of 
Jeff  Kane,  or  their  views  on  the  situa- 
tion at  large.  The  chief  command  would 
have  been  his  could  the  question  have 
been  put  to  vote.  '  I  would  n't  like  to 
lose  the  kid  out  of  the  company, '  ob- 
served Sergeant  Berwick  one  day,  '  but 
it  would  be  a  blessed  good  thing  if  he 
could  change  shoulder  straps  with  the 
colonel.'" 

Here  the  Major  suddenly  remembered 
the  unfinished  Bourbon  and  Apollinaris 
in  his  glass  and  reached  out  for  it. 

"The  colonel  alluded  to,"  he  re- 
sumed, "was  a  colonel  of  politics,  and 
ought  to  have  stuck  to  his  glue  factory 
down  East.  In  those  days  we  had  a 
good  many  generals  and  colonels,  and 
things,  with  political  pulls.  I  think 
there  were  more  than  a  few  of  that  kid- 
ney in  our  recent  little  scrimmage  with 
Spain.  I  don't  believe  in  putting  pro- 
te'ge's  and  hangers-on  out  of  employment 
over  the  heads  of  men  who  have  been 
trained  to  the  profession  of  arms.  Some 
fine  day  we  '11  be  convinced  of  the  ex- 
pediency of  stowing  the  politicians.  We 
ought  to  have  a  National  Cold  Storage 
Warehouse  on  purpose.  But  that 's 
another  story,  as  our  friend  Kipling 
remarks  —  too  frequently." 


300 


The    White  Feather. 


The  Major  flicked  off  a  flake  of  cigar 
ash  from  the  looped-up  empty  sleeve 
that  constantly  gave  him  the  oratorical 
air  of  having  one  hand  thrust  into  his 
shirt-bosom,  and  went  on  with  his  nar- 
rative. 

"We  were  as  yet  on  only  the  outer 
edge  of  that  lurid  battle-summer  which 
no  man  who  lived  through  it,  and  still 
lives,  can  ever  forget.  Meanwhile  vast 
preparations  were  making  for  another 
attempt  upon  Richmond.  The  inertia 
of  camp-life  with  no  enemy  within  reach 
tells  on  the  nerves  after  a  while.  It 
appeared  to  be  telling  on  young  Kane's. 
Like  the  regiment,  which  hitherto  had 
done  nothing  but  garrison  duty  in  forts 
around  Washington,  he  had  seen  no  ac- 
tive service,  and  was  ready  for  it.  He 
was  champing  on  the  bits,  as  the  boys 
said.  His  impatience  impressed  his 
comrades,  in  whose  estimation  he  had 
long  since  become  a  hero  —  with  all  the 
heroism  purely  potential. 

"For  months  the  monotony  of  our 
existence  had  been  enlivened  only  by 
occasional  reconnaissances,  with  no  re- 
sult beyond  a  stray  minid  ball  now  and 
then  from  some  outlying  sharpshooter. 
So  there  was  widespread  enthusiasm, 
one  night,  when  the  report  came  in  that 
a  large  Confederate  force,  supposed  to 
be  Fitz-Hugh  Lee,  was  in  movement 
somewhere  on  our  left.  In  the  second 
report,  which  immediately  telescoped 
the  first,  this  large  force  dwindled  down 
to  a  small  squad  thrown  forward  — 
from  an  Alabama  regiment,  as  we  found 
out  later  —  to  establish  an  advanced 
picket  line.  A  portion  of  Company  A 
was  selected  to  look  into  the  move,  and 
dislodge  or  capture  the  post.  I  got 
leave  to  accompany  Lieutenant  Kane 
and  the  thirty-five  men  detailed  for 
duty. 

"We  started  from  camp  at  about 
four  o'clock  of  an  ugly  April  morning, 
with  just  enough  light  in  the  sky  to 
make  a  ghastly  outline  of  everything, 
and  a  wind  from  the  foothills  that 
pricked  like  needles.  Insignificant 


and  scarcely  noticed  details,  when  they 
chance  to  precede  some  startling  event, 
have  an  odd  fashion  of  storing  them- 
selves away  in  one's  memory.  It  all 
seems  like  something  that  happened 
yesterday,  that  tramp  through  a  land- 
scape that  would  have  done  credit  to  a 
nightmare  —  the  smell  of  the  earth  thick 
with  strange  flowering  shrubs ;  the  over- 
leaning  branches  that  dashed  handfuls 
of  wet  into  our  faces ;  the  squirrel  that 
barked  at  us  from  a  persimmon  tree, 
and  how  private  Duffy  raised  a  laugh 
by  singing  out,  '  Shut  up,  ye  young  re- 
bil!  '  and  brought  down  upon  himself 
a  curt  reprimand  from  Kane;  for  we 
were  then  beyond  our  own  lines,  and 
silence  was  wholesome.  The  gayety 
gradually  died  out  of  us  as  we  advanced 
into  the  terra  incognita  of  the  enemy, 
and  we  became  a  file  of  phantoms  steal- 
ing through  the  gloaming. 

"Owing  to  a  stretch  of  swamp  and 
a  small  stream  that  tried  to  head  us  off 
in  a  valley,  it  was  close  upon  sunrise 
when  we  reached  the  point  aimed  at. 
The  dawn  was  already  getting  in  its  pur- 
ple work  behind  the  mountain  ranges ; 
very  soon  the  daylight  would  betray  us 
—  and  we  had  planned  to  take  the  pick- 
et by  surprise.  For  five  or  ten  minutes 
the  plan  seemed  a  dead  failure;  but 
presently  we  saw  that  we  had  them. 
Our  approach  had  evidently  not  been 
discovered.  The  advantages  were  still 
in  our  favor,  in  spite  of  the  daybreak 
having  overtaken  us. 

"A  coil  of  wet-wood  smoke  rising 
above  the  treetops,  where  it  was  blown 
into  threads  by  the  wind,  showed  us  our 
nearness  to  the  enemy.  Their  exact 
position  was  ascertained  by  one  of  our 
scouts  who  crawled  through  the  under- 
brush and  got  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
the  unsuspecting  bivouac. 

"On  the  flattened  crest  of  a  little 
knoll,  shut  in  by  dwarf  cedars  and  with 
a  sharp  declivity  on  the  side  opposite 
us,  an  infantry  officer  and  twelve  or 
fifteen  men  were  preparing  to  breakfast. 
In  front  of  a  hut  built  of  boughs  and  at 


The    White  Feather. 


301 


some  distance  from  the  spot  where  the 
rifles  were  stacked,  a  group  in  half  un- 
dress was  sniffing  the  morning  air.  A 
sentinel,  with  his  gun  leaning  against 
a  stump,  was  drinking  something  out  of 
a  gourd  as  unconcernedly  as  thank  you. 
Such  lack  of  discipline  and  utter  disre- 
gard of  possible  danger  were  common 
enough  in  both  armies  in  the  early  days 
of  the  war.  'The  idea  of  burning  damp 
wood  on  a  warpath!  '  growled  the 
scout.  'If  them  tenderfoots  was  in  the 
Indian  country  their  scalps  would  n't 
be  on  their  empty  heads  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.' 

"We  did  n't  waste  a  moment  prepar- 
ing to  rush  the- little  post.  A  whispered 
order  was  passed  along  not  to  fire  before 
we  sprang  from  cover,  and  then  the  word 
would  be  given.  There  was  a  deathly 
stillness,  except  that  the  birds  began  to 
set  up  a  clatter,  as  they  always  do  at 
dawn.  I  remember  one  shrill  little 
cuss  that  seemed  for  all  the  world  to  be 
trying  to  sound  a  note  of  alarm.  We 
scarcely  dared  draw  breath  as  we  moved 
stealthily  forward  and  up  the  incline. 
The  attacking  party,  on  the  right,  was 
led  by  Kane  and  comprised  about  two 
thirds  of  the  detachment ;  the  remain- 
der was  to  be  held  in  reserve  under  me. 
The  row  of  cedars  hung  with  creeper 
hid  us  until  we  were  within  forty  or 
fifty  yards  of  the  encampment,  and  then 
the  assaulting  column  charged. 

"  What  happened  then  —  I  mean  the 
dark  and  fatal  thing  that  happened  — 
I  didn't  witness;  but  twenty  pairs  of 
eyes  witnessed  it,  and  a  score  of  tongues 
afterward  bore  testimony.  I  did  not 
see  Lieutenant  Kane  until  the  affair  was 
over. 

"  Though  the  Confederates  were  taken 
wholly  unawares,  the  first  shot  was  fired 
by  them,  for  just  as  our  men  came  into 
the  open  the  sentinel  chanced  to  pick 
up  his  musket.  A  scattering  volley  fol- 
lowed from  our  side,  and  a  dozen  gray 
figures,  seen  for  a  moment  scuttling  here 
and  there,  seemed  to  melt  into  the  smoke 
which  had  instantly  blotted  out  nearly 


everything.  When  the  air  cleared  a  lit- 
tle, Kane's  men  were  standing  around 
in  disorder  on  the  deserted  plateau.  A 
stack  of  arms  lay  sprawling  on  the  ground 
and  an  iron  kettle  of ^soup  or  coffee,  sus- 
pended from  a  wooden  tripod,  was  sim- 
mering over  the  blaze  of  newly  lighted 
fagots.  How  in  the  devil,  I  wondered, 
had  the  picket-guard  managed  to  slip 
through  their  hands  ?  What  had  gone 
wrong  ? 

"It  was  only  on  the  return  march 
that  I  was  told,  in  broken  words,  what 
had  taken  place.  Lieutenant  Kane  had 
botched  the  business  —  he  had  shown 
the  white  feather !  The  incredible  story 
took  only  a  few  words  in  the  telling. 

"  Kane  had  led  the  charge  with  seem- 
ing dash  and  valor,  far  in  advance  of 
the  boys,  but  when  the  Confederate  of- 
ficer, who  was  pluckily  covering  the 
flight  of  the  picket,  suddenly  wheeled 
and  with  sweeping  sabre  rushed  toward 
Kane,  the  West  Pointer  broke  his  stride, 
faltered,  and  squarely  fell  back  upon  the 
line  hurrying  up  the  slope  to  his  support. 
The  action  was  so  unexpected  and  amaz- 
ing that  the  men  came  to  a  dead  halt, 
as  if  they  had  been  paralyzed  in  their 
tracks,  and  two  priceless  minutes  were 
lost.  When  the  ranks  recovered  from 
their  stupor  not  a  gray  blouse  was  any- 
where to  be  seen,  save  that  of  the  sen- 
try lying  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  oak 
stump. 

"That  was  the  substance  of  the  hur- 
ried account  given  me  by  Sergeant  Ber- 
wick. It  explained  a  thing  which  had 
puzzled  me  not  a  little.  When  I  reached 
the  plateau  myself,  immediately  after 
the  occurrence  of  the  incident,  Kane's 
men  were  standing  there  indecisive,  each 
staring  into  his  comrade's  face  in  a  dazed 
manner.  Then  their  eyes  had  turned 
with  one  accord  upon  Lieutenant  Kane. 
That  combined  glance  was  as  swift,  pre- 
cise, and  relentless  as  a  volley  from  a 
platoon.  Kane  stood  confronting  them, 
erect,  a  trifle  flushed,  but  perfectly  cool, 
with  the  point  of  his  sabre  resting  on 
the  toe  of  one  boot.  He  could  n't  have 


302 


The    White  Feather. 


appeared  cooler  on  a  dress-parade. 
Something  odd  and  dramatic  in  the 
whole  situation  set  me  wondering.  The 
actors  in  the  scene  preserved  their  hes- 
itating attitude  for  only  twenty  seconds 
or  so,  and  then  the  living  picture  van- 
ished in  a  flash,  like  a  picture  thrown 
from  the  kinetoscope,  and  was  replaced 
by  another.  Kane  stepped  forward  two 
paces,  and  as  his  sword  cut  a  swift  half 
circle  in  the  air,  the  command  rang  out 
in  the  old  resonant,  bell-like  tones, 
4 Fall  in,  men!  '  I  shall  never  forget 
how  he  looked  every  inch  the  soldier  at 
that  moment.  But  they  —  they  knew ! 

"There  was  no  thought  of  pursuing 
the  escaped  picket  with  the  chances  of 
bringing  up  against  an  entire  regiment, 
probably  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. The  men  silently  formed  into 
line,  a  guard  was  detailed  to  protect  the 
rear  of  the  column,  and  we  began  our 
homeward  march. 

"  That  march  back  to  Camp  Blenker 
was  a  solemn  business.  Excepting  for 
the  fact  that  we  were  on  the  double- 
quick  and  the  drum  taps  were  lacking, 
it  might  have  been  a  burial.  Not  a  loud 
word  was  spoken  in  the  ranks,  but  there 
was  a  deal  of  vigorous  thinking.  I  no- 
ticed that  Second  Lieutenant  Rollins 
and  three  or  four  others  never  took 
their  eyes  off  of  Jefferson  Kane.  If 
he  had  made  a  motion  to  get  away,  I 
rather  fancy  it  would  have  gone  hard 
with  him. 

"  We  got  into  camp  on  schedule  time, 
and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  after- 
ward Jefferson  Kane's  name  was  burn- 
ing on  every  lip.  Marconi's  wireless 
telegraph  was  anticipated  that  forenoon 
in  Camp  Blenker.  On  a  hundred  in- 
tersecting currents  of  air  the  story  of 
the  lieutenant's  disgrace  sped  from  tent 
to  tent  throughout  the  brigade. 

"At  first  nobody  would  believe  it  — 
it  was  some  sell  the  boys  had  put  up. 
Then  the  truth  began  to  gain  ground ; 
incredulous  faces  grew  serious;  it  was 
a  grim  matter.  The  shadow  of  it  gath- 
ered and  hung  over  the  whole  encamp- 


ment. A  heavy  gloom  settled  down 
upon  the  members  of  Company  A,  for 
the  stigma  was  especially  theirs.  There 
were  a  few  who  would  not  admit  that 
their  lieutenant  had  been  guilty  of  cow- 
ardice, and  loyally  held  out  to  the  end. 
While  conceding  the  surface  facts  in  the 
case,  they  contended  that  the  lieutenant 
had  had  a  sudden  faint,  or  an  attack  of 
momentary  delirium.  Similar  instances 
were  recalled.  They  had  happened  time 
and  again.  Anybody  who  doubted  the 
boy's  pluck  was  an  idiot.  A  braver 
fellow  than  Jeff  Kane  never  buckled  a 
sword-belt.  That  vertigo  idea, however, 
did  n't  cut  much  ice,  as  you  youngsters 
of  to-day  would  phrase  it.  There  were 
men  who  did  not  hesitate  to  accuse 
Lieutenant  Kane  with  the  intention  of 
betraying  the  detachment  into  the  hands 
of  the  Confederates.  Possibly  he  did 
n't  start  out  with  that  purpose,  it  might 
have  occurred  to  him  on  the  spot;  the 
opportunity  had  suggested  it ;  if  there 
had  been  more  than  a  picket- guard  on 
hand  he  would  have  succeeded.  But 
the  dominant  opinion  was  summed  up 
by  Corporal  Simms :  *  He  just  showed 
the  white  feather,  and  that 's  all  there 
is  about  it.  He  didn't  mean  nothing, 
he  was  just  scared  silly.' 

"In  the  meantime  Kane  had  shut 
himself  in  his  tent  on  the  slant  of  a  hill, 
and  was  not  seen  again,  excepting  for 
half  a  moment  when  he  flung  back  the 
flap  and  looked  down  upon  the  parade 
ground  with  its  radiating  white-walled 
streets.  What  report  he  had  made 
of  the  expedition,  if  he  had  made  any 
report,  did  not  transpire.  Within  an 
hour  after  our  return  to  camp  a  signifi- 
cant meeting  of  the  captains  of  the  regi- 
ment had  been  convened  at  headquar- 
ters. Of  course  a  court-martial  was 
inevitable.  Though  Lieutenant  Kane 
had  not  as  yet  been  placed  under  actual 
arrest,  he  was  known  to  be  under  sur- 
veillance. At  noon  that  day,  just  as 
the  bugle  was  sounding,  Jefferson  Kane 
shot  himself. " 

The  Major  made  an  abrupt  gesture 


The    White  Feather. 


303 


with  his  one  hand,  as  if  to  brush  away 
the  shadow  of  the  tragedy. 

"That  was  over  forty  years  ago,"  he 
continued,  meditatively,  "but  the  prob- 
lem discussed  then  has  been  discussed 
at  odd  intervals  ever  since.  In  a  sort  of 
spectral  way,  the  dispute  has  outlasted 
nine  tenths  of  those  who  survived  the 
war.  Differences  of  opinion  hang  on 
like  old  pensioners  or  the  rheumatism. 
Whenever  four  or  five  graybeards  of  our 
regiment  get  together,  boring  one  an- 
other with  '  Don't  you  remember, '  the 
subject  is  pretty  sure  to  crop  up.  Some 
regard  Kane's  suicide  as  a  confession 
of  guilt,  others  as  corroborative  proof 
of  the  mental  derangement  which  first 
showed  itself  in  his  otherwise  inexpli- 
cable defailance  before  a  mere  handful 
of  the  enemy  —  a  West  Pointer !  So 
we  have  it,  hot  and  heavy,  over  a  man 
who  nearly  half  a  century  ago  ceased  to 
be  of  any  importance." 

"What  is  your  own  diagnosis  of  the 
case,  Major  ?  "  asked  young  Dr.  At- 
wood,  who  always  carried  the  shop  about 
with  him. 

"Personally,"  returned  the  Major, 
"I  acquit  Kane  of  disloyalty,  and  I 
don't  believe  that  he  was  exactly  a  cow- 
ard. He  had  n't  the  temperament. 
I  will  confess  that  I  'm  a  little  mixed. 
Sometimes  I  imagine  that  that  first 
glimpse  of  his  own  people  somehow  rat- 
tled him  for  an  instant,  and  the  thing 
was  done.  But  whether  that  man  was 
a  coward  or  a  traitor,  or  neither,  is  a 
question  which  has  never  definitely  been 
settled." 

"Major,"  I  said,  hesitating  a  little, 
"I  think  I  can,  in  a  way,  settle  it  — 
or,  at  least,  throw  some  light  upon  it." 

"You?" — and  the  Major  with  a 
half  amused  air  looked  up  at  me  from 
under  his  shaggy,  overhanging  eyebrows. 
"  Why,  you  were  not  born  when  all  this 
happened." 

"No,  I  was  not  born  then.  My 
knowledge  in  the  matter  is  something 


very  recent.  While  wintering  in  the 
South,  two  or  three  years  ago,  I  became 
acquainted,  rather  intimately  acquaint- 
ed, with  the  family  of  Jefferson  Kane 
—  that  is,  with  his  brother  and  sister." 

"So?" 

"  It  was  not  until  after  the  surrender 
of  Lee  that  Jefferson's  death  was  known 
as  a  certainty  to  his  family  —  the  man- 
ner of  it  is  probably  not  known  to  them 
to  this  hour.  Indeed,  I  am  positive  of 
it.  They  have  always  supposed  that  he 
died  on  the  field  or 'in  the  hospital." 

"  The  records  at  the  War  Department 
could  have  enlightened  them, "  said  the 
Major. 

"They  did  not  care  to  inquire.  He 
had  passed  out  of  their  lives;  his  de- 
fection never  was  forgiven.  The  Con- 
federate officer  before  whose  sword  Lieu- 
tenant Kane  recoiled  that  day  was  his 
father." 

"So!" 

"  Captain  Peyton  Kane  was  a  broken 
man  after  that  meeting.  He  never 
spoke  of  it  to  a  living  soul,  save  one  — 
his  wife,  and  to  her  but  once.  Captain 
Peyton  Kane  was  killed  in  the  second 
day's  battle  at  Gettysburg." 

My  words  were  followed  by  a  long 
silence.  The  room  was  so  still  that  we 
could  hear  the  soft  pelting  of  the  snow 
against  the  window-panes. 

Then  the  old  Major  slowly  rose  from 
the  chair  and  took  up  the  empty  glass 
beside  him,  not  noticing  that  it  was 
empty  until  he  had  lifted  it  part  way 
to  his  lips.  "Boys,"  he  said,  very 
gently,  "  only  blank  cartridges  are  fired 
over  soldiers'  graves.  Here  's  to  their 
memory  —  the  father  and  the  son !  " 

Other  stories,  mirthful  and  serious, 
were  told  later  on ;  but  the  Major  did 
not  speak  again.  He  sat  there  in  the 
dying  glow  of  the  firelight,  inattentive, 
seemingly  remote  in  an  atmosphere  of 
his  own,  brooding,  doubtless,  on 

"  Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago." 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


304 


When  I  Sleep.  —  The  Dove. 


WHEN   I    SLEEP. 

WHEN  I  sleep  I  do  not  know 
Where  my  soul  makes  haste  to  go 
Through  wide  spaces  faring  forth, 
To  the  South  or  to  the  North, 
Faring  East  or  faring  West, 
Or  on  what  mysterious  quest. 

When  I  sleep  my  sealed  eyes 
Ope  to  marvels   of  surprise! 
Buried  hopes  come  back  to  me, 
Long-lost  loves  again  I  see, 
Present,    past  and  future  seem 
But  as  one,   the  while  I  dream. 

When  I  sleep  I  wake  again, 
Wake  to  love  and  joy  and  pain; 
Wake  with  quickened  sense  to  share 
Earth's  beatitude  of  prayer; 
Wake  to  know  that  night  is  done 
And  a  new,   glad  day  begun! 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 


THE    DOVE. 

O  BIRD  that  seems 't  in  solitude 
O'er  tearful  memories  to  brood 

What  sorrow  hast  thou  known? 
Or  is  thy  voice  an  oracle 
Interpreting  the  souls  that  tell 

No  vision  of  their  own? 

Thy  life,    alas,    is  loneliness 
Wherein,    with  shadowy  caress, 

Soft  preludings  of  pain 
Tell  that  some  captive  of  the  heart 
Is  preening,   ready  to  depart 

And  ne'er  to  come  again. 

John  B. 


Tabb. 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


305 


MEMORIES   OF  A   HOSPITAL  MATRON. 


IN  TWO  PARTS.      PART  ONE. 


WHEN  the  war  broke  out,  we  were 
living  in  Fairfax  County,  Virginia.  We 
boasted  of  fifteen  families  of  "  cousins  " 
with  whom  we  were  in  constant  and  most 
affectionate  intercourse.  This  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Episcopal  Theological 
Seminary  of  Virginia  is  renowned  for  its 
delightful  society.  Besides  our  kinsfolk, 
we  had  as  neighbors  the  families  of  the 
professors  at  the  seminary,  the  family  of 
Bishop  Johns,  the  Fairfaxes  of  Vaucluse, 
Captain  Forrest,  U.  S.  N.  and  C.  S.  N., 
Mrs.  Scott  of  Bush  Hill,  and  others. 
Through  President  Pierce  our  older  boy 
(the  son  of  my  widowed  sister)  received 
an  appointment  to  West  Point.  He  had 
been  there  but  two  years,  and  the  other 
boy  had  just  received  his  warrant  for  the 
navy,  when  the  war  came  to  break  up 
our  home  and  drive  us  forth  wanderers 
for  four  long  years.  I  heard  in  Congress 
the  impassioned  and  sorrowful  appeals 
of  Mr.  Davis,  General  Breckinridge,  Mr. 
Pendleton,  and  others  in  the  interests  of 
peace,  and  saw  the  bitterness  and  anger 
of  our  foes.  But  it  was  impossible  for 
us  who  had  never  seen  war  to  realize 
what  would  be  the  invasion  of  our  coun- 
try. And  who  could  believe  that  armed 
men  (Americans  like  ourselves)  could  be 
brought  to  enter  our  beloved  Virginia 
with  hostile  intent,  —  that  "Old  Vir- 
ginia "  which  all  professed  to  honor  ? 

I  was  in  Washington  the  night  that 
the  troops  crossed  the  Potomac.  Never 
can  I  forget  the  dull,  heavy  tramp  of  the 
armed  men  as  they  passed  under  my  win- 
dow. Each  foot  seemed  to  fall  upon  my 
heart,  while  tears  rained  from  my  eyes. 
Next  day  I  bade  adieu  to  the  city  I  was 
not  to  see  again  for  twenty-five  years. 
Already  I  found  sentries  stationed  along 
our  roads,  and  before  evening  we  were 
prisoners  in  our  own  house.  My  sister 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  20 


had  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  Mr.  Cor- 
coran's  bank.  How  to  get  this  money 
before  we  were  entirely  cut  off  from  the 
North  was  the  question.  Already  our 
"West  Pointer"  had  gone  to  join  the 
Virginia  forces,  and  our  neighbors  and 
friends  who  had  sons  and  husbands  were 
following  them  South.  My  sister  and 
her  family  were  anxious  to  go.  Our 
younger  boy,  a  lad  of  sixteen,  volun- 
teered to  find  his  way  on  foot  through 
the  woods,  to  cross  the  Potomac  above 
Georgetown,  get  to  the  bank  in  Wash- 
ington, and  bring  safely  the  money  which 
would  be  so  much  needed.  This  was 
a  fit  beginning  for  his  after  adventures. 
Chased  by  soldiers,  fired  upon  by  senti- 
nels, he  managed  to  conceal  himself  in 
the  woods,  and  came  in  after  dark,  weary 
and  footsore,  after  twenty-five  miles  of 
travel,  with  the  money  concealed  in  his 
bosom,  —  the  last  United  States  money 
we  saw  for  four  years. 

I  resolved  to  remain  at  home  and  take 
care  of  my  property.  Having  been  much 
associated  with  the  army,  I  was  sure  to 
find  old  friends  among  the  officers  to 
protect  us.  We  were  non-combatants, 
and  in  modern  warfare  it  was  never 
known  that  women  had  been  disturbed 
in  their  homes.  To  our  anxious  friends 
I  quoted  how,  in  the  late  Italian  and  Aus- 
trian war,  the  women  stood  on  the  bal- 
conies of  the  Italian  villas  and  looked 
down  upon  the  battlefields  of  Magenta 
and  Solferino.  But  the  French  and 
Italians  had  no  "  Billy  Wilson's  men," 
recruited  from  the  purlieus  of  New  York, 
no  raw  levies,  ignorant  and  prejudiced, 
who  thought  to  do  their  country  service 
by  insulting  "  Secesh "  women.  Our 
houses  were  entered  with  pretense  to 
search  for  arms ;  in  reality  to  steal  thim- 
bles and  jewelry,  and  even  to  take  ear- 


306 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


rings  from  the  women's  ears.  Trees 
were  cut  down,  gardens  rifled,  store- 
rooms invaded.  In  vain  was  complaint 
made  to  the  commandant  in  Alexandria. 
He  said  he  had  no  power  over  such  men, 
and  advised  our  retreating  (where  it 
was  possible)  to  the  security  of  our  own 
"  lines,"  then  about  Manassas ;  but  I  held 
out  a  little  longer.  Barricading,  at  night, 
windows  and  doors  with  tables,  piano,  and 
bookcases,  we  were  alarmed  by  thumps 
upon  the  doors  and  threats  to  break  in ; 
and  at  mealtimes  soldiers  would  enter 
and  devour  everything  which  was  set 
before  us.  They  robbed  the  henroost 
and  the  cellar,  burned  our  fences,  and 
insulted  us  in  every  way.  My  sister  re- 
solved to  take  refuge,  with  her  daughters, 
at  a  friend's  house  just  within  our  lines. 
She  was  not  allowed  to  take  her  own 
vehicle,  but  was  forced  to  pay  thirty  dol- 
lars to  the  military  authorities  for  a  car- 
riage to  convey  the  party  of  four  (in- 
cluding the  son,  who  was  eager  to  enter 
the  army)  about  ten  miles.  Only  one 
trunk  was  allowed  for  all  of  this  family, 
who  were  leaving  their  home  never  to 
enter  it  again !  How  often,  in  the  after 
days  of  the  Confederacy,  had  they  rea- 
son to  regret  the  warm  flannels,  furs,  and 
silk  gowns  left  behind  !  Our  house,  oc- 
cupied at  first  by  friends  from  Alexan- 
dria, was  not  allowed  to  remain  long  out 
of  the  enemy's  hands.  General  Phil 
Kearny,  commanding  the  New  Jersey 
troops,  soon  took  forcible  possession  of 
house  and  furniture.  Happily,  I  was 
spared  the  distress  of  witnessing  these 
things.  My  niece  and  adopted  daughter, 
living  in  New  Jersey,  and  married  to  an 
officer  of  General  Scott's  staff,  became 
ill,  and  I  was  asked  to  come  to  her  ;  her 
husband  feeling  certain  that  he  had  it  in 
his  power  to  send  me  home  when  my 
presence  should  be  no  longer  needed. 
Alas,  he  little  knew  how  impossible  would 
be  what  he  so  confidently  promised,  and  I 
so  confidingly  believed  !  Advising  with 
the  officer  in  command  at  Alexandria,  I 
turned  my  back  upon  my  dear  home,  and 


went  to  the  North ;  not,  however,  before 
I  had  seen  how  rapidly  the  work  of  de- 
struction was  going  on  in  our  neighbor- 
hood. The  glass  of  our  greenhouse  was 
wantonly  broken  by  muskets,  our  roses 
were  trampled  down,  and  the  carriage 
was  cut  into  bits  ;  a  neighbor's  piano  shar- 
ing the  same  fate.  In  my  last  walk  in  the 
neighborhood,  for  which  I  was  obliged 
to  get  a  permit  (as  well  as  for  the  cow 
to  go  to  pasture,  and  the  man  to  go  to 
the  market),  I  saw  a  party  of  rude  sol- 
diers sitting  on  the  porch  of  one  of  our 
clergyman  friends,  reading  and  tearing 
up  his  correspondence !  I  wonder  how 
they  liked  mine,  which  they  had  soon 
after  ? 

No  sooner  did  I  reach  New  Jersey 
than  I  found  myself  an  object  of  inter- 
est and  suspicion.  Only  those  who  lived 
through  that  terrible  time  can  under- 
stand the  excited  state  of  the  public  mind, 
North  and  South.  I  saw  myself  an- 
nounced in  the  papers  as  a  "  Secesh  spy," 
sent  by  General  Beauregard  to  arouse 
the  Catholics  of  the  North,  and  by  Mr. 
James  M.  Mason  to  stir  up  the  Demo- 
crats. A  full  description  of  my  person 
was  given,  and  my  "  qualifications  "  for 
such  a  task.  These  were  infinitely  flat- 
tering to  my  abilities ;  for  it  was  confi- 
dently asserted  that  I  was  clever  enough 
to  take  in  every  detail  of  "  fortifica- 
tions," and  ingenious  enough  to  establish 
an  underground  system  of  communica- 
tion with  the  "  Rebels  "  !  My  letters 
were  intercepted,  and  the  people  were  so 
clamorous  to  read  them  at  the  post  office 
that  the  mayor  of  the  town  was  obliged 
to  take  them  out  and  bring  them  to  me, 
which  he  did  with  every  apology.  He 
behaved  in  the  most  gentlemanlike  man- 
ner. But  my  position  became  every  day 
more  painful  and  embarrassing,  especial- 
ly as  it  involved  the  peace  and  security 
of  the  family  with  whom  I  was  staying, 
who  were  naturally  regarded  as  my  "  ac- 
complices." They  besought  me  not  to 
go  out,  or  speak  to  any  one.  It  was  not 
difficult  to  obey  in  this  last  point,  for  HO- 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


307 


body  would  speak  to  me.  A  leper  could 
not  have  been  avoided  with  surer  signs 
of  horror  and  aversion.  Having  gone 
to  early  church  to  ease  my  anxious  heart, 
I  read  in  the  paper  that  I  went  at  that 
early  hour  to  meet  my  "confederates," 
and  threats  were  made  that  a  few  days 
would  see  me  safe  in  Fort  Lafayette ! 

To  give  an  idea  of  the  extraordinary 
system  of  espionage  carried  on  at  this 
time,  I  must  relate  the  following  inci- 
dent. Being  a  Catholic,  and  never  hav- 
ing seen  Archbishop  Hughes,  who  was 
famed  for  his  eloquence,  I  yielded  to  the 
suggestion  of  a  friend  of  mine  in  New 
York,  a  Protestant  lady,  and  a  firm  "  Re- 
publican," who  offered  to  introduce  me. 
She  came  for  me  and  took  me  to  New 
York,  and  we  went  in  the  street  omni- 
bus to  the  archbishop's  door,  were  most 
amiably  received,  and  had  a  pleasant  talk, 
all  of  us  carefully  avoiding  a  subject  on 
which  we  could  not  agree, — the  war. 
Both  going  and  coming,  I  remarked  a 
man  who  sat  near  the  door  of  the  omni- 
bus and  often  looked  at  us,  got  out  where 
we  did,  and  even  accompanied  us  to  the 
ferry  on  our  return.  After  this  I  re- 
ceived a  most  anxious  letter  from  an 
officer  in  Washington,  a  friend,  telling 
me  he  had  been  at  a  dinner  at  Mr.  Sew- 
ard's  with  Archbishop  Hughes  and  oth- 
ers, and  Mr.  Seward  was  called  out  on 
business  of  importance.  Presently  the 
archbishop  was  sent  for.  When  he  re- 
turned he  said  to  this  officer  :  "  What  a 
curious  thing  has  happened,  showing  the 
state  of  the  public  mind  !  A  Catholic 
lady,  Miss  Mason,  calls  upon  me,  as  does 
every  Catholic  coming  to  my  diocese. 
She  is  followed  and  watched,  and  here 
comes  a  telegram  to  Mr.  Seward  telling 
him  that  I  have  received  this  '  spy.'  He 
calls  me  out,  and  I  tell  him  the1  lady  is 
no  more  a  spy  than  I  am."  Fancy  the 
feelings  of  my  friend !  He  was  ready 
to  fall  from  his  chair  with  alarm.  And 
no  sooner  was  he  at  home  than  he  wrote 
to  beseech  me  not  to  leave  the  house 
again,  lest  something  befall  me. 


This  incident  determined  me  to  get 
away,  if  possible.  I  was  distracted  about 
my  people.  Six  months  had  elapsed  ;  I 
could  get  no  letters,  and  the  newspapers 
were  filled  with  the  most  exaggerated 
accounts  of  the  suffering  in  the  South. 
I  was  told  that  if  I  attempted  to  leave 
the  North  I  would  be  arrested.  But  I 
resolved  to  risk  this  rather  than  suffer, 
and  make  my  friends  suffer,  such  anx- 
iety. First  I  wrote  to  some  Sisters  of 
Charity,  who  were  announced  to  be  go- 
ing South,  to  ask  if  I  might  go  with  them 
in  any  capacity.  Then  I  prayed  the 
bishop,  who  was  full  of  concern  for  me, 
to  send  me  off  "  some  way."  In  vain. 
He  said  that  if  I  were  found  with  these 
Sisters  it  would  injure  their  mission  ;  that 
I  could  never  escape  the  vigilance  of  the 
government ;  and  he  advised  me  to  be  pa- 
tient. But  that  I  could  not  be.  Some 
Sisters  from  New  York  came  to  see  me 
soon  after,  to  say  that  they  were  sure  I 
would  get  through  "  somehow,"  and  to 
beg  me  to  take  some  letters  with  which 
they  were  charged,  from  agonized  wives 
and  mothers  whose  husbands  and  sons 
had  been  taken  prisoners  at  the  battle  of 
Manassas,  and  were  now  in  the  military 
prisons  of  Richmond.  I  could  not  carry 
the  letters,  but  I  promised  to  learn  them 
by  heart,  take  the  names  of  the  men, 
and,  if  I  ever  reached  Richmond,  find 
the  prisoners,  and  repeat  the  news  and 
messages  from  their  families,  —  which  I 
really  did,  as  much  to  my  own  satisfac- 
tion as  to  theirs. 

After  many  plans  revolved,  and  dis- 
missed as  impracticable,  some  friends 
living  at  Easton,  Pennsylvania,  came  to 
spend  a  week  with  us,  and  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  one  of  these  ladies'  trunks 
should  be  left  behind,  at  her  departure, 
and  mine  taken  in  its  stead ;  and  that 
when  an  opportunity  arrived,  I  should 
slip  away,  go  to  Easton,  take  up  my 
luggage,  and  go  to  Kentucky  via  Phil- 
adelphia. Once  in  Kentucky,  I  was  sure 
I  could  be  concealed  for  a  time,  and 
find  a  way  to  get  into  the  Confederacy 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


through  Western  Virginia,  where  Gen- 
eral Rosecrans  was  in  command  of  a 
division  of  the  Union  army.  Months 
before  I  set  out  I  wrote  to  Newport, 
Kentucky,  to  my  cousins  there,  that  I 
should  make  the  attempt  to  see  them 
"on  or  about  the  2d  of  November." 
And  this  message,  couched  in  most 
ambiguous  terms  and  without  signature, 
received  an  equally  ambiguous  answer, 
—  u  Ready  to  hunt  with  you  at  time  spe- 
cified." To  have  money  for  this  under- 
taking, I  must  go  to  New  York,  to  a  bank 
in  which  my  brother-in-law  had  some 
money  and  North  Carolina  bonds  which 
I  might  use.  Hardly  had  I  entered  the 
ferry  when  I  saw  the  same  man  who 
had  accompanied  me  on  my  visit  to  the 
archbishop,  weeks  before.  He  kept  his 
eye  upon  me  till  I  entered  my  friend's 
house  on  Second  Avenue.  To  her  I  told 
my  fears  and  my  errand.  She  assured 
me  I  should  dodge  my  persecutor,  and 
after  a  time  led  me  through  the  back 
yard  to  the  stable,  where  we  entered  her 
carriage,  drove  out  by  the  alley  far  away 
to  Bloomingdale,  and  then,  by  circuitous 
streets,  to  the  bank,  where  my  friend's 
husband  brought  me  my  moneys.  We 
concealed  them  in  the  puffings  of  my 
sleeves,  and  at  the  ferry  we  bade  good-by 
with  many  tears. 

I  mingled  with  the  crowd,  and  thought 
myself  safe,  when  somebody  touched  me 
upon  the  arm.  Looking  round,  expect- 
ing to  see  my  detective,  I  found  the  face 
of  one  of  rny  childhood  friends  from 
Kentucky,  who,  reading  in  the  papers  of 
my  peril,  came  to  see  if  he  could  aid  me, 
being  a  "  good  Union  man."  He  had  not 
the  courage  of  a  Caesar,  but  he  had  the 
heart  of  a  Kentuckian,  and  he  told  me 
how  for  days  he  had  been  watching  and 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  commu- 
nicate with  me.  It  was  agreed  that  I 
should  make  my  attempt  the  next  day. 
He  would  go  on  to  Philadelphia,  and 
wait  for  me  till  the  following  midnight. 
Driving  out  with  my  invalid  niece  the 
next  morning,  I  left  her  for  a  moment, 


ostensibly,  but  I  took  the  first  train  for 
Reading,  in  fear  and  trembling,  picked 
up  my  luggage,  and,  under  the  escort  of 
a  stout  journalist  whose  paper  had  been 
burned  the  day  before  for  sympathizing 
with  my  side,  I  reached  Philadelphia  at 
the  appointed  hour.  I  drew  a  long  sigh 
of  relief  when  once  on  the  railway,  bound 
for  the  West.  Arrived  at  Newport,  I 
found  my  young  cousins  on  the  ferry- 
boat, armed  and  equipped  as  for  a 
"  hunt,"  bade  good-by  to  my  old  friend, 
and  went  to  consult  as  to  what  should  be 
my  next  move. 

It  was  resolved  that  my  best  chance 
would  be  to  throw  myself  upon  the 
charity  of  the  old  Archbishop  of  Cin- 
cinnati, an  ardent  Union  man,  who  had 
known  my  family,  and  whom  I  had 
known,  in  other  days.  To  his  door  I 
went,  shut  in  a  close  carriage,  to  find 
him  out  of  town.  Turning  to  go  away, 
his  brother  appeared  in  the  hall,  and 
said  :  "  Miss  Mason  !  My  brother  has 
been  expecting  you  for  some  days." 
"  Expecting  me  ?  "  I  rejoined.  "  Impos- 
sible !  I  have  just  run  away  from  the 
North,  and  am  concealing  myself  near 
here."  "Yes,"  said  he,  "my  brother 
saw  your  name  at  the  custom  house  in 
a  list  of  a  thousand  '  suspected/  and  op- 
posite your  name  was,  '  Dangerous.  To 
be  watched.' "  I  dropped  into  a  chair, 
exclaiming:  "I  wish  the  earth  would 
open  and  swallow  me  !  It  is  plain  I 
shall  never  get  away  to  my  people,  with 
whom  I  have  not  communicated  in  six 
months."  He  consoled  me  with  the  as- 
surance that  if  I  got  into  prison  his 
brother  would  be  able  to  get  me  out, 
since  he  knew  I  had  done  nothing  against 
"  the  government."  I  explained  that  I 
had  come  to  pray  him  to  find  means  to 
get  me  "home,  and  he  promised  to  inform 
me  when  his  brother  should  return  and 
be  able  to  see  me.  Anxious  days  passed 
while  I  lay  perdue,  afraid  to  go  out.  Yet 
among  the  "  initiated  "  my  presence  was 
known,  for  I  had  offers  of  aid  from 
many  quarters.  A  poor  little  priest  and 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


309 


some  poorer  Sisters  offered  me  their  tiny 
all,  to  help  me  on  my  perilous  way.  At 
last  came  a  note  from  the  good  bishop, 
to  whom  I  went  with  my  tale  of  woe. 
"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  said  he.  "  I  have 
already  thirteen  women  on  my  hands, 
some  of  them  French  Sisters,  who  are 
trying  to  get  to  New  Orleans."  I  prayed 
him  to  get  me  off  first,  as  I  had  been 
his  old  friend.  And  having  eaten  of  the 
stale  cakes  and  drunk  of  the  sour  wine 
which  he  offered  me,  I  was  ready  to 
go.  He  then  pulled  from  his  pocket  a 
long,  lean  purse,  from  which,  after  much 
searching,  he  drew  forth  a  gold  piece, 
the  only  one,  and  pressed  it  upon  me, 
saying,  "  You  will  want  it  for  some  poor 
soul,  if  not  for  yourself."  God  rest  his 
soul,  and  reward  his  charity  a  thousand- 
fold, in  that  country  where  there  is  no 
North,  no  South,  no  Catholic,  no  Protes- 
tant, but  all  are  as  the  children  of  God  ! 
In  an  article  published  in  the  Charles- 
ton News  and  Courier,  some  years  ago, 
I  gave  an  account  of  my  journey  through 
the  lines,  by  Western  Virginia,  and  this 
appeared  afterwards  in  a  book,  Our  Wo- 
men of  the  War.  But  as  this  book 
was  little  known,  and  is  now  quite  rare, 
the  story  may  well  be  repeated  here. 
Armed  with  a  letter  from  the  bishop,  I 
went  to  a  hotel  in  Cincinnati  where  were 
some  gentlemen  going  on  a  government 
steamer  to  carry  forage  and  provisions 
to  the  Federal  army  in  Western  Vir- 
ginia. I  had  a  letter  to  General  Rose- 
crans,  whom  I  had  known  in  happier 
days,  and  was  sure  he  would  send  me 
into  the  Confederate  lines  by  flag  of 
truce,  if  I  could  reach  him  before  he 
received  communications  from  Wash- 
ington. The  gentlemen  to  whom  I  was 
recommended  were  to  set  out  the  next 
morning,  and  were  most  kind  in  offer- 
ing to  take  me  with  them.  So  behold 
me  on  board,  with  two  well-bred  men, 
—  one  a  volunteer  officer,  the  other  his 
brother-in-law,  a  physician,  and  both 
from  Boston.  They  were  too  polite  to 
ask  my  srrand,  and  I  was  too  prudent 


to  disclose  it.  If  they  assumed  that  I 
was  going  to  the  Union  army  to  nurse 
soldiers,  it  was  not  necessary  to  disclaim 
it.  We  discussed  everything  but  poli- 
tics on  that  journey  of  three  weeks,  and 
became  fast  friends.  We  traveled  by 
day  only,  as  both  sides  of  the  river  were 
said  to  be  infested  by  Rebel  scouts,  ready 
to  fire  upon  us  at  any  moment ;  and  I 
was  not  allowed  to  go  upon  the  guards 
of  the  boat,  lest  I  should  be  a  mark  for 
their  bullets.  Longingly  I  looked  for 
the  Rebel  cavalry,  and  prayed  they 
would  come  and  take  us,  and  thus  end 
my  difficulties.  But  they  did  not  come, 
and  one  day  we  ran  upon  a  snag,  and 
to  save  our  steamer  we  were  obliged  to 
give  to  the  waters  all  our  grain  and  for- 
age. My  trunk  only  was  saved  from 
the  wreck,  and  empty-handed  we  pro- 
ceeded to  our  destination.  When  about 
ten  or  twelve  miles  from  "headquar- 
ters "  my  gentlemen  left  me,  to  report 
the  disaster,  and  by  them  I  sent  my  let- 
ter of  introduction  to  the  commanding 
general,  with  one  of  my  own,  reminding 
him  of  our  former  acquaintance,  and 
Stating  the  circumstances  which  had 
brought  me  to  his  camp ;  saying  that  I 
waited  at  a  respectful  distance,  not  to  see 
what  he  would  wish  concealed  from  my 
people,  and  assuring  him,  if  he  would  let 
me  pass  through  his  hosts  and  send  me 
to  my  own  lines,  I  would  not  in  any 
way  make  use  of  any  knowledge  I  might 
obtain,  to  his  disadvantage.  In  a  few 
hours  came  a  telegram,  saying  that  a 
flag  of  truce  would  go  out  at  daylight 
next  morning,  and  that  his  own  servant 
and  ambulance  would  be  sent  for  me 
during  the  night. 

While  awaiting  an  answer,  I  had  ob- 
served that  the  steamer  was  being  loaded 
with  great  bundles  discharged  from  wag- 
ons on  the  high  bluff  above  us,  and  that 
these  bundles  came  sliding  down  from 
the  banks  on  a  plankway,  falling  heavily 
upon  the  lower  deck. 

"  What  are  you  loading  ?  "  I  asked  one 
of  the  boatmen. 


310 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


"  These  are  sick  men  come  in  from 
camp,"  he  replied. 

"  An  outrage  upon  humanity !  "  I  ex- 
claimed, and  ran  down  the  companion 
way  to  examine  the  live  bundles,  which 
were  coughing,  groaning,  and  moaning. 
Here  were  men  in  all  stages  of  mea- 
sles, pneumonia,  camp  fever,  and  other 
disorders  incident  to  camp  life,  sent  in 
wagons  over  thirteen  miles  of  moun- 
tain road,  on  a  December  evening, 
without  nurses,  without  physician,  and 
with  no  other  covering  than  the  blanket 
in  which  each  man  was  enveloped. 
They  assured  me  they  had  been  sent  out 
in  the  early  morning,  without  food  or 
medicine,  and  were  expected  to  remain 
without  any  attention  till  the  sailing  of 
the  steamer  to  a  hospital  twenty  miles 
below.  In  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of 
the  boatmen,  who  declared  the  "  compa- 
ny "  had  let  the  boat  to  the  government 
to  transport  horse  feed,  and  not  men, 
I  had  the  poor  fellows  taken  into  the 
cabin  and  placed  in  the  berths,  denud- 
ed of  mattresses  and  bed  covers,  and 
then  proceeded  to  physic  and  'feed  them 
as  best  I  -could.  No  entreaties  could 
prevail  upon  the  steward  of  this  "  loyal " 
company  to  give  me  anything  for  them 
to  eat.  I  had  tea,  however,  in  my  state- 
room, and  some  crackers.  The  doctor 
had  a  box  of  Seidlitz  powders,  a  great 
lump  of  asafoetida,  and  a  jug  of  whis- 
key. There  were  thirty  men  to  be  doc- 
tored. To  the  chilly  ones  I  gave  hot 
whiskey  and  water,  the  most  popular  of 
my  remedies  ;  to  those  who  wailed  the 
loudest  the  pills  of  asafoatida  proved 
calming ;  and  the  Seidlitz  powders  were 
given  to  the  fever  patients,  whose  tongues 
and  pulses  I  examined  with  great  care  ; 
and  where  there  was  doubt,  and  fear  of 
doing  harm,  the  tea  was  safely  given. 
Hardly  was  the  jug  emptied  and  the  last 
pill  and  powder  administered,  when  the 
captain  and  the  doctor  returned  from 
camp,  and  announced  that  the  ambulance 
waited  for  me.  The  doctor  was  not  a  lit- 
tle indignant  at  my  having  appropriated 


his  whole  medical  supply,  but  was  kind 
enough  to  go  around  the  group  of  pa- 
tients, examine  them,  and  tell  me  their 
real  condition :  so  that  I  left  them  in  his 
hands,  and  departed  with  their  thanks 
and  blessings.  And  this  was  the  begin- 
ning of  my  ministrations  amongst  sol- 
diers, which  lasted  to  the  end  of  the  war, 
and  which  became  the  life  of  my  life. 

It  was  midnight  when  I  left  the  steam- 
er, with  a  thankful  adieu  to  my  kind 
hosts.  Once  more  on  my  native  heath, 
though  seated  upon  my  trunk,  with  rain 
and  sleet  beating  in  my  face,  I  felt 
neither  cold  nor  fatigue,  for  at  last  I 
saw  home  and  friends  before  me.  Af- 
ter crossing  a  mountain,  over  the  worst 
road  imaginable,  we  reached  the  camp 
at  daylight,  through  miles  of  white  tents 
and  formidable-looking  outposts.  We 
drove  to  the  general's  tent,  and  his  or- 
derly came  to  say  that  I  must  go  to  a 
lady  whose  house  was  within  the  camp : 
and  there  I  should  rest,  get  breakfast, 
and  be  ready  to  set  out  at  eight  o'clock. 
By  this  time  my  strength  had  given  out ; 
want  of  sleep,  fatigue,  and  excitement 
had  made  me  really  ill.  I  had  to  be 
lifted  from  the  ambulance,  put  to  bed, 
and  fortified  by  sundry  cups  of  strong 
coffee,  to  prepare  me  for  an  interview 
with  the  general  and  for  my  departure. 
I  have  had  the  opportunity  many  times 
since  to  thank  this  lady  for  her  kindness, 
and  to  talk  over  with  her  the  strange 
fortune  which  brought  us  together  at 
this  juncture.  The  camp  was  upon  her 
plantation,  and  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain above  us  was  stationed  her  husband, 
an  artillery  officer  of  the  Confederate 
army,  whose  guns  were  pointed  toward 
the  camp,  but  who  could  not  fire  with- 
out endangering  the  lives  of  his  wife 
and  children.  The  kind  general  came 
to  greet  me  and  give  instructions  for  the 
journey.  He  warned  me  to  be  careful 
of  my  luggage,  as  he  was  obliged  to  em- 
ploy on  escort  duty  men  noted  in  camp 
as  thieves  and  freethinkers.  But  over 
these  men  he  placed  two  experienced 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


311 


officers,  to  see  that  the  men  did  their 
duty  and  treated  me  with  proper  respect 
How  accomplished  his  thieves  must  have 
been  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that, 
though  I  sat  upon  my  trunk  and  car- 
ried my  bag  in  my  hand,  not  only  were 
my  combs  and  brushes  stolen,  but  my 
prayer  book  and  my  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
for  which  they  could  have  had  no  possi- 
ble use. 

The  general  further  reminded  me  that 
I  should  follow  in  the  path  of  war,  that 
ruin  and  desolation  would  be  on  every 
side,  and  that  there  was  but  one  house 
which  he  could  count  upon  where  I  might 
find  shelter  before  I  reached  the  South- 
ern lines.  In  this  house,  once  the  finest 
in  the  country,  I  would  find  a  woman  as 
beautiful  as  Judith,  and  as  fierce.  He 
declared  that  she  had  been  a  thorn  in 
his  side  for  many  months.  Driven  al- 
most to  madness  by  the  depredations  of 
his  soldiers,  her  husband  and  son  in  the 
Confederate  lines,  her  cattle  and  horses 
stolen  or  mutilated,  she  waged  war  upon 
her  enemies  with  relentless  fury.  Lead- 
ing his  men  into  ambuscades,  she  would 
betray  them  to  the  Southern  scouts,  and, 
while  the  fighting  went  on,  would  sit 
upon  her  horse  and  pick  off  his  men  with 
her  pistol.  She  had  been  summoned  to 
his  camp  to  answer  these  charges,  but 
always  defied  him,  bidding  him  "  come 
and  fetch  her."  In  vain  had  he  tried  to 
appease  her.  As  she  lived  in  this  fine 
house  at  the  foot  of  a  great  mountain,  he 
counseled  me  to  force  myself  upon  her, 
if  necessary,  and  demand  shelter  for  a 
night ;  if  I  should  be  ill,  to  stop  there, 
and  send  on  the  flag  of  truce  for  succor. 

I  parted  with  tears  from  this  the  last 
friend  of  "  the  other  side  ;  "  and  though 
I  invited  the  general  to  come  to  Rich- 
mond, and  he  promised  to  do  so,  he 
never  got  so  far !  My  friend  loaded  me 
with  messages  for  her  husband  and  fami- 
ly* begging  them  to  come  and  release 
her  from  her  forced  sojourn  with  the 
enemy,  and  at  the  last  moment  gave  me 
a  package  of  clothing  for  a  poor  woman 


on  the  mountain  side,  whose  house  had 
been  burned  the  previous  day,  and  whose 
loom,  her  sole  means  of  support,  had 
been  destroyed  by  the  soldiers.  As  we 
drove  off,  the  general  dropped  a  gold 
piece  into  my  lap,  saying,  "  That 's  for 
the  poor  woman  on  the  mountain,"  and 
before  I  could  thank  him  the  escort 
"  closed  up,"  and  we  were  off  to  Dixie's 
Land. 

We  found  the  poor  woman  sitting 
amidst  her  ruins,  the  snow  making  more 
hideous  the  scene  of  desolation.  The 
road  on  every  side  was  marked  by  burned 
houses  and  barns,  and  torn  and  disor- 
dered fences.  Now  and  then  a  half- 
starved  dog  or  a  ragged  negro  would  peer 
from  some  ruins,  and  then  hide  from  us. 
Crossing  over  mountains  and  fording 
streams,  we  reached  at  last  the  inhos- 
pitable mansion  at  which  the  general  had 
recommended  me  to  knock  so  loudly. 
In  answer  to  our  summons  appeared  a 
tall,  dark  woman,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
jet-black  hair,  behind  whom  peeped  a 
fair  girl,  in  contrast  to  our  virago.  The 
latter,  without  waiting  for  us  to  speak, 
waved  us  off  with  a  most  imperious  ges- 
ture. "Go  on,"  she  said;  "this  is  no 
place  for  you.  You  have  done  me  harm 
enough.  There  is  nothing  more  for  you 
to  steal." 

Leaning  from  the  ambulance,  I  im- 
plored her  to  take  me  in  for  the  night. 
Half  dead  with  cold  and  fatigue,  I  could 
go  no  farther.  I  assured  her  that  I  was 
a  Southern  woman -trying  to  get  to  my 
family,  of  whom  I  had  had  no  news  in 
six  long  months. 

"  You  are  in  very  bad  company  for  a 
Southern  woman,"  she  rejoined,  "  yet  as 
you  are  a  woman  I  will  let  you  come  in ; 
but  these  men  shall  not  enter  my  doors." 

After  explaining  that  we  had  a  flag 
of  truce,  and  that  if  they  abandoned  me 
I  could  never  get  on,  as  she  had  neither 
horse  nor  wagon  to  give  me,  she  con- 
sented to  admit  the  two  officers,  and  to 
allow  the  men  to  sleep  in  an  outhouse. 
By  a  blazing  fire  she  told  me  the  story 


312 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


of  their  sufferings,  gave  me  a  good  sup- 
per and  bed,  and  next  morning  I  took 
my  last  taste  of  real  coffee  for  many  a 
long  day.  But  the  officers  did  not  find 
the  coffee  so  good,  as  the  pretty  blonde 
daughter  vented  her  spite  upon  them  by 
withholding  the  sugar,  and  they  were  too 
much  afraid  of  her  to  ask  for  it. 

The  next  evening  brought  us  to  our 
lines.  As  we  approached  these  the  es- 
cort became  unwilling  to  go  on,  and  de- 
clared they  were  afraid  of  "  bushwhack- 
ers." It  was  necessary  to  use  blows  and 
drawn  swords  to  get  them  on.  How 
my  heart  bounded  when  I  saw  the  first 
"  man  in  gray  "  !  I  soon  found  that,  in 
spite  of  all  reports  to  the  contrary,  he 
was  well  armed,  well  dressed,  and  looked 
well  fed.  We  fell  upon  the  pickets  from 
a  South  Carolina  regiment,  and  I  was 
proud  to  show  to  my  escort  that  the  men 
were  all  gentlemen  of  refinement  and 
elegance.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to 
get  to  the  Confederate  camp  that  night, 
and  impossible  to  allow  the  flag  of  truce 
to  approach  nearer.  I  was  forced  to 
sleep  in  one  of  the  two  log  huts  belong- 
ing to  the  pickets,  while  the  other  was 
allotted  to  the  Ohio  officer  who  had 
me  in  charge  and  his  Confederate  host. 
They  had  but  one  bed.  "What  was  to 
be  done  ?  I  was  informed  next  day  by 
the  Ohioan  that  there  was  a  long  strug- 
gle between  the  representatives  of  the 
contending  armies  as  to  who  should  oc- 
cupy the  bed.  At  last  it  was  deter- 
mined they  should  sleep  together.  "I 
had  no  objection  to  sleep  with  a  South 
Carolinian,"  said  the  Northern  officer, 
"  but  I  can  imagine  what  it  cost  him  to 
sleep  with  a  Yankee !  "  The  flag  of 
truce  went  back  next  morning,  with  a 
letter  of  thanks  from  me  to  the  general. 
Then  came  from  the  Confederate  camp 
a  carriage  exhumed  from  some  long-dis- 
used coach  house.  It  was  driven  by  a 
little  Irishman,  who  announced  that  he 
had  heard  a  "  Yankee  lady  "  had  come 
-through  the  lines,  and  he  wanted  to 
see  how  she  looked.  So  far  already 


had  the  two  countries  drifted  apart  that 
the  people  spoke  as  if  the  separation 
had  endured  years  instead  of  months. 
Mounting  the  ladder-like  steps  of  this 
primitive  vehicle,  I  drove  through  a 
camp  of  thousands  without  finding  one 
familiar  face,  though  every  man  came 
to  stare  at  the  unwonted  sight  of  a  car- 
riage and  a  woman.  As  my  courage 
was  about  to  give  way,  I  was  greeted  by 
the  familiar  voice  of  a  young  physician, 
—  a  family  connection,  —  who  hurried  to 
my  assistance,  got  into  the  carriage,  and 
promised  to  find  me  shelter  and  set  me 
on  to  Richmond.  Alas,  shelter  was  not 
easy  to  find.  Every  house  near  the 
camp,  every  barn,  every  cabin,  was  filled 
with  sick  and  wounded  soldiers.  There 
was  no  town  within  twelve  miles,  and 
the  stage  to  Richmond  passed  only  twice 
a  week.  I  must  wait  somewhere  two 
days.  We  drove  from  house  to  house. 
The  poor  people  either  had  their  rooms 
filled,  or  they  had  suffered  so  much  from 
disease,  resulting  from  their  hospitality, 
that  they  were  afraid  to  take  any  one  in. 
I  was  fainting  with  fatigue,  when,  at  the 
door  of  a  neat-looking  house,  a  young 
girl,  who  heard  her  father's  refusal, 
cried :  "  Father,  let  the  lady  come  in ! 
I  will  give  her  my  bed  !  "  Upon  the  as- 
surance of  the  doctor  that  I  had  no  dis- 
ease, and  was  ill  only  from  fatigue,  they 
admitted  me  to  a  delicious  feather  bed, 
from  which  I  emerged  the  next  day  for 
dinner. 

At  the  table  I  observed  the  mistress 
of  the  house  preparing  Sunday  messes 
of  "  bacon  and  greens  "  to  send  to  some 
sick  men  in  one  of  her  outhouses.  I  fol- 
lowed the  servant,  to  find  seven  East  Ten- 
nesseeans  lying  on  dirty  straw,  in  every 
stage  of  camp  fever.  The  air  was  stifling ; 
the  men  were  suffering  in  every  way,  es- 
pecially for  medicine  and  for  clean  beds 
and  clothing.  With  the  aid  of  the  one 
least  ill,  we  brought  in  clean  straw,  had 
water  heated  in  the  big  iron  pot  stand- 
ing in  the  chimney  corner,  while  bits  of 
rag  served  for  towels  and  toothbrushes, 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


313 


and  we  soon  changed  the  atmosphere 
and  the  aspect  of  things.  The  water  of 
boiled  rice  made  them  a  drink,  and 
when  the  doctor  came  to  see  me  he  pre- 
scribed, and  agreed  to  come  out  from 
the  camp  every  day  and  visit  them. 
"  Do  not  be.  afraid  of  losing  them,"  he 
added.  "  You  cannot  kill  an  East  Ten- 
nesseean."  I  did  not  feel  so  sure  of 
this.  So  before  parting  we  prayed  to- 
gether (they  were  good  Baptists),  and 
begged  that  God  would  spare  us  to  meet 
again.  I  promised  to  come  back  in  a 
week  or  ten  days,  armed  with  power  to 
open  a  hospital  and  bring  them  into  it ; 
and  here  I  will  add  that  at  the  end  of  a 
fortnight  I  had  the  happiness  to  see  my 
East  Tennesseeans  drive  up  to  the  hos- 
pital, waving  their  caps  to  me,  —  not  one 
of  the  seven  missing. 

The  night  before  the  anxiously  ex- 
pected stage  arrived,  I  saw  drive  to  our 
door  a  wagon,  which  deposited  a  fine- 
looking  young  officer.  He  walked  feebly, 
and  I  went  to  meet  him.  He  was  look- 
ing for  the  coach  to  take  him  to  his 
family  in  Richmond.  I  saw  that  he  was 
very  ill,  and  found  that  he  had  been  six 
weeks  in  camp  with  fever.  He  begged 
that  I  would  not  let  the  people  of  the 
house  know  it,  or  they  would  refuse  him 
a  lodging.  We  took  into  our  confidence 
the  young  girl  whose  kindness  had  se- 
cured me  entrance,  and  soon  we  helped 
our  patient  up  the  steep  ladder  stairs, 
and  saw  him  fall  heavily  upon  the  bed. 
While  she  went  for  hot  water,  I  drew  off, 
with  difficulty,  the  heavy  spurs  and  wet 
boots,  rubbed  the  cold  feet  and  bathed 
them,  washed  the  fevered  mouth,  and 
administered  hot  tea.  When  fairly  in 
bed,  and  after  I  had  promised  under  no 
circumstances  to  leave  him  behind,  he 
exclaimed,  "  This  is  heaven !  "  And 
heaven  sent  him  refreshing  sleep. 

Next  morning  we  left  our  kind  hosts, 
the  sick  man  resting  his  weary  head  on 
my  shoulder  ;  and  so  we  jolted  over  the 
rough  way  till  we  reached  the  neighbor- 
ing town,  Lewisburg,  and  drove  to  the 


office  of  the  medical  director  to  ask  what 
should  be  done  with  our  precious  burden, 
by  this  time  delirious  and  unable  to  pro- 
ceed farther.  After  some  delay  (for  the 
town  was  filled  with  the  sick  and  dying) 
we  found  a  good  lady  who  agreed  to  take 
him,  though  every  room  in  the  house  was 
full.  I  saw  the  poor  fellow  comfortably 
disposed  in  her  drawing-room,  where  he 
was  as  carefully  tended  as  by  the  mother 
who  was  soon  summoned  to  his  aid. 

This  was  the  first  campaign  of  a  ter- 
rible winter,  which  proved  so  fatal  to 
Southern  men,  called  from  luxurious 
homes,  where  they  had  never  known  ice 
and  snow,  to  die  amidst  these  cruel 
mountains,  with  every  disease  incident  to 
cold  and  exposure.  In  this  town  all  the 
women  opened  their  houses  and  gave 
their  services.  The  churches  and  court- 
house were  turned  into  hospitals.  I  went 
through  one  of  the  former  to  aid  in  giv- 
ing food  and  medicine.  In  every  pew 
lay  a  patient,  cheerful  sufferer,  and  into 
the  inclosure  round  the  altar  they  were 
constantly  carrying  the  dead,  wrapped  in 
a  single  blanket.  Side  by  side  lay  master 
and  servant,  rich  and  poor.  War,  like 
death,  is  a  great  leveler.  I  saw  come  in 
from  the  camps  ambulance  after  ambu- 
lance with  their  sad  loads,  the  dead  and 
dying  in  the  same  vehicle,  and  tried  in 
vain  to  stay  many  a  parting  breath.  How 
could  I  leave  such  scenes,  where  there 
was  so  much  to  do  ?  Impelled  by  the 
hope  of  coming  back  with  aid  and  com- 
fort, I  hurried  away. 

There  was  no  way  of  communicating 
with  my  family  to  tell  them  of  my  es- 
cape, and  arriving  in  Richmond  alone 
and  at  night,  I  did  not  know  how  to  find 
any  one.  At  last,  as  I  was  passing  along 
one  of  the  main  streets,  I  saw  through 
an  open  window,  seated  by  a  bright 
fire,  my  cousin  Mrs.  Sidney  Smith  Lee. 
Entering  unannounced,  I  was  informed 
that  they  all  thought  me  in  a  "  Yankee 
prison."  It  was  not  long  before  I  found 
all  my  dear  ones,  and  I  told  them  of  my 
resolve  to  leave  them  again,  after  a  few 


314 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


days'  preparation,  to  return  to  the  moun- 
tains, gather  up  my  patients,  and  go  to 
work.  The  President  said  to  me  at  part- 
ing :  "  God  bless  your  work  !  Remem- 
ber, if  you  save  the  lives  of  a  hundred 
men,  you  will  have  done  more  for  your 
country  than  if  you  had  fought  a  hun- 
dred battles."  From  him  and  from  the 
surgeon  general  I  had  carte  blanche,  free 
transportation  wherever  I  should  go, 
hospital  stores,  and  nurses  ad  libitum, 
could  I  have  found  any  of  these  willing 
to  encounter  the  winter's  snow  on  the 
mountains,  where  were  defeat  and  dis- 
aster, sickness  and  suffering.  With  one 
faithful  man  servant  I  set  out,  so  full  of 
enthusiasm  as  not  to  feel  cold  and  fa- 
tigue, everywhere  encountering  that  sym- 
pathy and  kindness  from  our  people 
which  never  failed  me  in  all  my  wander- 
ings. We  slept  at  Staunton  ;  and  when 
I  asked  for  my  bill,  the  landlord  said 
that  he  had  none  for  a  woman  who  went 
to  nurse  soldiers :  and  so  it  befell  me 
everywhere. 

"  Jim  "  was  my  protector  on  my  jour- 
ney ;  and  when  we  opened  the  hospital  at 
the  Greenbrier  White  Sulphur  Springs, 
he  was  my  cook,  nurse,  maid,  sympa- 
thizer, everything,  and  he  did  all  things 
well.  He  slept  in  the  room  adjoining 
mine,  and  I  would  often  wake  in  the 
night  and  cry  out :  "  Jim,  I  am  fright- 
ened !  I  cannot  sleep  !  I  see  the  faces 
of  the  men  who  died  to-day!"  "Go 
'long,  Miss  Embly,"  he  would  grumble 
out,  "  dead  men  ain't  agwine  to  hurt  you. 
You  was  good  to  them.  Go  'long  to 
sleep."  My  fears  thus  quieted,  I  slept. 

We  had  our  own  little  troubles. 
Looked  upon  as  an  interloper,  I  was  also 
viewed  with  suspicion  as  having  recently 
come  from  "  Yankeedom."  But  my  kind 
chief  surgeon,  Dr.  Hunter,  stood  by  me, 
and  soon  stilled  the  evil  spirits.  Also 
the  neighbors,  the  Caldwell  family,  to 
whom  the  springs  belonged,  were  most 
kind.  With  the  family  of  Mr.  Cowardin 

1  The  Daughters  of  the  Confederacy,  in  West 
Virginia,  as  throughout  the  whole  South,  have 


of  Beauregard  —  near  by  —  I  formed 
an  intimacy,  cemented  by  our  mutual 
trials,  which  has  continued  ever  since. 
Thrown  together  again  in  Richmond 
(where  Mr.  Cowardin  was  editor  of  the 
Despatch),  we  saw  the  last  act  of  our 
great  drama ;  and  my  association  with  the 
younger  generation  through  all  changes 
and  chances  has  never  been  interrupted. 
In  the  summer  of  1889  I  saw  again,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  war,  the  scene 
of  my  early  hospital  experiences.  With 
what  emotion  I  found  myself  upon  the 
spot  sacred  to  such  memories !  Every 
room  had  its  own  story ;  and  saddest  of 
all  was  the  place  where  we  had  laid  the 
dead,  unmarked  by  a  single  stone !  I  had 
difficulty  in  finding  the  spot.  Oh,  my 
poor  fellows  !  Was  it  for  this  you  left 
your  Southern  homes,  the  "  land  of  flow- 
ers," Florida,  Georgia,  Alabama,  Caro- 
lina,—  to  die  amidst  these  cold  moun- 
tains, and  be  forgotten  ? 1  In  the  ball- 
room, in  the  dining  room,  where  now 
the  gay  world  assembled,  I  saw  a  sight 
they  could  not  see,  I  heard  a  voice  they 
could  not  hear.  Yonder  were  sixty  ty- 
phoid cases,  there  sixty  wounded  men. 
Every  cottage  had  its  quota  of  the  eigh- 
teen hundred  men  we  gathered  in. 
"Carolina  Row"  held  the  diphtheria 
patients,  and  here,  in  one  room,  on  a 
bright,  sunshiny  winter's  day,  died  four 
men  at  the  same  hour,  while  I  ran  in  vain 
from  one  to  the  other,  trying  to  tear 
with  my  fingers  the  white,  leathery  sub- 
stance which  spread  over  the  mouth,  and 
even  came  out  upon  the  lips.  Up  to  the 
time  of  the  war  I  had  seldom  seen  death. 
A  merciful  Providence  had  spared  me 
the  sight  of  it  in  my  own  family,  in  the 
cases  of  my  parents.  And  now,  in  this 
great  family,  I  saw  eighteen  die  daily, 
and  could  not  go  fast  enough  from  one 
to  the  other,  to  say  a  last  prayer  and  hear 
a  "  last  word." 

Both  the  North  and  the  South  soon 
found  that  it  was  necessary  not  only  to 

this  sacred  duty  now  in  charge,  —  the  care  of 
Confederate  graves. 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


315 


have  love  and  devotion,  to  nurse  well, 
but  also  that  successful  nursing  required 
knowledge  and  experience,  which  few  of 
us  had.  The  Sisters  of  Mercy  of  Charles- 
ton, South  Carolina,  were  offered  by  the 
bishop  of  that  state  to  go  wherever  they 
were  needed,  and  I  was  the  happy  per- 
son to  secure  their  aid.  They  arrived 
at  midnight  Christmas  Eve,  in  a  blind- 
ing snowstorm  ;  but  they  soon  cleared 
the  sky  about  them.  Our  labors  were 
systematized,  and  I  learned  much  from 
their  teachings.  The  men  were  shy  of 
them  at  first,  few  of  them  having  ever 
seen  a  Catholic,  much  less  a  "  Sister." 
But  very  soon  my  pet  patients  hesitat- 
ingly confessed  :  "  You  see,  captain  " 
(as  I  was  called),  "  they  are  more  used 
to  it  than  you  are.  They  know  how  to 
handle  a  fellow  when  he 's  sick,  and 
don't  mind  a  bit  how  bad  a  woundsmells." 
It  was  not  that  they  loved  me  less,  but 
they  loved  the  Sisters  more  —  and  I  for- 
gave them. 

Here  we  labored  until  the  spring 
brought  a  "  Yankee  raid  "  from  the  west, 
and  we  "  fell  back  "  to  Charlottesville, 
where  we  were  under  the  supervision  of 
the  famous  Dr.  Cabell.  But  soon  came 
the  Seven  Days'  Fight  before  Richmond, 
and  I  was  sent  to  Lynchburg  to  open 
the  Methodist  College  building  and  pre- 
pare for  the  wounded,  who  already  filled 
Richmond  to  overflowing,  and  polluted 
the  air  with  the  odor  of  blood  and  wounds. 
At  Lynchburg  we  had  also  a  camp  of 
Federal  prisoners,  which  I  visited  with 
the  priest.  But  there  were  no  wounded, 
and  few  sick.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  we 
met  with  the  greatest  hospitality  and 
kindness.  Mr.  McDaniel's  carriage  met 
me  at  the  station,  and  to  his  house  I  was 
taken  while  we  made  ready  the  new  hos- 
pital, which  the  McDaniels  helped  to 
stock  with  dainties  from  their  own  stores. 
My  sister,  Mrs.  Rowland,  who  had  been 
nursing  soldiers,  since  the  battle  of  Ma- 
nassas,  at  Warrenton  Springs,  joined  me 
at  Charlottesville,  and  together  we  la- 
bored to  the  end.  The  Sisters  of  Mercy 


had  been  called  away  to  another  field 
of  duty.  At  Lynchburg  arrived,  day 
after  day,  hundreds  of  mutilated  bodies, 
with  unbroken  spirits,  and  many  to  whom 
fatigue  and  exposure  brought  pneumonia 
and  fever. 

I  frequently  visited  the  camp  of  Fed- 
eral prisoners,  who  had  been  captured 
by  Jackson  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia, 
carried  dainties  to  their  sick,  and  wrote 
many  letters  for  them  to  their  homes. 
Then  I  became  ill,  the  only  time  during 
the  war  that  I  lost  a  day  from  "  duty." 
The  odor  of  wounds  poisoned  me,  and 
for  a  fortnight  I  gave  orders  from  my 
bed.  It  was  here  that  I  met  Mrs.  J.  E. 
B.  Stuart.  She  lost  a  lovely  little  girl  of 
ten  or  twelve  years,  who  vainly  asked  to 
see  her  father,  then  far  away  with  the 
army.  The  skill  of  our  chief  surgeon, 
Dr.  Owings,  and  the  pure  mountain  air 
brought  healing  to  us  all,  and  we  were 
sorry  when  the  investiture  of  Richmond 
obliged  us  to  leave  this  beautiful  region 
to  open  the  great  Camp  Winder  Hospi- 
tal, near  Richmond,  where  my  sister  and 
I  took  charge  of  the  Georgia  Division, 
numbering  about  eight  hundred  men. 

What  stories  of  heroism  I  might  re- 
late, of  faith  and  endurance,  amongst 
men  the  most  illiterate  and  the  most 
uninteresting  in  exterior ;  of  sufferings 
from  fevers,  of  agonies  from  wounds  and 
amputations  ;  arms  and  legs  with  gan- 
grene, the  flesh  all  sloughed  off  or  burned 
off  with  caustic,  leaving  only  the  bone, 
the  blue  veins,  and  muscle  visible !  I 
must  put  cotton  wet  with  camphor  in  my 
nostrils,  to  stand  by  these  cases.  Man 
after  man  I  have  seen  carried  to  the 
amputating  room,  singing  a  Baptist  or 
Methodist  hymn  as  he  passed  on  his 
stretcher.  As  I  walked  beside  him,  hold- 
ing his  hand,  he  would  say  :  "  Tell  my 
mother  I  am  not  afraid  to  die.  God 
knows  I  die  in  a  just  cause.  He  will 
forgive  my  sins."  Standing  by  the  table 
upon  which  lay  a  man  to  be  operated 
upon  for  an  enormous  aneurism,  whose 
chances  for  life  were  small  (this  must 


316 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


have  been  in  Lynchburg),  I  wrote  down 
his  last  words  to  his  family,  while  he' 
coolly  surveyed  the  instruments,  the  sur- 
geons with  bared  arms,  and  the  great  tub 
prepared  to'  catch  his  blood.  The  doc- 
tor held  his  pulse,  and  assured  me  that, 
with  all  these  preparations  in  view,  it 
never  quickened  its  march.  His  courage 
saved  him  ;  but  he  was  so  weak,  after  so 
great  a  loss  of  blood,  we  could  not  move 
him  from  the  table,  nor  even  put  a  pil- 
low under  his  head.  He  was  one  of  the 
"  tar-heels  "  of  North  Carolina,  who  are 
hard  to  beat. 

It  was  after  the  battle  of  Fredericks- 
burg,  or  perhaps  the  Wilderness,  that  we 
were  ordered  to  have  ready  eight  hun- 
dred beds ;  for  so  many  our  great  field 
hospital  accommodated.  The  convales- 
cents, and  the  "  old  soldiers  "  with  rheum- 
atism and  chronic  disorders  who  would 
not  get  well,  were  sent  to  town  hospitals, 
and  we  made  ready  for  the  night  when 
should  come  in  the  eight  hundred.  The 
Balaklava  charge  was  nothing  to  it ! 
They  came  so  fast  it  was  impossible  to 
dress  and  examine  them.  So  upon  the 
floor  of  the  receiving  wards  (long,  low 
buildings,  hastily  put  up)  the  men  nurses 
placed  in  rows  on  each  side  their  ghastly 
burdens,  covered  with  blood  and  dirt, 
stiff  with  mud  and  gravel  from  the  little 
streams  into  which  they  often  fell.  The 
women  nurses,  armed  with  pails  of  toddy 
or  milk,  passed  up  and  down,  giving  to 
each  man  a  reviving  drink  to  prepare 
him  for  the  examination  of  the  sur- 
geons ;  others,  with  water  and  sponges, 
wet  the  stiff  bandages.  As  I  passed 
around,  looking  to  see  who  was  most  in 
need  of  help  and  should  first  be  washed 
and  borne  to  his  bed,  I  was  especially 
attracted  by  one  group.  A  young  officer 
lay  with  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  an- 
other equally  distinguished-looking  man, 
while  a  negro  man  servant  stood  by  in 
great  distress.  I  offered  a  drink  to  the 
wounded  man,  saying,  "  You  are  badly 
hurt,  I  fear."  "  Oh  no,"  he  replied. 
"  Do  not  mind  me,  but  help  the  poor 


fellow  next  me,  who  is  groaning  and 
crying.  He  is  wounded  in  the  wrist. 
There  is  nothing  so  painful  as  that. 
Besides,  you  see,  I  have  my  friend,  a 
young  physician,  with  me,  and  a  servant 
to  ask  for  what  I  need." 

So  passing  on  to  the  man  with  the 
wounded  wrist,  I  stopped  to  wet  it  again 
and  again,  to  loosen  the  tight  bandage, 
and  to  say  a  comforting  word  ;  and  then 
on  and  on,  till  I  lost  sight  of  this  in- 
teresting group,  where  there  was  so 
much  to  absorb  my  attention,  and  forgot 
lit  till  in  the  early  morning  I  saw  the 
same  persons.  The  handsome  young 
officer  was  being  borne  on  a  litter  to 
the  amputating  room,  between  his  two 
friends.  His  going  first  of  all  the 
wounded  heroes  proved  that  his  was  the 
most  urgent  case.  Rushing  to  his  side, 
I  reproached  him  for  having  deceived 
me  with  his  cheerful  face.  "  Only  a  leg 
to  be  taken  off,"  he  said,  —  "  an  every- 
day affair." 

I  followed  to  see  him  laid  upon  the 
terrible  table  which  had  proved  fatal  to 
so  many.  Not  only  was  his  leg  to  be 
taken  off  at  the  thigh,  an  operation  from 
which  few  recovered,  but  he  had  two 
wounds  beside.  From  this  moment  I 
rarely  lost  sight  of  the  doomed  man. 
He  was  of  a  Louisiana  regiment  (the 
Washington  Artillery,  I  think,  for  he 
came  from  Washington,  on  the  Red 
River).  One  could  see  that  he  was  of 
a  refined  and  cultivated  family  ;  that  he 
was  the  darling  of  the  parents  of  whom 
he  constantly  spoke.  Yet  he  never  com- 
plained of  his  rude  straw  couch,  or 
seemed  to  miss  the  comforts  which  we 
would  fain  have  given  him  ;  nor  did  he 
lament  his  untimely  fate,  or  utter  a  mur- 
mur over  pangs  which  would  have  moved 
the  stoutest  heart.  He  could  not  lie 
upon  his  back,  for  a  gaping  wound  ex- 
tended from  his  shoulder  far  down  upon 
it,  nor  could  he  get  upon  one  side,  for 
his  arm  was  crushed.  We  were  forced 
to  swing  him  from  the  ceiling.  Soon 
the  mutilated  leg  became  covered  with 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


317 


the  fatal  gangrene,  and  all  the  burning 
of  this  "proud  flesh"  could  not  keep 
death  from  the  door.  Even  in  his  burn- 
ing fevers,  in  his  wild  delirium,  every 
word  betrayed  a  pure  and  noble  heart, 
full  of  love  to  God,  to  country,  and  to 
home.  He  could  be  quieted  only  by  the 
sound  of  music.  We  took  turns,  my  sis- 
ter and  I,  to  sit  beside  him  and  sing 
plaintive  hymns,  when  he  would  be  still, 
and  murmur :  "  Sing.  Pray,  pray." 
Thus  we  sung  and  prayed  for  three  long 
weeks,  till  we  saw  the  end  draw  near, 
and  lowered  him  into  his  bed,  that  his 
"  dull  ear  "  might  hear  our  words,  and 
his  cold  hand  feel  our  warm  touch.  One 
evening  he  had  been  lying  so  still  that 
we  could  hardly  feel  his  pulse,  and  the 
rough  men  of  the  ward  had  gathered 
about  the  bed,  still  and  solemn.  Sud- 
denly the  pale  face  lighted  with  a  lovely 
glow,  the  dim  eyes  shone  brilliantly,  and 
rising  in  his  bed  with  outstretched  arms, 
as  if  to  clasp  some  visible  being,  his  voice, 
clear  and  cheerful,  rang  out,  "  Come 
down,  beautiful  ladies,  come !  "  "  He  sees 
a  vision  of  angels  !  "  cried  the  awestrick- 
en  men.  We  all  knelt.  The  young  sol- 
dier fell  back,  dead ! 

In  another  ward  lay  upon  the  floor 
two  young  men  just  taken  from  an  ambu- 
lance, —  dead,  as  was  supposed.  Their 
heads  were  enveloped  in  bloody  band- 
ages, and  the  little  clothing  they  had 
was  glued  to  their  bodies  with  mud  and 
gravel.  Hastily  examining  them,  the- 
surgeon  gave  the  order,  "  To  the  dead- 
house."  I  prayed  that  they  might  be  left 
till  morning,  and  bent  over  them,  with  my 
ear  upon  the  heart,  to  try  and  detect  a 
faint  pulsation,  but  in  vain.  Yet  neither 
of  them  had  the  rigidity  of  death  in 
his  limbs,  as  I  heard  the  surgeon  re- 
mark. Turning  them  over,  hs  pointed 
to  the  wounds  below  the  ear,  the  jaws 
shattered,  and  one  or  both  eyes  put  out, 
and  reminded  me  that  even  could  they 
be  brought  to  life,  it  would  be  an  ex- 
istence worse  than  death,  —  blind,  deaf, 
perhaps  unable  to  eat ;  and  he  muttered 


something  about  "  wasting  time  on  the 
dead  which  was  needed  for  the  living." 

"  Life  is  sweet,"  I  replied,  "  even  to  the 
blind  and  the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  these 
men  may  be  the  darlings  of  some  fond 
hearts  who  will  love  them  more  in  their 
helplessness  than  in  their  sunniest  hours." 

And  so  I  kept  my  "  dead  men  ; "  and 
the  more  I  examined  the  younger  one, 
the  more  was  my  interest  excited.  His 
hands,  small  and  well  formed,  betokened 
the  gentleman.  His  bare  feet  were  of 
the  same  type,  though  cut  by  stones  and 
covered  with  sand  and  gravel.  After 
searching  for  a  mouth  to  these  bundles 
of  rags,  we  forced  a  small  tube  between 
the  lips  with  a  drop  of  milk  punch,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  to  perceive  that  it 
did  not  ooze  out,  but  disappeared  some- 
where ;  and  all  night  long,  in  making 
our  rounds  and  passing  the  "  dead  men," 
we  pursued  the  same  process.  At  last, 
with  the  morning,  the  great  pressure  was 
over,  and  we  found  a  surgeon  ready  to 
examine  and  dress  again  the  wounds,  and 
we  were  permitted  to  cut  away  by  bits 
the  stiff  rags  from  their  bodies,  wash  and 
dress  them,  pick  out  the  gravel  from 
their  torn  feet,  and  wrap  them  in  greased 
linen.  With  what  joy  we  heard  the  first 
faint  sigh  and  felt  the  first  weak  pulsa- 
tion !  Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day, 
these  men  lay  side  by  side,  and  were 
fed,  drop  by  drop,  from  a  tube,  lest  we 
should  strangle  them.  The  one  least 
wounded  never  recovered  his  mind, 
which  had  been  shattered  with  his  body, 
and  he  afterwards  died.  The  younger 
one,  though  he  could  neither  speak  nor 
see,  and  could  hear  but  imperfectly, 
showed  in  a  thousand  ways,  though  his 
mind  wandered  at  times,  that  he  was 
aware  of  what  went  on  about  him,  and 
he  was  gentle  and  grateful  to  all  who 
served  him.  As  he  had  come  in  with- 
out cap  or  knapsack,  and  there  was 
no  clue  to  his  identity,  over  his  bed 
we  wrote,  "  Name  and  regiment  un- 
known." 

In  the  meanwhile,  by  flag  of  truce 


318 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


from  the  North,  had  come  newspapers 
and  letters  making  inquiries  for  a  young 
man  who,  in  a  fervor  of  enthusiasm,  had 
run  away  from  school  in  England  to  fight 
the  battles  of  the  South.  His. mother 
having  been  a  South  Carolinian,  he  wrote 
his  father  he  had  gone  to  fight  for  his 
mother's  country  and  for  his  mother's 
grave.  Traced  to  Charleston,  he  was 
known  to  have  gone  to  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia,  and  to  have  entered 
the  battle  of  the  Wilderness  as  color 
bearer  to  his  regiment,  in  bare  feet.  As 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  him  since 
the  battle,  he  was  reported  dead  ;  but  his 
distracted  friends  begged  that  the  hos- 
pitals about  Richmond  might  be  exam- 
ined, to  learn  if  any  trace  of  him  could 
be  found.  We  perceived  instantly  that 
this  runaway  boy  was  our  patient.  In- 
formed of  our  convictions,  the  assistant 
surgeon  general  came  to  see  and  exam- 
ine him,  being  himself  a  Carolinian  and 
a  friend  of  the  mother's  family.  But 
the  boy  either  would  not  or  could  not 
understand  the  questions  addressed  to 
him.  Many  weeks  and  months  passed 
in  the  dimly  lighted  room  to  which  he 
was  consigned,  before  we  could  lift  the 
bandage  from  the  one  eye,  before  he 
could  hear  with  the  one  ear  and  eat  with 
the  wounded  mouth.  Fed  with  soups 


and  milk,  he  grew  strong  and  cheerful, 
and  was  suspected  of  seeing  a  little  be- 
fore he  confessed  it,  as  I  often  noticed 
his  head  elevated  to  an  angle  which  en- 
abled him  to  watch  the  pretty  girls  who 
came  from  the  city  to  read  to  him  and 
bring  him  dainties.  These,  moved  by 
compassion  for  his  youth  and  romantic 
history,  came  to  help  us  nurse  him,  and 
risked  daily  choking  him  in  their  well- 
meant  endeavors  to  feed  him.  At  last 
all  the  bandages  were  removed,  save  a 
ribbon  over  the  lost  eye,  and  our  "  dead 
man  "  came  forth,  a  handsome  youth  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  graceful  and  ele- 
gant. Now  the  surgeon  general  claim- 
ing him  for  his  father,  with  much  regret 
we  gave  him  up  to  the  flag-of-truce  boat, 
and  he  was  lost  to  us  till  the  end  of  the 
war.  He  had  a  new  eye  made  in  Eng- 


land, and  came  to  see  us  after  the  fall  of 
Richmond,  bringing  me  a  fine  present, 
his  enthusiasm  and  his  gratitude  nothing 
damped  by  time  and  change.  Even  with 
the  two  eyes,  he  saw  so  imperfectly  that 
he  was  soon  obliged  to  seek  for  a  life 
companion  to  guide  his  uncertain  steps. 
In  Charleston  he  fell  in  love  with  one  of 
his  own  family  connection,  and,  like  the 
prince  and  princess  in  the  fairy  tale, 
"  they  were  married,  and  lived  happy 
ever  after." 

EmMy  V.  Mason. 
(To  be  continued.) 


GOING  INTO  THE  WOODS. 


EVERY  man  of  culture  and  intelli- 
gence feels  at  times  the  need  of  a  re- 
currence to  nature  and  to  primitive  life. 
These  times  are  usually  about  the  sum- 
mer solstice  or  the  autumnal  equinox. 
The  desire  to  break  away  from  his  sur- 
roundings becomes  irresistible ;  he  yearns 
for  space,  for  solitude,  for  desolation, 
and  he  flies  to  the  forest,  the  ocean,  or 


the  desert.  Such  a  man  should  dwell 
in  a  world-city  or  a  university  town, 
and  these  spots  should  alternate  with 
the  waste  places  of  earth ;  for,  though 
he  may  find  recreation  in  the  former, 
it  is  in  the  latter  only  that  he  meets 
with  re-creation.  There  is  no  halfway 
house  between  the  metropolis  and  the 
desert  for  the  man  of  imagination,  of 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


319 


ideality  and  spirituality.  He  must  live 
in  each :  in  one  to  sustain  his  intellec- 
tual force  by  association  with  man  and 
art,  in  the  other  to  deepen  and  make 
broad  his  spiritual  life  by  fellowship 
with  simple  nature.  The  forest,  the 
ocean,  the  desert,  these  are  where  ex- 
hausted Antaeus  renews  his  strength  at 
the  touch  of  mother  earth :  the  sky,  the 
winds,  the  waters,  the  trees,  the  rocks, 
the  stars,  these  are  counselors  that  feel- 
ingly persuade  him  what  he  is. 

"  This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns." 

Think  of  it,  ye  atoms  of  crowds  and 
cities,  ye  have  cut  yourselves  off  from 
the  most  soulful  source  of  inspiration, 
solitude;  ye  have  turned  your  backs 
upon  simplicity,  and  are  bending  your 
heads  to  the  gutter,  indifferent  to  the 
sublimest  spectacle  of  the  world,  the 
vast  dome  of  stars.  Simplicity,  the  first 
of  man's  conditions  when  he  enters  life, 
but  which  wanes  constantly  as  he  ad- 
vances to  his  prime,  has  its  fastnesses 
in  the  woods,  on  the  waters,  and  among 
the  rocks  and  sands. 

It  is  singular  how  little  admiration 
of  wild  scenery  and  fondness  for  wild 
life  have  come  down  to  us  from  the  an- 
cients. There  is  more  of  these  in  a 
week's  publications  of  to-day  than  re- 
mains in  the  literature  of  Greece  and 
Rome  taken  together.  Of  the  waste 
places  as  sources  of  introspection  and  in- 
spiration, the  Greeks  and  Romans  seem 
to  have  had  no  conception  whatever :  and 
as  with  them,  so  with  their  descendants. 
We  know  where  the  institutions  of  these 
races  came  from ;  they  came  from  the 
cities  and  towns :  but  of  the  Teutonic 
institutions,  it  is  just  as  certain  that 
they  came  out  of  the  woods.  Equally 
inspiring  were  the  deserts  of  the  East. 
Let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  the  Deca- 
logue itself  was  given  to  man  from  the 
heights  of  a  savage  mountain,  and  that 
it  was  from  the  wilderness  that  the  pro- 
phets and  leaders,  like  John  the  Baptist 
and  Mahomet,  emerged  after  their  long 
discipline  to  realize  by  their  deeds  the 


visions  of  the  desert.  .Solitude  is  a 
stern  creator  and  taskmaster,  but  to 
him  who  has  the  will  to  endure  it  is 
bounteous,  filling  his  soul  with  deep 
feeling  and  lofty  aspirations,  hardening 
his  fibre  and  enduing  him  with  great 
thoughts  and  the  force  to  express  them. 
When  it  has  done  these  things,  when  it 
has  fed  him  on  locusts  and  wild  honey, 
it  sends  him  forth  to  subdue  men.  For- 
ty years  in  the  desert  were  not  deemed 
by  the  God  of  Israel  too  long,  nor  their 
privations  too  great,  to  weld  the  Jews 
into  a  chosen  people ;  and  when  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  felt  the  need  of  inspiration, 
he  withdrew  from  the  crowd  and  went 
up  into  a  mountain  to  pray.  The  whole 
history  of  the  Jews,  the  most  poetic 
and  prophetic  of  all  mankind,  is  alive 
with  their  sensitiveness  to  the  spiritual 
uses  of  the  desert.  It  was  a  realm 
where  reigned  a  brooding  mother  to 
them,  solitude ;  a  place  in  which  great 
souls  sought  the  forces  and  the  develop- 
ment that  could  not  else  be  found,  but 
where  little  men  were  crushed  under  the 
weight  of  the  awful  silence  they  had  not 
the  strength  to  break.  The  Jew  and  the 
Arab  found  solitude  in  the  desert,  and 
drew  from  it  inspiration ;  the  Egyptians 
found  there  solitude  also,  and  typified  it 
with  one  solitary  Sphinx ;  they  perpetu- 
ated an  impression  but  no  inspiration. 
The  Greeks  and  Romans  were  no  friends 
to  solitude;  they  feared  it,  and  they 
drove  it  away  before  hordes  of  fauns, 
satyrs,  and  bacchanals. 

Of  all  the  forest-loving  races  of  Eu- 
rope, none  has  sought  the  woods  for 
the  woods'  sake  like  unto  the  English- 
speaking  people ;  nor  has  any  ever  af- 
forded the  spectacle  of  an  annual  mi- 
gration to  the  wilderness  in  such  mag- 
nitude as  do  the  Americans  of  to-day. 
They  go  with  the  eagerness  of  hounds 
loosed  from  the  leash,  and,  buoyant  with 
the  spirit  of  adventure,  accept  adven- 
ture's strokes  or  rewards  with  the  in- 
difference or  delight  of  a  knight  of  La 
Mancha.  Nor  have  the  Americans 
stayed  at  the  mere  enjoyment  of  their 


320 

adventure;  they  have  embodied  it  in 
their  literature.  They  have  been  the 
first  people  to  introduce  into  fiction  the 
life,  savage  and  civilized,  of  the  forest, 
and  to  portray  in  classical  accents  the 
real  life  of  the  woods,  the  lakes,  and 
the  plains.  Their  first  novelist  of  re- 
putation, Cooper,  laid  his  scenes  in  the 
forests  of  the  upper  Hudson,  of  the 
Susquehanna,  and  in  the  oak  openings 
of  Michigan ;  Irving  descends  the  Big- 
horn in  a  bull-boat,  and  follows  the  ad- 
venturers across  the  Great  Plains  and 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  through  the 
desolation  of  Snake  River,  to  the  Ore- 
gon: and  Parkman,  enlightened  by  his 
tribeship  with  the  Ogallalas,  has  en- 
dued history  with  the  spirit  of  the 
wilderness,  and  has  drawn  inspiration 
from  its  woods  and  streams.  The 
greatest  and  best  of  the  Americans, 
their  writers,  poets,  philosophers,  and 
statesmen,  all  have  worshiped  Great 
Pan  in  his  groves.  Bryant,  Lowell, 
Emerson,  Agassiz,  made  annual  pil- 
grimages to  the  woods ;  Webster  com- 
posed a  part  of  his  Bunker  Hill  Monu- 
ment oration  on  a  trout  stream ;  death 
overtook  Governor  Russell  on  the  banks 
of  a  salmon  river ;  and  the  present  Pre- 
sident of  the  United  States  was  called 
out  of  the  Adirondacks  to  assume  his 
office,  while  President  Harrison,  the 
moment  his  duties  were  done,  turned 
his  back  on  the  White  House  and  sought 
repose  in  a  cabin  on  the  Fulton  Chain. 
These  are  a  few  only  of  the  worthies  of 
our  land  out  of  the  great  number  who 
have  hied  to  the  woods  for  rest,  recrea- 
tion, observation,  and  inspiration ;  who, 
indeed,  have  gone  into  the  woods  for 
the  woods'  sake.  We  can  say  of  the 
American  forest  what  Jaques  de  Boys 
said  of  the  forest  of  Arden:  "Every 
day  men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this 
forest. " 

Is  this  tendency  to  revert  to  primi- 
tive life  a  survival  of  latent  savageness 
inherited  by  us,  or  is  it  an  outcome  of 
culture  and  of  healthy  aspiration  that 
has  sprung  up  out  of  the  dust  of  ages  ? 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


Happily  we  can  reach  our  goal  with 
no  great  effort,  and  it  is  due  to  this 
fact  that  the  annual  migration  is  partly 
accountable:  for  from  the  latitude  of 
44°  north  to  the  barrens  of  Labrador 
and  the  Great  Lone  Land  extends  a 
vast  forest  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
western  prairies.  Stretching  southward 
from  Northern  Pennsylvania  to  Geor- 
gia, another  clothes  the  Appalachian 
range  of  mountains;  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains have  their  woods  and  parks,  and 
the  Coast  Range,  with  its  wonderful 
growth,  runs  from  Alaska  to  Mexico. 
East  of  the  Mississippi,  this  northern 
belt  of  woodland  is  drained  by  streams 
and  broad  rivers,  and  is  broken  by  in- 
numerable lakes  of  every  size,  and  all 
are  glacial  lakes.  Steamboats  on  the 
rivers  and  lakes,  and  railroads  on  the 
land,  provide  speedy  and  easy  access. 
There  is  everything  to  tempt  the  adven- 
turer :  he  "  must  to  the  greenwood  go, " 
but  not  in  banishment. 

We  are  prone  to  regard  things  from 
the  standpoint  of  our  own  personality, 
and  we  limit  the  application  of  the 
word  "new  "  to  what  relates  to  our- 
selves. The  word  "ancient,"  for  the 
same  reason,  is  apt  to  be  restricted  to 
what  belongs  to  humankind ;  the  Pyra- 
mids and  the  Rig- Veda  are  ancient,  and 
even  the  Greeks  and  Romans  are  now 
the  ancients:  but  this  forest  south  of 
41°  latitude  is  older  than  man,  for  it 
must  have  existed  ages  before  the  Ne- 
anderthal man  was  born.  North  of 
41°,  it  sprang  up  in  the  wake  of  the 
retreating  ice-cap.  Forests  there  have 
been  far  back  in  the  palaeozoic  age, 
but  this  northern  forest  must  have 
sprung  up  since  the  glacial  epoch. 
Even  from  its  latest  origin,  then,  it  has 
the  prestige  of  prehistoric  antiquity, 
for,  when  the  melting  ice-cap  had  left 
behind  the  lakes  it  had  scooped  out  and 
dammed  up,  these  very  woods  speedily 
clothed  their  banks,  and  not  even  the 
floods  of  the  Champlain  epoch  could 
wash  them  from  the  uplands.  This  is 
what  the  forest  primeval  means. 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


321 


All  of  the  land  covered  by  the  Adi- 
rondacks,  and  all  north  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence and  the  Great  Lakes,  has  a  still 
higher  claim  to  antiquity,  for  it  is  the 
oldest  geological  formation  known  to 
man,  and  it  was  the  sole  land  washed  by 
the  boundless  seas.  It  was  so  old  when 
it  rose  above  the  waters  that  not  a  liv- 
ing thing,  not  even  a  sponge,  existed 
upon  it.  Animal  life  had  not  yet  visit- 
ed the  earth:  the  age  was  azoic.  Of 
this  land,  the  example  best  known  to 
our  people  is  that  of  the  Adirondacks ; 
and  these  mountains  are  the  most  ac- 
cessible and  are  nearest  to  the  densest 
population.  They  are  exquisitely  pic- 
turesque, they  inclose  the  most  charm- 
ing lakes  and  ponds,  and  they  are  cov- 
ered by  a  dense  growth.  It  is  true 
that  they  are  now  despoiled,  and  that 
their  solitude  has  been  broken  or  can 
be  found  only  in  the  farthest  recesses; 
but  the  beauty  of  the  mountains  will 
endure  forever,  and  somewhere  will  be 
always 

"  Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves." 

Of  a  character  quite  different  from 
the  Adirondacks,  though  of  the  same 
geological  formation,  are  the  Lauren- 
tides,  which  extend  from  Lake  Superior 
to  Labrador,  and,  after  passing  Lac  St. 
Pierre,  are  in  full  sight  of  the  voyager 
down  the  St.  Lawrence.  They  rise  in 
elevation  as  they  run  northward,  and 
are  not  grouped  nor  massed  like  the 
Adirondacks,  but  constitute  a  long 
drawn-out  range  of  hills,  never  lofty, 
but  of  height  exceedingly  illusory  to  the 
distant  observer.  This  range  is  all  that 
is  left  of  mighty  mountains  whose  bases 
once  withstood  the  shock  of  palaeozoic 
oceans,  and  they  have  been  likened  by 
Joseph  Le  Conte,  in  homely  phrase,  to 
the  wornout  and  ground  down  teeth  in 
the  jaw  of  an  old  and  decayed  animal. 
Should  you  wish  to  see  them  in  their 
best  estate,  seek  on  a  clear  evening  the 
northern  end  of  the  Dufferin  Terrace 
at  Quebec,  or  mount  the  glacis  of  the 
Citadel,  and  look  nearly  due  north  at 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  21 


the  break  in  their  outline.  You  will 
then  be  looking  up  the  valley  of  the 
Montmorenci  and  into  the  heart  of  the 
Laurentides.  As  the  sun  stoops  to  his 
bed*  the  beautiful  and  changing  lights 
and  colors  of  the  hour  play  along  the 
range,  and  the  forms  of  the  mountains 
through  which  the  Montmorenci  has 
broken  on  its  way  to  its  final  leap  into 
the  St.  Lawrence  are  softened  by  haze, 
but  are  still  perfectly  discernible.  You 
cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  a  character 
new  to  one  who  views  them  for  the  first 
time ;  they  seem  to  be  tumbling  in  upon 
each  other.  They  are  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful, and  the  eye  dwells  upon  them  un- 
til the  crimson  has  deepened  into  pur- 
ple, and  the  purple  into  darkness. 

Take  the  Saguenay  steamer  and  de- 
scend the  St.  Lawrence.  One  gets  a 
nearer  view  as  the  mountains  come  to  the 
water's  edge  and  are  under  a  morning 
light.  They  continue  to  rise  in  height-, 
—  a  feature  perfectly  apparent  from 
the  Terrace,  • —  and  become  bold  and 
savage :  at  Tadousac  the  ascent  of  the 
Saguenay  is  begun,  and  one  passes 
through  the  chain.  The  grandeur  of  the 
passage  is  too  well  known  for  descrip- 
tion here,  but  it  will  add  interest  to  the 
scene  to  recall  that  in  gazing  upon  the 
Laurentides  one  is  looking  at  the  most 
ancient  objects  in  the  world;  hills  to 
which  the  Andes  and  the  Himalaya  are 
but  things  of  yesterday. 

At  the  bases  of  these  worn-down 
mountains  are  charming  lakes,  all  gla- 
cial, of  which  Lac  Beauport  and  Lac 
St.  Joseph  are  well-known  examples, 
and  all  lakes,  ponds,  and  streams  are 
trout  waters.  The  largest  lakes  are  at 
the  sources  of  the  mountain  torrents, 
away  up  near  the  watershed  which  runs 
between  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Sa- 
guenay, such  as  Lac  des  Neiges,  or  Snow 
Lake,  at  the  head  of  the  Montmorenci, 
Grand  Lac  Jacques  Cartier,  at  the  head 
of  the  river  of  this  name,  and  Lac 
Edouard,  or  Lake  Edward,  the  source 
of  the  Batiscan. 

Far  otherwise  than  beautiful  is  the 


322 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


southern  shore  of  the  St.  Lawrence. 
The  geological  formation  is  a  different 
one;  the  lower  Silurian  stretches  from 
the  foot  of  the  Laurentian  chain  to  the 
Atlantic,  and  the  character  of  the  land- 
scape has  altered  at  once;  it  is  flat, 
inane,  and  barren  to  the  eye,  but  none 
the  less  inviting  to  the  hunter,  and, 
with  the  New  Brunswick  and  Baie  des 
Chaleurs  salmon  rivers,  to  the  angler. 

He,  therefore,  whose  inclination  to 
the  woods  has  a  root  in  sentiment  and 
in  love  of  the  picturesque,  will  start 
from  the  foundation  and  look  to  his 
geology  before  setting  forth.  He  will 
be  sure  of  the  picturesque  and  ancient 
if  he  hie  to  the  Laurentian  formation, 
wherever  it  may  be.  Next  to  this,  let 
him  seek  the  less  savage  but  ever  beau- 
tiful Devonian. 

The  character  of  the  Laurentian  riv- 
ers, such  as  the  Ste.  Anne  en  haut,  the 
Ste.  Anne  en  bas,  the  Montmorenci, 
the  Jacques  Cartier,  and  the  Batiscan, 
differs  widely  from  that  of  the  rivers  of 
Maine  and  of  the  Adirondack  country ; 
they  are  torrential.  From  Ste.  Anne 
de  Beaupre',  near  where  the  Laurentides 
touch  the  St.  Lawrence,  to  the  St. 
Maurice,  their  courses  are  short  and 
precipitate,  and  they  rush  down  the 
mountain  slopes  broken  by  falls  and 
rapids.  Canoeing  on  them  is  difficult 
and  toilsome,  and  is  done  by  poling; 
the  portages  are  numerous.  Not  so  the 
Moose  River  of  Maine  or  the  Raquette 
of  the  Adirondacks.  These  flow  through 
alluvial  soil  in  curves  and  ox-bows ;  the 
banks  are  clothed  with  dense  vegetation, 
and  the  streams  are  fed  by  copious  out- 
lets of  back-lying  lakes  and  ponds ;  lake- 
like  expanses  are  more  common,  but,  in 
comparison  with  the  Laurentian  rivers, 
rapids  are  few  and  falls  still  fewer. 

The  Jacques  Cartier  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  of  the  Quebec  streams, 
which  may  be  described  as  mountain 
torrents  broken  by  numerous  rapids,  the 
water  even  in  the  pools  being  "  quick ;  " 
but  I  am  better  acquainted  with  the  up- 
per Montmorenci,  which  I  have  ascend- 


ed and  descended  many  times.  Always 
has  my  heart  leaped  up,  when,  the  Flat 
rapid  passed,  and  poling  up  the  reach, 
the  murmur  of  the  Paquet  rapid  has 
broken  upon  my  ear.  The  scene  is  wild 
and  savage.  The  valley  —  but  there  is 
none ;  the  mountains  on  either  side  and 
ahead  (for  they  seem  to  bar  the  way) 
rise  from  the  shores  of  the  stream,  and 
have  been  stripped  of  their  growth  of 
timber  by  fire,  by  landslides,  and  by 
the  lumberman.  The  rapid  comes  in 
sight  as  we  painfully  round  a  bend.  If 
it  is  a  clear  day,  with  a  bright  sun,  the 
river  is  intensely  blue  and  crossed  by 
a  line  of  white  water:  it  is  the  rapid 
tossing  its  mane  in  the  air.  We  pole 
into  the  pool  at  its  foot,  where  there  is 
a  portage  to  be  taken  by  the  angler. 
This  portage  is  a  short  one  and  cuts 
across  a  bend  to  the  head  of  the  rapid. 
The  canoe-man,  at  low  water,  poles  up- 
stream, leaving  one  to  follow  the  path 
alone.  The  transition  from  the  roar  of 
the  waters  to  the  stillness  of  the  woods 
is  abrupt,  and  never  has  been  wanting 
the  momentary  impression  of  being  de- 
serted and  lost  in  the  woods.  The  fur- 
ther end  of  the  portage  reached,  one 
throws  himself  upon  a  patch  of  grass 
and  waits  for  the  canoe,  which  at  last 
appears,  the  pole  of  the  toiling  canoe- 
man  ringing  against  the  rocks.  We  are 
now  on  the  pdche  Ste.  Anne,  a  trout 
pool  famous  for  generations  as  one  of 
big  scores  of  heavy  weights. 

These  torrents  rise  and  fall  quickly. 
Two  years  ago  I  came  down  the  Paquet 
on  a  flood,  and  the  descent  was  an  ex- 
hilarating one.  There  is  just  enough 
danger  in  running  rapids  to  quicken  the 
nerves,  but  it  is  at  low  water  that  the 
greatest  danger  lies,  for  the  sunken 
rocks  are  then  most  apt  to  be  those  upon 
which  the  canoe  may  split:  at  high 
water  the  canoe  runs  over  everything. 
Often  have  I  ascended  rapids.  This  is 
done  by  hugging  the  shore  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  back  water ;  and,  when 
the  canoe-man  stops  to  take  a  rest,  plea- 
sant it  is  to  lie  in  the  canoe,  with  the 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


323 


water  a  few  feet  off  rushing  and  roar- 
ing,-and  smoke  a  pipe.  In  fishing  on 
the  rapids,  one  makes  his  way  up  or 
down  midstream,  anchors,  and  casts 
in  the  back  waters  and  edges  of  the  cur- 
rent. We  push  on  to  the  camp,  which 
is  surrounded  by  scarred  and  tempest- 
beaten  ridges,  some  still  having  crests 
of  pyramidal  firs  on  their  sharp  out- 
lines, while  others,  like  the  Snow  River 
range,  are  absolutely  bare.  Below  us 
is  the  Paquet  rapid;  above  us  is  the 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,  immediately  be- 
yond which  is  the  Rapide  Noire  or  Black 
rapid ;  and  still  further  beyond  is  the 
Snow  River  pool,  above  which  the  river 
of  that  name  falls  in,  with  its  wealth  of 
water  pouring  in  multitudinous  streams. 
The  little  lakes  that  lie  at  the  feet 
of  the  Laurentides  in  the  vicinity  of 
Quebec  are  mostly  isolated,  though  here 
and  there  are  small  systems ;  but  these 
systems  do  not  compare  with  those  of 
the  Adirondacks  or  of  Maine,  where  one 
can  start  from  the  Lower  Saranac  and 
go  to  the  head  of  Fish  Creek,  through 
twenty  lakes  and  ponds,  or  to  Blue 
Mountain  or  to  the  Tupper  lakes  and 
beyond ;  or,  leaving  Jackman,  go  around 
the  Bow  up  river,  or  down  river  by 
way  of  Moosehead  to  the  St.  John  or 
lower  Penobscot  and  tidewater.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  Quebec  lakes  exceed  these 
in  beauty,  for  the  reason  that  the  Lau- 
rentides are  at  their  very  heads ;  one  is 
always  sure  of  changing  lights  and  col- 
ors such  as  mountains  only  can  afford, 
and  in  stormy  weather  of  shower  after 
shower  chasing  along  the  hills.  One 
tempestuous  day,  when  caught  at  the 
first  sand  beach  in  the  upper  part  of 
Lake  St.  Joseph,  we  counted  five  of 
these  gusts  scurrying  in  ghostly  flight 
one  after  another.  For  the  reason  that 
the  lakes  at  the  feet  of  the  Laurentides 
are  so  beautiful,  —  the  fact  that  the 
hills  rise  from  them  in  full  height,  — 
the  larger  lakes  up  on  the  divide  are  not 
so  impressive  in  scenic  effect :  the  relief 
of  the  background  is  not  so  high,  the 
observer  being  near  the  summit  of  the 


range  and  not  at  its  foot.  One  gets  a 
glimpse,  though,  from  Lake  Edward, 
of  the  Bostonnais  chain,  which,  in  the 
full  glory  of  autumnal  color  and  under 
a  bright  sun,  is  very  striking.  There 
are  beaches  on  the  Quebec  lakes,  but 
few  good  landing  places  on  the  rivers, 
and  the  whole  Laurentian  formation, 
be  it  in  the  Adirondacks,  in  Maine,  or 
in  Canada,  is  lacking  in  springs,  such 
as  there  are  being  impregnated  with 
lime  or  iron.  The  best  water  is  that 
which  flows  from  alder  swamps  on  the 
hillsides ;  this  is  rain  water  which  has 
percolated  through  moss,  and,  descend- 
ing in  the  shade  of  dense  growth,  comes 
to  one's  lips,  clear,  sweet,  and  cold. 

There  is  a  note  of  warning  to  be  given 
concerning  the  flies  that  swarm  in  the 
woods,  and  which  are  a  veritable  curse 
during  their  period  of  existence.  The 
Jesuit  Le  Jeune,  in  his  Relation  of 
1632,  enumerates  the  various  kinds, 
from  the  house  fly  to  the  fire  fly,  dwell- 
ing with  sanguinary  particularity  upon 
those  that  bite  and  sting.  He  says  that 
he  had  seen  men  whose  cheeks  were  so 
swollen  from  the  stings  that  one  could 
not  distinguish  their  eyes ;  and  adds 
that  they  draw  blood  from  whomsoever 
they  light  upon,  —  an  experience  few 
have  escaped  who  have  ventured  into 
the  woods  in  "fly-time."  He  says, 
further,  that  they  attack  some  in  pre- 
ference to  others,  a  discrimination  con- 
firmed to  this  day  by  the  claim  of  the 
habitant  to  immunity  from  their  as- 
saults. Thoreau,  also,  in  his  article  on 
The  Allegash  and  East  Branch,  gives 
his  enumeration  under  the  headings, 
first,  second,  third,  and  fourth,  putting 
mosquitoes  first,  then  the  black  flies, 
next  moose  flies,  and  lastly  the  No-see- 
ums,  or  sand  flies. 

I  have  never  been  molested  by  the 
moose  or  deer  fly,  but  there  are  three 
places  that  will  remain  always  in  my 
recollection  in  connection  with  mosqui- 
toes, and  these  are  Barnegat,  on  the 
Jersey  coast,  Lac  aux  Ecorces,  and 
Lake  Edward ;  these  last  localities  be- 


324 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


ing  in  the  Laurentides.  Those  at  Bar- 
negat  were  plentiful  and  vigorous,  but 
it  seems  that  the  further  north  we  go 
the  worse  they  get,  for  a  member  of 
Hayes's  party  told  me  that  he  had  never 
seen  a  swarm  denser  than  one  which  was 
hovering  over  a  snow  bank  in  the  harbor 
of  Upernavik,  Greenland.  At  Lac  aux 
Ecorces  I  learned  why  the  Indian  sleeps 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  blanket,  — 
he  has  to  do  so,  or  be  devoured.  Of 
them  all,  the  bruleau,  or  sand  fly  (Tho- 
reau's  No-see-ums),  is  the  worst.  The 
black  fly  goes  to  rest  with  the  sun,  the 
mosquito  at  midnight,  but  the  sand  fly 
stays  at  its  work  all  night.  Once  es- 
tablished in  the  cabin,  it  gets  into  the 
clothing,  and,  as  a  capping  climax,  into 
one's  blankets.  The  mosquito  and  sand 
fly  puncture,  but  the  black  fly  bites,  and 
bites  a  piece  out ;  this  makes  a  bad  and 
slow -healing  wound ;  the  sand  fly  pierces 
the  skin  with  a  red-hot  needle,  and  hence 
its  name,  the  burner.  The  angler  is 
driven  off  the  pools  by  sudden  irruption 
of  bruleaux,  and  in  the  daytime  I  have 
seen  the  inside  of  a  cabin's  windows 
yellowish  green  with  them.  There  are 
palliatives  against  these  pests,  but  little 
prevention.  The  bruleaux  will  fly  into 
a  fire,  but  those  that  have  got  into  the 
clothing  of  man  or  bed  remain.  When 
once  the  tormentors  have  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  voyager  and  his  hut  there 
is  but  one  of  two  things  to  do,  —  change 
camp,  or  return  to  the  settlements  until 
the  pest  has  abated.  From  the  middle 
of  June  until  August,  the  woods  of  that 
vicinity  are  not  friendly  to  the  intruder, 
and  he  had  better  give  them  a  wide 
berth. 

When  may  a  man  go  into  the  woods  ? 
Leaving  winter  out  of  the  question,  the 
lover  of  the  forest  has  from  the  middle 
of  May  to  the  middle  of  June,  when 
the  foliage  is  fast  expanding  to  perfec- 
tion, the  wild  flowers  are  in  bloom,  the 
streams  are  full,  and  the  trout  are  jump- 
ing ;  and  from  the  middle  of  August  to 
November,  when  the  wind  blows  fresh 
and  bracing,  when  the  woods  are  masses 


of  color  sharply  contrasted  with  dark 
evergreens,  and  when  the  stags  are  leap- 
ing. 

We  lose  much,  however,  if  we  leave 
winter  out  of  the  question,  for  yearly 
I  meet  caribou  hunters,  among  whom 
are  true  lovers  of  nature,  who  tell  me 
that  to  their  minds  the  woods  are  in 
their  glory  during  the  subarctic  winter. 
I  recall  one  of  these  who  was  famous 
for  his  woodcraft,  his  love  of  adventure, 
his  hardihood,  his  powers  of  observa- 
tion, and  his  skill;  and  for  his  gentle 
disposition  withal.  He  had  held  a  re- 
sponsible position  for  years  in  a  noted 
line  of  steamers  whose  fleet  plies  be- 
tween our  ports  and  the  tropics ;  but  he 
had  never  made  a  voyage.  Bfis  love  for 
the  woods  was  a  passion.  "  Where, " 
said  he  to  me  one  day,  "  do  you  suppose 
I  shall  go,  should  I  ever  tear  myself 
away  for  a  winter  ?  "  "  To  the  tropics, " 
I  answered.  "No;  I  detest  their 
very  name."  "To  Europe."  "No." 
"Around  the  world."  "No;  I  shall 
take  my  axe,  my  snowshoes,  my  rifle, 
some  provisions  and  books,  and  go  into 
the  wilderness  north  of  the  Saguenay, 
and  there,  with  no  neighbors  but  Mon- 
tagnais  Indians,  and  they  fifty  miles 
away,  I  shall  build  a  cabin,  and  pass 
the  livelong  winter  reading,  studying 
the  trees,  the  weather,  and  the  snow- 
birds, and  be  happy  in  absolute  solitude 
and  contact  with  nature."  His  was  a 
voice  for  the  woods  in  winter! 

The  latest  picture  of  John  Burroughs 
represents  him  standing  in  the  snow,  on 
the  verge  of  a  thicket,  gazing  intently 
at  the  tracks  left  by  a  roving  animal. 

Who  should  go  into  the  woods  ?  All 
who  would  seek  them  for  the  woods' 
sake.  If  I  could  have  my  way,  none 
others  should  go.  I  should  bar  out  every 
one  and  all  who  seek  them  merely  to 
slaughter  four-footed  game ;  merely  to 
kill  fish  or  to  kill  time ;  merely  to  say, 
when  they  return  home,  that  they  have 
been  there.  These  are  sweeping  restric- 
tions, but  my  tyranny  would  be  a  bene- 
ficent one.  How  shocking,*  the  vulgar 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


325 


incongruities  of  the  Adirondacks !  Take 
the  train  from  Greenville  to  Bangor  dur- 
ing the  open  season  for  moose  and  deer, 
and  hear  the  loud-voiced  narrations  of 
the  "good  times"  the  swashbucklers 
have  been  having  up  Penobscot  way,  or 
down  the  Allegash.  The  good  times 
have  been  due,  not  to  what  the  woods 
have  given  them,  but  to  what  they  took 
into  the  woods  with  them  ;  times  which 
they  might  have  had  more  fully  and 
more  appropriately  at  a  fish-house  on 
Coney  Island  than  in  a  camp  on  Cau- 
comgomoc  Lake.  These  men  are  in- 
truders into  "God's  first  temple"  as 
much  as  they  would  be  were  they  to 
pitch  their  tents  in  a  church.  They 
bring  back  nothing  worth  having ;  not 
even  a  pair  of  horns.  For  them  the 
stars  have  twinkled  to  blind  eyes,  and 
the  music  of  the  wind  through  the  pines 
and  of  the  wash  of  the  waves  on  the 
shore  has  fallen  on  deaf  ears ;  nor  has 
the  silence  of  the  woods  aroused  awe  in 
their  bosoms,  nor  has  their  misspent 
energy  produced  an  aspiration  hitherto 
unf elt :  they  have  exerted  powers  other 
than  the  power  of  an  endless  life.  "Too 
low  they  build  who  build  beneath  the 
stars." 

He  should  go,  on  the  contrary,  who 
is  open  to  that  influence  of  nature 
which  the  forest  alone  exerts,  and  which 
can  be  had  nowhere  else  than  in  its 
depths;  who  would  see  "how  the  pine 
lives  and  grows  and  spires,  lifting  its 
evergreen  arms  to  the  light ;  "  what  the 
streams  are  working  at,  now  building 
up,  now  sweeping  away  their  own  work ; 
what  the  rushes,  struggling  for  life  on 
a  sandbar,  are  doing;  what  the  winds 
of  heaven,  and  the  mosses,  the  lichens, 
the  trees  and  the  mould  under  them 
are  achieving,  and  how  they  perform 
their  tasks.  He  who  delights  in  the 
sighing  of  the  evergreens,  the  rustle  of 
leaves,  the  murmur  of  ripples,  the  roar 
of  rapids  and  falls,  and  of  the  gale  lash- 
ing the  chafed  bosom  of  the  lake,  or 
bending  the  tops  of  trees  before  its 
blast ;  he  who  can  find  tongues  in  trees, 


books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons 
in  stones,  and  good  in  everything,  he 
should  go,  must  go,  to  the  woods. 

To  catch  fish  and  to  shoot  deer  and 
ruffed  grouse  are  perfectly  legitimate 
acts,  like  all  true  sport,  when  they  are 
incidental  to  higher  purposes :  but  there 
are  other  and  better  things,  touching 
the  soul  of  man,  which  the  woods  offer 
and  which  imperious  nature  insists  shall 
be  first  in  his  regard,  to  the  subordi- 
nation of  everything  else  except  sus- 
tenance, which  is  a  need.  This  none 
know  better  than  the  sportsmen,  who 
have  ever  contended  that  sport  ceases 
to  be  sport  when  the  pursuit  is  not 
founded  6n  something  higher  than  greed 
or  labor,  or  when  its  enjoyment  involves 
the  sacrifice  of  higher  things. 

To  competent  skill  in  angling  or  hunt- 
ing there  should  be  added  that  in  wood- 
craft. In  these  days  of  professional 
guides,  it  is  true  that  one  could  live  out 
his  time  in  the  woods  without  either 
knowledge  or  skill  in  the  sylvan  arts; 
but,  apart  from  a  possible  need  of  such 
attributes,  much  pleasure  is  lost  by  not 
having  them.  The  chase  is  natural  to 
all  animals,  and  he  is  wise  who  indulges 
in  it  within  the  limitations  of  true  sport. 
As  for  woodcraft,  there  should  be  some 
knowledge,  if  only  to  understand  what 
is  going  on  before  one's  eyes,  to  favor 
self-reliance,  and  to  feel  that  one  is  not 
standing  in  jeopardy  every  hour. 

Should  one  be  interested  in  subjects 
for  which  the  woods  offer  opportunity 
to  study,  great  is  the  gain,  for  mere 
sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  forest,  the 
waters,  and  the  sky,  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  mere  idealization  of  them,  is  not 
enough:  there  should  be  acquisition  of 
knowledge  and  reasoning  thereon.  A 
taste  for  geology,  mineralogy,  meteor- 
ology, botany,  ornithology,  or  star-gaz- 
ing, will  meet  with  many  an  occasion 
for  exercise  on  the  lakes,  in  the  woods, 
and  in  the  clearings.  Let  it  not  be  car- 
ried, though,  to  the  sacrifice  of  higher 
delights.  Once  I  met  at  my  resting 
place  in  a  remote  corner  of  Canada  a 


326 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


famous  botanist,  who,  on  the  rumor  of 
a  high  prize  in  plant  life,  had  traveled 
eight  hundred  miles  with  the  hope  of 
winning  it.  We  fished  out  of  a  quiet 
tarn,  to  his  great  joy,  a  long,  snaky,  and 
slimy  water-weed,  specimens  of  which, 
a  day  or  two  after,  were  labeled  with 
the  addresses  of  all  the  great  universi- 
ties and  collections  in  Christendom.  On 
our  way  back,  I  took  note  that  he  kept 
his  eyes  bent  on  the  trees,  bushes,  and 
grasses  that  lined  the  road.  "I  sup- 
pose," said  I,  "that  you  know  every 
leaf,  flower,  and  blade  that  you  see." 
There  was  real  regret  in  his  response : 
"Sometimes  I  wish  that  I  did  not  know 
them  so  well  as  I  do,  and  thatt  I  were 
not  so  possessed  with  plant  hunger ;  for 
I  should  see  many  a  beautiful  thing  that 
I  am  now  blind  to,  and  should  be  the 
better  for." 

The  woods  offer  a  busy  life  to  him 
who  will  lead  it,  but  one  tempered  with 
sweet  restfulness.  What  with  the  pur- 
suit of  some  subject  of  natural  science, 
with  a  pair  of  glasses  for  star-gazing, 
and  a  judicious  exercise  of  woodcraft 
and  angling  or  hunting,  there  is  plenty 
to  do,  and  we  should  come  back  to  camp 
healthily  tired,  to  a  good  book,  and, 
not  least,  to  a  good  meal  and  a  good 
bed.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  go  into 
the  woods  with  the  vulgar  notion  of 
"roughing  it;  "  a  term  commonly  ex- 
pressive of  hard  toil  and  squalid  living. 
There  need  not  be  and  should  not  be 
anything  of  the  kind.  Gentle  living  is 
easily  managed  in  these  days  of  delicate 
supply  and  clean  camp-keepers,  and 
there  is  no  excuse  for  subjecting  one's 
self  to  the  labor  and  squalor  of  abori- 
ginal savagery.  Cabins  can  be  made 
weather-proof  and  comfortable,  and  be 
kept  kempt  and  tidy.  Men  should  seek 
the  woods  to  enjoy  rest  and  tranquillity, 
and  not  to  toil  and  worry;  and,  so  far 
from  roughing  it,  they  should  smooth 
it.  We  hie  to  the  greenwood  to  escape 
the  st'ress  and  rudeness  of  daily  life  in 
the  world  at  home ;  it  would  be  a  down- 
right failure  to  exchange  one  asperity 


for  another.  A  change  of  mental  labor 
may  be  mental  rest,  but  no  change  of 
care  can  make  one  glad.  The  wise  man 
will  betake  himself  where  no  daily  paper 
can  reach  him :  it  is  essential  to  the 
success  of  his  adventure  that  he  cut  him- 
self off  from  the  world.  He  who  would 
carry  his  care  and  worry  with  him  has 
no  business  in  these  still  recesses:  let 
him  be  wise  in  time  and  stay  at  home, 
for,  if  he  will  not  be  spiritually  mind- 
ed, he  shall  not  have  life  and  peace. 
"Man's  goings  are  of  the  Lord;  when 
he  giveth  quietness,  who  then  can  make 
trouble?" 

I  once  saw  a  noted  poet,  tired  and 
dusty  after  a  day's  journey,  alight  on 
the  shore  of  the  Lower  Saranac.  At 
the  sight  of  the  well-remembered  lake 
and  woods  he  broke  forth  in  recita- 
tion of  Fletcher's  Ode  to  Melancholy. 
"  Hence,  all  you  vain  delights !  "  was 
at  once  his  rejection  of  the  world's  fri- 
volities, upon  which  he  had  turned  his 
back,  and  his  salutation  to  the  beloved 
wilds  which  then  were  clasping  him  to 
their  bosom. 

The  man  that  goes  into  the  woods 
ungoaded  by  the  furies  of  trout  killing 
or  deer  killing,  but  who  is  content  to 
take  these  woods  as  he  finds  them,  will 
so  apportion  his  time  as  to  have  his 
nooning  a  long  and  restful  one.  Bird, 
beast,  and  fish  unite  in  permitting  him 
repose  for  several  hours.  This  is  the 
period  that  he  can  give  to  reading. 
There  is  no  better  place  in  the  world 
than  the  camp  to  refresh  one's  memory, 
to  recall  passages  long  ago  familiar,  but 
now  growing  dim ;  and  no  better  time 
than  when  the  body  is  resting,  and  rest- 
ing on  a  bed  of  balsam  boughs.  Par- 
ticularly is  this  the  case  with  poetry. 
One  does  not  wish  in  these  surroundings 
to  enter  on  the  serious  work  of  master- 
ing an  epic,  or  of  familiarizing  one's  self 
with  a  new  poet ;  but  there  are  times 
when  it  becomes  fitting  to  brush  up  past 
readings,  and  the  camp  is  a  capital  place 
for  a  task  of  this  kind,  and,  for  the  hour, 
there  is  none  better.  Short  poems  or 


Going  into  the    Woods. 


327 


well  -  thumbed  lyrical  collections  are 
what  is  wanted.  There  is  nothing  to 
distract  the  attention,  and  it  is  aston- 
ishing how  speedily  a  dulled  memory 
brightens  up  and  sets  to  work  to  revive 
the  old  favorites,  and  to  renew  in  activ- 
ity as  lively  as  ever  the  half-forgotten 
lines  that  once  had  stirred  the  blood 
and  had  become  elements  of  the  intel- 
lectual forces.  Go  back  to  the  ancient 
lyrics,  the  favorites  of  your  youth :  they 
will  renew  a  right  spirit  within  you.  If 
you  are  old,  they  will  make  you  young 
again:  if  you  are  young  and  they  are 
strange,  you  will  take  home  with  you 
friends  that  you  had  not  when  you  .en- 
tered the  woodland,  and  friends  they 
will  be  for  a  lifetime.  Take  one  of  the 
old  odes  and  learn  it  by  heart :  you  will 
be  amazed  at  the  rapidity  with  which 
it  comes  back ;  it  runs  to  meet  you,  or, 
rather,  you  will  discover  that  all  along 
it  has  been  a  part  of  you,  but  that,  to 
your  confusion,  you  have  neglected  it. 
Now  you  are  making  amends :  a  recov- 
ered force  is  a  new  force,  you  have  lost 
and  have  found,  and  your  joy  is  great. 
One  can  hardly  imagine  a  busy  man  sub- 
tracting hours  from  the  daily  life  of  a 
city  to  get  back  his  poetry,  a  task  long 
ago  primitive  to  him :  but  the  woods 
themselves  are  primitive,  life  there  is 
primitive,  and  there,  if  anywhere,  is  the 
place  to  renew  the  lore  of  one's  youth, 
or  to  equip  a  young  man  with  noble 
thoughts.  They  are  never  alone  that 
are  accompanied  by  noble  thoughts,  said 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Observe,  O  ancient 
and  O  youth !  that  you  do  not  go  into 
the  woods  for  intellectual  work,  but  to 
rest  from  such  work,  and  that  the  task 
here  set  you  is  a  gentle  one,  requiring 
no  greater  exertion  of  the  memory  than 
that  which  exercised  your  body  when 
you  cast  your  fly  in  the  morning's  an- 
gling, —  and  thus  the  inward  man  is 
renewed  day  by  day. 

There  is  no  place  where  the  imagina- 
tion is  appealed  to  more  effectively  than 
the  woods.  Who  has  ever  stumbled 
upon  the  merest  hunter's  camp,  perhaps 


the  resting  place  for  a  single  night 
only,  and  not  felt  a  thrill  ?  The  charred 
chunks  of  wood,  where  the  fire  had 
blazed  and  lighted  up  the  trees  around, 
and  had  sent  its  beams  into  the  cavern- 
ous darkness;  the  red,  rusty,  flattened 
balsam  beds,  where  tired  men  had  slept ; 
a  few  tent  pegs;  these  are  worthless 
things,  but  they  move  deeply  our  social 
sense,  and,  mere  vestiges  though  they 
be,  remind  us  that  we  are  indifferent  to 
nothing  that  once  has  had  the  touch  of 
a  human  being.  It  is  the  man's  foot- 
print on  the  desert  shore,  and,  as  it  af- 
fected Crusoe,  so  it  affects  us.  A  few 
months  since  I  turned  aside  from  my 
course  to  see  what  was  left  of  a  cabin 
in  which  I  had  passed  some  days  a  long 
time  ago.  As  I  neared  the  spot  the 
canoe  grazed  a  rock  and  I  exclaimed, 
"  How  thoughtless  in  me !  I  should 
have  remembered  that  fellow ;  "  for  we 
had  been  careful  of  old,  in  leaving  or 
returning  to  camp,  to  steer  clear  of  this 
obstruction.  This  came  back  to  me  with 
startling  stress,  and  I  thought  I  could 
now  recognize  every  stone  at  the  land- 
ing place.  I  found  the  scene  a  picture 
of  desolation.  Parts  of  one  end  and  of 
a  side  were  all  that  was  left  of  the  cabin. 
The  blackened  marks  of  fires  on  the 
ground  showed  that  the  logs  which  had 
composed  it  had  been  burnt  by  passing 
anglers,  probably,  who  had  made  it  a 
nooning  place.  Bushes  and  tall  weeds 
were  growing  rank  inside,  where  the 
stove,  table,  and  bunks  had  stood.  The 
place,  which  had  been  one  of  the  model 
camps  of  my  wood  life,  and  which  had 
kept  its  hold  on  my  memory  as  the 
tidiest  habitation  I  had  ever  been  in 
during  my  forest  wanderings,  was  un- 
kempt and  dirty.  Trees,  wantonly  cut, 
had  fallen  over  against  others,  and  lit- 
erally had  died  in  their  neighbors'  arms. 
The  scene  was  forlorn,  repulsive,  and  I 
was  sorry  that  I  had  become  a  victim  to 
my  desire  to  revisit  an  ancient  resting 
place.  I  had  survived  one  of  my  habi- 
tations and  one  of  the  episodes  that  had 
made  up  my  life.  Decay  without  new 


328 


Going  into  the   Woods. 


growth,  desecration  by  humankind,  — 
the  wreck  was  complete,  and  we  pad- 
dled sadly  away. 

Let  me  impress  upon  the  voyager  an 
underlying  truth :  the  pursuits  that  flow 
from  one's  intellectual  tastes,  and  the 
cultivation  of  special  subjects,  by  no 
means  constitute  the  main  occupation 
of  a  sojourn  in  the  wilds ;  like  hunting 
and  fishing,  they  are  incidental  only. 
The  real  study  that  is  ever  constant  and 
enduring,  the  real  study  of  the  woods,  is 
the  woods  themselves;  what  they  are, 
how  they  are  born,  grow  up,  pass  their 
days,  and  die ;  what  is  over  them,  in 
them,  and  under  them ;  to  see  intelli- 
gently, to  observe,  this  is  the  true  study 
of  the  woods.  When  the  power  of  ob- 
servation has  been  developed,  one  of  the 
great  steps  has  been  taken  toward  know- 
ing and  enjoying  the  processes  of  crea- 
tion; for  creation  is  ever  going  on. 
This  gained,  one  at  last  is  face  to  face 
with  nature,  and  not  until  then  can  we 
reap  the  harvest  of  our  surroundings. 
Further  knowledge  of  sylvan  life  is  ac- 
quired almost  unconsciously,  so  easy  is 
the  advance  into  the  field.  Nature,  in- 
deed, takes  her  disciple  by  the  hand  and 
leads  him  on.  The  faculty  to  observe 
is  as  dirigible  and  expansive  as  any 
other  faculty,  and  when  it  has  been  well 
started  on  its  course,  when  it  has  been 
directed  aright  and  has  been  faithfully 
sustained,  it  is  as  susceptible  to  devel- 
opment as  are  the  rest  of  our  faculties. 
Men  saw  this  long  ago  and  gave  the  seer 
a  high  place  in  their  estimation.  To 
see  correctly,  to  observe  intelligently, 
is  a  difficult  task ;  but  once  gained,  the 
power  becomes  a  possession  for  eternity. 
Observation  is  not  a  mere  accomplish- 
ment; it  is  an  art. 

So  much  for  what  a  man  can  make 
of  himself  in  observing.  What  he  can 
derive  from  the  woods  depends  on  him- 
self and  his  own  volition.  To  this  point 
he  has  been  a  seer,  and  the  woods  have 
been  the  object  of  his  endeavor,  and  all 
this  endeavor  has  been  that  of  his  mind. 
His  action  has  been  limited  by  his  in- 


tellect, which  alone  has  been  called  into 
play.  Quite  different  are  the  relations 
between  man  and  nature,  when  Nature 
exerts  her  influence  upon  the  man  of 
imagination,  of  ideality,  of  feeling,  and 
of  aspiration.  This  influence  is  of  the 
loftiest  character,  and  has  the  soul  of 
man  for  its  field  of  action;  not  the 
mind  only,  but  the  very  soul  itself. 
Consider  what  led  the  prophets  and 
leaders  of  old  to  the  solitudes  of  the 
desert,  and  why  the  shrines  of  Great 
Pan  were  placed  in  thickets.  It  was 
not  to  study  plant,  beast,  or  bird,  nor 
to  recall  the  enthusiasms  of  youth:  it 
was  to  pray,  to  commune  with  the  in- 
finite, to  exert  self -discipline,  to  invig- 
orate and  expand  the  soul.  The  seek- 
ers after  God  sought  these  wilds  to  sub- 
due the  lusts  of  the  flesh  and  to  beat 
down  Satan  under  their  feet :  it  was 
soul-need  that  took  them  to  the  waste 
places.  Away  from  the  distractions  of 
the  world,  from  its  waywardness,  its 
perversity,  its  brutality,  its  pollution; 
away  from  their  false  selves,  they  sought 
their  true  selves,  and  concentrated  all 
the  forces  of  their  being  on  the  contem- 
plation of  the  highest  and  best, 

Thoreau  exemplifies  the  distinction 
between  action  of  the  mind  and  expan- 
sion of  the  soul  when  in  the  woods; 
the  difference  between  the  mental  ac- 
tivity and  the  spiritual  life  called  forth 
by  his  surroundings.  He  was  a  natu- 
ralist, and,  as  he  pursued  his  way,  stu- 
died trees  and  plants,  birds  and  butter- 
flies, four-footed  beasts  and  waterfowl : 
he  was  indifferent  to  nothing  that  he 
could  see  and  observe,  and  he  carried 
his  book  with  him,  but,  likewise,  he  was 
an  idealist,  and  he  possessed  spiritu- 
ality. Read,  then,  his  apostrophe  to 
Matter  evoked  by  his  passage  over  a 
tract  of  burnt  lands  in  his  descent  from 
the  summit  of  Ktaadn:  "And  yet  we 
have  not  seen  pure  Nature,  unless  we 
have  seen  her  thus  drear  and  inhuman, 
though  in  the  midst  of  cities.  Nature 
was  here  something  savage  and  awful, 
though  beautiful.  I  looked  with  awe  at 


A  National  Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


329 


the  ground  I  trod  on,  to  see  what  the 
Powers  had  made  there,  the  form  and 
fashion  and  material  of  their  work. 
This  was  that  Earth  of  which  we  have 
heard,  made  out  of  Chaos  and  Old 
Night.  .  .  .  Man  was  not  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  it.  It  was  Matter,  vast, 
terrific,  —  not  his  Mother  Earth  that  we 
have  heard  of,  not  for  him  to  tread  on, 
or  be  buried  in,  —  no,  it  were  being  too 
familiar  even  to  let  his  bones  lie  there 
—  the  home,  this,  of  Necessity  and 


Fate."  How  responsive  is  he  also  to 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  forest ;  the 
thunder  storm,  the  falling  of  a  tree,  the 
death  of  a  moose,  the  laughter  of  a 
loon,  the  plaint  of  the  white-throated 
sparrow,  the  chatter  of  a  jay !  All  these 
things  call  forth  the  soul  that  is  in  him, 
and  this  it  is  that  appeals  to  us  from 
the  pages  of  Burroughs  and  Muir  more 
than  do  their  lore  or  their  science,  for 
we  feel  that,  when  in  the  woods,  "they 
dwell  with  the  King  for  his  work." 
Eben  Greenough  Scott. 


A  NATIONAL  STANDARD  IN  HIGHER  EDUCATION. 


IT  is  generally  agreed  that  there  are 
already  too  many  universities  in  America. 
That  is  the  reason  why  one  more  is  ur- 
gently needed. 

The  greater  the  number  of  banks  in  a 
city,  the  more  necessary  is  a  clearing- 
house. It  is  the  multiplicity,  not  the  pau- 
city, of  magazines  that  has  brought  into 
existence  a  Review  of  Reviews.  In  like 
manner,  the  very  energy  which  America 
has  shown  in  the  establishment  of  places 
of  higher  education  requires  that  these 
institutions  be  supplemented.  The  rapid- 
ity of  their  growth  and  extension  is  the 
strongest  reason  for  devising  a  scheme  to 
coordinate  and  systematize  the  miscella- 
neous educational  forces  of  the  country. 

The  necessity  of  simplification  is  es- 
pecially evident  when  an  attempt  is 
made  to  appraise  the  value  of  a  univer- 
sity degree.  As  long  as  degree-giving 
bodies  were  few,  it  meant  something  to 
be  a  graduate.  To-day  the  mere  state- 
ment that  a  man  is  an  A.  B.  gives 
scarcely  any  indication  of  his  intellectual 
quality.  A  distinct  value  is  of  course 
attached  to  a  degree  won  at  a  university 
which  possesses  a  national  reputation, 
but  it  would  be  difficult  for  even  the  Com- 
missioner of  Education  himself  to  gauge 
accurately  the  comparative  worth  of  the 


degrees  granted  by  all  the  institutions 
which  he  admits  to  his  list  of  colleges 
and  universities.  It  is  absolutely  im- 
possible for  an  average  member  of  a 
board  of  trustees  or  of  any  kind  of  ap- 
pointing committee  to  tell  whether  a 
graduate  of  a  college  in  one  latitude  and 
longitude  is  likely  to  be  a  better  scholar 
than  one  whose  alma  mater  is  to  be  dis- 
covered on  another  part  of  the  map.  In 
England  no  such  difficulty  confronts 
those  who  have  the  task  of  making  ap- 
pointments to  educational  posts.  The 
universities  likely  to  be  represented 
among  candidates  for  a  position  may  be 
counted  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  arid 
it  does  not  take  much  pains  to  become 
acquainted  with  their  various  require- 
ments for  honors  and  degrees.  The 
appointing  board  is  therefore  able,  by 
merely  noting  the  university  record  of 
various  applicants,  to  gauge  exactly  their 
respective  qualifications  on  the  score  of 
ability  and  scholarship.  I  can  see  no 
reason  why  such  estimates  should  not 
become  at  least  as  easy  in  America  as 
they  are  at  present  in  England.  The 
one  thing  needed  is  the  establishment 
of  a  common  standard,  by  reference  to 
which  it  will  be  possible  to  fix  the  aca- 
demic position  of  individual  students, 


330 


A  National  Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


whether  they  come  from  Walla  Walla 
or  from  Tallahassee,  and  indirectly  to 
estimate  the  comparative  value  of  the 
training  given  in  the  colleges  which  send 
them  out. 

Such  a  standard  could  be  provided 
without  dislocating  whatever  educational 
system  exists  already,  and  without  re- 
quiring such  an  outlay  as  to  compel  an 
appeal  to  the  benevolent  millionaire  for 
another  check.  The  first  step  would  be 
the  creation  of  a  new  university  or  de- 
gree-giving body  on  the  following  lines. 
(My  suggestions  are  of  course  tentative, 
and  are  open  to  considerable  modifica- 
tions in  detail  if  the  general  principle  is 
accepted.) 

(1.)  The  nucleus  of  the  new  univer- 
sity would  be  a  board  of  experts,  repre- 
senting the  most  authoritative  educa- 
tional opinion  of  the  country.  These 
would  constitute  a  senate.  The  senate 
would  draw  up  the  curriculum  for  de- 
grees, and  would  appoint  examiners  in 
various  subjects.  In  due  time  the  alumni 
of  the  university  would  naturally  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  share  in  its  government. 

(2.)  All  candidates  for  a  degree,  in 
whatever  faculty,  would  be  required  to 
have  first  passed  an  entrance  or  matri- 
culation examination,  to  which  no  one 
would  be  admitted  who  had  not  com- 
pleted his  sixteenth  year.  This  ex- 
amination would  not  be  of  an  advanced 
nature,  but  would  be  thorough  as  far  as 
it  went,  arid  would  include  in  its  range 
all  the  necessary  elements  of  a  liberal 
education.  Certain  options  would  be 
allowed,  as,  for  instance,  between  one 
modern  language  and  another,  and  be- 
tween one  branch  of  science  and  another, 
but  the  syllabus  would  be  so  drawn  up 
that  a  candidate  whose  strong  point  was 
science  could  riot  escape  a  test  in  lan- 
guage and  literature,  and  vice  versa. 

(3.)  Having  matriculated,  each  stu- 
dent would  have  to  decide  in  what  fac- 
ulty —  for  example,  arts,  science,  laws, 
etc.  —  he  would  take  his  degree.  In 
each  faculty  it  would  be  necessary,  for 


the  bachelor's  degree,  to  have  passed  two 
examinations  subsequent  to  matricula- 
tion. These  might  be  called  respectively 
junior  and  senior,  or  intermediate  and 
final.  In  the  event  of  his  selecting  the 
faculty  of  arts,  he  would  pursue  the 
study  of  classics,  modern  languages,  and 
literature  (including  English),  history, 
mathematics,  and  philosophy.  In  science 
the  curriculum,  except  for  mathematics 
and  philosophy,  would  be  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  the  course  in  arts,  it  being 
presumed  that  success  at  the  matricula- 
tion examination  was  evidence  of  the 
possession  of  a  sufficient  basis  of  literary 
knowledge.  It  would  have  to  be  con- 
sidered whether,  in  the  curriculum  for 
these  degrees,  an  honors  examination  in 
individual  subjects  should  be  added  to 
the  pass  examination  for  the  benefit  of 
specialists. 

(4.)  The  degrees  of  master  and  doc- 
tor would  be  conferred  on  graduates  who 
had  given  satisfactory  evidence  of  hav- 
ing successfully  pursued  specialist  studies 
after  taking  the  bachelor's  degree.  In 
higher  work  of  this  kind  the  presenta- 
tion of  a  thesis  might  be  required  to 
supplement  an  examination  as  the  test 
of  proficiency. 

(5.)  An  interval  of  at  least  one  year 
would  be  required  between  any  examina- 
tion and  the  next  above  it.  There  would 
be  no  limitation  on  the  other  side.  A 
successful  candidate  at  the  intermediate 
examination  might  allow  five  years  to 
elapse,  if  circumstances  made  it  neces- 
sary or  desirable,  before  entering  for  his 
final.  An  unsuccessful  candidate  at  any 
examination  might  repeat  his  attempts 
to  pass  it  year  after  year,  until  his  per- 
severance was  either  rewarded  or  ex- 
hausted. But  no  piecemeal  system  of 
"  conditioning  "  would  be  allowed.  A 
candidate  who  could  not  pass  his  ex- 
amination as  a  whole  would  be  counted 
as  having  failed. 

(6.)  Except  in  the  case  of  candidates 
for  medical  degrees,  from  whom  some 
practical  acquaintance  with  hospital  work 


A  National  Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


331 


would  be  demanded,  there  would  be  no 
requirement  of  previous  study  at  a  col- 
lege. A  candidate  for  a  degree  might 
have  been  educated  at  any  college  in 
America  or  out  of  it,  or  at  no  college  at 
all ;  he  might  have  to  his  credit  a  mil- 
lion recitations  or  none ;  it  would  not 
make  the  least  difference  to  his  eligibil- 
ity for  a  degree.  He  would  be  judged 
by  his  examination,  and  by  that  alone. 
The  university  would  require,  however, 
from  each  applicant  —  at  any  rate  in 
the  lower  examinations  —  a  certificate 
of  good  character  signed  by  a  responsible 
person. 

(7.)  No  degree  or  other  certificate 
from  an  outside  authority  would  be  re- 
cognized as  giving  exemption  from  any 
examination,  in  whole  or  in  part.  The 
university  would  thus  be  entirely  freed 
from  the  invidious  duty  of  putting  its 
own  estimate  upon  the  character  of  the 
education  given  either  in  colleges  or  in 
academies  and  preparatory  schools.  It 
would  pass  its  verdict  upon  each  candi- 
date by  direct  inspection. 

(8.)  No  honorary  degrees  would  be 
conferred,  on  any  conditions. 

(9.)  The  university  would  have  its 
offices  in  the  national  capital,  but  its  ex- 
aminations would  be  conducted  simul- 
taneously, according  to  uniform  regula- 
tions, but  under  the  direction  of  local 
supervisors,  at  a  large  number  of  centres 
in  all  parts  of  the  country.  The  names 
and  fees  of  all  candidates  would  be  sent 
a  few  weeks  previously  to  the  registrar, 
who  would  compile  a  list  of  entries  and 
number  them  in  alphabetical  order.  Each 
candidate  would  be  informed  of  his  al- 
lotted number,  with  which  he  would 
label  his  papers,  without  mention  of  his 
name  or  residence  or  place  of  education. 
When  the  batch  of  papers  was  collected 
and  sent  to  the  examiners  via  Washing- 
ton, they  would  have  no  clue  to  the 
identity  of  any  candidate. 

(10.)  Candidates  would  be  admitted 
to  all  examinations  without  any  limita- 
tions of  sex,  or  race,  or  creed. 


It  may  be  well  to  anticipate  some  ob- 
jections that  will  be  raised  against  any 
such  scheme  as  that  which  I  have  just 
outlined.  It  will  probably  be  urged  in 
the  first  place  that  the  establishment  of 
a  university  of  this  kind  would  interfere 
with  the  autonomy  of  existing  colleges, 
and  impair  academic  freedom  to  a  far 
greater  extent  than  in  the  most  arbitra- 
ry silencing  of  a  heterodox  professor. 
There  is  no  real  ground  for  this  appre- 
hension. It  would  be  within  the  power 
of  any  college  either  to  send  its  students 
up  for  these  examinations  or  to  refrain 
from  sending  them.  Colleges  whose  rep- 
utation was  already  more  than  local  would 
not  expect  any  profit  from  contributing 
to  the  examination  lists  of  the  new  uni- 
versity, and  would  accordingly  ignore  it, 
though  after  a  few  years  some  of  their 
students  might  find  it  worth  while,  on 
their  own  account,  to  obtain  its  degrees. 
Those  colleges  which  took  advantage  of 
the  scheme  would  be  affected  by  it  to  the 
extent  of  the  influence  exerted  by  its  cur- 
riculum upon  their  own.  If  they  pleased, 
they  might  adopt  the  examinations  of 
the  new  university  as  their  own  graduat- 
ing tests,  in  which  case  they  could  still 
add  whatever  conditions  might  seem  de- 
sirable in  the  way  of  residence,  attend- 
ance at  recitations,  etc.  Each  college 
would  retain  its  present  powers  of  self- 
government  in  respect  to  such  matters 
as  the  appointment  of  its  staff,  its  con- 
ditions of  entrance,  its  methods  of  teach- 
ing, its  disciplinary  regulations,  and  the 
administration  of  its  revenues.  As  far 
as  the  examinations  of  the  new  univer- 
sity were  concerned,  a  college  might,  of 
course,  require  all  its  own  undergradu- 
ates to  sit  for  them,  or  leave  it  to  the 
choice  of  individual  students. 

It  will  doubtless  be  objected  further 
that  examinations  are  an  insufficient 
test,  and  tend  to  encourage  cramming 
rather  than  true  education.  The  fact 
is,  however,  that  an  examination  is  both 
the  only  uniform  test  that  is  possible, 
—  every  one  knows  that  the  value  of 


332 


A  National  Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


recitation  credits  differs  not  only  in  adja- 
cent colleges,  but  even  in  adjacent  class- 
rooms, —  and  the  only  real  test  that  can 
be  devised  at  all.  A  man  who  has  been 
studying  the  classics  for  years  either  can 
or  cannot  write  a  good  piece  of  Latin 
prose  ;  if  he  cannot,  he  does  not  acquire 
a  greater  claim  to  be  called  a  Latin 
scholar  from  the  fact  that  for  so  many 
hours  he  occupied  a  certain  bench  in  a 
certain  college.  In  all  departments  of 
human  activity  the  competent  man  is  he 
who  knows  and  can  do.  Society,  es- 
pecially in  America,  does  not  trouble  to 
inquire  how  he  came  to  know  or  learnt 
to  do ;  the  fact  that  the  results  are  in- 
disputably good  is  accepted  as  proof  that 
the  processes  leading  to  them  cannot 
have  been  very  far  wrong.  After  all, 
the  flower  is  the  best  evidence  alike  of 
seed,  soil,  and  climate.  Except  in  sub- 
jects the  study  of  which  consists  mainly 
in  the  acquisition  of  a  body  of  facts  by 
memory,  there  is  no  ground  for  the 
suspicion  that  a  capable  examiner  may 
be  outwitted  by  a  crammer.  No  trick  of 
unintelligent  rote  learning  has  yet  been 
invented  that  will  communicate  the 
power  of  turning  an  extract  from  Burke 
into  Ciceronian  Latin,  or  of  solving  a 
problem  in  the  higher  mathematics. 

Again,  it  will  be  said  that  the  true 
university  is  much  more  than  a  degree- 
giving  body ;  it  must  at  least  provide 
teaching  and  encourage  research.  In- 
directly a  university  such  as  I  have  pro- 
posed would  promote  both  teaching  and 
research.  It  must  be  admitted,  however, 
that  neither  of  these  objects  would  be  its 
main  function.  Accordingly,  it  would 
not  be  an  ideal  university  ;  not  the  type 
to  which  educational  institutions  all  the 
world  over  should  endeavor  to  approxi- 
mate. Yet  there  is  high  classical  au- 
thority for  the  principle  that  we  should 
seek,  not  what  is  absolutely  the  bes^'  but 
what  is  the  best  for  us ;  and  the  fact  re- 
mains that  in  America,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  twentieth  century,  higher  educa- 
tion would  be  further  advanced  by  such 


an  agency  than  by  the  founding  of  sev- 
eral universities  of  the  more  usual  kind. 
We  have  to  consider  not  so  much  what  is 
the  dictionary  definition  or  the  historical 
tradition  of  the  word  "  university "  as 
what  reform  is  most  urgent  at  the  pre- 
sent stage  of  the  educational  develop- 
ment of  this  country.  If,  however,  our 
academical  jurists  are  shocked  by  the 
suggestion  that  the  name  "  university  " 
shall  be  given  to  a  body  which  does  not 
profess  to  teach,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
carries  out  thoroughly  the  examinations 
it  undertakes,  —  though  it  is  thought  no 
degradation  that  the  name  should  be 
flaunted  by  institutions  whose  teaching 
and  examination  are  so  ideal  as  to  cease 
to  be  actual, — an  alternative  may  be 
suggested.  It  would  answer  the  pur- 
pose equally  well  for  the  board  to  be 
known  simply  by  the  name  of  the  Sena- 
tus  Academicus.  A  degree  of  A.  B. 
(Senat.  Acad.)  would  be  intelligible  from 
the  first,  and  would  in  a  few  years  ac- 
quire its  own  connotation. 

Over  against  these  objections,  which  I 
have  tried  to  show  are  not  by  any  means 
vital,  may  be  set  the  following  distinct 
advantages  in  favor  of  my  proposal :  — 

(1.)  It  would  provide  a  new  oppor- 
tunity for  ambitious  youths  of  narrow 
means.  As  things  are,  the  private  stu- 
dent, remote  and  unfriended,  if  not  mel- 
ancholy and  slow,  cannot  obtain  any  ade- 
quate academic  recognition  of  such  self- 
educational  work  as  he  may  have  done, 
however  deserving  it  may  be.  Unless 
he  can  raise  money  for  his  support  while 
at  college,  or  is  willing  to  endanger  his 
health  for  life  by  pursuing  some  money- 
getting  occupation  simultaneously  with 
his  college  course,  he  can  never  expect 
to  gain  the  coveted  degree.  The  open- 
ing of  a  new  avenue  to  intellectual  dis- 
tinction would  communicate  a  fresh  stim- 
ulus to  many  whose  pursuit  of  knowledge 
is  now  hampered  by  poverty  or  physical 
weakness.  At  no  expense  but  that  of 
their  examination  fees,  they  would  have 
within  reach  a  hall  -  mark  which  the 


A  National  /Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


333 


graduate  of  the  most  famous  seat  of 
learning  need  not  disdain  to  bear. 

(2.)  It  would  furnish  an  intelligible 
standard  of  proficiency  in  the  case  of 
graduates  seeking  posts  as  teachers.  The 
certificates  of  this  truly  national  univer- 
sity would  make  it  possible  to  compare 
the  merits,  as  regards  scholarship,  of  men 
coming  from  all  parts  of  the  country  and 
educated  in  different  institutions.  The 
practical  convenience  of  such  a  simplifi- 
cation need  not  be  emphasized. 

(3.)  It  would  give  the  smaller  col- 
leges a  chance.  At  present,  a  new  or 
otherwise  unknown  college  cannot  hope 
to  win  a  name  except  by  its  wealth  or 
by  the  distinction  of  individual  members 
of  its  faculty.  Neither  of  these  things 
necessarily  implies  efficient  teaching. 
A  college,  however,  whose  students  ac- 
quitted themselves  honorably  for  a  suc- 
cession of  years  in  the  examinations  of 
the  new  university  would  gain  a  reputa- 
tion extending  far  beyond  the  bounda- 
ries of  its  own  state.  No  slight  contribu- 
tion would  be  made  to  the  soundness  of 
higher  education  if  it  were  rendered  pos- 
sible for  a  professor  to  do  as  much  for 
the  credit  of  his  college  by  giving  him- 
self diligently  to  teaching  as  by  writing 
a  book  or  sending  articles  to  the  learned 
reviews.  Under  the  new  conditions 
well  qualified  men  would  be  much  more 
ready  than  they  are  now  to  begin  their 
educational  career  by  taking  compara- 
tively obscure  posts,  knowing  that  if  the 
true  light  were  shining  within  them  there 
would  be  no  bushel  to  hide  it. 

(4.)  Within  a  few  years  it  would  sen- 
sibly raise  the  standards  of  colleges  which 
have  hitherto  been  content  with  low 
aims  and  still  lower  performances.  A 
board  constituted  in  the  way  I  have  sug- 
gested would  not  tolerate  any  scamped 
or  slovenly  work.  And  by  persistent 
refusals  to  set  its  seal  upon  "  know- 
ledge falsely  so  called  "  it  would  grad- 
ually banish  pretense  and  superficiality 
from  the  higher  education  of  America. 
Its  stringent  matriculation  examination 


could  not  fail  to  raise  the  quality  of  the 
teaching,  not  only  in  colleges  but  also  in 
academies  and  high  schools.  This  ex- 
amination would  in  itself  come  to  be 
regarded  as  a  creditable  distinction  for  a 
youth  of  from  sixteen  to  eighteen,  and 
would  probably  be  taken  by  many  who 
did  not  intend  to  pursue  later  studies 
with  a  view  to  graduation.  A  consid- 
erable outcry  might  be  heard  at  first 
from  colleges  which  fared  badly  in  such 
examinations,  and  they  might  be  faced 
with  the  alternatives  of  improvement  or 
disappearance.  But  such  as  are  really 
places  of  sound  learning  and  instruction 
would  have  reason  to  welcome  the  sever- 
ity of  the  ordeal.  For  we  may  apply  to 
educational  reform  what  Thomas  Carlyle 
said  of  a  far  more  revolutionary  move- 
ment :  "  Sans-culottism  will  burn  many 
things  ;  but  what  is  incombustible  it  will 
not  burn." 

It  is  not  unlikely,  however,  that  some 
readers  of  this  article,  while  admitting 
that  my  project,  as  it  appears  on  paper, 
seems  to  offer  real  advantages,  will  doubt 
whether,  after  all,  it  would  work.  My 
answer  is  that  it  has  actually  stood  the 
test  of  experience,  for  in  essentials  it  is 
identical  with  a  system  that  has  already 
been  in  successful  operation  for  nearly 
half  a  century.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  the  work  of  the  University  of  Lon- 
don is  not  better  known  in  America,  for 
the  history  of  that  institution  is  full  of 
suggestion  for  educational  reformers  in 
this  country.  It  was  established  in  1828, 
mainlyin  the  interests  of  Nonconformists, 
who  at  that  time  were  prevented  by  theo- 
logical restrictions  from  graduating  at 
Oxford  or  Cambridge.  At  first  it  im- 
posed upon  applicants  for  its  degrees  the 
condition  of  previous  study  in  one  of  a 
number  of  affiliated  colleges,  but  in  1858 
its  examinations  were  thrown  open  to  all 
comers,  with  the  exception  of  women. 
Twenty  years  later  this  restriction  was 
removed,  the  University  of  London  being 
the  first  academic  body  in  Great  Britain 
to  ignore  the  distinction  of  sex.  It  also 


384 


A  National  Standard  in  Higher  Education. 


deserves  the  credit  of  a  pioneer  for  its 
introduction  of  modern  science  into  its 
curriculum  when  the  older  universities 
were  still  hesitating  to  admit  such  an 
innovation.  One  of  its  most  notable  fea- 
tures has  been  the  severity  of  its  exam- 
inations, which  has  naturally  made  its 
degrees  eagerly  coveted.  It  has  been 
by  no  means  unusual  for  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  candidates  to  be  rejected  at  an  ex- 
amination. The  result  is  that  a  B.  A. 
pass  degree  at  London  is  everywhere 
regarded  as  a  much  better  evidence  of 
ability  and  education  than  a  similar  de- 
gree at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  The  Lon- 
don M.  A.  has  also  a  value  of  its  own,  for 
it  is  earned  by  an  examination  in  which 
none  but  specialists  have  any  chance  of 
success,  instead  of  being  conferred,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Oxford  or  Cambridge 
M.  A., upon  all  bachelors  of  arts  who  have 
kept  their  names  upon  the  books  and  paid 
their  dues  for  a  prescribed  period. 

The  very  difficulty  of  obtaining  a  Lon- 
don degree  made  the  ambition  to  gain  it 
attractive,  from  the  first,  to  many  able 
men.  Among  those  who,  but  fop  the 
existence  of  this  university,  would  never 
have  had  an  opportunity  of  wearing  any 
academic  distinction  at  all  —  except,  of 
course,  for  the  honorary  degrees  con- 
ferred upon  some  of  them  when  they  had 
already  made  their  reputation  —  may  be 
mentioned  such  men  as  Lord  Herschell 
and  Sir  George  Jessel,  among  lawyers ; 
Lord  Lister,  Sir  Richard  Quain,  Sir 
Henry  Thompson,  Sir  J.  Russell  Rey- 
nolds, Sir  William  Jenner,  and  Sir  W.  W. 
Gull,  among  surgeons  and  physicians ; 
R.  W.  Dale,  A.  Maclaren,  and  W.  F. 
Moulton,  among  theologians ;  Walter 
Bagehot  and  W.  Stanley  Jevons,  among 
economists ;  and  Richard  Holt  Hutton 
among  journalists.  Some  others,  such 
as  Dean  Farrar,  were  encouraged  by 
successes  at  the  University  of  London 
to  proceed  later  to  a  residential  univer- 
sity. Others,  again,  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  add  a  London  degree  to 
honors  previously  or  simultaneously  won 


at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  High  Cam- 
bridge wranglers  have  in  particular 
shown  a  great  appetite  for  the  gold  medal 
offered  annually  to  the  highest  candidate 
in  mathematics  at  the  London  M.  A., 
though  even  the  senior  wrangler  himself 
is  not  excused  by  his  Cambridge  successes 
from  passing  through  the  preliminary 
stages  of  the  matriculation  and  interme- 
diate and  final  B.  A.  examinations.  The 
fact  that  London  distinctions  should  have 
become  to  so  great  an  extent  an  object 
of  ambition  indicates  how  faithfully  the 
university  has  maintained  its  standard. 
But  the  greatest  service  that  the  Uni- 
versity of  London  has  rendered  to  Eng- 
lish education  has  been  in  the  effect  it 
has  had  in  improving  the  quality  of  the 
teaching  given  in  those  places  of  higher 
education  which  were  not  closely  in  touch 
with  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  Although 
it  has  been  for  most  of  its  history  no- 
thing but  an  examining  body,  it  has  ex- 
erted an  incalculable  indirect  influence 
upon  all  such  institutions.  Inefficient 
schools  either  have  been  compelled  to 
make  themselves  efficient,  or  have  suf- 
fered in  reputation  from  the  public 
evidence  of  their  inefficiency.  Quite  re- 
cently this  university  has  been  made  the 
nucleus  of  a  scheme  for  the  coordination 
of  higher  education  in  London,  and  has 
thus  become  to  some  extent  a  teaching 
university,  but  it  will  continue  to  render, 
concurrently,  its  special  service  as  a  na- 
tional institution  to  private  students  and 
small  colleges  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 
There  is  good  reason  to  believe  that 
a  university  of  this  type  is  just  now  the 
chief  need  of  American  higher  educa- 
tion. The  scheme  with  which  Mr.  Car- 
negie's name  has  recently  been  connected 
is,  as  an  ideal  scheme,  wholly  admirable. 
The  provision  of  greater  opportunities 
for  post-graduate  study  naturally  appears 
to  be  one  of  the  most  wholesome  meth- 
ods possible  for  the  absorption  of  surplus 
wealth.  In  certain  circumstances  this 
would  be  so.  But  I  am  not  sure  that 
this  is  precisely  the  direction  in  which 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


335 


the  next  advance  may  most  profitably 
be  made.  In  the  present  condition  of 
things  an  increase  of  the  facilities  for 
post-graduate  study  might  even  aggra- 
vate one  of  the  most  serious  dangers 
now  threatening  the  educational  system 
of  America.  For  the  principal  trouble 
with  American  education  to-day  is  that 
it  is  top-heavy.  The  ultimate  stage  is 
reached  too  early.  Men  are  attempting 
the  work  of  specialists  in  post-graduate 
classes  when  they  are  still  freshmen  in 
everything  except  the  name.  The  con- 
sequence is  that  this  excess  of  zeal  for 


original  production  defeats  its  own  end, 
and  that  what  are  supposed  to  be  fin- 
ished products  show  painful  signs  of 
crude  workmanship.  The  remedy  is 
to  be  found  —  if  one  may  compare  the 
educational  system  to  a  building  —  not 
in  putting  additional  masonry  into  the 
highest  story,  but  in  laying  more  sub- 
stantial foundations  and  strengthening 
the  main  structure.  And  this  most  ne- 
cessary reform  would,  I  believe,  be  ac- 
complished to  a  considerable  degree  by 
the  execution  of  such  a  scheme  as  has 
been  outlined  in  this  paper. 

Herbert  W.  Horwill. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE   BEECHES. 


II. 

"  GOOD-MORNING,  Dr.  Saxe !  " 

Saxe  started  up  from  the  pine  needles 
on  which  he  had  been  lying  flat  on  his 
back.  She  stood  at  a  little  distance,  slim 
and  cool-looking  in  a  violet  linen  dress, 
with  a  sailor  hat  that  cast  a  shadow  on 
her  face,  leaving  in  the  light  only  her 
beautiful  mouth  and  rosy,  cleft  chin. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  asleep,  and  it 
would  have  been  a  pity  to  waken  you." 

Not  a  trace  of  embarrassment  about 
her.  He  remembered  the  hesitancy  in 
his  voice  the  night  before,  and  wondered. 

"I  was  not  asleep.  I  was  merely 
dreaming  "  — 

He  touched  her  proffered  hand  lightly, 
and  joined  her  as  she  took  the  way  to 
the  camp. 

"  Dreaming  ?  "  She  was  n't  even 
afraid  to  ask  him  that,  it  appeared. 

"  Yes.  Dreaming  about  a  half  invent- 
ed anaesthetic  that  occupies  my  thoughts 
most  of  the  time,  even  here  in  the 
woods." 

"  If  I  were  a  man  I  should  be  a  doc- 
tor," she  answered,  picking  up  a  pine 
cone  and  sniffing  at  it. 


"  I  have  not  practiced  for  years,  how- 
ever." 

"No?  What  a  strange  thing!  I 
should  think  —  However,  no  doubt  you 
do  more  real  good  in  your  laboratory." 

Saxe  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "  How 
do  you  know  I  have  a  laboratory  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"Every  one  has  heard  of  Richard 
Saxe  and  his  discoveries."  Her  mo- 
mentary hesitation  was  hardly  noticeable, 
and  she  went  on  with  the  leisurely  calm 
of  the  clever  woman  of  the  world.  "  I 
read  the  other  day  that  your  new  book 
is  the  success  of  the  year.  That  must 
be  very  gratifying  ?  " 

"  It  is  gratifying.  You  have  not  read 
it?" 

She  turned  her  clear  brown  eyes  full 
on  him,  as  devoid  of  expression  as  two 
pools  of  woodland  water. 

"  No,  I  fear  I  should  understand  very 
little  of  it.  Ah,  here  we  are.  I  wonder 
whether  you  could  give  me  a  glass  of 
water  ?  " 

Saxe  took  a  dipper  and  a  cup  and 
went  to  the  spring.  So  that  was  how  it 
was  to  be.  Very  good.  If  she  could 
keep  it  up,  —  and  she  evidently  could,  — 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


he  would  be  able  to,  also.  It  would  be 
very  amusing.  He  dipped  up  the  cool 
water  and  filled  the  cup.  It  annoyed  him 
to  remember  his  agitation  of  the  night 
before.  It  always  annoys  a  man  to  find 
a  woman  unembarrassed  in  a  situation 
that  he  himself  is  unable  to  carry  off  with 
ease.  So  be  it.  Not  a  word  or  a  hint 
to  recall  any  former  acquaintance.  He 
frowned  savagely  as  he  went  back  to  the 
mossy  path.  It  had  been  more  than  an 
acquaintance,  it  had  been  a  friendship, 
but  as  she  chose  to  ignore  it,  it  should 
be  ignored. 

She  drank  the  water  with  a  delightful 
childlike  graciousness,  holding  out  the 
cup  to  be  refilled. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  a  tin  dipper  since  I 
was  a  small  child,"  she  said,  watching 
it  flash  in  the  sun  as  he  shook  it  free  of 
the  last  drops  of  water. 

"  You  are  an  American,  are  you 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  I  have  lived  in  Europe 
for  many  years.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
this  is  my  first  visit  since  I  married  !  " 

She  said  it  as  she  would  have  to  an 
utter  stranger.  Then,  with  a  change  of 
tone  :  "  What  a  perfectly  beautiful  place 
you  have  chosen  for  your  camp  !  Have 
you  been  here  long  ?  " 

"  Just  a  week.  I  was  at  Bar  Harbor, 
but  it  grew  too  gay  to  suit  me,  so  I  wired 
Ledtic,  with  whom  I  have  camped  be- 
fore, and  came  on  at  a  day's  notice.  He 
is  a  charming  old  scamp,  and  will  amuse 
you." 

"  He  was  always  a  scamp,  and  always 
charming.  I  remember  as  a  wee  child 
having  a  decided  and  unabashed  prefer- 
ence for  him,  somewhat  to  Annette's 
disgust." 

Annette  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
the  cabin  as  she  spoke,  a  pair  of  brown 
velveteen  trousers  over  her  arm. 

"  Lucien !  "  she  called. 

"  Leduc  is  skulking  behind  the  bushes 
there  by  the  lake,"  said  Saxe  in  an  un- 
dertone, "  but  he  might  as  well  give  up  ; 
his  day  of  reckoning  has  come." 


"  Lucien  !  Mademoiselle,  have  you 
seen  him  ?  " 

The  young  woman  turned.  "  Yes,  I 
have  seen  him,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
betray  him." 

"  Betray  him !  His  clothes  are  in  a 
state,  —  and  the  key  of  his  chest  is  not 
in  the  pocket  as  he  said.  I  can  at  least 
darn  his  socks  if  I  can  get  at  them." 

She  called  again,  and  then  went  re- 
luctantly back  into  the  cabin. 

"  I  confess  to  an  unregenerate  feeling 
of  sympathy  for  Leduc,"  remarked  Saxe, 
looking  toward  the  place  where  the  old 
man  had  disappeared. 

"  So  do  I !  Oh,  so  do  I !  If  he  does 
n't  want  his  socks  darned,  why  darn 
them  ?  By  the  way,  Dr.  Saxe,  are  you 
going  to  ask  us  to  stay  to  breakfast,  — 
I  mean  dinner  ?  " 

"  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  ask, 
'  Mademoiselle,'  —  I  had  taken  it  for 
granted.  Leduc  has  a  fine  menu  ar- 
ranged, —  fried  fish  as  chief  attraction,  I 
believe,  only  —  By  Jove,  I  was  to  catch 
the  fish !  "  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  After  eleven.  Dinner  is  at  twelve. 
Would  you  care  to  go  with  me  ?  The 
boat  is  perfectly  dry,  and  it  will  not  be 
very  warm." 

She  rose.  "  Of  course  I  care  to  go, 
and  I  shall  also  fish." 

"  I  doubt  it.     I  bait  with  worms." 

"Do  you?  Then  I,  too,  bait  with 
worms." 

He  laughed.  "  I  don't  believe  you 
ever  baited  a  hook  in  your  life.  Now 
did  you  ?  —  l  cross  your  heart.'  " 

"No.  But  to-day  I  bait  — with 
worms." 

They  walked  to  the  lake,  and  found 
Leduc  busily  digging,  a  tin  box  beside 
him  on  a  fallen  log. 

"  Worms  ?  " 

"  Oui,  M'sieu." 

"  What 's  in  the  bundle  ?  "  asked  Saxe 
curiously,  poking  with  his  foot  an  un- 
couth newspaper  package  that  lay  near 
the  hole.  The  old  man  looked  up,  his 
face  quivering  with  laughter. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


337 


"  M'sieu  will  not  betray  me  ?  Nor 
Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  for  them  both. 

Leduc  unrolled  the  paper  and  dis- 
played a  collection  of  brown  and  gray 
knitted  socks,  heelless  and  toeless  for  the 
most  part,  as  well  as  faded  and  shabby. 

"  I  've  had  holes  in  my  socks  for  twen- 
ty years  and  more,"  he  explained  in 
French ;  "  I  'm  used  to  'em,  I  like  'em, 
and  I  mean  to  have  'em.  She  's  a  good 
woman,  Annette,  and  I  'm  very  fond  of 
her,  but  she  is  as  obstinate  as  a  mule, 
and  "  —  He  broke  off,  finishing  his  sen- 
tence by  rolling  the  bundle  together  again, 
and  driving  it  with  a  kick  firmly  into 
the  end  of  a  hollow  log. 

Still  laughing,  Saxe  and  his  compan- 
ion got  into  the  boat  and  pushed  off. 

"  She  is  the  gentlest  and  tenderest  of 
women  as  a  rule  ;  this  is  an  entirely  new 
phase  to  me." 

"  The  effect  of  Leduc's  '  shadow  '  on 
her,"  commented  Saxe  absently,  rowing 
out  into  the  brilliant  water. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  then 
set  to  work  disentangling  her  fishing 
line.  She  had  long  white  hands  with 
rather  square-tipped  fingers,  and  supple 
wrists.  He  noticed  that  she  wore  only 
one  ring,  a  ruby,  besides  her  wedding- 
ring.  She  baited  her  hook  without 
flinching,  or  any  offer  of  help  from  him, 
and  silence  fell  as  the  fish  began  to  bite. 
Saxe,  absent-minded,  lost  several  big  fel- 
lows, but  she  pulled  in  one  after  the  other 
with  childish  delight,  expressed  only  by 
a  heightened  color  and  a  trembling  of 
pleasure  on  her  lips. 

At  length  Leduc  came  down  to  the 
shore  and  hailed  them.  "  Time  to  come 
back  if  you  want  to  eat  them  fish  to- 
day," he  called.  "  Especially  if  all  their 
heads  has  to  be  cut  off  first." 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  she  asked, 
as  Saxe  obediently  pulled  up  the  big 
stone  that  served  as  anchor. 

"  He  is  laughing  at  me,  the  cheeky 
old  beggar.  I  cleaned  one  for  my  sup- 
per last  night "  — 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  22 


"  The  one  that  burnt  ?  " 

"  The  one  that  burnt.  And  I  cut  off 
its  head,  —  a  great  mistake,  it  seems. 
How  many  are  there  ?  " 

She  bent  over,  poking  the  gasping 
things  with  one  finger.  "  Two  —  three 
—  five  —  seven  !  " 

The  scent  of  the  pines  was  strong  in 
the  noon  sun  as  they  landed  ;  the  dark- 
ness of  the  thick  boughs  pleasant  and 
cool.  Leduc  put  the  fish  in  a  net,  and 
went  up  to  the  cabin  by  a  short  cut. 

Saxe  took  off  his  hat.  "  It  is  very 
warm  ;  are  you  tired  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  I  live  a  good  deal  in  the 
country,  and  often  am  hours  tramping 
about  in  much  rougher  places  than  this." 

u  Ah !  Then  you  will  rather  enjoy  a 
few  days  spent  in  this  way." 

"  Yes.  But  Annette  and  Lucien  will 
be  off  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  bore  my- 
self to  death  on  the  veranda  of  the  Wind- 
sor House." 

"  That  must  be  rather  bad.  Are 
your  fellow  victims  quite  impossible,  or 
can  you  amuse  yourself  with  any  of 
them  ?  " 

"There  are  only  two.  One  an  old 
lady  from  Dover,  who  is  perfectly  deaf, 
the  other  a  young  man  of  the  shop-keep- 
ing class,  —  very  ill,  poor  boy.  He  told 
me,  with  pride,  that  one  of  his  lungs  is 
entirely  gone." 

"  Then  let  us  hope  that  the  grave  of 
Le  Mioche  is  not  too  far.  Leduc  is  such 
a  slow-moving  creature  that  but  for  fear 
of  being  de  trop,  I  should  go  with  them 
to  urge  him  on,  that  your  martyrdom 
may  not  be  too  long." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  smile  twitching 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  What  have 
I  done?" 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  He  stared 
back  relentlessly. 

"  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  you 
know !  Come,  don't  be  cross  any  more." 

With  a  sudden  access  of  perfectly 
frank  coquetry,  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  "  Are  you  nice  again  ?  Remem- 
ber you  have  sworn  allegiance  to  "  — 


338 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


He  smiled  as  he  took  her  hand,  but 
his  eyes  were  grave. 
'"  To  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches." 


III. 

Leduc,  pressed  by  his  wife  for  infor- 
mation as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the 
little  grave,  was  vague.  "  It  was  off  to 
the  northwest,"  he  said.  "  The  trees  he 
had  planted  around  it  were  big  now." 

Then,  urged  to  greater  explicitness,  he 
subsided  into  a  ruminating  silence,  which 
Annette  apparently  knew  of  old,  for  she 
made  no  effort  to  break  it,  but  sat  with 
folded  hands  watching  the  afternoon  sun 
on  the  trees.  She  was  a  handsome  old 
woman,  with  a  fine  aquiline  profile  and  a 
velvety  brown  mole  on  one  cheek.  Saxe 
liked  her  face,  and  decided,  looking  at  it 
with  the  thoughtful  eye  of  the  student, 
that  after  all  she  had  done  well  in  leav- 
ing her  husband,  so  much  her  inferior, 
and  developing  her  character  in  her  own 
way. 

The  two  women  had  stayed  on  at  the 
camp  all  day  with  a  matter-of-factness 
that  he  knew  must  have  originated  in 
the  younger  of  them.  She  chose  to  stay, 
and  chose  to  stay  in  her  own  way,  with- 
out discussion,  without  fuss.  It  was  she 
who  had,  without  any  mention  of  the 
missing  socks,  persuaded  Annette  that 
her  husband's  habits,  fixed  for  over 
twenty  years,  need  not  be  disturbed,  and 
the  old  woman  had  followed  her  back  to 
the  fire  without  protest. 

They  sat  for  two  hours,  Saxe  and  the 
women,  talking  little;  drowsy  with  the 
aroma  of  the  woods,  and  full  each  of  his 
or  her  own  thoughts.  Saxe  would  not 
have  offered  to  move  till  night.  All  initia- 
tion he  had  determined,  perhaps  with  a 
touch  of  malice,  should  come  from  her. 
His  malice,  however,  failed,  for  toward 
sundown  she  turned  to  him,  and  in  the 
sweetest  voice  in  the  world,  asked 
whether  there  was  no  place  near  from 
which  they  might  see  the  sunset. 


"Yes,  if  you  are  good  for  a  rather 
rough  tramp  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  I  am.     Will  you  take  me  ?  " 

He  rose.     "  With  pleasure." 

She  gave  a  few  directions  to  the  old 
woman,  and  then,  joining  him,  they  went 
in  silence  through  the  trees.  After  a  few 
minutes  the  ground,  slippery  with  dead 
leaves  and  rough  with  hidden  stones,  rose 
abruptly.  She  looked  down  suddenly, 
and  up,  and  then,  still  without  speaking, 
into  Saxe's  face,  which  remained  perfect- 
ly stolid.  The  trees  were  beeches. 

"  Beeches  are  my  favorite  trees,"  she 
said  calmly,  pausing  and  breaking  off  a 
tuft  of  the  fresh  green  leaves. 

"  Are  they  ?  We  are  just  on  the  edge 
of  a  rather  large  tract  of  them.  Be 
careful,  the  ruts  are  very  deep.  There 
used  to  be  a  logging-camp  about  a  mile 
ahead  of  us,  and  this  is  the  old  road  to  it." 

"  I  shall  not  stumble." 

The  silence,  half  resentful,  senseless 
as  he  felt  such  resentment  to  be,  on  his 
side,  was  apparently  that  of  great  inter- 
est on  hers.  She  moved  deliberately, 
with  the  grace  of  considerable,  well  dis- 
tributed strength,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  look  at  some  particular  tree,  once  to 
pick  a  long  fern  which  she  carried  like 
a  wand.  When  they  had  reached  the 
height  and  come  out  on  the  narrow  ledge, 
below  which  a  clearing,  stretching  to  the 
horizon,  gave  them  a  full  view  of  the 
sinking  sun,  she  uttered  a  little  cry  of 
pleasure,  and  then,  sitting  down  on  a 
stump,  was  again  still. 

Just  below  the  ledge  ran  a  thread  of 
a  brook  in  a  wide  rocky  bed ;  beyond  it 
a  broad  strip  of  silver  beeches  swayed 
in  the  light,  dying  wind,  and  then  came 
the  plain,  the  stumps  of  the  trees  already 
half  covered  with  a  growth  of  rough 
grass,  young  trees,  and  bracken.  Saxe 
was  fond  of  the  place,  and,  though  sun- 
sets made  him  vaguely  unhappy,  had 
often  walked  up  there  at  that  hour. 

He  leaned  against  a  tree  and  watched 
the  scene.  It  was  very  beautiful,  now 
that  the  sky  was  a  glare  of  crimson  and 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


339 


gold,  but  he  had  seen  it  before,  and  for 
the  first  time  he  could  study  in  safety 
the  face  of  the  woman.  Her  profile,  out- 
lined against  a  wall  of  rough  rock,  was 
clear-cut  and  strong ;  her  head,  bare  in 
the  light,  a  glow  of  warm  gold  divided 
by  a  narrow  parting  from  the  forehead 
to  the  knot  at  the  crown.  It  was  a  well- 
shaped  head,  and  well  placed  on  the 
broad,  sloping  shoulders.  Her  mouth, 
red  and  curved,  was  a  little  set,  the  deep- 
dented  corners  giving  it  a  look  of  weary 
determination.  In  spite  of  the  radiance 
of  her  hair,  she  looked  her  full  age. 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  caught  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"  A  penny  "  —  she  said  carelessly. 

He  swooped  down  on  his  glasses  and 
took  them  off.  "I  was  wondering  — 
you  must  n't  be  offended  —  whether  or 
no  your  hair  was  dyed." 

"  And  what  did  you  decide  ?  " 

"I  hadn't  decided  at  all.  You  in- 
terrupted me." 

She  laughed  the  little  laugh  that  made 
her  both  younger  and  older :  "  I  am  so 
sorry.  Pray  —  go  on  considering."  And 
she  turned  again  to  the  sky.  , 

Her  perfect  unconcern  made  him  feel 
like  a  snubbed  schoolboy,  but  his  face 
only  hardened  a  little  as  he  sat  down  in 
the  grass  near  by,  and  directed  his  eyes 
to  the  banks  of  purpling  clouds  that 
hung,  gold-edged,  over  the  horizon. 

At  last  it  was  over ;  the  light  died 
away ;  the  moon,  nearly  full,  became 
visible  ;  night  had  come. 

"  I  think  we  'd  better  go  down,"  Saxe 
observed,  rising,  and  putting  on  his  hat. 
"It  will  be  dark  under  the  trees,  and 
supper  will  be  ready.  I  hope  you  're 
hungry  ?  " 

"  I  am  ravenous.  And  —  thanks,  so 
much,  for  bringing  me  up  here.  It  has 
been  the  delightful  finish  to  a  delightful 
day."  There  was  a  little  tone  of  final- 
ity in  her  voice  that  hurt  him. 

"  I  hope  it  is  n't  the  last  time,"  he 
said  politely,  as  they  reached  the  rough 
road  and  began  the  descent. 


"  I  fear  it  must  be,  Dr.  Saxe.      Leduc 

—  I   mean   Lucien  —  will   surely   take 
her  to-morrow,  and  I  can  hardly  roam 
about  in  the  woods  after  nightfall  with 
you,  without  even  their  nominal  chap- 
eronage,  can  I  ?  "    She  smiled  at  him,  as 
if  amused  by  the  absurdity  of  her  own 
question. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  returned.  "  It 
is  a  pity,  though,  for  the  sunsets  are  al- 
ways good,  and  you  seem  really  to  care 
for  such  things." 

"  Yes.    I  really  care  for  such  things." 

They  neither  of  them  spoke  again  un- 
til they  reached  the  camp,  fragrant  with 
the  odors  of  coffee  and  frying  ham. 

To  Saxe  the  day  had  been  one  of  dis- 
appointments, he  did  not  quite  know 
why  nor  how. 

It  was  not  that  she  had  kept  him  at 
a  distance,  for  he  had  expected  that,  and 
had  several  times  taken  a  sort  of  plea- 
sure in  doing  as  much  to  her.  It  was  not 
that  he  was  disappointed  in  her  herself  ; 
she  was  beautiful,  well-bred,  all  that  he 
had  known  she  must  be.  And  yet  he 
was  dissatisfied  and  a  little  sore.  He 
remembered  a  phrase  in  one  of  her 
letters  :  "If  your  eyes  happened  to  be 
blue  instead  of  brown,  or  brown  instead 
of  gray,  I  should  be  disappointed.  More 

—  if  you  had  a  certain  kind  of  mouth 
I  should  be  quite  unable  to  like  you." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly  as 
he  combed  his  hair  in  his  tent.     "  That 
must  be  it.     She  does  not  like  me.    She 
is  '  unable  to  like  me.'  " 

He  went  back  to  the  fire  resolved  not 
to  care.  During  supper  he  was  very 
gay,  almost  brilliant,  with  the  brilliance 
mental  pain  sometimes  gives ;  he  talked 
of  many  things,  skillfully  ignoring  any 
subject  that  could  spoil  the  mood  to  which 
he  was  grateful.  Leduc,  never  shy,  had 
his  full  share  of  the  conversation,  and 
also  of  the  whiskey  punch  which,  as  the 
evening  was  cool,  Saxe  insisted  on  mak- 
ing, and  made  very  well.  Old  Annette, 
sad  and  absent,  spoke  little. 

"  The  boy  is  coming  with  the  wagon 


340 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


at  nine,"  the  young  woman  said  at  last, 
bending  to  the  firelight  to  look  at  her 
watch.  "  It  is  a  quarter  before,  now." 

She  rose  and  put  on  her  hat. 

"  Thank  you  again,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  Saxe,  "  for  a  most  en- 
chanting day.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  The  pleasure 
was  mine."  Then  turning  to  Leduc,  he 
went  on,  "  You  will  want  a  few  days' 
leave,  I  understand,  beginning  with  to- 
morrow ?  How  far  is  the  —  place  you 
are  going  to  ?  " 

The  old  man,  taken  by  surprise,  hesi- 
tated. "  Non,  non,  not  to-morrow,  M'sieu. 
It  is  not  so  far." 

"Then  why  not  to-morrow?  Made- 
moiselle and  your  wife  cannot  have  much 
time  to  devote  to  you  and  your  caprices. 
Allons  !  " 

"  It  is  not  so  far,  —  but  also  it  is  not 
so  near.  I  —  have  a  very  bad  knee.  A 
knee  to  make  pity,  could  you  see  it, 
Mademoiselle.  Rheumatism,  and  —  a 
fall  I  got  this  morning.  I  am  a  lame 
man." 

"  He  lies,  M'sieu,"  interrupted  An- 
nette, her  lips  shaking.  "  I  know  his 
face  when  he  lies." 

"  So  do  I.  I  '11  arrange  it  for  you, 
Annette.  Ah,  there  is  the  wagon." 

He  helped  them  to  it,  and  saw  them 
off  without  asking  about  their  plans  for 
the  next  day.  Then  he  went  back  to 
Leduc,  whom  he  found  rummaging 
busily  in  a  box  for  a  bottle  of  arnica. 

"  Very  foolish  of  M'sieu  to  take  sides 
with  her.  She  is  a  silly  old  woman. 
And  then,  when  we  go,  M'sieu  will  be 
all  alone"  he  observed,  as  Saxe  ap- 
proached. 

"  Shut  up,  Leduc.  And  either  you  go 
to-morrow,  or  you  get  no  dog.  Com- 
pris  ?  "  Then  he  went  into  his  tent  and 
let  down  the  flap. 

IV. 

The  next  morning  Leduc,  bringing  an 
armful  of  wood  to  the  cabin,  slipped, 


fell,  and  twisted  his  ankle.  Saxe,  miss- 
ing him,  and  led  by  his  groans,  bent 
over  him  with  a  skeptical  smile  that  dis- 
appeared as  he  saw  the  old  man's  face. 

"  It  is  a  judgment  on  you,"  he  could 
not  resist  saying,  when  he  had  half 
dragged,  half  carried,  the  much  more 
helpless  than  necessary  invalid  into  the 
cabin  and  cut  off  his  boot. 

Leduc  grinned  in  the  midst  of  his 
pain.  "  Bien  —  how  you  will,  M'sieu. 
Leduc  badly  hurt.  Leduc  lame  man. 
Maintenant  il  ne  s'agira  plus  des  peleri- 
nages." 

Unable  to  guess  the  reason  for  the  old 
man's  objections  to  conducting  his  wife 
to  the  child's  grave,  and  unwilling  to 
gratify  him  by  questions,  Saxe  dressed 
the  foot  in  silence,  and  then  set  off  him- 
self to  the  village  to  do  certain  errands 
and  fetch  the  mail.  Mrs.  Lounsberry, 
the  postmistress,  with  whom  he  was 
rather  a  favorite,  questioned  him,  with 
the  delighted  curiosity  of  a  lonely  wo- 
man, about  the  mysterious  guest  at  the 
hotel. 

"  Henry  says  he  drives  'em  every  day 
over  to  your  place,  and  fetches  'em  again 
after  sundown.  Any  relations  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  young  lady  is  my  cousin, 
the  elder  one  the  wife  of  —  a  friend  of 
mine.  Have  I  no  newspapers  ?  " 

"Didn't  I  give  'em  to  you?  Oh, 
here  they  are.  Well,  as  the  lady  's  your 
cousin,  I  presume  you  know  how  to  pro- 
nounce her  name.  It  does  beat  all,  that 
name.  More  than  /  can  make  out. 
There  's  a  couple  of  letters  for  her,  if 
you  happen  to  be  going  that  way." 

"  I  '11  take  them,"  he  returned,  with  a 
sudden  resolve,  "  but  there  's  no  use  my 
telling  you  how  to  pronounce  her  name,  — 
I  can  hardly  manage  it  myself.  Good- 
morning." 

He  put  the  letters  in  his  pocket  and 
went  down  the  straggling  village  street 
to  the  "  hotel,"  a  large  white  house, 
girdled  by  a  slanting  veranda. 

"  If  she  is  in  sight  I  '11  go  up.  If 
not,  I  '11  send  for  Annette.  I  '11  have 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


341 


to  tell  her  about  Leduc,  anyway,"  he 
decided. 

When  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 
building  he  saw  a  small  group  of  rock- 
ing-chairs in  a  shady  corner  of  the 
veranda,  and  over  the  back  of  one  of 
them  a  mass  of  gold-brown  hair  that  he 
knew.  The  other  chairs  were  occupied 
by  Annette  and  a  fiddle-headed  young 
man  drinking  a  glass  of  milk.  Annette 
saw  him  first,  and  rose,  with  a  resump- 
tion of  manner  that  she  had  not  found  it 
necessary  to  use  toward  the  milk-drink- 
ing youth. 

"  Bonjour,  M'sieu." 

"  Bonjour,    Annette.  —  Good  -  morn- 

ing." 

The  younger  woman  looked  up  from 
her  embroidery  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"  Good-morning.  How  kind  of  you  to 
come." 

"  I  have  letters  for  you "  —  He 
handed  them  to  her  without  a  word  of 
explanation  or  assurance,  and  she  took 
them  as  unconcernedly.  "  Thanks." 

She  wore  a  pink  gown  of  a  kind  that 
convinced  him  of  her  intention  of  stay- 
ing at  home  that  day,  and  rocked  her 
chair  slowly  with  deliberate  pattings  of 
a  foot  in  a  high-heeled  shoe  adorned 
with  a  large  square  buckle.  Saxe  sat 
down  in  the  chair  vacated  by  the  youth, 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  I  have  bad  news  for  you,"  he  began 
presently,  as  she  finished  reading  her 
letters.  "  Leduc  has  hurt  his  foot  and 

—  and  cannot  possibly  go  —  anywhere 

—  for  three  or  four  days." 

Annette  clasped  her  hands.  u  Mon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu !  Is  it  true,  M'sieu,  or 
is  it  only  one  of  his  tricks  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Annette." 

"  Annette,  fetch  the  book  that 's  lying 
on  my  table,  —  and  put  these  letters  in 
my  writing-case." 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  leaving  them 
alone. 

"  Has  Leduc  really  hurt  his  foot, 
Dr.  Saxe  ?  " 

There  was  no  trace  of  insolence  in  her 


tone,  but  he  understood,  and  the  ques- 
tion brought  the  blood  to  his  face. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  me  tell  Annette 
that  he  has  ?  "  he  answered,  his  brows 
knitting. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  you." 

"  Then  why  —  tell  me  why  should  I 
take  the  trouble  to  lie  about  such  a 
trifle  ?  " 

She  bit  her  lip.  "  I  thought  you  might 
possibly  let  him  keep  up  the  pretense  of 
being  unable  to  go  "  — 

"  That  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of 
detaining  you  here  for  a  few  days 
longer  ?  Believe  me,  dear  lady,  I  have 
no  fancy  for  unwilling  companionship, 
even  yours." 

He  had  gone  farther  than  he  had  in- 
tended, and  stopped,  a  trifle  ashamed  of 
his  vehemence.  Another  second,  and 
he  would  probably  have  lost  his  point 
by  apologizing,  when  she  said,  with  such 
unexpected  gentleness  that  he  almost 
gasped  :  "  But  you  are  so  wrong !  My 
companionship,  such  as  it  is,  is  anything 
but  unwilling,  Dr.  Saxe.  I  enjoyed 
yesterday  so  much,  and  had  hoped  "  — 

"  You  had  hoped  "  —  he  repeated. 

"  That  you  would  let  us  come  over  to 
the  camp  this  afternoon  again,  —  in  case 
Leduc  was  obstinate  and  refused  to  go." 

Saxe  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  ve- 
randa and  stood  looking  down  at  a  bed 
of  sprawling  nasturtiums  at  his  feet. 
When  he  turned,  his  eyeglasses  were  in 
his  hand. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said 
bluntly,  "  and  I  might  as  well  own  that 
I  don't.  Tell  me  what  it  is  you  want, 
and  Heaven  knows  I  '11  give  it  to  you  if 
I  can." 

"Very  well.  I  will  be  perfectly 
frank  :  I  like  you,  I  like  the  camp,  and 
I  wish  you  'd  be  nice,  and  just  '  begin 
over,'  as  you  promised  the  night  before 
last." 

"  You  ask  a  good  deal." 

"  I  know  it.  But  it 's  the  only  way. 
Don't  you  see,  we  are  strangers,  yet  we 
know  each  other  embarrassingly  well ; 


342 


Our  Lady  of  the  Seeches. 


I  have  told  you  things  that  no  one  else 
knows,  —  shown  you  a  side  no  one  else 
ever  saw  "  —  She  said  it  bravely,  her 
face  full  to  the  noon  sun. 

"  And  now  you  regret  it  ?  "  he  asked 
gently. 

She  paused.  "No,  I  do  not  regret 
it,  only  you  are  not  my  Pessimist,  and 
I  am  not  your  —  your  Lady  of  the 
Beeches." 

"  But  that  is  just  what  you  are.  My 
Lady  of  the  Beeches.  You  are  that, 
and  neither  you  nor  I  can  help  it !  You 
told  me  in  those  letters  not  a  word  that 
you  should  not  have  told,  there  was  not 
a  word  of  harm  in  them,  and  I  can't  see 
why  you  won't  have  me,  Richard  Saxe, 
for  the  friend  you  yourself  declared  the 
Pessimist  to  be  to  you.  If  you  would 
let  me,  I  would  be  to  you  the  best  friend 
a  woman  ever  had." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No,  no." 

"  You  mean  that  you  don't  believe  in 
such  friendships  ?  Good  !  no  more  do 
I.  But  —  I  love  you.  You  know  that. 
You  knew  it  long  ago,  yet  you  let  me 
keep  on  being  your  friend.  Is  not  that 
so?" 

She  acknowledged  his  statement  with 
a  slow  nod,  and  he  went  on. 

"That  can't  hurt  you.  You  know 
who  I  am;  you  know  all  about  me. 
Surely  you  can  trust  me  never  to  make 
love  to  you  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  And  —  even  if  I  were  a  fool  and  a 
cad,  and  a  man  would  have  to  be  both 
to  dare  to  make  love  to  you  —  you  must 
know  that  you  are  perfectly  capable  of 
—  keeping  me  in  order." 

She  smiled  meditatively.  "Yes,  I 
think  I  could." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  see,  —  what  is 
the  use  of  trying  to  pretend  that  the  last 
year  has  not  existed,  —  that  we  do  not 
know  each  other  ?  What  I  propose  is 
unconventional,  but  you  surely  are  not 
afraid  of  that  —  at  least  up  here  in  the 
wilderness.  Give  me  your  hand  and  let 
us  be  friends  until  you  go  away,  or  until 


you  choose  to  send  me  away.  '  Et  puis, 
bousoir ! '  I  do  not  know  your  name ; 
you  know  I  will  never  learn  it  against 
your  will.  Trust  me." 

"  My  name  is  Winifred  Zerdahelyi," 
she  answered,  giving  him  her  hand, 
"  and  I  do  trust  you." 

"  Thanks." 

He  dropped  her  hand  as  some  one 
came  up  the  board  walk  toward  them. 
It  was  Henry  Cobb,  the  boy  who  drove 
the  two  women  to  and  from  the  camp. 
He  had  come  for  orders. 

"We  are  going  in  half  an  hour, 
Henry,"  Winifred  said,  "  if  you  can  be 
ready." 

Then  she  turned  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way  to  Saxe.  "I  must  go  and  put 
on  another  gown.  Will  you  wait  and 
drive  over  with  us  ?  " 


V. 


He  noticed  when  she  and  old  Annette 
came  down  a  few  minutes  later  that 
she  carried  a  little  green  bag  with  satin 
strings.  It  was  very  warm,  and  the 
first  part  of  the  drive  being  through 
bare  fields,  she  wore  a  big  hat  with  a 
wreath  of  hop-flowers  on  it,  a  charming 
hat  that  he  liked.  He  sat  in  front  with 
Cobb,  but  arranged  himself  sideways 
that  he  might  both  see  and  hear  her. 
She  was  in  a  merry  mood,  rattling  on 
carelessly  about  the  scenery,  the  hotel, 
and  a  thousand  different  things,  rather 
to  help  him,  he  realized.  For  he  him- 
self found  talking  an  effort ;  even  think- 
ing bothered  him,  and  his  mind  hovered 
aimlessly  between  the  hop-flowers  on  her 
hat  and  the  green  bag. 

For  a  man  of  his  age  and  character, 
the  declaration  he  had  made  was  a  very 
momentous  one,  and  curiously  enough  it 
seemed  the  more  momentous  in  that  it 
must  of  itself  prove  absolutely  without 
results  of  any  kind.  He  knew  that  she 
did  not  care  for  him,  and  was  glad  of 
it;  but  the  fact  of  his  having  blurted 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


343 


out  in  that  bold  way  that  he  loved  her 
had  momentarily  dazed  him.  The  mem- 
ory of  his  one  other  declaration  of  the 
kind  came  back  to  him  as  they  jogged 
over  the  rough  road  :  the  moonlight,  the 
long  gravel  walk  leading  up  between 
fragrant  rosebushes  to  the  white  house, 
the  garden  gate  on  which  she  had  leaned 
while  he  talked.  Of  course  he  had  not 
been  a  saint,  and  like  other  men  he  had 
had  his  experiences  with  women,  but 
he  had  loved  twice  in  his  life,  and  he 
knew  it. 

He  also  felt,  his  eyes  resting  on  her 
hands  as  they  held  the  green  bag,  that 
he  was  not  so  old  as  he  had  fancied  him- 
self to  be. 

"  We  had  a  college  professor  up  here 
once,"  Cobb  was  saying,  "  but  we  never 
had  no  countesses  before." 

"  Countesses  are  very  common  in  Eu- 
rope, though,"  she  answered,  laughing, 
"  thousands  of  us." 

They  had  reached  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  and  leaving  the  road,  drove  across 
a  broad  tract  of  hummocky  land,  the 
hummocks  treacherously  hidden  by  a 
thick  low  growth  of  blueberries  and 
scrub  oaks. 

"  There  's  a  bad  bit  of  broken  road 
down  yonder  that  we  avoid,  comin' 
'raound  this  way,"  explained  Cobb,  urg- 
ing his  horse  to  a  rather  reckless  gait. 

Saxe  wondered  vaguely  whether  they 
would  upset. 

They  reached  the  camp  to  find  Leduc 
busy  with  the  fire. 

"  M'sieu  can  live  on  letters,  perhaps, 
but  Leduc  not.  Mon  Dieu,  les  dames  !  " 

He  swept  off  his  hat  with  an  ironical 
smile  at  his  wife.  "  Desolated  to  be  un- 
able to  rise,  but  my  foot  is  very  bad  — 
very  bad,  as  M'sieu  will  tell  you." 

Saxe  laughed  with  sudden  gayety. 
"  Not  very  bad,  old  sinner.  Just  bad 
enough,  that  is  all." 

There  was  nothing  to  eat,  and  they 
were  hungry.  Annette,  touched  by  the 
look  of  pain  in  her  husband's  face,  helped 
him  to  a  tree,  arranged  him  comfortably, 


and  with  a  peremptory  gesture  forbade 
his  moving.  Then  she  set  to  work  to 
prepare  the  dinner.  Luckily,  Saxe  had 
brought  meat  and  a  fresh  loaf  of  bread 
from  the  village,  so  by  two  o'clock  they 
were  eating  a  very  appetizing  little  meal. 

"  M'sieu  objected  very  much  last  year 
to  being  so  near  the  village,"  Leduc, 
most  graceful  of  invalids,  explained  in 
French,  as  he  drank  his  third  cup  of 
coffee ;  "  but  Leduc  has  lived  in  the 
woods  long  enough  to  know  the  advan- 
tages of  civilization  and  butcher's  meat. 
Leduc's  teeth,  too,  are  old  for  dog-bis- 
cuits, such  as  the  young  swells  from  New 
York  eat  when  out  hunting." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  yourself  in  the 
third  person  ?  And  why  do  you  call 
yourself  Leduc  ?  " 

The  Countess  fixed  her  direct  gaze  on 
him  as  she  asked  her  questions. 

He  laughed.  "  I  lived  for  years  with 
French  half-breeds  up  in  the  north,  — 
they  always  use  the  third  person.  As  to 
Leduc  —  they  called  me  '  le  due  '  be- 
cause I  had  a  manner.  You  will  admit, 
Mademoiselle,  that  the  name  is  prettier 
than  Bonnet,  va !  " 

Saxe  tried  to  reason  away  his  own 
senseless  happiness  that  expressed  itself 
in  what  he  felt  to  be  a  boundless  grin. 
"  It  will  be  over  in  a  few  days  ;  she  will 
be  gone;  she  will  never  think  of  me 
again,"  he  told  himself.  But  it  was  in 
vain.  She  was  there ;  she  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  and  she  still  was  there;  he 
could  hear  her  voice,  see  the  sun  on  her 
hair ;  she  met  his  eyes  fearlessly,  if  also 
indifferently,  and  life  was  one  great 
heart-throb  of  joy. 

After  dinner  he  helped  Annette  carry 
the  dishes  into  the  cabin,  and  coming 
back  found  Leduc  stretched  out  on  his 
face,  sound  asleep,  the  Countess,  the  bag 
open  beside  her,  working  placidly  on  the 
big  square  of  embroidery  he  had  seen 
that  morning  at  the  hotel.  Saxe's  head 
swam.  She  looked  so  comfortable,  so 
much  at  home.  She  pointed  smilingly 
at  the  old  man  as  Saxe  sat  down.  "  No 


344 


OUT  Lady  of  the  Seeches. 


one  ever  so  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  a 
sprained  foot  before.  Just  look  at  him  !  " 

"  Ill-mannered  old  wretch  !  What  are 
you  making  ?  " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  taking 
the  linen  by  one  corner  spread  it  over 
his  knees. 

"  It  is  a  tea-cloth,  of  course.  Do  you 
like  it?" 

The  design  was  a  conventional  one, 
done  in  different  shades  of  yellow.  Saxe 
could  not  honestly  say  he  admired  it, 
and  she  laughed  at  his  hesitation. 

"  Would  n't  —  well  —  flowers  be  pret- 
tier ?  "  he  ventured. 

"  What  kind  of  flowers  ?  " 

"  M  —  m  —  m.  /  always  liked  wild 
roses  —  pink  ones." 

She  paused  while  she  re-threaded 
her  needle,  and  then  answered  gayly, 
"  Would  you  like  a  tea-cloth  with  pink 
wild  roses  all  over  it  ?  " 

"  Would  I  like  one !  " 

"  I  will  make  you  one.  Only  I  am 
sure  that  you  never  drink  tea,  now  do 
you?" 

"  No,  hang  it,  I  don't !  I  never  drink 
anything  but  an  occasional  whiskey  and 
soda."  He  passed  his  brown,  slim  hand 
gently  over  the  silks  and  drew  back. 

"  We  '11  call  it  a  '  whiskey  and  soda 
cloth,'  then,"  she  returned. 

"Tell  me,"  he  began,  after  a  long 
pause,  during  which  she  worked  busily, 
"  did  you  ever  get  even  with  that  —  that 
beast  in  London  ?  " 

She  flushed.  "  Yes.  That  is  —  I 
told  my  husband,  and  he  convinced  him 
of  his  —  mistake." 

"How,  with  a  bullet?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  It  was  n't  worth  that, 
was  it?  I  don't  quite  know  what  Bela 
said  to  him,  but  it  answered  the  purpose." 

"  '  Bela.'  It  is  a  pretty  name.  Tell 
me  about  him." 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  He  is  thirty- 
four,  tall,  handsome,  —  what  men  call  a 
good  sort." 

Saxe  lay  down  and  tilted  his  hat  over 
his  eyes. 


"You  don't  mind  my  asking  about 
him  ?  It  interests  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  mind." 

"  He  must  be  very  proud  of  you." 

She  laughed  quietly.  "  Proud  ?  I 
don't  know.  He  is  very  fond  of  me." 

"  That  of  course.     I  meant  proud." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "  No,  poor 
fellow,  I  think  he  is  somewhat  ashamed 
of  me,  at  times.  You  see,  Hungarian 
women  are  very  brilliant,  —  very  amus- 
ing, —  and  I  am  rather  dull." 

"  Dull !  "  Saxe  sat  up,  and  took  off 
his  eyeglasses.  "  You !  " 

"  Yes,  I.  You  remember  I  wrote  you 
of  my  unfortunate  passion  for  trees,  and 
that  kind  of  thing.  Things  that  other 
women  like  bore  me  to  death,  and  when 
I  am  bored  I  am  "  — 

«  Horrid !  " 

They  both  laughed.  "  Then,"  she 
went  on,  laying  down  her  work  and  lean- 
ing against  the  tree,  "  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  horses,  and  every  one  else 
there  is  mad  about  them.  Bela  runs  all 
over  Europe,  and  I  won't  go  with  him. 
It  is  not  nice  of  me,  but  it  does  bore  me 
so!" 

"  Tell  me  more,"  said  Saxe  greedily. 

"  But  it  is  n't  interesting !  And  I  don't 
know  what  you  want  to  know." 

"  I  want  to  know  all  you  will  tell  me," 
he  answered,  his  voice  falling  suddenly. 

She  took  up  her  work  and  went  on 
without  looking  at  him.  "  Last  year  we 
went  to  Russia  for  some  bear-hunting.  I 
stayed  in  St.  Petersburg  with  his  uncle, 
who  is  Austrian  Minister  "  — 

"  That  was  when  you  supped  with  an 
Emperor !  " 

"  Yes.  I  did  n't  mean  that  I  sat  at 
his  right  hand,  you  know !  " 

"  I  know.  Tell  me,  —  where  is  the 
beech  forest  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  Hungary,  about  two  hours 
from  Budapest.  Bela  hates  the  place ; 
it  is  lonely,  so  I  usually  go  there  alone." 

"  That  is  one  reason  why  "  —  he  be- 
gan, and  stopped  short. 

She  looked  up  inquiringly  ;  then  her 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


345 


eyes  changed,  and  she  went  on.  "  One 
reason  why  I  love  it  so.  Yes.  You  are 
right.  I  do  love  to  be  alone  some- 
times." 

"  If  you  are  awake,  Leduc,  why  don't 
you  say  so  ?  "  cried  Saxe  suddenly,  with 
a  fierce  frown. 

Leduc  rolled  over,  blinking  helplessly. 
"  Oui,  oui,  M'sieu,  —  what  time  is  it  ? 
Leduc  —  Sacristi,  mon  pied  !  " 

In  spite  of  his  anger,  Saxe  could  not 
refuse  to  re-dress  the  swollen  ankle,  and 
to  his  surprise  the  Countess  put  away  her 
work,  and  helped  him  with  something 
more  than  mere  handiness.  He  realized, 
however,  with  a  grim  amusement  at  his 
own  folly,  that  the  bandage  would  have 
been  better  had  he  done  it  alone. 


VI. 

"  You  will  laugh  at  me,  —  think  me 
an  old  fool,  —  but  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
anyway,"  Saxe  began,  as  they  left  the 
camp  and  made  their  way  up  the  hill  to- 
ward Sunset  Ledge. 

She  looked  at  him  in  silent  inquiry,  in 
a  way  he  liked,  for  her  eyes  met  his  with 
perfect  confidence,  and  he  could  see  the 
light  in  their  clear  depths. 

"  This  tree  here,"  he  went  on,  pausing 
and  laying  his  hand  on  a  patch  of  moss 
on  the  trunk,  "is  the  Dream ^tree." 

«  Oh  !  " 

"  Yes.  Yonder,  in  the  little  clearing, 
you  can  see  the  Butterfly  Tree.  The 
Wisdom  Tree,  alas,  I  have  not  yet  found, 
—  and,  candidly,  I  cannot  say  I  am  in  a 
fair  way  of  finding  it." 

She  laughed.  "I  fear  you  are  not. 
But  —  do  you  really  love  them  ?  You 
used  to  laugh  at  me  and  call  me  a 
dreamer.  How  you  did  snub  me  at 
first !  " 

"I  was  a  brute.  I  do  really  love 
them,  though,  and  they,  through  you, 
have  taught  me  much.  Last  year,  as  I 
wrote  you,  I  was  restless  and  unhappy 
here  ;  the  solitude  got  on  my  nerves ;  I 


could  n't  sleep.  This  year  the  beauty  of 
it  all  came  home  to  me  ;  the  quiet  quieted 
me  ;  I  lived  on  from  day  to  day  in  a  sort 
of  dream,  —  and  then  you  came." 

"  We  interrupted  !  A  charming  in- 
terruption, of  course,  but  still  we  are 
one.  How  small  the  world  is,  that  we 
should  have  come  here  !  " 

"  How  good  the  gods  are  !  " 

She  stood  still,  leaning  against  a  tree 
to  rest.  "  Are  they  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  I 
mean,  we  have  met,  and  it  has  been  a 
pleasure  to  us  both,  but  we  have  also  lost 
much."  Her  face  was  serious,  she  spoke 
slowly. 

"  What  have  we  lost  ?  " 

"  I  can't  just  explain,  but  I  feel  it.  I 
shall  miss  the  Pessimist !  " 

"  But  why  not  keep  him  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  absently.  "  Oh, 
no.  That  is  over  and  gone.  We  never 
could  find  each  other  again,  —  as  we 
were.  Surely  you  understand  that  as 
well  as  I." 

"You  mean  because  of  what  I  told 
you  this  morning  ?  But  you  knew  it  be- 
fore I  told  you." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it ;  it  is  different  now." 

Saxe  protested.  "  I  don't  see  why  ! 
I  'm  no  boy  to  lose  his  head  and  make 
scenes.  You  can  trust  me,  and  you  know 
it,  or  you  would  n't  be  here." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  gently, 
and  went  on  up  the  difficult  way. 

"But,  when  you  go  away,  — you  will 
surely  let  me  write  to  you,  and  you  will 
answer  ?  "  he  insisted,  as  he  followed. 

"  No." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  it  is  to  be  bonsoir." 

"  That  is  not  a  sufficient  reason."  His 
voice  was  dogged,  and  she  turned. 

"  But  it  is !  I  am  the  most  obstinate 
woman  in  the  world.  I  always  do  as  I 
like." 

"  And  what  you  '  like '  is  to  throw  me 
over  when  "  — 

She  turned  again,  her  eyes  cold  this 
time.  "  There  is  no  question  of  '  throw- 
ing over,'  Dr.  Saxe.  I  have  given  way 


346 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


to  you  in  the  matter  of  staying  on  here 
and  taking  up  our  —  acquaintance  where 
it  ended  in  the  letters,  but  I  have  not 
bound  myself  in  any  way  to  write  you, 
or  see  you  again.  We  will  say  no  more 
about  it,  please." 

Saxe  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  he  said  briskly,  as  she  stopped  again 
to  draw  breath  :  "  You  are  right,  Coun- 
tess, and  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  have 
grown  so  used  to  the  pleasure  your  let- 
ters have  given  me  that  I  shall  miss  them 
tremendously  at  first,  but  of  course  I 
shall  get  used  to  it,  and  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you  for  giving  me  these  few  days." 

"  I  shall  miss  the  letters,  too,"  she 
returned,  with  one  of  the  sudden  soften- 
ings that  perplexed  him.  "  I  'm  not  say- 
ing I  shall  be  glad  to  —  to  lose  you  alto- 
gether." 

"  Thanks,  you  are  kind." 

They  reached  the  ledge  of  rock,  and 
sat  down.  It  was  early,  and  they  dis- 
cussed for  some  time  the  possibility  of 
Leduc's  being  able  to  start  off  on  the  pil- 
grimage in  three  days,  before  the  spec- 
tacle that  they  had  come  to  see  began. 

"  If  the  old  ruffian  would  tell  me  how 
far  the  place  is,  I  could  judge  better,  but 
I  can't  get  a  word  out  of  him,"  Saxe 
avowed.  "  He  says  '  it  is  n't  so  far,  but 
then  it  is  n't  so  near  !  '  : 

"  It  is  not  charitable  of  me,  but  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  has  himself 
forgotten  where  it  is  !  " 

"No  —  no.  You  wrong  him  there. 
He  does  know."  Saxe  hesitated  for  a 
minute  and  then  told  her  the  story  of  the 
thirty-one  white  stones. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Poor  old 
man!  thirty-one  years  is  a  long  time." 

"  Yes.  Thirty-one  years  ago  I  was 
eleven  years  old,  and  you  —  did  not  ex- 
ist! When  you  were  born,  I  was  al- 
ready a  big  boy  of  thirteen.  *  When  is 
your  birthday  ?  " 

"  The  6th  of  December." 

She  sat  with  one  arm  around  the  sil- 
very trunk  of  a  young  birch,  her  cheek 
pressed  to  it.  Saxe  realized  that  he 


would  be  sure  to  invent  a  fantastic  name 
for  that  tree. 

She  asked  him  some  questions  about 
his  new  book,  and  he  launched  into  an 
attempted  explanation  of  it,  she  listening 
with  earnest  eyes  and  what  he  called, 
quoting  himself  with  a  smile,  her  "  in- 
telligent ignorance."  The  first  shafts  of 
the  sunset  found  him  deep  in  metaphy- 
sics, and  he  broke  off  short  when  her  up- 
raised hand  led  his  eyes  to  the  sky. 

As  they  went  back  to  the  camp,  a 
squirrel  darted  down  a  tree  and  across 
their  way,  not  two  feet  in  front  of  them. 
The  Countess  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Look !  " 

But  Saxe  looked  at  her  flushed  face, 
and  felt  suddenly  very  old  and  tired. 
She  was  so  young!  He  determined  never 
to  talk  to  her  of  "  metaphysics  and  such 
stuff  "  again.  He  would  show  her  things 
that  made  her  look  like  that.  He  won- 
dered whether  there  were  no  late-nest- 
ing birds,  as  there  are  late-bearing  fruit 
trees.  He  knew  she  would  love  a  bird's 
nest  with  eggs  in  it.  And  then,  as  the 
sight  of  the  smoke  rising  among  the  trees 
told  them  that  they  were  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  camp,  she  said  suddenly,  — 

"  But  all  that  is  materialistic,  and  you 
are  an  idealist !  " 

Saxe  stood  still.     "  I  an  idealist !  " 

"  Yes.  And  you  have  strong  princi- 
ples, which  you  have  no  business  to  have, 
if  you  believe  all  that." 

"Then  a  materialist  has  no  princi- 
ples ?  " 

"  According  to  Hobbes,  no,"  she  an- 
swered demurely. 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "  Oh,  if  you 
have  read  Hobbes,  I  give  up.  But  after 
all  you  are  wrong  ;  Hobbes  says  '  a  ma- 
terialist can  have  no  morals.'  He  does 
n't  mention  principles.  And  then,  how 
many  men's  principles  agree  with  their 
actions,  Fair  Lady  ?  Not  many.  I  mean 
men  who  have  passed  their  lives  trying 
to  think?  Do  you  know  anything  of 
Spinoza's  life  ?  " 


The  End  of  the   Quest.  347 

"  No  ;  only  that  he  was  a  good  man."  "  So,  while  God  knows  I  am  no  ideal- 
"  He  was  a  good  man.  We  must  go  ist,  admit  that  I  may  have  principles  and 
to  supper,  but  first  let  me  tell  you  that  his  be  a  decent  sort  of  fellow,  and  yet  fully 
opinions,  his  avowed  principles,  were  such  believe  in  my  book  !  " 
that  he  was  excommunicated  for  blasphe-  She  smiled  at  him  in  the  charming 
my."  way  some  women  have  of  smiling  at  a 

She  nodded,  going  slowly  down  the  man  they  like,  —  as  though  she  knew  him 
path,  her  head  bent.  "I  know,  I  re-  much  better  than  he  knew  himself ,  —  and 
member."  they  went  on  without  speaking. 

Bettina  von  Hutten. 
(To  be  continued.} 


THE   END   OF   THE    QUEST. 

UNARM  him  here.      Now  wish  him  rest. 

His  was  the  fate  of  those  who  fail; 
Who  never  end  the  knightly  quest, 

Nor  ever  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

He  was  the  fieriest  lance  in  all 
That  virgin  honor  called  to  dare; 

The  courtliest  of  the  knights  in  hall, 
The  boldest  at  the  barriere. 

Joyful  he  took  the  sacred  task 

That  led  him  far  by  flood  and  field; 

His  lady's  favor  at  his  casque, 

God's  cross  upon  his  argent  shield. 

See  where  the  Paynim  point  has  cleft 
The  crimson  cross  that  could  not  save! 

See  where  the  scimitar  has  reft 
The  favor  that  his  lady  gave ! 

For  this  poor  fate  he  rode  so  far 

With  faith  untouched  by  toil  or  time; 

A  perfect  knight  in  press  of  war, 
Stainless  before  the  Mystic  Shrine. 

One  finds  the  Rose  and  one  the  rod; 

The  weak  achieve,    the  mighty  fail. 
None  knows  the  dark  design  but  God, 

Who  made  the  Knight  and  made  the  Grail. 

The  single  eye,    the  steadfast  heart, 
The  strong  endurance  of  the  day, 

The  patience  under  wound  and  smart  — 
Shall  all  these  utterly  decay? 


348 


Democracy  and  Society. 

The  long  adventure  resteth  here; 

His  was  the  lot  of  those  who  fail, 
Who  ride  unfouled  by  sin  or  fear, 

Yet  never  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

Frank  Lillie  Pollock. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  SOCIETY. 


WE  plead  fop  effort  to  promote,  be- 
tween the  classes  spiritually  severed,  a 
common  life  of  mind,  heart,  and  desire. 
But  this  does  not  mean  that  we  desire 
men  to  abandon  their  natural  vocations 
and  devote  themselves  to  philanthropy  at 
large.  Experiments  with  benevolence 
as  an  occupation  are  rarely  a  success, 
and  general  sociability,  even  with  the 
poor,  can  never  constitute  a  worthy  ex- 
istence. So  abnormal  is  our  situation, 
indeed,  that  different  means  of  helping 
or  handling  our  less  fortunate  breth- 
ren are,  almost  against  their  will,  run- 
ning into  a  formal  mould,  and  becom- 
ing professions  in  which  the  amateur  is 
helpless.  But  these  developed  social 
agencies,  —  organized  charities,  work- 
ing girls'  clubs,  college  settlements,  and 
the  like,  —  necessary  though  they  be, 
can  never  furnish  in  full  measure  the 
unifying  force  we  need.  They  can  but 
point  the  way ;  more,  their  very  profes- 
sionalism prevents.  The  history  of  each 
of  these  movements  is  the  same :  they 
begin  with  a  human  passion,  they  end 
with  a  crystallized  system.  As  the  pro- 
cess goes  on,  they  slough  off  to  a  greater 
or  less  degree  the  theories  that  initiated 
them,  and  become  increasingly  efficient, 
but  also  increasingly  limited  in  scope. 
Their  representatives,  imbued  with  hor- 
ror at  the  idea  of  applying  mere  un- 
trained sentiment  to  the  complex  prob- 
lems of  our  society,  often  speak  as  if 
the  perfecting  of  these  agencies  were 
the  chief  thing  needful.  This  is  not  so. 
Perfected  they  must  indeed  be;  but  as 
they  become  more  and  more  useful  fac- 
tors in  the  existing  machinery,  more  and 


more  competent  means  to  retrieve  cer- 
tain phases  of  social  disaster,  the  spirit 
that  yearns  toward  full  social  regenera- 
tion, the  spirit  of  the  amateur,  the  lover, 
leaves  them  and  passes  on. 

But  if  neither  benevolence  at  large 
nor  benevolence  focused  can  furnish  the 
lead  to  the  closer  fellowship  we  desire, 
where  may  we  look  for  it  ?  The  world 
clamors  for  brotherhood  and  finds  it 
not ;  a  whole  literature  grows  on  our 
hands,  taxing  for  its  absence  church, 
state,  the  business  system,  what  you 
will.  Constructive  efforts,  of  ten  radical 
enough,  are  not  wanting.  To  glance  at 
one  type  only,  during  the  last  decade  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  several  groups 
of  Americans  withdrew  from  a  world 
dedicated  to  enmity,  and  in  a  spirit  of 
impassioned  consecration  shaped  their 
community  life  into  socialistic  forms. 
The  gradual  failure  of  one  after  another 
of  these  heroic  little  communities  sad- 
dens and  almost  perplexes;  yet  brood- 
ing over  it,  surely  one  comes  to  feel  that 
the  ideal  of  unity  can  never  be  enshrined 
in  an  experiment  which  begins  by  cut- 
ting itself  off  from  the  common  life,  im- 
perfect and  even  evil  as  this  life  may  be. 
Unconsciously  to  themselves,  these  com- 
munities, like  the  old  monastic  orders, 
were  separatist  at  heart.  Seeking  to 
escape  the  burden  of  the  common  guilt, 
to  them  it  was  not  given  to  redeem. 

It  is  surely  well  for  us  to  realize  that 
Nature  is  not  in  the  habit  of  making 
fresh  starts.  She  brings  no  new  matter 
into  existence;  rather,  by  that  action 
of  law  which  forever  makes  for  fuller 
life,  she  consecrates  the  old  to  new  and 


Democracy  and  Society. 


349 


higher  uses.  In  our  ceaseless  impatience 
to  get  a  clean  sweep  and  begin  over 
again,  we  need  to  remember  that  Re- 
surrection is  a  process  in  which  we  have 
more  share  than  in  Creation,  — even 
though  we  also  remember  that  the  life 
of  the  resurrection  is  not  attained  save 
through  anguish.  Schemes  abound,  large 
and  little,  for  establishing  new  enter- 
prises to  express  new  ideas.  Were  it  not 
more  to  the  point  to  consider  how  the 
agencies  that  we  already  possess  may  be 
sacrificed  that  they  may  arise?  De- 
mocracy is  no  external  form,  but  a  trans- 
forming force.  The  eighteenth  century 
gave  birth  to  it ;  the  nineteenth  saw  its 
long  struggle  to  achieve  recognition  in 
the  spheres  of  theory  and  fact.  It  re- 
mains for  the  twentieth  century,  in  the 
gray  dawn  of  which  we  move,  to  dis- 
cover by  experiment  and  reflection  in 
detail  the  spiritual  transformation  that 
it  is  to  achieve.  For  re-creation,  not 
destruction,  is  its  watchword.  Slowly 
the  democratic  idea  pervades  life  at 
every  point,  and  transfigures  the  abid- 
ing, normal  activities  of  men  into  a 
new  likeness.  In  these  activities,  in- 
spired by  democratic  passion  and  shaped 
to  a  democratic  type,  is  it  not  possible 
that  we  may  find,  in  large  measure,  the 
unifying  agents  that  we  seek? 

Faint  and  scattered  glimpses  of  this 
transforming  process  are  all  that  can 
be  vouchsafed  to-day  to  any  thinker; 
but  to  chronicle  such  glimpses  may  be  to 
help  the  process  on.  Glance,  for  in- 
stance, at  the  opportunities  to  help  the 
cause  of  social  unification  possessed,  did 
they  but  realize  it,  by  the  professional 
classes.  Allied  to  the  manual  workers 
by  their  status  as  wage- earners,  to  the 
children  of  privilege  by  their  mental 
conditions,  these  classes  form  a  natural 
link  between  the  two ;  moreover,  al- 
though we  have  as  yet  no  "intellectual 
proletariat  "  such  as  is  found  in  Europe, 
the  state  of  things  economically  in  pro- 
fessional life  is  becoming  more  and  more 
like  that  which  obtains  in  the  trades. 
The  fact,  whether  we  rejoice  in  it  or 


lament  it,  throws  open  a  door:  labor 
becomes  predisposed  to  sympathy  with 
the  professions,  and  professional  men 
might,  on  the  other  hand,  bring  a  sin- 
gularly close  comprehension  to  the  prob- 
lems of  labor.  Fairminded  professional 
men,  claiming,  as  they  have  logical  right 
to  do,  a  place  within  the  ranks  of  or- 
ganized labor,  would  have  rare  power  as 
interpreters,  if  not  as  peacemakers,  in 
times  of  stress.  Such  a  suggestion,  to 
be  sure,  makes  demands  on  the  imagi- 
nation, and  draws  a  smile  to  the  lips; 
yet  at  least  one  Federal  Labor  Union 
exists,  open,  by  constitution  approved 
by  the  American  Federation  of  Labor, 
to  "members  of  otherwise  unorganized 
trades, "  —  a  title  under  which  certain 
college  professors,  authors,  and  clergy- 
men are  pleased  to  rank  themselves. 

But  before  such  an  impulse  can  be 
widespread,  it  is  obvious  that  the  pro- 
fessions, one  by  one,  must  be  socialized. 
If  we  cannot  with  impunity  transmute 
our  attitude  into  a  profession,  we  can  at 
least  transform  our  profession  by  our 
attitude.  Through  almost  any  profes- 
sion, even  through  the  most  unlikely, 
the  great  work  of  social  unification  may 
be  advanced.  To  the  individualistic 
mood  of  the  central  nineteenth  century, 
who  seemed  farther  from  "the  com- 
mons "  than  did  the  artist  ?  "  La  haine 
du  bourgeois, "  so  entertainingly  voiced 
by  The'ophile  Gautier,  had  not  yet  been 
supplemented  by  devotion  to  the  prole- 
tariat, and  the  lover  of  art  gathered  his 
cloak  about  him  to  avoid  the  touch  of 
vulgarity,  cast  off  the  dust  of  democracy 
from  his  feet,  and  mused  upon  the  Beau- 
tiful. "All  art,"  wrote  a  disciple  of 
Gautier,  "is  entirely  useless."  To-day 
art  is  returning  to  the  people,  and  seeks 
to  revive  her  old  alliance  with  the  crafts ; 
for  she  realizes  that  until  the  instinct 
for  beauty  in  use  reawakens  through  a 
quickening  of  the  creative  power  in  the 
workman,  the  higher  beauty  that  is  be- 
yond use  can  never  flourish  among  us. 
Artists  turn  socialists,  like  Crane,  Mor- 
ris, Brush;  like  Watts,  they  dedicate 


350 


Democracy  and  Society. 


their  noblest  powers  to  the  service  of 
the  many  instead  of  to  the  select  appre- 
ciation of  the  few.  The  time  draws 
near  —  it  is  almost  here  already  —  when 
art  will  be  more  affected  than  any  other 
profession  by  the  democratic  ideal. 

The  transformation  advances ;  yet 
there  are  still  professions  in  which  it 
is  hardly  guessed.  How  splendid,  and 
how  seldom  realized,  the  chance  of  the 
journalist  to  serve  as  social  interpreter ! 
Without  accusing  the  press  of  a  parti- 
san spirit,  still  less  of  venal  devotion  to 
the  interests  of  capital  and  privilege, 
any  one  who  knows  must  admit  that, 
except  when  some  histrionic  effect  is 
to  be  obtained,  it  is  strangely  blank  to 
the  inner  realities  of  working-class  life. 
But  the  social  profession  par  excellence 
—  that  which  offers  greatest  opportu- 
nity for  truly  social  action  —  is  that 
storm-centre  of  the  modern  world,  the 
profession  of  the  employer  of  labor. 
This  profession  above  all  others  needs 
to  be  socialized,  but  in  the  nature  of 
the  case  it  will  probably  be  the  last  to 
yield  to  the  ethical  transformation  that 
is  going  on  in  the  professional  world  at 
large.  More  than  forty  years  ago,  Rus- 
kin  pointed  out  that  to  the  Christian 
merchant,  no  less  than  to  clergyman  or 
doctor,  the  first  object  should  be,  not 
personal  success,  but  the  service  of  the 
community,  and  that  the  merchant  has 
his  "occasion  of  death  "  in  the  duty  to 
suffer  financial  ruin  rather  than  to  put 
dishonest  goods  on  the  market  or  to  pay 
his  workmen  less  than  a  "living  wage." 
We  touch  on  burning  ground.  From  all 
quarters  arise  protests  and  objections: 
the  time-worn  argument,  which  might 
as  well  be  adduced  against  laying  down 
the  life  in  battle,  that  a  man  has  no 
right  to  make  his  family  suffer ;  the 
more  specious  objection  that  in  the  in- 
tricate network  of  commercial  relations 
the  ruin  of  one  falling  firm  causes  mis- 
ery more  widespread  than  the  under- 
payment of  a  few  hundred  employees. 
However  these  things  may  be,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  nowhere  in  the  great  struggle 


to  realize  social  justice  is  there  a  post  so 
charged  with  opportunity,  perplexity, 
and  spiritual  danger,  as  that  of  the  em- 
ployer impassioned  for  human  brother- 
hood. Industry  has  already,  and  in  high 
places,  its  martyrs  as  well  as  its  victims ; 
it  counts  in  every  state  of  the  Union  more 
than  one  employer  who  has  the  martyr 
spirit,  and  only  waits  for  the  blow  to 
fall.  In  view  of  the  moral  tension  that 
pervades  the  industrial  world,  and  of 
the  vast  and  involved  questions  to  be 
decided  there,  one  feels  that  a  business 
life  may  well  attract  young  men  of  he- 
roic temper  and  keen  desire  for  moral 
adventure:  one  is  also  inclined  to  feel 
that  only  entire  readiness  for  sacrifice 
can  justify  a  young  man  in  whom  the 
social  conscience  is  fully  awake  in  ven- 
turing upon  it. 

But,  indeed,  readiness  for  social  sac- 
rifice in  the  name  of  democracy  is  the 
need  of  the  hour.  The  profession  of 
employer  is  that  which  to-day  most  di- 
rectly calls  for  its  martyrs;  yet  it  is 
obvious  that  the  social  transformation, 
like  all  great  changes,  can  in  no  case  be 
fully  accomplished  without  heavy  cost. 
Times  will  arise  when  the  social  con- 
science will  keep  one  poor  where  one 
might  be  rich,  or,  what  is  more  grievous 
far,  prevent  one  from  reaching  the  high- 
est point  of  professional  activity.  Is 
the  sacrifice  worth  while  ?  The  answer 
comes  without  hesitation  from  men  and 
women  who  make  it  quietly  every  day. 
Looking  at  the  situation  of  our  people 
to-day  with  the  eyes  of  a  patriot,  one 
must  surely  say  that  a  strong  determin- 
ing influence  in  the  choice  of  a  profes- 
sion should  be  found  in  the  opportu- 
nities for  social  activity  of  the  higher 
type  which  it  offers.  Naturally,  no  such 
statement  can  be  made  without  reserve. 
There  are  clear  vocations  not  to  be  with- 
stood ;  though  the  inward  call  summon 
the  young  man  to  a  region  far  from  hu- 
man fellowship,  he  can  but  rise  and  fol- 
low. But  such  calls  are  rare.  The  aver- 
age person  is  helped  to  decision  by  no 
irresistible  summons  of  temperament; 


Democracy  and  Society. 


351 


he  is  simply  aware  of  a  certain  modicum 
of  inward  force,  which  within  limits  he 
may  direct  as  he  will.  In  this  our  time 
of  class  alienation  and  civic  stress,  the 
professions  that  make  for  social  unity 
and  peace  should  as  naturally  draw  the 
flower  of  our  patriotic  youth,  as  the 
profession  that  defends  the  nation  from 
enemies  without  draws  them  in  time  of 
war. 

But  the  transforming  power  of  the 
democratic  ideal  must  affect  society  at 
large  as  well  as  special  functions  in  so- 
ciety. Before  democracy  can  do  its  per- 
fect work,  men  must  be  in  democratic 
relations  to  one  another,  not  only  politi- 
cally, not  only  professionally,  but  so- 
cially, —  a  short  sentence  that  looks 
forward  to  a  long  evolution.  Despite 
our  faint  theories  to  the  contrary,  class 
rules  in  America  all  but  as  rigidly  as  in 
the  Old  World.  True,  it  is  almost  a 
rarity  among  us  to  find  people  on  the 
same  social  level  as  their  fathers;  but 
a  society  is  not  democratic  because  it 
accepts  the  aristocrat  of  intellect  or 
money,  whatever  his  antecedents :  it  is 
only  democratic  when  the  natural  in- 
stinct of  selection  in  fellowship,  accord- 
ing to  the  mysterious  harmonies  of  tem- 
perament, can  have  free  play,  irrespec- 
tive of  class  distinction.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  the  feeling  of  some  people 
is  not  unlike  that  of  a  French  general 
who  remarked  to  the  writer,  "I  am  a 
democrat,  in  a  sense  a  socialist.  I  am 
always  severe,  to  be  sure,  with  my  ser- 
vants, —  why  not  ?  I  am  the  master. 
But  I  am  always  cordial,  unless  angry. " 
The  public  applauds  a  President  of  the 
United  States  who  in  his  hospitality  ig- 
nores the  color  line ;  to  ignore  the  class 
line  were  a  different  matter.  Perhaps 
our  attitude  is  right,  or  at  all  events 
inevitable ;  only  in  this  case  let  us  "  clear 
our  minds  of  cant, "  and  put  some  clear 
and  vigorous  thinking  on  the  rational 
limits  of  democracy.  A  theory  which 
does  not  translate  itself  into  act  is  a 
sentimental  delusion.  Seldom,  indeed, 
at  least  in  the  great  cities,  does  one 


find  sons  or  daughters  of  privilege  who 
have  formed  with  working  men  or  wo- 
men the  sort  of  relation  that  might 
naturally  lead  to  an  invitation  to  din- 
ner. A  trivial  fact,  certainly ;  yet  it  is 
mournfully  true  that  if  this  one  relation 

—  the  sign  and  seal  of  social  equality 

—  be  tabooed,  no  other  will  in  the  long 
run  avail  to  create  fellowship  beyond 
suspicion.     For  between  fellowship  and 
benevolence  the  working  people  draw  the 
line  unerringly.      So  long  as  there  are 
large  sections  of  the  private  life  of  the 
privileged  classes  which  no  outsider  is 
invited  to  enter,  the  workers  will  never 
believe  that  our  desire  for  social  unity 
is  real.      Most  of  them,  indeed,  take 
the  present  state  of  things  for  granted ; 
but  let  us  beware  of  assuming  that  they 
hold  it  satisfactory  or  righteous.      The 
shrinking   suspicion   displayed   by   the 
more  self-respecting  in  the  presence  of 
our  best-intentioned  philanthropies    is 
the  measure  of  the  sensitive  pride  with 
which  they  realize  and  resent  their  so- 
cial ostracism.     This  may  be  a  false 
attitude  on  their  part ;  in  order  to  dis- 
sipate   it,    however,    we    must   remove 
American  air  from  their  nostrils,  and 
import  an  entire  atmosphere  from  the 
Old  World. 

To  seek  personal  relations,  free  from 
any  philanthropic  flavor,  with  those  who 
are  doing  the  practical  work  of  the 
world  is  the  most  direct  means  pos- 
sessed by  most  people  of  helping  to  cre- 
ate the  new  society.  This  we  are  learn- 
ing to  recognize ;  although,  as  many  an 
enthusiastic  young  person  has  found 
to  his  sorrow,  fellowship  cannot  be  at- 
tained by  sudden  means.  One  cannot 
pounce  upon  a  fellow  mortal,  demand 
his  friendship,  and  seek  to  penetrate 
the  citadel  of  his  soul,  simply  because 
he  is  a  laboring  man.  A  community  of 
interests  must  exist  before  relations  of 
a  personal  kind  can  arise  in  a  natural 
and  simple  way;  and  the  difficulty  of 
discovering  any  such  community  is  as 
striking  comment  as  could  be  found  on 
the  alienation  of  classes.  Nevertheless, 


352 


Democracy  and  Society. 


tact,  wisdom,  above  all,  patience  without 
limits  and  entire  indifference  to  conven- 
tions, can  establish  or  create  it.  Herein 
lies  the  chief  value  of  settlements,  and 
also  of  certain  other  agencies,  less  de- 
mocratic, more  philanthropic  in  cast,  — 
they  furnish  a  method  of  approach  be- 
tween members  of  the  separated  classes. 

Yet  just  here  one  must  signal  a  dan- 
ger that  besets  even  the  settlement  move- 
ment, —  nearest  approach  that  we  have 
evolved  to  a  true  expression  of  demo- 
cracy, but  imperiled  by  its  very  success. 
Our  end  of  social  unity  will  never  be 
reached  by  establishing  special  centres 
wherein  the  arts  of  brotherhood  shall 
be  practiced.  It  is  easy  for  any  one  to 
pass  a  few  months,  or  even  years,  com- 
fortably enough,  as  a  rule,  in  a  house 
dedicated  to  a  pleasant  theory,  —  to 
dance  and  talk  and  entertain,  and  find 
keen  satisfaction  in  the  play.  But  the 
test  comes  afterward.  Settlements  are 
means,  not  ends ;  they  fail  unless  they 
foster  in  the  children  of  their  spirit  an 
attitude  which  will  cause  each  and  all 
to  exercise  ceaseless,  loving,  democratic 
activity  in  the  normal  and  permanent 
life.  The  true  centre  of  social  unifica- 
tion, the  strategic  point  where  the  bat- 
tle of  the  spiritual  democracy  will  be 
lost  or  won,  is  the  ordinary  home.  If 
this  be  Utopian,  then  will  democracy 
remain  forever  located  in  Utopia. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  average  Ameri- 
can home  is  otiose,  so  far  as  distinctive 
service  to  the  democratic  cause  is  con- 
cerned. And  it  is  probably  often  im- 
practicable to  make  any  new  demands 
on  homes  of  the  older  generation.  The 
contretemps  and  discomforts  attendant 
in  such  cases  on  any  attempt  to  extend 
social  relations  on  unconventional  lines 
defeat  the  aim,  and  witness  to  the  dis- 
tance which  we  have  traveled  de  facto 
from  our  American  assumptions.  But 
new  homes  are  forming  every  day: 
many  of  them  are  founded  by  young 
men  and  women  trained  in  colleges 
where  the  theory  of  social  equality  is 
edging  its  way,  and  in  settlements  where 


the  practice  of  social  equality  is  at- 
tempted. Is  it  too  much  to  hope  that 
every  such  home  might  become  a  centre 
of  brotherly  love  practiced  deliberately 
beyond  the  bounds  of  class  distinction  ? 
In  no  arbitrary  nor  sudden  manner  can 
be  overcome  the  prejudices  and  the  in- 
dolence of  generations :  nor  can  we  won- 
der if  incredulity,  reluctance,  and  per- 
haps rudeness,  meet  our  efforts  to  know 
our  poorer  brethren  without  reserve. 
But  the  invincible  power  of  a  high  con- 
ception can  put  to  flight  the  evil  phan- 
toms of  timidity,  distrust,  distaste,  and 
create  fellowship  unhampered.  In  the 
familiar  interchange  of  thought  and 
feeling  that  results,  the  common  life  we 
seek  is  born  at  last. 

"Cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  as  we 
are  within  the  limits  of  class-conscious- 
ness, the  life  of  untrammeled  fellowship 
is  yet  nearer  than  we  often  think.  The 
attitude  which  we  desire  lies  behind  us 
as  well  as  before,  and  we  have  a  tra- 
dition to  which  we  may  return,  as  well 
as  an  ideal  toward  which  we  may  strive. 
A  large  degree  of  democratic  feeling 
and  practice  still  exists  in  America,  — 
more,  to  be  sure,  in  the  West  than  in 
the  East,  more  in  country  than  in  city. 
The  simpler  New  England  of  our  fore- 
fathers, for  instance,  represented  a  so- 
cial ideal  which  may  well  rebuke  us  of 
these  later  days;  here,  there  was  no 
need  consciously  to  seek  what  existed 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Many  of  us 
probably  still  know,  in  our  summer  wan- 
derings, innocent  and  lovely  regions 
where  the  relation  between  servants, 
hosts,  and  guests  is  happily  unformu- 
lated,  and  a  gentle  simplicity  of  man- 
ners produces  hospitality  without  limits 
of  convention ;  and  most  people  who  are 
fortunate  enough  to  share  for  a  season 
the  life  of  such  pleasant  valleys  or  moun- 
tain nooks  find  in  them  an  image  of 
abiding  freedom  and  peace.  The  very 
fluidity  and  freedom  of  American  life, 
moreover,  the  easy  escape  of  the  indi- 
vidual from  barriers  once  impassable, 
may  introduce,  though  it  do  not  in  itself 


Democracy  and  Society. 


353 


constitute,  a  democratic  society;  for 
the  majority  of  Americans  who  have  ar- 
rived within  the  pale  of  what  for  lack 
of  a  better  term  we  call  the  privileged 
classes  can  find,  if  they  will,  natural 
ties  with  the  manual  workers.  Best 
of  all,  greatest  and  strongest  help  to- 
ward the  achievement  of  the  new  so- 
ciety, is  the  indubitable  fact  that  the 
democratic  life,  when  once  attained,  is 
the  natural  home  of  the  human  spirit. 

Three  things  hold  us  apart :  the  mere 
physical  distance  which,  especially  in 
cities,  separates  the  homes  of  rich  and 
poor ;  the  tension  of  American  life, 
keeping  us  all  as  busy  as  we  can  pos- 
sibly be,  whether  the  heavy  flails  we 
wield  thresh  wheat  or  chaff;  and  our 
own  sense  that  the  psychical  distance 
is  insuperable,  supplemented  by  the  cu- 
rious instinct  to  limit  our  relations 
to  people  who  like  the  same  books,  or 
art,  or  manners,  as  ourselves.  Obsta- 
cles real  and  great;  but  overcome  the 
first  two,  and  the  last  mysteriously 
vanishes.  When  the  socializing  im- 
pulses of  democracy  are  vitally  at  work 
within  us,  we  become  aware,  to  our 
own  surprise,  .that  the  desire  to  consort 
with  people  better  endowed  than  our- 
selves with  wealth  or  intelligence  is  an 
impulse  less  profoundly  natural  than 
the  yearning,  for  our  soul's  health,  to 
know  a  wider  fellowship  with  those  by 
whose  labor  we  live.  True,  so  abnor- 
mal is  our  situation  that  artificial  means 
must  often  be  sought  in  order  to  get 
into  normal  relations  with  our  fellow- 
citizens.  But  once  initiate  these  re- 
lations, and  difficulties  are  over;  one 
discovers  in  one's  self,  with  amazed  de- 
light, a  sense  of  social  ease  and  plea- 
sure, of  enlargement  and  peace,  such 
as  he  has  probably  never  known  before. 
This  is  a  strange  experience,  but  it  is 
known  to  many  of  us.  Will  not  fellow- 
ship between  the  educated  and  the  un- 
educated be  a  make-believe  after  all? 
asks  some  bland  inquirer  with  a  choice 
enunciation.  Let  us  whisper  in  reply: 
he  of  whom  you  ask  has  found  true  and 


nourishing  intercourse  more  possible 
with  some  hard-working  man  or  woman 
who  knew  no  grammar,  and  could  con- 
verse on  neither  art  nor  letters,  than 
with  the  cultured  questioner.  For 
friendship  rests  on  nothing  so  simple  as 
the  inheritance  of  the  same  class  tra- 
dition. Knowledge  of  similar  books, 
use  of  similar  speech,  a  kindred  taste 
in  jokes  or  art,  —  these  things  are  the 
basis  of  agreeable  acquaintance.  From 
deeper  mysteries  of  temperament  and 
character  flashes  that  light  whereby  soul 
recognizes  soul ;  a  light  potent  to  dissi- 
pate all  mists  that  rise  from  alien  race, 
class,  or  circumstance.  It  is  only  the 
first  step  that  costs,  —  a  rude  step,  it 
may  be.  Those  who  have  taken  it  — 
their  number  is  goodly  and  increasing 
—  awaken  as  it  were  suddenly  in  the 
fair  and  joyous  country  of  brotherhood, 
where  all  that  divides  us  is  forgotten 
illusion,  and  we  find  ourselves  united 
in  the  primal  realities  of  experience 
and  desire. 

Slowly,  surely,  beneath  its  surface 
failures,  democracy  is  transforming  civ- 
ilization, but  its  most  vital  transforma- 
tion is  the  most  inward,  for  it  is  wrought 
in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men.  The 
need  of  our  society  lies  deep.  A  mere 
sense  of  social  responsibility,  in  profes- 
sions or  in  daily  life,  such  as  one  con- 
stantly meets  in  England,  is  an  excellent 
thing,  but  it  is  of  limited  value.  We 
in  America  must  go  beyond  that.  The 
motive  impelling  to  wider  fellowship 
must  be  quite  different  from  the  subtle 
impulse  toward  the  disbursal  of  spiritual 
alms,  or  even  from  the  uneasy  sense  of 
a  debt  to  be  paid,  a  justice  unfulfilled. 
It  must  be  borne  to  us  from  a  future  as 
yet  unrealized.  In  any  movement  to- 
ward social  unity  which  shall  be  accept- 
able and  effective,  two  influences  must 
rule:  the  conviction  of  the  mind  that 
only  by  breaking  down  the  social  bar- 
riers that  isolate  the  classes  can  our 
higher  national  aims  be  secured,  and  the 
desire  of  the  heart  to  draw  near,  for  our 
own  sakes,  to  those  meek  of  the  earth, 


VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539. 


23 


354 


Autumn  Thoughts. 


who,  if  Christian  ethics  speak  true,  are 
the  possessors  of  the  highest  wisdom. 

Granted  this  transformation  of  our 
inward  and  outward  life  in  the  likeness 
of  the  humanity  to  he,  and  all  we  long 
for  will  follow.  There  is  no  need  of 
radical  theory,  no  need  of  violent  sub- 
versions of  the  existing  order,  to  over- 
come the  bitterness  that  holds  our  pro- 
ducing classes  in  isolation.  Great 
changes,  indeed,  industrial  and  social, 
are  essential  before  social  justice  can 
be  seen,  —  are  for  the  matter  of  that 
on  the  way  whether  we  will  or  no.  To 
help  them  forward,  when  they  make  for 
righteousness,  with  what  vigor  and  con- 
secration he  may,  is  the  duty  of  every 
man.  But  such  changes  come  slowly. 
If  we  would  have  them  also  come  wisely, 
come  securely,  come  without  endanger- 
ing the  unity  and  loyalty  of  our  national 
life,  the  power  is  in  our  hands.  Not 


one  of  us  needs  to  be  simply  a  passive 
spectator  of  the  sad  social  pageant.  To 
help  onward  the  cause  of  the  civilization 
we  desire,  we  have  only,  as  individuals, 
in  our  professional  and  in  our  private 
activities,  to  live  out,  without  delay, 
cordially,  thoughtfully,  in  readiness  to 
dedicate  energetic  effort  to  the  deed,  the 
conception  of  our  function  and  our  atti- 
tude demanded  by  the  democratic  state. 
"  Thou  wast  in  my  house  while  I  sought 
for  thee  afar, "  exclaims  a  restless  hero 
of  an  Italian  novel  to  the  wife  in  whom 
he  finally  recognizes  a  long  -  desired 
ideal.  Close  at  hand,  in  the  conditions 
of  our  daily  living,  not  far  away  in  some 
impossible  land,  are  to  be  found  the 
means  that  shall  create  harmony  out  of 
discord,  and  begin  at  least  to  bring  those 
most  distant  from  one  another  into  that 
common  national  consciousness  which 
democracy  demands. 

Vida  D.  Scudder. 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 


MOVEMENT   I:    SLEEP. 

ON  that  October  day,  nothing  was 
visible  at  first  save  yellow  flowers,  and 
sometimes  a  bee's  quiet  shadow  crossing 
the  petals  :  a  sombre  river,  noiselessly 
sauntering  seaward,  far  away  dropped 
with  a  murmur,  among  leaves,  into  a 
pool.  That  sound  alone  made  tremble 
the  glassy  dome  of  silence  that  extended 
miles  on  miles.  All  things  were  lightly 
powdered  with  gold,  by  a  lustre  that 
seemed  to  have  been  sifted  through 
gauze.  The  hazy  sky,  striving  to  be 
blue,  was  reflected  as  purple  in  the  wa- 
ters. There,  too,  sunken  and  motionless, 
lay  amber  willow  leaves ;  some  floated 
down.  Between  the  sailing  leaves, 
against  the  false  sky,  hung  the  willow 
shadows,  —  shadows  of  willows  overhead, 
with  waving  foliage,  like  the  train  of  a 
bird  of  paradise.  One  standing  on  a 


bridge  was  seized  by  a  Hylean  shock, 
and  wondered  as  he  saw  his  face,  death- 
pale,  among  the  ghostly  leaves  below. 
Everywhere  the  languid  perfumes  of 
corruption.  Brown  leaves  laid  their  fin- 
gers on  the  cheek  as  they  fell ;  and  here 
and  there  the  hoary  reverse  of  a  willow 
leaf  gleamed  in  the  crannied  bases  of  the 
trees. 

One  lonely  poplar,  in  a  space  of  reful- 
gent lawn,  was  shedding  its  leaves  as  if 
it  scattered  largess  among  a  crowd.  No- 
thing that  it  gave  it  lost ;  for  each  leaf 
lay  sparkling  upon  the  turf,  casting  a 
splendor  upwards.  A  maiden  unwreath- 
ing  her  bridal  garlands  would  cast  them 
off  with  a  grace  as  pensive  as  when  the 
poplar  shed  its  leaf. 

One  could  not  walk  as  slowly  as  the 
river  flowed ;  yet  that  seemed  the  true 
pace  to  move  in  life,  and  so  reach  the 
great  gray  sea.  Hand  in  hand  with  the 


Autumn   Thoughts. 


355 


river  wound  the  path,  and  that  way  lay 
our  journey. 

In  one  place  slender  coils  of  honey- 
suckle tried  to  veil  the  naked  cottage 
stone,  or  in  another  the  subtle  handi- 
work of  centuries  had  covered  the  walls 
with  lichen.  And  it  was  in  the  years 
when  Nature  said 

"  incipient  magni  procedere  menses," 

when  a  day  meant  twenty  miles  of  sun- 
lit forest,  field,  and  water, 

Oh !  moments  as  big  as  years, 

years  of  sane  pleasure,  glorified  in  later 
reveries  of  remembrance.  .  .  .  Near  a 
reedy,  cooty  backwater  of  that  river 
ended  our  walk. 

The  day  had  been  as  an  august  and 
pompous  festival.  Burning  like  an  an- 
gry flame  until  noon,  and  afterward 
sinking  peacefully  into  the  soundless 
deeps  of  vesperal  tranquillity  as  the 
light  grew  old,  on  that  day  life  seemed 
in  retrospect  like  the  well-told  story  of 
a  rounded,  melodious  existence,  such  as 
one  could  wish  one's  self.  .  .  .  How 
mild,  dimly  golden,  the  comfortable 
dawn!  Then  the  canvas  of  a  boat 
creeping  like  a  spider  down  the  glassy 
river  pouted  feebly.  The  slumberous 
afternoon  sent  the  willow  shadows  to 
sleep  and  the  aspens  to  feverish  repose, 
in  a  landscape  without  horizon.  Even- 
ing chilled  the  fiery  cloud  ;  and  a  gray 
and  level  barrier,  like  the  jetsam  of  avast 
upheaval,  but  still  and  silent,  lay  alone 
across  the  west.  Thereafter  a  light  wind 
knitted  the  willow  branches  against  a  sil- 
ver sky  with  a  crescent  moon.  Against 
that  sky,  also,  one  could  not  but  scan  the 
listless  grasses  bowing  on  the  wall  top. 
For  a  little  while,  troubled  tenderly  by 
autumnal  maladies  of  soul,  it  was  sweet 
and  suitable  to  follow  the  path  toward 
our  place  of  rest,  —  a  gray  immemorial 
house  with  innumerable  windows. 

The  house,  in  that  wizard  light  "  sent 
from  beyond  the  sky,"  —  for  the  moon 
cast  no  beams  through  her  prison  of  oak 


forest,  —  seemed  to  be  one  not  made 
with  hands.  Was  it  empty  ?  The  shut- 
ters of  the  plain,  square  windows  re- 
mained un whitened,  flapped  ajar.  Up 
to  the  door  ran  a  yellow  path,  leveled 
by  moss,  where  a  blackbird  left  a  worm 
half  swallowed,  as  he  watched  our  com- 
ing. Some  one  had  recently  let  fall  a 
large  red  rose,  that,  divided  and  spilt  by 
birds,  petal  by  petal,  lay  as  beautiful  as 
blood,  upon  the  ground.  This  path  and 
its  fellow  carved  the  lawn  into  three  tri- 
angles ;  and  in  each  an  elm  rose  up,  lay- 
ing forth  auburn  foliage  against  the  house, 
in  November  even. 

The  leaves  that  had  dropped  earlier 
lay,  crisp  and  curled,  in  little  ripples 
upon  the  grass.  There  is  a  perfect  mo- 
ment for  coming  upon  autumn  leaves, 
as  for  gathering  fruit.  The  full,  flaw- 
less color,  the  false,  hectic  well-being  of 
decay,  and  the  elasticity  are  attained  at 
the  same  time  in  certain  favored  leaves, 
and  dying  is  but  a  refinement  of  life. 

In  one  corner  of  the  garden  stood  a 
yew  tree  and  its  shadow  ;  and  the  shadow 
was  more  real  than  the  tree,  —  the  shad- 
ow carved  upon  the  sparkling  verdure  in 
ebony.  In  the  branches  the  wind  made 
a  low  note  of  incantation,  especially  if  a 
weird  moon  of  blood  hung  giddily  over 
it  in  tossing  cloud.  To  noonday  the  eb- 
ony shadow  was  as  lightning  to  night. 
Toward  this  tree  the  many  front  win- 
dows guided  the  sight ;  and  beyond,  a 
deep  valley  was  brimmed  with  haze  that 
just  spared  the  treetops  for  the  play  of 
the  sunset's  last,  random  fires.  To  the 
left,  the  stubborn  leaves  of  an  oak  wood 
soberly  burned  like  rust,  among  accu- 
mulated shadow.  To  the  right,  the 
woods  on  a  higher  slope  here  and  there 
crept  out  of  the  haze,  like  cloud,  and 
received  a  glory,  so  that  the  hill  was  by 
this  touch  of  the  heavens  exaggerated. 
And  still  the  sound  of  dropping  waters, 
"  buried  deep  in  trees." 

Quite  another  scene  was  discovered 
by  an  ivy-hidden  oriel,  lit  by  ancient 
light,  immortal  light  traveling  freely 


356 


Autumn  Thoughts. 


from  the  sunset,  and  from  the  unearthly 
splendor  that  succeeds.  There  the  leaves 
were  golden  for  half  a  year  upon  the 
untempestuous  clouds.  Rain  never  fell, 
or  fell  innocently,  in  sheaves  of  perpen- 
dicular diamond.  Snow  faded  usually 
into  glistening  gray  as  it  dropped,  or 
flew  in  prismatic  dust  before  the  dispers- 
ing feet  of  wayfarers.  Nevertheless, 
the  tranquillity,  the  fairiness,  the  unsea- 
sonable hues,  were  triste:  that  is  to 
say,  joy  was  here  under  strange  skies  ; 
sadness  was  fading  into  joy,  joy  into 
sadness,  especially  when  one  looked 
upon  this  gold,  and  heard  the  dark  say- 
ings of  the  wind  in  far-off  woods,  while 
these  were  still.  Many  a  time  and  oft 
was  the  forest  to  be  seen,  when  the  chill- 
est  rain  descended,  fine  and  hissing,  — 
seen  standing  like  enchanted  towers, 
amidst  it  all,  untouched  and  aloof,  as  in 
a  picture.  But  when  the  sun  had  just 
disappeared  red-hot  in  the  warm,  gray, 
still  eventide,  and  left  in  the  west  a  fiery 
tissue  of  wasting  cloud,  when  the  gold 
of  the  leaves  had  a  freshness  like  April 
greenery,  in  a  walk  through  the  sedate 
old  elms  there  was  "a  fallacy  of  high 
content." 

Several  roses  nodded  against  the  gray 
brick,  as  if  all  that  olden  austerity  were 
expounded  by  the  white  blossoms  that 
emerged  from  it,  like  water  magically 
struck  from  the  rock  of  the  wilderness. 
In  the  twilight  silence  the  rose  petals 
flew  down.  So  tender  was  the  air,  they 
lay  perfect  on  the  grass,  and  caught  the 
moonlight. 

In  ways  such  as  these  the  mansion 
speaks.  For  the  house  has  a  character- 
istic personality.  Strangely  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  trees,  it  grows  incorporate 
with  them,  by  night.  Behold  it,  as  oft 
we  did,  early  in  the  morning,  when  a 
fiery  day  is  being  born  in  frost,  and  nei- 
ther wing  nor  foot  is  abroad,  and  it  is 
clothed  still  in  something  of  midnight ; 
then  its  shadows  are  homes  of  awful 
thoughts  ;  you  surmise  who  dwells  there- 
in. Long  after  the  sun  was  gay,  the 


house  was  sombre,  unresponsive  to  the 
sky,  with  a  Satanic  gloom. 

The  forest  and  meadow  flowers  were 
rooted  airily  in  the  old  walls.  The 
wildest  and  daintiest  birds  had  alighted 
on  the  trees. 

Things  inside  the  house  were  con- 
trasted with  the  lugubrious  wall  as  with 
things  without.  The  hangings  indeed 
were  sad,  with  a  design  of  pomegranates  ; 
but  the  elaborate  silver  candelabra  dealt 
wonderfully  with  every  thread  of  light 
entering  contraband.  One  braided  sil- 
ver candlestick  threw  white  flame  into 
the  polished  oaken  furniture,  and  thence 
by  rapid  transit  to  the  mirror.  An 
opening  door  would  light  the  apartment 
as  lightning.  Under  the  lights  at  night, 
the  shadowy  concaves  of  the  candelabra 
caught  streaked  reflections  from  the 
whorls  of  silver  below,  and  the  Holy 
Grail  might  have  been  floating  into  the 
room  when  a  white  linen  cloth  was  un- 
folded, dazzling  the  eyes. 

In  the  upper  rooms,  the  beds  (and 
especially  that  one  which  commanded 
the  falcon's  eye  of  an  oriel)  —  the  beds, 
with  their  rounded  balmy  pillows,  and 
unfathomable  eider  down  that  cost  hours 
of  curious  architecture  to  shape  into  a 
trap  for  weary  limbs,  were  famous  in 
half  a  county.  All  the  opiate  influence 
of  the  forest  was  there.  Perhaps  the  pil- 
low was  daily  filled  with  blossoms  that 
whisper  softliest  of  sleep.  There  were 
perfumes  in  the  room  quite  inexpli- 
cable. Perhaps  they  had  outlived  the 
flowers  that  bare  them  ages  back,  flow- 
ers now  passed  away  from  the  woods. 
The  walls  were  faded  blue ;  the  furni- 
ture snowed  upon  by  white  lace ;  the  bed 
canopy  a  combination  of  three  gold  and 
scarlet  flags  crossed  by  a  device  in  scar- 
let and  gold,  "  Blest  is  he  that  sleepeth 
well,  but  he  that  sleeps  here  is  twice 
blest ; "  of  which  the  explanation  was  — 
at  the  midday  breakfast,  every  one  told 
the  dream  he  had  dreamed  (or  would 
have  dreamed),  and  he  who,  by  a  ma- 
jority of  suffrages  (each  lady  having 


Autumn  Thoughts. 


357 


two),  dreamed  best  had  the  great  tank- 
ard full  of  Amontillado,  and  left  his 
name  and  a  device  upon  it.  The  tank- 
ard was  downstairs,  deeply  worn,  with 
a  few  surviving  inscriptions,  some  of 
which  were  remarkably  applicable  both 
to  wine  and  life  :  IIANTA  PEI ;  and 
The  Old  is  Better;  and  Menteries 
Joyeuses;  and  2HENAOMEN  TAI2 
MNAMA2  IIAI2IN  MO2AU,  by  one 
who  knew  how  delicately  memory  con- 
tributes to  the  fashioning  of  dreams. 

The  whole  room  was  like  an  apse 
with  altar,  and  pure,  hieratic  ornament. 
To  sleep  there  was  a  sacramental  thing. 
Sleep  there  and  die  !  one  reflected.  Such 
dreams  one  had,  and  yet  one  forwan- 
dered  soul  had  left  his  lament  upon  the 
oriel  glass :  — 

"  EHBU ! 

VITA 

SPLENDIDIOR  VITRO 

FRAGILIOR  VITRO 

EHEU ! " 

Against  that  window  were  flowers  whose 
odor  the  breeze  carried  to  one's  nostrils 
when  it  puffed  at  dawn.  If  excuses 
could  be  found,  it  was  pleasant  to  be  early 
abed,  in  summer,  for  the  sake  of  that 
melancholy  western  prospect,  when  the 
songs  of  the  lark  and  nightingale  arose 
together.  One  fell  suddenly  asleep,  with 
a  faint  rush  of  the  scent  of  juniper  in 
the  room,  and  the  light  still  fingering 
your  eyelashes.  Or,  if  one  closed  the 
window,  in  that  chamber  — 

"That  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of 
sight," 

one  could  hear  one's  own  thoughts. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  graceful  usage, 
that  was  almost  a  custom,  of  making  mu- 
sic while  the  owl  hooted  vespers  ;  for  a 
bed  without  music  is  a  sty,  the  host  used 
to  say,  —  as  the  philosopher  called  a  ta- 
ble without  it  a  manger. 

Alongside  the  bed,  and  within  reach 
of  the  laziest  hand,  ran  two  shelves 
of  books.  One  shelf  held  an  old 
Montaigne;  the  Lyrical  Ballades;  the 
Morte  Darthur  ;  The  Compleat  Angler ; 


Lord  Edward  Herbert's  Autobiography  ; 
George  Herbert's  Temple;  Browne's 
Urn  Burial ;  Cowper's  Letters.  The 
other  shelf  was  filled  by  copies,  in  a  fine 
feminine  hand  and  charmingly  misspelt, 
of  the  long-dead  hostess's  favorites,  all 
bound  according  to  her  fancy  by  herself : 
Keats's  Odes  ;  Twelfth  Night ;  L' Alle- 
gro and  II  Penseroso  ;  the  twenty-first 
chapter  of  St.  John  and  the  twenty-third 
Psalm;  Virgil's  Eclogues;  Shelley's 
Adonais ;  part  ii.  section  ii.  member  4, 
of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  called 
Exercise  rectified  of  body  and  mind ; 
Lord  Clarendon's  eulogy  of  Falkland,  in 
the  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion ;  and 
Walter  Pater's  Child  in  the  House  and 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  added  by  a  younger 
but  almost  equally  beautiful  hand. 

What  healing  slumbers  had  here  been 
slept,  what  ravelled  sleave  of  care  knit 
up !  Ancient  room  that  hadst  learned 
peacefulness  in  centuries,  —  to  them 
whose  hunger  bread  made  of  wheat  doth 
not  assuage,  to  those  that  are  weary  be- 
yond the  help  of  crutches,  thou,  ancient 
room  in  that  gray  immemorial  house, 
heldst  sweet  food  and  refuge. 

Rest  for  the  weary,  for  the  hungry 
cheer.  To  the  bereaved  one,  sleeping 
here,  thou  redeemedst  the  step  that  is 
soundless  forever,  the  eyes  that  are  among 
the  moles,  the  accents  that  no  subtlest 
hearing  shall  ever  hear  again  ;  bringest 
the  child  bemoaned,  — 

"  Thou  bringest  the  child,  too,  to  its  mother's 
breast." 

You,  ancient  bed,  full  of  the  magic 
mightier  than  "  powerfullest  lithoman- 
cy,"  hadst  blessings  greater  than  St.  Hil- 
ary's bed,  on  which  distracted  men  were 
laid,  with  prayer  and  ceremonial,  and  in 
the  morning  rose  restored.  With  you, 
perhaps,  was  Sleep  herself.  Sleep  that 
sits,  more  august  than  Solomon  or  Minos, 
in  a  court  of  ultimate  appeal,  whither 
move  the  footsteps  of  those  who  have 
mourned  for  justice  at  human  courts, 
and  mourned  in  vain.  Sleep,  by  whose 
equity  divine  the  cuffed  and  dungeoned 


358 


Autumn  Thoughts. 


innocent  roams  again  emparadised  in  the 
fields  of  home,  under  the  belgard  of  fa- 
miliar skies.  Sleep,  whose  mercy  is  not 
bounded,  but 

"  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven," 

even  upon  the  beasts ;  for  the  hound  in 
his  dream  breathes  hot  upon  the  scent 
of  his  prey.  Sleep  soothes  the  hand  of 
poverty  with  gold,  and  pleases  with  the 
ache  of  long  stolen  coronets  the  brows 
of  fallen  kings.  Had  Tantalus  dropped 
his  eyelids,  sleep  had  ministered  to  his 
lips.  The  firman  of  sleep  goes  forth : 
the  peasant  is  enthroned,  and  accom- 
plished in  the  superb  appurtenances  of 
empire ;  the  monarch  finds  himself 
among  the  placid  fireside  blisses  of  light 
at  eventide ;  and  those  in  cities  pent 
sleep  beguiles  with  the  low  summons, 

"  Ad  claras  Asise  volemus  urbes." 

Because  sleep  clothes  the  feet  of  sorrow 
with  leaden  sandals  and  fastens  eagles' 
wings  upon  the  heels  of  joy,  I  wonder 
that  some  ask  at  nightfall  what  the  mor- 
row shall  see  concluded  :  I  would  rather 
ask  what  sleep  shall  bring  forth,  and 
whither  I  shall  travel  in  my  dreams.  It 
seems  indeed  to  me  that  to  sleep  is  owed 
a  portion  of  the  deliberation  given  to 
death.  If  life  is  an  apprenticeship  to 
death,  waking  may  be  an  education  for 
sleep.  We  are  not  thoughtful  enough 
about  sleep  ;  yet  it  is  more  than  half  of 
that  great  portion  of  life  spent  really  in 
solitude.  "Nous  sommes  tous  dans  le 
desert !  Personne  ne  comprend  per- 
sonne."  In  the  hermitage  what  then 
shall  we  do  ?  One  truly  ought  to  enter 
upon  sleep  as  into  a  strange,  fair  chapel. 
Fragrant  and  melodious  antechamber  of 
the  unseen,  sleep  is  a  novitiate  for  the 
beyond.  Nevertheless,  it  is  likely  that 
those  who  compose  themselves  carefully 
for  sleep  are  few  as  those  who  die  holi- 
ly  ;  and  most  are  ignorant  of  an  art  of 
sleeping  (as  of  dying),  that  clamors  for 
its  episcopal  head.  The  surmises,  the 
ticking  of  the  heart,  of  an  anxious  child, 


—  the  awful  expectation  of  Columbus 
spying  the  fringes  of  a  world,  —  such  are 
my  emotions,  as  I  go  to  rest.  I  know 
not  whether  before  the  morrow  I  shall 
not  pass  by  the  stars  of  heaven  and  be- 
hold the  "  pale  chambers  of  the  west," 
returning  before  dawn.  To  many  some- 
thing like  Jacob's  dream  oft  happens. 
The  angels  rising  are  the  souls  of  the 
dreamers  dignified  by  the  insignia  of 
sleep.  Without  vanity,  I  think  in  my  boy- 
hood, in  my  sleep,  I  was  often  in  heaven. 
Since  then,  I  have  gone  dreaming  by  an- 
other path,  and  heard  the  sighs  and  chat- 
terings  of  the  underworld;  have  gone 
from  my  pleasant  bed  to  a  fearful  neigh- 
borhood, like  the  fifth  Emperor  Henry, 
who,  for  penance,  when  lights  were  out, 
the  watch  fast  asleep,  walked  abroad  bare- 
foot, leaving  his  imperial  habiliments, 
leaving  Matilda  the  Empress.  And  when 
the  world  is  too  much  with  me,  when  the 
past  is  a  reproach  harrying  me  with 
dreadful  faces,  the  present  a  fierce  mock- 
ery, the  future  an  open  grave,  it  is  sweet 
to  sleep.  It  is  a  luxury  at  times,  and 
many  times  have  I  closed  a  well-loved 
book,  ere  the  candle  began  to  fail,  that 
I  might  sleep,  and  let  the  soul  take  her 
pleasure  in  the  deeps  of  eternity.  It 
may  be  that  the  light  of  morning  is  ever 
cold,  when  it  breaks  in  upon  my  sleep 
and  disarrays  the  palaces  of  my  dreams. 

"  Each  matin  bell  .  .  . 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death." 

The  earth  then  seems  but  the  fragments 
of  my  dream  that  was  so  high,  fallen  to 
earth  ;  yet  is  it  worth  while  to  rouse  my- 
self, for  if  it  be  June,  while  that  same 
lark  is  singing  I  shall  sleep  again. 

MOVEMENT   II  :    FALLINGS   FROM   US: 
VANISHINGS. 

"  Nous  ne  nous  verrons  plus,  les  portes  sont 
ferme"es." — ALIADINE  ET  CALORNIDES. 

One  day  I  was  playing  with  similes, 
rather  contemptuously,  perhaps.  Com- 
parisons of  human  life  to  visible  things, 
comparisons  which,  by  elaboration,  be- 
came the  whole  matter  of  a  poem,  came 


Autumn  Thoughts. 


359 


to  mind.  The  trick  seemed  very  easy. 
Life  was  like  —  it  was  like  a  score  of 
objects  thought  of  in  as  many  seconds. 
But  finally  this  [became  a  little  serious, 
as  pastimes  will ;  I  was  in  the  trap  I 
laughed  at.  Life,  said  I,  is  like  a  cord 
weighted  at  both  ends,  thrown  across  a 
beam.  The  weight  at  one  end  is  plea- 
sure ;  the  other  pain.  Now  this,  now 
that,  worries  the  cord  :  both  fall  together  : 
and  such  is  death.  Just  then  a  straw  in 
my  hand  was  snapped.  For  a  moment 
I  stared  vacantly  at  the  gap  between  the 
halves.  Then  a  gap  was  opened  in  my 
heart ;  the  reverie  was  shattered. 

That  snapping  of  the  straw  was  a 
symbol  to  me  of  many  a  parting,  of 
many  an  eternal  cessation,  of  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  epic  rhythm  of  the  breath 
by  death. 

Sharp  sorrows,  rankling  and  poison- 
ous regrets,  born  of  the  death  of  the 
sound  of  a  bell ;  sorrows  at  the  passing 
of  a  year  in  the  still  night,  even  if  it 
have  been  a  hapless  year ;  sorrow  at  the 
death,  the  annihilation,  of  anything  ! 

Ah!  surely  nothing  dies,  but  some- 
thing mourns ;  for  what  is  death  but  the 
sublimest  of  separations  ?  —  separation 
from  the  temple  of  the  body,  from  the 
touches  and  smiles  of  friends,  from  the 
sight  of  the  sun.  Like  a  gale  that  un- 
burthens  buttercups  of  their  dew,  music- 
ally, entered  the  snapping  of  the  straw 
among  my  thoughts,  and  stirred  these 
sorrows. 

For  it  was  then  autumn. 

At  that  season  there  often  shines  a 
red  moon,  hanging  close  to  earth,  flush- 
ing deeplier  as  night  darkens,  until  it 
throbs  with  heat,  as  though  it  would  burn 
itself  out.  It  is  an  enchanter's  moon. 
Indeed,  all  things  now  seem  to  be  frail 
and  transitory  as  the  work  of  an  alche- 
mist, —  real  and  imposing  at  first,  true 
gold,  but  fading  before  the  eyes,  —  the 
golden  disk  changing  to  a  withered  leaf. 
Yet  for  a  time  reigns  a  deep,  sweet  tran- 
quillity, filled  with  odors  like  embalm- 
ers'  sanctities  in  Eastern  tombs  ;  the  odor 


of  flowers  is  no  more.  .  .  .  The  west 
wind  comes  and  sweeps  a  new  melody 
out  of  branches  and  leaves.  The  west 
wind,  that  was  in  April  their  nurse  and 
cherished  them,  is  now  become  their 
ghostly  father  and  weaves  their  shroud. 
In  thousands  they  are  torn  from  the  tree, 
and  the  sighs  that  spring  from  the  depths 
of  the  heart  at  this  season  are  only  a 
fraction  of  their  imperial  obsequies,  in 
which  red,  turbulent  sunsets  and  the  west 
wind's  "  mighty  harmonies  "  take  parts. 
Number  the  leaves  in  Saurnaka,  number 
the  curled  leaves  that  pleadingly  tap  at 
the  doors  of  London,  number  the  leaves 
"  that  strew  the  brooks  in  Vallombrosa ; " 
even  so  many,  and  more  also,  are  the 
sighs,  the  tears,  the  ah  me's  of  despair- 
ing hearts.  Leaf  is  torn  from  branch  ; 
later  on,  bough  from  bough.  And  a  moan 
seems  to  go  up.  It  is  heard  in  the  plain- 
tive silence  of  unfooted  valleys.  The 
wind  itself  creeps  like  a  scolded  child 
into  the  remoter  corners  of  houses  long 
ago  deserted,  there  to  comfort  itself  with 
a  threnody  that  startles  him  who  is  light- 
hearted  as  he  passes  by.  .  .  . 

For  the  earth  has  clothed  itself  in 
lustrous  green,  pranked  with  flowers  of 
purple  and  the  color  of  gold.  Over  this 
it  has  raised  a  dome  of  divinest  blue, 
swept  in  daytime  by  fleeces  and  moving 
mountains  of  white,  at  dawn  and  sunset 
by  wings  of  rose  and  daffodil,  and  at 
night  illumined  by  the  moon,  by  flying 
splendors  of  lightning  and  comet  and 
aurora,  and  by  the  glorious  company  of 
the  stars  of  heaven.  In  the  midst  of 
these  it  has  tuned  the  voices  of  a  thou- 
sand birds  and  streams,  and  winds  among 
the  leaves  and  waters.  So  it  has  added 
beauty  to  beauty,  until  one  September 
day,  douce  and  golden,  you  think  all  this 
can  never  know  death  or  change,  and 
you  lie  down  as  if  to  doze  forever,  and 
demand  solitude,  —  solitude  to  think,  — 

"  To  think  oneself  the  only  being  alive." 

No,  this  can  never  die,  you  say  ;  and  if: 
glancing  from  theme  to  theme  in  deli- 


360 


Autumn  Field. 


cious  abandonment,  the  grim  jewelry  of 
winter  be  once  remembered,  you  think 
it  not  merely  passed,  but  dead, 

"  obiisse  hiemem,  non  abiisse  putans," 

as  the  monkish  verses  run.  But  the  sun 
goes  down,  and  that  night  the  leaves  itch 
with  an  evil  breeze  :  in  the  morning  a  sin- 
ister band  lies  athwart  the  perfect  gold 
of  one  leaf.  .  .  .  Why  tell  the  rest  ?  As 
you  gaze  upon  the  landscape,  you  have 
the  sense  of  a  great  loss,  a  supreme  pass- 
ing away,  a  calamity  irremediable.  Sum- 
mer will  never  come  again !  In  sober 
truth,  you  yourself  may  never  see  it.  The 
thrones  and  dominations  of  summer  are 
overthrown,  —  ceciditque  superbum  Ili- 
um ;  and  the  earth  is  in  ashes. 

But  all  partings  have  a  sting,  even 
partings  from  an  acquaintance  or  a  very 
foe.  I  know  not  why.  A  void,  however 
short,  follows  close  upon  ;  and  the  heart 
cannot  away  with  a  void.  The  uncer- 
tainties of  which  parting  forces  a  fresh 
sense  upon  you  are  so  great.  How  many 
of  us  are  like  Lot's  wife,  and  look  back ! 
So  with  partings  from  one's  self  :  I  never 
do  anything  habitual  for  the  last  time 
without  an  inward  trouble,  even  though 
it  have  been  painful. 

There  comes  a  horror  as  at  a  doom- 
ing trumpet  when  a  door  is  shut  between 
us  and  one  we  love  ;  the  very  sound  is 


full  of  tragedy.  And  who  has  not  felt 
the  pang,  when,  idling  afield  at  the  close 
of  a  summer  twilight,  he  has  heard  a 
distant  gate  shut  loudly  and  the  last  foot- 
steps in  all  the  world  die  away  ? 

Some  of  the  stormiest  sadnesses  of 
childhood  are  of  this  kind.  .  .  .  We  sit 
reading,  —  Crusoe  or  Marmion,  perhaps, 
—  when  suddenly  a  window  opposite  be- 
gins to  glimmer  with  light  reflected  from 
the  sunset,  and  casts  over  our  shoulders 
a  long  ghostly  finger  of  light.  We  are 
touched  only  by  the  feebler,  outer  eddies 
of  London,  and  these  hardly  move  at 
such  an  hour.  For  one  moment,  or  the 
interval  between  two  momen\s,  they  sleep 
altogether.  The  last  wagon  rolls  away. 
Then  what  a  tumult  of  the  soul  as  the 
silence  sweeps  over  us  like  a  great  music, 
and  catches  us  and  all  things  into  its 
bosom !  .  .  .  Long  after  nightfall,  it 
needs  the  softest  of  maternal  summonses 
to  call  us  back  from  the  land  in  which 
we  have  been  traveling. 

By  a  generous  chance,  it  happens  that 
no  line  is  drawn  clearly  between  the 
ages  of  our  life ;  between  childhood  and 
infancy,  youth  and  childhood,  maturity 
and  youth,  old  age  and  maturity.  Thus 
the  agony  of  the  unretraceable  footstep 
is  not  felt,  or  not  until  time  has  hedged 
it  round  with  a  charm  that  is  not  to  be 
put  by. 

Edward  Thomas. 


AN   AUTUMN    FIELD. 

rich  and  full  in  June's  all-perfectness 
Was  the  lush  grass  which,    in  this  ample  field, 
Grew  riotously  glad!      How  prodigal  the  yield 
Of  every  flower  whose  absence  had  made  less 
The  bounteous  whole!     Now,   where  that  sweet  excess 
Abounded,   to  itself  has  bareness  sealed 
The  thriftless  sods:   reft,    like  a  glorious  shield 
Of  all  its  wrought  and  painted  loveliness. 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


361 


Yet  not  quite  all;  for  here  and  there  behold 

A  flower  like  those  which  made  the  summer  sweet 
Puts  forth  some  meagre  tint  of  red  or  gold, 

To  make  the  barrenness  seem  more  complete. 
Such  overflow  of  life,    such  wealth  of  bliss; 
Now  for  remembrance  and  endurance  —  this! 

John  White  Chadwick. 


THE  KANSAS  OF  TO-DAY. 


i. 


THE  pendulum  of  comment  on  the 
Sunflower  State's  character  and  accom- 
plishments ever  has  swung  to  far  ex- 
tremes—  from  extravagant  eulogy  to 
bitter  abuse.  Thereby,  the  accurate 
presentation  of  possibilities  and  re- 
sources that  a  commonwealth  always  de- 
sires the  public  to  possess  often  has  been 
obscured,  and  Kansas,  of  necessity,  has 
contended  with  much  misunderstanding 
of  the  truth  that  lay  between  the  rival 
heights  of  praise  and  blame. 

The  responsibility  rests  largely  with 
the  Kansas  people  themselves,  though 
not  alone  upon  those  of  this  age  and 
generation.  The  foundation  was  laid 
in  early-day  history.  The  time  was 
when,  in  a  sense,  the  state  offered  a 
spectacle  to  the  nations.  John  Brown, 
the  enthusiast,  marched,  sturdy-souled, 
at  the  head  of  his  pioneer  troops ;  Quan- 
trell  was  a  bogie  for  the  settlers'  chil- 
dren ;  the  legislators  followed  the  chang- 
ing capital  from  place  to  place  in  can- 
vas-hooded wagons ;  the  emigrant  train 
and  the  cattle  trail,  the  prairie  fire  and 
the  Indian  raid,  gave  a  glamour  of 
romance,  —  and  those  who  from  afar 
watched  it  all  wondered  what  the  fu- 
ture held  for  this  ambitious  and  earnest, 
but  somewhat  turbulent  people.  Whit- 
tier  sang  in  verse,  Bayard  Taylor  and 
Horace  Greeley  wrote  in  prose,  and 
Beecher  preached  from  the  pulpit  con- 
cerning its  needs  and  its  triumphs. 
Kansas,  perhaps  a  little  elated  at  the 


prominence  it  had  attained  so  early  in 
its  career,  learned  to  expect  an  echo  of 
applause,  or  at  least  some  evidence  of 
attention,  following  each  varying  scene 
in  its  development. 

Seldom  was  it  disappointed.  Indeed, 
so  rapidly  has  the  gentle  art  of  manu- 
facturing marvels  developed  of  late 
years,  that  Kansas  more  than  once  has 
been  surprised  and  amused  at  the  im- 
portance and  sensationalism  attained  by 
trivial  home  events  when  they  had  trav- 
eled a  few  hundred  miles  eastward. 
This  influence,  together  with  the  lin- 
gering memory  of  its  stormy  territorial 
history,  has  prevented  many  from  see- 
ing the  state  as  it  is  —  from  under- 
standing it  as  do  those  who  have  shared 
its  ups  and  downs  and  have  helped  to 
carry  forward  its  social  and  business 
life.  The  softening  touch  of  time  and 
the  establishment  of  confidence  in  the 
state's  real  worth  have  done  much  in 
modification,  and  the  Kansas  of  to-day 
is  being  discussed  by  both  advocate  and 
accuser  with  fewer  superlatives  and 
greater  candor. 

It  is  agreed,  for  instance,  that  there 
has  been  a  positive  and  substantial  im- 
provement in  the  state's  fortunes.  This 
is  manifest  in  so  many  ways  that  even 
the  Eastern  investor,  with  the  memory 
of  a  defaulted  mortgage  haunting  him, 
as  he  looks  from  the  car  window  is 
forced  to  concede  it  New  roofs  and 
fresh  paint,  new  porches  and  better 
sidewalks,  tell  some  of  the  story.  On 
the  village  lawns  are  cannas  and  cala- 


362 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


diums  instead  of  castor-beans  and  sun- 
flowers, clematis  instead  of  wild  ivy; 
striped  awnings  at  wide  windows,  stained 
glass,  and  rubber- tired  vehicles,  —  they 
are  evidence  of  the  improvement  come 
to  the  prairies.  If  the  stranger  may 
note  these  signs,  one  who  knows  the 
people  in  their  homes  can  add  to  the 
list.  He  can  mention  furnaces  and  elec- 
tric lights,  china  closets  and  cut  glass, 
davenports  and  Venetian  blinds,  in  hun- 
dreds of  dwellings,  —  all  visible  signs 
of  prosperity  and  in  striking  contrast 
with  the  former  possessions,  often  those 
brought  from  the  early  home  "back 
East." 

It  is  usual  to  ascribe  all  this  to  the 
good  crops  of  the  past  few  years,  yet 
that  is  not  entirely  fair.  During  all 
the  dark  days,  from  the  bursting  of  the 
boom  in  1887  until  the  clouds  lifted  a 
decade  later,  there  was  in  most  homes 
a  pinching  and  saving  of  which  the  out- 
side world  knew  nothing.  Those  who 
went  through  it  kept  up  stout  hearts; 
each  summer  they  hoped  for  rain  and 
each  autumn  they  cheerfully  "guessed  " 
that  "times  would  be  better  in  the 
spring."  They  acquired  a  hatred  of 
debt  in  every  form,  and  made  many  a 
vow  of  restraint  to  be  fulfilled  in  that 
longed-for  blessed  era  when  their  cred- 
itors should  be  satisfied. 

Had  it  not  been  so,  the  prosperity 
that  came  at  last  would  have  been  ab- 
sorbed and  shown  little  sign.  Re- 
trenchment and  economy  had  prepared 
the  way,  had  cut  down  the  mortgages, 
and  cleared  up  some  of  the  judgments. 
Even  without  unusual  crops  there  would 
have  risen  above  the  surface  of  the  sea 
of  financial  discouragement,  which  had 
existed  since  1890,  a  stronger  and  more 
self-reliant  people,  and  Kansas  would 
have  established  itself  in  the  end  as  a 
safe  business  state  within  the  limits  of 
its  climatic  conditions.  As  it  was,  the 
process  suddenly  was  hastened,  and  a 
happy  result  has  come  like  a  benedic- 
tion in  reward  for  the  patient  struggle. 

The  best  of  it  is  that  the  recipients 


of  nature's  bounty  have  learned  how  to 
take  care  of  their  gift,  —  they  have  put 
it  into  the  comforts  of  life  and  the  sub- 
stantial evidences  of  congenial  living, 
and  not  into  speculation  and  extrava- 
gance. 

Time  and  money  —  a  great  deal  of 
both  —  have  been  expended  by  the  Kan- 
sas people  in  mastering  the  intricate 
problems  of  Western  development. 
They  have  learned  caution  by  bitter 
trial,  and  have  profited  by  the  lesson. 
This  fact  often  is  overlooked  by  the 
Easterner  who,  when  he  has  crossed  the 
Missouri  River,  expects  to  find  only 
unbusinesslike  settlers,  gifted  chiefly  in 
hope  and  suitable  prey  for  the  "  smooth  " 
man  from  the  city.  He  forgets  that 
before  the  mortgage  was  foreclosed  the 
Kansas  debtor  walked  the  floor'  of  his 
little  cabin  a  good  deal  more  than  did 
the  Eastern  creditor  that  of  his  office, 
and  that  there  is  no  pleasure  in  packing 
the  wife  and  children  into  a  prairie 
schooner  and  starting  out  from  the  farm 
to  seek  another  home. 

A  young  man  with  a  scheme  that  was 
good  principally  for  himself  visited  the 
business  men  of  several  towns  of  central 
Kansas  last  summer  with  poor  results. 
"Why  is  it,"  he  asked,  "that  the  Kan- 
sans  are  so  critical  ?  Our  plan  worked 
all  right  in  the  South  last  winter,  and 
in  Ohio  and  Iowa." 

"Well,"  remarked  an  old-timer  who 
overheard  him,  "one  reason  is  that  the 
folks  of  Kansas  have  been  struggling 
with  schemes  of  one  kind  and  another 
for  twenty  years,  and  they  've  learned 
to  be  careful.  You  will  find  it  harder 
yet  in  Oklahoma,  for  the  people  there 
have  gone  all  through  what  we  have  and 
a  good  deal  more.  The  West  is  filled 
full  of  experience." 

The  Kansan's  experience  is  four- 
fold. 

The  experience  of  settlement  came 
first.  On  an  exaggerated  parallelo- 
gram, tipped  three  thousand  feet  higher 
at  the  west  end  than  at  the  east,  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  people  settled  in  two 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


363 


decades.  Many  of  them  did  not  com- 
prehend that  the  farming  which  might 
succeed  in  the  East,  or  even  along  the 
Missouri  border,  would  be  a  failure  on 
the  high-tilted  prairie  because  of  a  lack 
of  rainfall.  Then  there  was  the  expe- 
rience of  the  boom,  that  surging  time 
when  town  lots  spread  out  until  they 
seemed  likely  to  absorb  the  farms.  The 
day  of  reckoning  came  next.  Two 
hundred  thousand  people  moved  out  of 
the  state.  Some  went  in  Pullman  cars, 
some  in  wagons,  and  some  walked., 
Mortgaged  claims  were  deserted,  houses 
and  stores  were  left  empty,  land  in  the 
"  additions  "  once  more  sold  by  the  acre 
instead  of  by  the  lot. 

Out  of  all  this  —  the  misinformation 
as  to  the  state's  climatic  conditions,  the 
debts,  the  declining  population,  and  the 
discouragement  —  came  political  vaga- 
ries. Starting  with  the  Farmers'  Al- 
liance, the  ideas  that  finally  crystallized 
in  Populism  swept  the  state.  The  new 
doctrine  taught  an  easy  way  out  of  debt- 
paying,  and  many,  apparently  more  than 
willing  to  be  convinced,  accepted  it  as 
a  revelation.  Its  noisy  leaders  fright- 
ened the  East,  denounced  the  "money 
power  "  on  all  occasions,  wrote  some 
foolish  laws  on  the  statute  books,  fur- 
nished a  good  deal  of  material  for  the 
sensational  newspapers  —  and  did  little 
else. 

All  this  time  the  people  had  been 
working  out  their  financial  salvation 
along  other  lines.  They  had  learned 
that  kaffir  corn  and  alfalfa  would  stand 
the  drought,  that  cattle  and  sheep  would 
thrive  in  western  Kansas,  that  diversity 
of  crops  would  give  regular  returns, 
that  creameries  paid  good  dividends, 
that  hogs  were  more  profitable  than  pa- 
rades, —  in  short,  that  farming  conduct- 
ed with  due  regard  for  the  country's 
conditions  would  succeed.  From  that 
time  the  orator  of  the  sub- treasury  and 
fiat  money  felt  his  power  wane,  and  to- 
day his  former  hold  on  the  Kansan  is 
gone.  It  is  unlikely  that  he  will  ever 
regain  it. 


n. 


In  1897,  the  Kansan  stopped  talk- 
ing about  wanting  to  sell  out  that  he 
might  go  back  East;  in  1898,  he  was 
better  contented;  in  1899,  he  raised 
the  price  on  his  real  estate  and  built  a 
porch  and  bay  window;  in  1900,  other 
improvements  followed,  and  he  congrat- 
ulated himself  on  his  foresight  in  having 
remained  while  so  many  left  the  state. 

In  the  five  years  ending  with  the 
crop  of  1901,  Kansas  raised  323,176,- 
464  bushels  of  wheat  and  681,452,906 
bushels  of  corn.  These  were  indeed 
fat  years.  The  corn  crop  of  1889, 
273,888,321  bushels,  and  the  wheat 
of  1901,  90,333,095  bushels,  were  the 
largest  in  the  history  of  the  state,  — 
but  the  average  annual  yield  of  wheat 
for  ten  years  has  been  49,450,354 
bushels,  and  of  corn,  142, 856, 553  bush- 
els, the  average  total  value  of  both  crops 
being  over  $60, 000, 000.  The  records 
of  the  state  agricultural  board  show  that 
for  thirty-four  years  the  average  yield 
of  corn,  including  corn  territory  and  that 
where  none  at  all  grew,  was  twenty- 
seven  bushels  per  acre,  and  for  twenty- 
five  years  the  average  farm  value  of 
Kansas  corn  per  acre  has  been  $7.31. 
While  sixteen  counties  raise  more  than 
half  the  wheat  of  the  state,  fifty-five 
counties  out  of  the  105  produce  good 
returns  of  that  cereal.  Now  that  there 
seems  to  be  a  fairly  clear  understand- 
ing of  the  agricultural  limitations,  a 
much  better  record  should  be  possible. 
The  fact  that  in  two  years  past  the  in- 
crease in  the  value  of  agricultural  pro- 
ductions and  live  stock  has  been  $51,- 
278,936  over  the  preceding  two  years 
gives  good  reason  for  the  encouraging 
outlook.  Each  year  the  live  stock  in- 
terests assume  larger  proportions  and 
greater  value,  —  and  the  products  of  the 
range  are  affected  little  by  dry  weather. 
The  average  total  product  of  farm  and 
ranch  for  twenty  years  has  been  $142,  - 
861,380  annually. 

The  state  banks  had  on  deposit  in 


364 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


December,  1896, $14, 553, 000 ;  in  Sep- 
tember, 1901,  they  had  $42,000,000, 
while  the  national  banks  had  $45, 000,  - 
000  more.  In  the  past  five  years,  be- 
sides reducing  mortgages  and  laying  up 
$50,000,000  in  increased  bank  depos- 
its, the  state  has  made  progress  in  its 
public  finances.  The  counties,  cities, 
and  school  districts  refunded  $6,200,- 
000  of  bonds  at  a  saving  of  one  to  two 
and  a  half  per  cent  in  interest  rate. 
The  actual  reduction  in  the  principal  of 
bonds  for  the  year  ending  July  1,  1900, 
was  $2, 978, 321.  This  was  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  many  counties  issued  new 
bonds  for  public  buildings  and  other  im- 
provements. A  Chicago  financial  paper 
in  July,  1896,  said :  "There  was  a  man 
here  the  other  day  with  six  per  cent, 
gold,  county  bonds.  Unfortunately  the 
county  happens  to  be  in  Kansas.  The 
man  learned  that  he  might  as  well  try 
to  sell  stock  in  an  irrigating  scheme  on 
the  planet  Mars  as  to  dispose  of  secu- 
rities bearing  on  their  face  the  name 
of  Kansas."  In  less  than  three  years 
seven  bond  houses  had  salaried  repre- 
sentatives traveling  from  county  to 
county  in  Kansas,  endeavoring  to  secure 
refunding  bonds  at  four  and  five  per 
cent.  The  fact  that  a  county's  issue 
of  bonds  becomes  optional  is  to-day  a 
signal  for  a  score  of  bids,  and  most  of 
the  counties  have  propositions  a  year 
ahead  of  the  time  when  they  can  make 
a  new  issue  at  a  lower  rate. 

The  smoke  of  the  manufactory  is  ap- 
pearing in  many  towns  where  it  had  been 
unknown.  It  is  not  a  sign  of  the  com- 
ing of  immense  establishments  to  rival 
those  of  New  England,  but  of  smaller 
concerns  supplying  the  needs  of  the  com- 
munity, growing  as  the  state  grows. 
This  sort  will  be  permanent,  but  it  will 
not  make  this  a  manufacturing  state, 
for  such  is  not  Kansas'  destiny.  It  is 
a  state  for  mixed  farming  and  grazing, 
for  cattle,  horses  and  sheep,  wheat  and 
millet,  alfalfa  and  corn,  cows  and  soy 
beans,  windmills  and  hay. 

Statistics  are  not  dry  to  the  West- 


erner. Only  by  tabulated  figures  can  he 
read  the  history  of  his  commonwealth's 
development  in  material  things.  It  has 
been  somewhat  discouraging  to  the  Kan- 
san  that  the  population  has  not  increased 
more  rapidly.  The  nation  at  large  has 
done  better  than  Kansas  by  over  one 
half  per  cent  per  annum.  In  1890,  there 
were  1,427,096  people  here;  in  1900, 
there  were  1,469,496.  While  this  is 
a  gain  of  only  42,400  in  ten  years,  it 
is  a  gain  of  134,762  over  the  popula- 
tion in  1895.  The  rate  of  increase  is 
now  about  25,000  a  year,  and  it  is 
steadily  increasing. 

Not  until  there  is  an  end  of  opening 
new  lands  where  a  man  can  get  a  farm 
for  an  hour's  ride  on  a  swift  pony  will 
the  gain  be  as  large  as  it  should.  The 
temptation  of  cheap  lands,  added  to  the 
disappointment  growing  out  of  misdi- 
rected settlement,  has  been  a  steady 
drain  on  Kansas.  All  over  the  West  is 
an  uneasy,  dissatisfied  race,  born  with 
the  wandering  foot ;  the  prairie  schoon- 
er is  its  home,  and  the  fascination  of 
pioneering  its  delight.  Just  so  long  as 
there  are  new  lands  it  will  be  on  the 
move,  and  keep  unstable  the  population 
of  the  prairie  states.  It  is  typical  of 
the  Westerner  that  he  always  sees  a  pot 
of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  — 
yet,  if  it  had  not  been  so  in  the  begin- 
ning, there  might  have  been  no  Sun- 
flower State. 

A  popular  impression  exists  that 
many  Eastern  investors  yet  own  mort- 
gages on  western  Kansas  lands  on  which 
they  are  endeavoring  vainly  to  get  in- 
terest or  principal.  Very  little  of  such 
security  remains.  It  was  written  in  the 
middle  eighties,  and  long  ago  one  of  two 
things  happened,  —  the  mortgagee  fore- 
closed the  mortgage,  or  the  mortgagor 
deeded  him  the  land  in  order  to  be  re- 
leased from  the  debt.  The  problem  of 
to-day  is  not  the  mortgage,  but  the  land, 
—  how  to  sell  it  or  secure  a  return 
from  it.  Some  discouraged  investors, 
failing  to  pay  taxes,  have  practically 
forfeited  their  rights  to  the  counties  in 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


365 


which  their  lands  are ;  others  are  hold- 
ing on,  and  with  the  coming  of  the  cat- 
tle ranch  there  is  hope  for  them.  The 
mortgage  of  central  and  eastern  Kansas 
draws  five  or  six  per  cent,  and  is  not 
easy  to  find.  Neither  necessity  nor  in- 
clination leads  the  farmer  into  debt,  and 
his  borrowings  are  confined  to  the  nar- 
rowest possible  limits.  The  banks,  fre- 
quently having  more  than  half  their 
deposits  in  cash  on  hand,  loan  at  eight 
and  ten  per  cent  on  short  time,  and  com- 
plain that  the  call  is  not  brisker.  Many 
banks  in  the  state  do  not  pay  interest 
on  deposits. 

Such  are  some  of  the  conditions  that 
encourage  the  Sunflower  State  in  its 
material  progress.  They  do  not  mean 
that  every  citizen  is  well  to  do,  or  that 
every  enterprise  is  a  bonanza.  Kansas 
is  yet  making  experiments,  and  has  yet 
to  meet  with  some  failures.  But  they 
do  mean  that  the  state  as  a  whole  is 
building  on  a  more  substantial  founda- 
tion than  in  the  past ;  that  it  is  doing 
business  on  cash  instead  of  on  credit; 
that  it  is  mastering  the  conditions  of 
soil  and  sky,  and  is  seeking  to  adapt  its 
agriculture  —  for  Kansas  is  essentially 
an  agricultural  state  —  to  them  rather 
than  attempting  to  force  into  opera- 
tion systems  and  theories  for  which  na- 
ture made  no  preparation.  A  healthy, 
unaffected,  businesslike  sentiment  is 
abroad,  and  it  bids  fair  to  attain  perma- 
nence. Once  before,  Kansas  was  tempt- 
ed by  prosperity  to  indulge  in  extrava- 
gance —  and  fell.  It  should  know  bet- 
ter now,  fqr  it  is  older  in  years  and 
richer  in  experience. 

Twenty  years  ago  the  autumn  and 
early  winter  nights  were  reddened  by 
burning  straw-stacks  sending  up  lurid 
flames  on  every  horizon.  Now,  the 
farmer  saves  the  straw,  either  for  sale, 
or  for  use  in  his  stockyards,  so  that  it 
gives  back  something  to  the  soil  from 
which  a  crop  has  been  taken.  The 
prairie  fire,  too,  that  each  year  black- 
ened the  ranges  and  pastures,  frequently 
leaping  over  bounds  and  destroying 


homes  and  even  lives,  is  being  driven 
farther  and  farther  West.  In  this  con- 
servation of  the  natural  strength  of  the 
fertile  soil,  and  in  the  growing  unwill- 
ingness to  waste  in  smoke  a  part  of  na- 
ture's largess,  is  seen  a  sign  of  the 
economy  of  these  latter  days.  Joined 
with  the  earnest  efforts  toward  making 
the  most  of  the  rainfall  by  means  of 
small  reservoirs,  and  toward  assisting  it 
by  windmill  or  ditch  irrigation  where 
practicable,  this  economy  of  itself  adds 
materially  to  the  resources  of  the  farm- 
er, and  indirectly  to  the  advancement  of 
the  entire  commonwealth. 


in. 

Country  life  in  Kansas  is  not  en- 
tirely monotonous.  There  are  those  who 
tell  of  the  early  days  when  young  folks 
rode  horseback  twenty  miles  to  a  dance, 
and  declare  that  the  more  staid  diver- 
sions and  the  necessity  of  keeping  on 
section-line  roads  because  of  the  fences 
have  made  the  pleasure  of  to-day  inferior 
to  that  of  pioneer  times.  Country  life 
in  the  West  is  in  a  sense  in  a  transition 
period.  It  has  left  behind  the  days  of 
settlement  when  none  needed  an  intro- 
duction and  every  man's  history  began 
with  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  has 
not  yet  reached  the  era  of  long-estab- 
lished families  and  generations  of  ac- 
quaintanceship. The  public  gatherings 
are  not  so  much  affected  by  this  as  are 
social  affairs.  With  the  advancing  years 
a  change  is  going  on,  and  many  a  farmer 
is  giving  his  sons  quarter  sections  that 
they  may,  as  they  marry,  settle  near 
him.  Then,  too,  the  first  comers  have 
so  far  advanced  in  life  and  worldly 
goods  that  they  are  one  by  one  handing 
over  the  reins  to  the  next  generation, 
frequently  moving  to  the  county  seat 
themselves  and  resting  from  their  la- 
bors. This  "retired  "  class  is  yet  small, 
but  it  increases  with  the  years,  and  the 
Western  communities  more  closely  re- 
semble their  Eastern  prototypes  as  the 
movement  becomes  more  noticeable. 


366 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


In  the  country  neighborhoods  the 
most  prominent  public  interests  are  the 
church  and  Sunday-school  (perhaps  only 
in  the  summer  months)  at  the  district 
schoolhouse,  which  is  the  centre  of  in- 
terest for  all  neighborhood  gatherings. 
The  "literary"  yet  holds  forth  in  the 
winter,  and  the  political  meeting  has  a 
brief  season  in  important  campaigns. 

For  the  rest  a  drive  over  smooth 
prairie  roads  to  the  nearest  town,  even 
if  it  be  a  dozen  miles,  is  no  great  hard- 
ship. Dances  are  common,  and  the  fact 
that  the  host's  dwelling  is  small  does 
not  make  the  enjoyment  the  less  hearty. 
Many  of  the  country  hamlets  have  lodge 
halls,  and  the  membership  of  the  orders 
meeting  therein  is  made  up  from  the 
dwellers  on  the  farms.  It  has  intro- 
duced a  new  interest  into  lives  too  much 
left  in  solitude.  The  organization  of 
counties  in  the  church  and  Sunday-school 
work  of  recent  years  has  broadened 
thoughts,  and  brought  the  town  and 
country  in  closer  touch. 

The  Kansas  editor  frequently  prints 
items  representing  the  farmer  as  living 
like  a  prince  and  reveling  in  luxury. 
Some  basis  exists  for  the  hyperbole. 
Few  farmers  come  to  town  now  in  lum- 
ber wagons ;  an  astonishingly  large  num- 
ber come  in  as  handsome  double  car- 
riages and  surreys  as  are  owned  in  the 
villages.  New  furniture  in  the  homes 
and  better  clothes  for  the  whole  family 
have  been  a  part  of  the  earnings  of  bet- 
ter crops.  Thousands  of  fathers  and 
mothers  have  recently  taken  the  first 
trip  to  the  old  home  in  the  East  since 
they  followed  the  setting  sun  to  a  new 
dwelling  place.  They  have  returned 
better  satisfied  with  the  prairies  than 
ever,  for  the  old  scenes  and  friends  had 
changed,  —  and  then  the  West  keeps  its 
hold  firmly  upon  those  who  have  once 
become  a  part  of  its  life. 

In  the  towns  of  to-day  —  and  there 
are  in  the  state  111  towns  of  one  thou- 
sand and  more  population  —  the  Kan- 
san  has  given  the  best  evidence  of  him- 
self. When  the  settlement  of  the  state 


began,  the  conditions  seemed  singular- 
ly favorable  for  the  founding  of  cities 
and  villages  that  should  approach  the 
best  models  of  municipal  art.  For 
hundreds  of  miles  the  undulating  plain 
lay  waiting,  people  were  eager,  land 
was  cheap,  and  the  widest  possible  range 
was  offered  for  the  selection  of  well- 
drained,  healthful,  and  convenient  loca- 
tions ;  but  the  realization  fell  far  short 
of  the  opportunity.  The  nucleus  of  the 
Kansas  town  was  usually  the  country 
store  and  post-office.  The  blacksmith 
shop  and  the  schoolhouse  followed.  Of 
late  years  the  creamery  station  preceded 
all  of  these.  If  the  railroad  did  not 
come,  the  whole  was  put  on  wheels  and 
moved  across  country  a  section  or  two. 
If  a  promoter  laid  out  a  town  site 
with  elaborate  detail,  the  chances  were 
that  perverse  human  nature  would  not 
fill  out  the  plan  by  settlement.  Op- 
portune water  courses,  the  construction 
of  a  railroad,  the  outline  of  a  county, 
—  these  were  here,  as  in  the  East,  de- 
termining factors.  Later  came  the 
"additions,"  expansion,  and  the  keen- 
est rivalry  in  all  the  nervous,  pushing 
West, —  that  for  municipal  supremacy. 
Men's  fortunes,  principles,  and  even 
their  lives  have  been  sacrificed  to  it,  and 
in  a  measure  it  has  been  the  keynote  of 
the  Kansas  town's  development. 

The  dominant  type  of  early-day  ar- 
chitecture on  the  plains  is  the  long,  sin- 
gle-gabled, porchless,  ungarnished  struc- 
ture, affording  the  maximum  of  space 
with  a  minimum  of  expenditure.  If 
used  as  a  store,  there  is  apt  to  be  an 
absurd  square  front  built  to  the  height 
of  the  roof  peak.  In  the  smaller  towns 
this  is  yet  seen,  a  monument  to  the  first 
settlers'  idea  of  harmony.  The  build- 
ings vary  greatly  in  size,  but  all  share 
in  the  uniform  color  of  weather-beaten, 
unpainted  pine.  Brick  and  stone  blocks 
are  succeeding  that  type,  and  the  new 
public  buildings  are  artistic  in  design 
and  a  credit  to  the  state. 

The  tendency  of  the  modern  builder 
is  toward  better  architecture,  though  in 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


367 


the  struggle  upward  some  incongruous 
combinations  are  made,  and  there  is  a 
frequent  recurrence  of  types  obsolete  a 
score  of  years  ago.  Education  is  need- 
ed in  nearly  every  town,  not  alone  in 
the  construction  of  the  store  buildings, 
but  in  that  of  the  residences.  The  fit- 
ness of  things,  the  suitability  of  mixed 
designs,  and  the  best  results  for  the  ex- 
penditure are  subjects  for  much  future 
enlightenment. 

Few  towns  have  taken  the  proper 
amount  of  ground  space  for  their  build- 
ing. When  ambitious  landowners  have 
not  in  their  greed  huddled  the  dwellers 
into  crowded,  shortened  lots,  a  repellent 
force  seems  to  have  been  at  work,  and 
the  infrequent  stores  and  residences  are 
scattered  over  a  whole  section  of  land. 
The  former  mistake  cannot  be  correct- 
ed, but  the  latter  is  being  changed. 
The  suburbs  are  being  moved  in,  the 
vacant  lots  on  the  desirable  streets  are 
being  filled,  and  a  better-balanced,  more 
sensible  town  is  the  result.  In  eastern 
and  central  Kansas  the  trees  —  elms, 
maples,  box-elders,  and  some  cotton- 
woods  —  line  the  streets,  and  have  be- 
come so  large  that  they  overtop  the 
houses.  At  a  distance  the  town  seems 
a  forest.  This  is  especially  so  where 
are  good  waterworks  systems,  and  there, 
too,  blue-grass  lawns,  as  solid  and  as 
restful  as  a  bit  of  Kentucky  meadow, 
greet  the  eye.  The  touch  of  prosper- 
ity of  the  past  few  years  has  done  much 
for  the  artistic  side  of  things,  and  more 
attention  is  given  to  lawns  and  ter- 
races, to  flower  gardens  and  to  parks, 
than  ever  before. 

The  overbuilding  of  the  boom  era  is 
almost  repaired.  One  by  one  the  houses 
that  stood  empty  during  the  early  nine- 
ties have  been  bought,  moved  into  town 
or  out  on  a  farm,  and  have  become  homes. 
Within  the  past  two  years  speculators 
searching  for  these  bargains  have  found 
them  scarce ;  it  is  no  longer  possible  to 
purchase  a  handsome  cottage  for  half 
what  the  lumber  bill  was  at  the  begin- 
ning; hence  after  nearly  a  decade  of 


practical  suspension  the  building  of 
dwellings  has  been  resumed.  Pride  is 
taken  in  ownership .  Hundreds  of  West- 
ern towns  there  are  (for  similar  condi- 
tions exist  in  other  prairie  states)  in 
which  five  years  ago  half  the  real  estate 
was  owned  by  Eastern  investors  or  mort- 
gage companies,  but  where  now  ninety 
per  cent  of  it  is  owned  by  people  of  the 
municipality,  —  principally  by  the  occu- 
pants. This  it  is  that  furnishes  hope 
for  the  coming  years,  and  fills  them  with 
promise  of  greater  advancement.  The 
people  have  suddenly  given  up  the 
thought  that  they  are  mere  sojourners; 
they  are  at  home,  and  wish  to  make  that 
home  beautiful. 

The  social  life  of  the  towns  is  varied. 
The  Kansan  is  by  nature  a  "  joiner ;  " 
he  delights  in  grips  and  passwords. 
Lodges,  camps,  posts,  consistories,  tem- 
ples, tribes,  and  commanderies  in  be- 
wildering array  attract  him.  The  state 
always  wins  in  a  contest  with  other 
jurisdictions  for  membership,  for  each 
citizen  is  willing  to  join  many  orders. 
Husbands  and  wives  are  alike  eligible 
to  membership  in  many  of  the  long  list 
of  assessment  orders  that  flourish,  and 
around  the  lodge  rooms  clusters  a  large 
part  of  the  social  enjoyment  of  many 
towns.  In  addition  to  furnishing  a  vast 
amount  of  insurance  and  benefits  at  what 
is  yet  an  absurdly  low  rate,  the  regular 
sessions  of  the  lodges,  the  surprise  par- 
ties, dances,  and  other  features  add  to 
their  good  work. 

Then  there  are  card  clubs,  literary 
clubs,  women's  federations,  balls,  and 
receptions.  Dress  suits  are  more  com- 
mon than  they  were,  even  at  the  height 
of  the  boom,  and  gowns  that  would  be 
satisfactory  to  the  wearer  a  thousand 
miles  farther  East  are  the  rule. 

In  one  thing  the  Kansan  clings  to  a 
surplusage  —  the  church.  Towns  of  two 
thousand  souls  with  a  dozen  churches  of 
as  many  creeds  to  look  after  their  needs 
are  not  rare.  Nearly  every  village  has 
too  many  churches;  that  is,  so  many 
that  the  preachers  are  almost  all  poorly 


368 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


paid,  and  the  congregations'  finances  are 
in  a  constant  state  of  depression.  In- 
tensity in  affairs  of  the  soul  pervades 
the  dweller  on  the  plains,  and  when  he 
is  led  to  take  up  mission  work  it  is  cu- 
rious to  note  that  he  usually  seeks  not 
the  dark  places  of  his  own  land,  but  the 
farthest  possible  portion  of  the  globe, 
scores  being  thus  engaged. 

The  representations  of  the  drama  are 
of  meagre  sort.  The  nearest  approach 
to  grand  opera  is  the  occasional  view  of 
the  star's  special  train  as  it  whirls  past 
the  squat-roofed  prairie  depot  bearing 
a  famous  company  from  coast  to  coast. 
It  is  something  of  a  shock  to  the  un- 
initiated to  find  that  the  opera  house 
is  the  second  story  of  a  frame  building, 
twenty-four  feet  wide  and  eighty  feet 
long,  with  a  harness  shop  downstairs, 
but  such  is  a  common  experience.  The 
favorite  form  of  dramatic  presentation, 
the  outgrowth  of  hard  times,  has  been 
through  the  repertoire  troupe,  staying 
a  week  in  a  place  and  raffling  a  rock- 
ing chair  among  its  patrons  at  the  end 
of  the  stay.  To-day  higher-class  at- 
tractions are  booking  Kansas  again,  and 
within  the  past  two  years  several  artis- 
tic amusement  places  have  been  given 
the  name  theatre  instead  of  opera  house ; 
in  time  there  may  come  to  be  a  town 
hall  occasionally. 

Town  quarrels  are  less  frequent,  town 
pride  is  on  a  higher  level,  and  when,  as 
is  becoming  the  fashion,  the  village 
holds  open  house  on  the  occasion  of 
a  carnival  or  street  fair,  forgotten  are 
the  differences  of  creed  or  politics  or 
station,  and  all  unite  as  one  family,  in- 
tent on  making  the  best  showing  possi- 
ble for  hospitality. 

The  eastern  Kansas  towns  are  assum- 
ing the  settled  ways  of  the  communities 
of  the  Atlantic  states.  "Old  settlers  " 
are  there,  and  they  look  upon  twenty  or 
thirty  years  of  residence  as  giving  them 
a  patent  of  aristocracy.  It  does.  The 
men  and  women  who  have  stayed  by  the 
varying  fortunes  of  the  average  Kansas 
town  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  deserve 


honor.  These  are  usually  the  people 
who  run  the  banks  and  leading  law 
firms,  who  sit  in  the  best  pews,  and 
have  weight  with  the  city  council  arid 
school  board.  They  form  the  stable 
basis  of  Kansas  society,  and  for  the 
most  part  are  proof  against  the  ebulli- 
tions of  boom  spirit  that  animate  younger 
and  newer  generations. 

As  one  climbs  the  inclined  plane  to- 
ward the  state's  western  edge,  perched 
high  in  the  semi-arid  region  of  wide 
horizons,  the  nervous  tension  increases. 
If  the  inhabitants  of  the  towns  there  do 
not  feel  as  do  those  of  more  conserva- 
tive sections,  they  feel,  to  use  the  ex- 
pression of  a  Kansas  editor,  that  that 
is  the  way  they  ought  to  feel.  They  look 
forward  to  making  their  community  sub- 
stantial and  successful.  They  are  try- 
ing to  build  wisely  —  this  time. 


IV. 

The  Kansan  has  changed  the  capital 
of  his  state  seven  times  before  deciding 
where  it  should  stay.  He  has  laid  rail- 
road tracks  and  then  torn  up  the  rails, 
built  towns  and  deserted  them,  dug  ir- 
rigation ditches  where  there  was  no 
water,  erected  manufactories  where 
there  was  no  market,  tried  the  one -crop 
style  of  agriculture  and  abandoned  it, 
tested  devices,  schemes,  and  plans  galore 
for  getting  money  and  paying  debts 
without  work;  he  has  experimented, 
theorized,  and  dreamed,  —  and  then 
has  walked  the  floor  nights,  pondering 
why  the  way  was  so  difficult.  He  has 
ascribed  his  failures  to  the  "money 
power,"  to  the  "per  capita, "  to  Provi- 
dence, and  to  nearly  everything  else  that 
was  mysterious.  One  day  he  awoke, 
and  discovered  that  the  fault  was  with- 
in himself  —  and  suddenly  the  path 
cleared.  From  that  time  he  sought  to 
adapt  himself  to  his  environment,  and 
then  began  the  debt-paying,  the  im- 
provement of  the  homes,  and  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  years  of  hope ;  then  came  the 
sense  of  happiness  and  the  accession  of 


The  Kansas  of  To-Day. 


369 


those  good  things  of  life  that  are  summed 
up  in  the  pleasant  word  Prosperity. 

Thus  it  transpires  that  there  is  a  New 
Kansas,  better  and  wiser  than  the  old. 

Periods  there  are  when  the  Kansan 
reverts  to  the  old  times ;  as  when  the 
hot  winds  blow  like  furnace  breaths 
out  of  the  Southwest,  shriveling  and 
scorching  vegetation  and  wearing  out 
the  nerves  of  the  people.  So,  too,  when 
the  early  spring  breezes  send  dust  and 
snow  careering  through  the  streets  and 
drift  the  surface  of  the  fields  as  if  it 
were  but  sand  of  the  seashore.  Then 
it  is  that  the  Kansan  pulls  his  hat  well 
down  on  his  head,  leans  against  the 
wind,  and  uses  remarks  not  complimen- 
tary to  the  weather  of  his  state.  But 
when  in  the  fragrant  June  the  air,  rich 
as  wine,  is  laden  with  the  breath  of 
yellow  wheatfields  and  far  stretches  of 
young  corn  and  green  pastures,  when 
autumn  and  Indian  summer  thrill  with 
clear-skied  days  and  crisp,  delightful 
nights,  —  he  forgets  it  all,  and  declares 
that  there  is  no  place  on  earth  so  fa- 
vored. He  talks  about  it  to  his  neigh- 
bor, and  writes  a  piece  for  his  old  home 
paper  setting  forth  his  pride. 

Only  in  one  thing  does  he  admit  his 
lack  —  facilities  for  recreation.  Dis- 
tances are  too  great  for  many  enjoy- 
ments that  come  so  easily  to  the  East- 
erner. Even  with  money,  the  exertion 
in  securing  an  outing  almost  offsets  its 
good.  Not  a  lake  exists  for  five  hun- 
dred miles;  the  mountains  are  as  far 
from  the  central  counties  of  the  state. 
The  rivers  are  not  inviting  to  seekers 
after  pleasure.  The  Arkansas,  eleven 
months  in  the  year,  is  a  quarter-mile 
wide  waste  of  glistening  sand  with  a 
lonesome  ribbon  of  lazy  water,  over 
which  an  energetic  boy  of  thirteen  might 
leap,  winding  its  way  along  it.  The 
others  are  mostly  muddy-sided,  turbid 
streams.  A  few  beautiful  groves  are 
found  in  the  eastern  counties,  but  they 
are  lost  to  the  great  mass  of  the  people. 
The  sea  or  lake  shore  and  the  moun- 
tain-top expanse  are  too  remote  for 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  24 


every-day  recreation,  and  a  visit  to  them 
is  a  too  infrequent  luxury. 

A  great  change  of  sentiment  toward 
the  East  has  occurred  among  the  people 
of  Kansas  in  the  past  three  years.  No 
more  is  New  England  the  enemy's  coun- 
try that  so  many  considered  it  during 
the  days  when  debts  were  pressing 
heavily.  Independence  has  brought  a 
hearty  comradeship  as  a  substitute  for 
the  former  antagonism.  Modern  inno- 
vations are  doing  much  to  relieve  the 
loneliness  of  the  prairie  farms,  once  the 
bitter  regret  of  the  settler.  Telephone 
lines  between  the  little  towns  and  rural 
delivery  are  bringing  the  people  closer 
together.  Thousands  of  farmers  in  cen- 
tral Kansas  get  their  Kansas  City  morn- 
ing papers  by  mid-forenoon. 

"I  was  driving  across  country  one 
morning  last  fall, "  said  a  minister  the 
other  day,  "when  I  saw  a  good  picture 
of  the  new  Western  civilization.  A 
farmer,  ten  miles  from  town,  was  rid- 
ing on  a  sulky  plough.  He  was  sheltered 
by  an  awning  fastened  above  his  imple- 
ment. As  I  watched  him,  the  rural 
delivery  wagon  came  along  and  the 
driver  handed  to  the  farmer,  then  at  the 
roadside,  a  bundle  of  papers.  The 
worker  remounted  his  plough,  unfolded 
the  daily  paper  printed  that  morning 
two  hundred  miles  away,  and,  as  the 
team  took  its  steady  course  across  the 
half-mile  field,  read  the  happenings  in 
China  and  the  news  of  the  campaign." 

Then,  too,  a  new  generation  is  grow- 
ing up.  The  children  of  the  comers  in 
the  sixties  and  seventies  are  to-day  men 
and  women  engaged  in  the  business  of 
the  state.  Some  of  them  have  scarcely 
been  outside  its  boundaries,  and  all  of 
them,  accustomed  to  its  moods,  are  its 
loyal  and  earnest  advocates.  They  have 
been  educated  in  Kansas'  excellent 
schools,  and  have  married  in  their  own 
neighborhoods.  Not  from  these  are  re- 
cruited the  ranks  of  the  "movers,"  — 
the  product  of  other  states  and  other 
times  who  have  made  Kansas  merely 
a  stopping  place  on  their  devious  way 


370     Correspondence  between  Henry  Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker. 


toward  the  goal  they  are  doomed  never 
to  reach. 

Kansas  has  emerged  from  the  experi- 
mental period  of  her  history.  That 
again  there  will  come  crop  failures  and 
lean  years  none  can  doubt;  but  the 
manner  in  which  the  Kansan  meets  the 
reverses  will  mean  much.  Schooled  in 
the  variations  of  other  seasons  he  will 
be  prepared  in  this,  —  that  he  will  not 
stake  all  his  fortune  on  one  crop  or  pro- 
duct ;  he  will  meet  drought  complacent- 
ly, as  becomes  one  who  knows  some  crops 
that  thrive  nearly  as  well  in  dry  weather 
as  in  wet ;  he  will  greet  the  winds  con- 
tentedly as  he  looks  at  the  whirring 
windmills  lifting  moisture  from  the 
earth  for  the  herds  and  gardens;  he 
will  try  no  more  to  make  farms  of  the 
short-grass  country,  nor  to  build  a  me- 
tropolis at  every  cross-roads.  Much 
though  he  may  dislike  to  do  so,  he  will 


admit  ingenuously  that  there  are  some 
things  his  state  cannot  do. 

The  watchword  of  the  New  Kansas 
is  Stability.  The  Kansan,  after  three 
decades  of  trial,  has  pinned  his  faith  to 
those  things  that  make  toward  perma- 
nence and  steady  advancement.  The 
hot-headed  days  of  the  state's  youth 
are  past,  and  the  thrift  and  saving  of 
the  New  England  forefathers,  once 
mocked  at  as  unworthy  this  swift  age, 
are  looked  upon  with  admiration  and 
respect,  if  not  with  longing. 

The  Kansan  is  as  proud  of  his  com- 
monwealth as  ever;  he  is  as  valiant  in 
its  defense,  and  as  eager  in  its  eulogy; 
but  he  exaggerates  less  and  qualifies 
more.  The  Sunflower  State  of  to-day 
is  being  pictured  to  the  world  as  it  is, 
and  in  dealing  thus  in  candor  and  frank- 
ness its  children  are  establishing  their 
own  fortunes  on  surer  foundations. 
Charles  Moreau  Harger. 


A  BIT  OF  UNPUBLISHED  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  HENRY 
THOREAU  AND  ISAAC  HECKER.1 


AT  first  thought,  and  in  the  light  of 
later  years  which  revealed  such  a  wide 
difference  in  the  characters  and  careers 
of  these  two  remarkable  men,  it  seems 
surprising  that  Henry  Thoreau  and  Isaac 
Hecker  could  ever  have  got  into  any 
personal  relation  whatever.  But  at  the 
time  of  this  little  correspondence  they 
were  both  young,  and  youth,  no  less 
than  misery,  acquaints  us  sometimes 
with  strange  bedfellows.  To  be  sure, 
both  were  ardent  idealists,  both  were 
frank  and  sincere,  both  of  high  and 
knightly  courage.  Their  armor  was 
their  honest  thought,  and  simple  truth 
their  utmost  skill.  This  must  have 
been  the  ground  of  such  sympathy  as 
existed  between  them. 

1  A  paper  read  before  the  American  Anti- 
quarian Society,  at  its  semi-annual  meeting  in 
Boston,  April  30, 1902. 


Hecker  at  this  time  had  just  spent 
the  best  part  of  a  year  in  the  spring- 
morning  atmosphere  of  Brook  Farm, 
then  in  its  prime,  where  his  genial  and 
attaching  disposition  had  won  him  not 
a  few  admiring  friends,  among  whom 
was  George  William  Curtis,  who  named 
the  aspiring  enthusiast  "Ernest  the 
Seeker ;  "  and  now,  with  his  eager  but 
somewhat  irresolute  hand  in  the  strong 
grasp  of  Orestes  Brownson,  the  youth 
was  being  half  led,  half  impelled  from 
within,  toward  the  Catholic  Church. 
He  had  recently  been  for  some  months 
a  lodger  in  the  house  of  Thoreau 's  mo- 
ther at  Concord  while  taking  lessons  in 
Latin  and  Greek  of  George  Bradford, 
whose  rare  worth  as  a  teacher  he  had 
learned  at  Brook  Farm.  That  was  how 
his  acquaintance  with  Thoreau  came 
about.  His  studies,  however,  always 


Correspondence  between  Henry   Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker.     371 


fitful  and  against  the  grain,  had  sud- 
denly come  to  an  end,  smothered  as  it 
were  or  at  least  displaced  by  one  of 
those  high  tides  of  inward  unrest  which 
visited  him  at  intervals  throughout  his 
life.  He  had  gone  home  to  New  York 
and  prepared  himself  for  baptism  into 
the  church,  which  appears  to  have  been 
his  destiny  quite  as  much  as  his  choice, 
when  the  notion  came  to  him  of  the 
adventurous  trip  to  Europe  proposed  to 
Thoreau  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  in 
these  letters. 

This  was  in  1844,  when  Hecker  was 
twenty-five.  Thoreau,  two  years  his 
senior,  had  graduated  at  Harvard  seven 
years  before,  had  taught  school  a  little, 
and  had  tried  his  hand  with  effect  at 
literary  work.  He  too,  like  Hecker, 
was  nearing  a  crisis  in  his  life,  namely, 
the  hermit  episode  at  Waldeii.  For 
although  that  "experiment, "  as  he  him- 
self called  it,  lasted  in  its  original  form 
but  little  more  than  a  couple  of  years, 
it  formed  distinctly  the  point  of  de- 
parture of  his  career,  and  laid  out  the 
course  from  which  he  never  afterwards 
swerved. 

The  significance  of  this  correspond- 
ence, slight  as  it  is  in  form  and  mani- 
festly unstudied  in  its  content,  lies  in 
a  certain  prophetic  note,  all  the  more 
impressive  from  its  unconsciousness, 
which,  especially  in  the  case  of  Thoreau, 
discloses  the  clearness  of  his  self-know- 
ledge and  the  consistency  and  firmness 
of  his  self-determination.  Curtis,  writ- 
ing of  young  Hecker  as  he  knew  him  at 
Brook  Farm,  says :  "There  was  nothing 
ascetic  or  severe  in  him,  but  I  have  of- 
ten thought  since  that  his  feeling  was 
probably  what  he  might  have  afterward 
described  as  a  consciousness  that  he  must 
be  about  his  Father's  business."  While 
such  a  feeling  is  but  vaguely  if  at  all 
expressed  in  his  two  letters  to  Thoreau, 
it  constitutes  the  very  core  and  essence 
of  Thoreau' s  response.  Young  as  the 
latter  was,  unengaged  as  he  seemed  even 
to  his  intimate  friend  Channing  (his  best 
biographer),  he  had  already  heard  and 


heeded  the  call  of  his  Genius,  and  his 
vocation  was  thenceforth  fixed.  In  his 
ripest  years,  in  his  most  considered  ut- 
terance, he  does  but  reiterate  in  sub- 
stance the  declaration  of  these  letters 
when  he  says,  in  that  masterpiece  of  his 
essays,  Life  without  Principle,  "I  have 
been  surprised  when  one  has  with  con- 
fidence proposed  to  me,  a  grown  man, 
to  embark  in  some  enterprise  of  his,  as 
if  I  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do,  my 
life  having  been  a  complete  failure  hith- 
erto. What  a  doubtful  compliment  this 
is  to  pay  me !  As  if  he  had  met  me 
halfway  across  the  ocean  beating  up 
against  the  wind,  but  bound  nowhere, 
and  proposed  to  me  to  go  along  with 
him !  If  I  did,  what  do  you  think  the 
underwriters  would  say?  No,  no!  I 
am  not  without  employment  at  this 
stage  of  the  voyage.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  saw  an  advertisement  for  able-bodied 
seamen,  when  I  was  a  boy,  sauntering 
in  my  native  port,  and  as  soon  as  I  came 
of  age  I  embarked." 

On  Hecker 's  side  there  was  undoubt- 
edly far  less  of  serious  purpose;  his 
mood  seems  youthful,  almost  boyish; 
but  the  glow  of  it  is  genuine  and  char- 
acteristic, and  I  think  his  biographer, 
Father  Elliott,  misses  its  import  when 
he  turns  the  affair  off  lightly  as  "but 
one  of  the  diversions  with  which  certain 
souls,  not  yet  enlightened  as  to  their 
true  course,  nor  arrived  at  the  abandon- 
ment of  themselves  to  Divine  Provi- 
dence, are  amused."  To  my  mind, 
these  two  letters  of  Hecker's  clearly  re- 
veal the  temperament,  at  once  impetu- 
ous and  volatile,  that  went  with  the 
man  through  his  troubled  life,  and  gave 
him  much  of  his  influence  and  distinc- 
tion, as  well  as  cast  him  ofttimes  into 
the  fire  and  oft  into  the  water. 

But  it  is  time  to  let  the  correspond- 
ence speak  for  itself. 

HECKER    TO    THOREAU. 

HENRY  THOREAU,  —  It  was  not  al- 
together the  circumstance  of  our  imme- 


372      Correspondence  bettveen  Henry   Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker. 


diate  physical  nearness,  though  this  may 
have  [been]  the  consequence  of  a  higher 
affinity,  that  inclined  us  to  commune 
with  each  other.  This  I  am  fully  sen- 
sible [of]  since  our  separation.  Often- 
times we  observe  ourselves  to  be  pas- 
sive or  cooperative  agents  of  profounder 
principles  than  we  at  the  time  even 
dream  of. 

I  have  been  stimulated  to  write  to 
you  at  this  present  moment  on  account 
of  a  certain  project  which  I  have  formed, 
which  your  influence  has  no  slight  share, 
I  imagine,  in  forming.  It  is,  to  work 
our  passage  to  Europe,  and  to  walk, 
work,  and  beg  if  needs  be,  as  far  when 
there  as  we  are  inclined  to  do.  We 
wish  to  see  how  it  looks,  and  to  court 
difficulties ;  for  we  feel  an  unknown 
depth  of  untried  virgin  strength  which 
we  know  of  no  better  way  at  the  pre- 
sent time  to  call  into  activity  and  so  dis- 
pose of.  We  desire  to  go  without  purse 
or  staff,  depending  upon  the  all-embra- 
cing love  of  God,  Humanity,  and  the 
spark  of  courage  imprisoned  in  us. 
Have  we  the  will,  we  have  the  strong 
arms,  hard  hands  to  work  with,  and 
sound  feet  to  stand  upon  and  walk  with. 
The  heavens  shall  be  our  vaulted  roof, 
and  the  green  earth  beneath  our  bed 
and  for  all  other  furniture  purposes. 
These  are  free  and  may  be  so  used. 
What  can  hinder  us  from  going,  but 
our  bodies,  and  shall  they  do  it  ?  We 
can  as  well  deposit  them  there  as  here. 
Let  us  take  a  walk  over  the  fairest 
portions  of  this  planet  Earth  and  make 
it  ours  by  seeing  them.  Let  us  see 
what  the  genius  and  stupidity  of  our 
honored  forefathers  have  heaped  up. 
We  wish  to  kneel  at  their  shrines  and 
embrace  their  spirits  and  kiss  the  ground 
which  they  have  hallowed  with  their 
presence.  We  shall  prove  the  dollar  is 
not  almighty,  and  the  impossible,  moon- 
shine. The  wide  world  is  before  us 
beckoning  us  to  come,  let  us  accept  and 
embrace  it.  Reality  shall  be  our 'an- 
tagonist, and  our  lives,  if  sold,  not  at 
a  good  bargain,  for  a  certainty.  How 


does  the  idea  strike  you?  I  prefer  at 
least  to  go  this  way  before  going  far- 
ther in  the  woods.  The  past  let  us  take 
with  us;  we  reverence,  we  love  it;  but 
forget  not  that  our  eyes  are  in  our  face, 
set  to  the  beautiful  unimagined  future. 
Let  us  be  Janus-faced,  with  a  beard 
[-ed]  and  [a]  beardless  face.  Will  you 
accept  this  invitation?  Let  me  know 
what  your  impressions  are  as  soon  as  it 
is  your  pleasure. 

Remember  me  to  your  kind  family. 
To-morrow  I  take  the  first  step  towards 
becoming  a  visible  member  of  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  Church.  If  you  and  your 
good  family  do  not  become  greater  sin- 
ners, I  shall  claim  you  all  as  good 
Catholics,  for  she  claims  "all  baptized 
infants,  all  innocent  children  of  every 
religious  denomination ;  and  all  grown- 
up Christians  who  have  preserved  their 
baptismal  innocence,  though  they  make 
no  outward  profession  of  the  Catholic 
faith,  are  yet  claimed  as  her  children 
by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church." 
Yours  very  truly, 

ISAAC  HECKER. 

N.  Y.,  Thursday,  July  31,  1844. 

THOREAU    TO    HECKER. 

CONCORD,  Aug.  14,  1844. 
FRIEND  HECKER,  —  I  am  glad  to 
hear  your  voice  from  that  populous  city, 
and  the  more  so  for  the  tenor  of  its  dis- 
course. I  have  but  just  returned  from 
a  pedestrian  excursion  somewhat  simi- 
lar to  that  you  propose,  parvis  compo- 
nere  magna,  to  the  Catskill  mountains, 
over  the  principal  mountains  of  this 
State,  subsisting  mainly  on  bread  and 
berries,  and  slumbering  on  the  moun- 
tain tops.  As  usually  happens,  I  now 
feel  a  slight  sense  of  dissipation.  Still, 
I  am  strongly  tempted  by  your  propo- 
sal, and  experience  a  decided  schism 
between  my  outward  and  inward  ten- 
dencies. Your  method  of  traveling, 
especially  —  to  live  along  the  road, 
citizens  of  the  world,  without  haste  or 
petty  plans  —  I  have  often  proposed 
this  to  my  dreams,  and  still  do.  But 


Correspondence  between  Henry   Thoreau  and  Isaac  Ilecker.     373 


the  fact  is,  I  cannot  so  decidedly  post- 
pone exploring  the  Farther  Indies, 
which  are  to  be  reached,  you  know,  by 
other  routes  and  other  methods  of  trav- 
el. I  mean  that  I  constantly  return 
from  every  external  enterprise  with  dis- 
gust, to  fresh  faith  in  a  kind  of  Brah- 
minical,  Artesian,  Inner  Temple  life. 
All  my  experience,  as  yours  probably, 
proves  only  this  reality.  Channing 
wonders  how  I  can  resist  your  invita- 
tion, I,  a  single  man  —  unfettered  — 
and  so  do  I.  Why,  there  are  Ronces- 
valles,  the  Cape  de  Finisterre,  and  the 
Three  Kings  of  Cologne ;  Rome,  Athens, 
and  the  rest,  to  be  visited  in  serene, 
untemporal  hours,  and  all  history  to 
revive  in  one's  memory,  as  he  went  by 
the  way,  with  splendors  too  bright  for 
this  world  —  I  know  how  it  is.  But 
is  not  here  too  Roncesvalles  with  greater 
lustre  ?  Unfortunately,  it  may  prove 
dull  and  desultory  weather  enough  here, 
but  better  trivial  days  with  faith  than 
the  fairest  ones  lighted  by  sunshine 
alone.  Perchance,  my  Wanderjahr  has 
not  arrived,  but  you  cannot  wait  for 
that.  I  hope  you  will  find  a  compan- 
ion who  will  enter  as  heartily  into  your 
schemes  as  I  should  have  done. 

I  remember  you,  as  it  were,  with  the 
whole  Catholic  Church  at  your  skirts. 
And  the  other  day,  for  a  moment,  I 
think  I  understood  your  relation  to  that 
body;  but  the  thought  was  gone  again 
in  a  twinkling,  as  when  a  dry  leaf  falls 
from  its  stem  over  our  heads,  but  is 
instantly  lost  in  the  rustling  mass  at 
our  feet. 

I  am  really  sorry  that  the  Genius 
will  not  let  me  go  with  you,  but  I  trust 
that  it  will  conduct  to  other  adventures, 
and  so,  if  nothing  prevents,  we  will 
compare  notes  at  last. 

Yrs.  etc., 
HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

HECKER    TO    THOREAU. 

I  know  not  but  I  shall  receive  an  an- 
swer to  the  letter  I  sent  you  a  fortnight 


ago,  before  you  will  receive  this  one; 
however,  as  the  idea  of  making  an  in- 
definite pedestrian  tour  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic  has  in  all  possible  ways 
increased  in  my  imagination  and  given 
me  a  desire  to  add  a  few  more  words 
on  the  project,  I  will  do  so,  in  the  hope 
of  stimulating  you  to  a  decision.  How 
the  thought  has  struck  you  I  know  not ; 
its  impracticability  or  impossibility  in 
the  judgment  of  others,  would  not,  I 
feel  assured,  deter  you  in  any  way  from 
the  undertaking ;  it  would  rather  be  a 
stimulus  to  the  purpose,  I  think,  in  you, 
as  it  is  in  me.  'T  is  impossible;  sir, 
therefore  we  do  it.  The  conceivable 
is  possible ;  it  is  in  harmony  with  the 
inconceivable  we  should  act.  Our  true 
life  is  in  the  can-not.  To  do  what  we 
can  do  is  to  do  nothing,  is  death.  Si- 
lence is  much  more  respectable  than 
repetition. 

The  idea  of  making  such  a  tour  I 
have  opened  to  one  or  two  who  I  thought 
might  throw  some  light  on  the  subject. 
I  asked  the  opinion  of  the  Catholic 
Bishop  [McCloskey]  who  has  traveled 
considerably  in  Europe.  But  I  find  that 
in  every  man  there  are  certain  things 
within  him  which  are  beyond  the  ken 
and  counsel  of  others.  The  age  is  so 
effeminate  that  it  is  too  timid  to  give 
heroic  counsel.  It  neither  will  enter 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  nor  have  others 
to  do  so.  I  feel,  and  believe  you  feel 
so  too,  that  to  doubt  the  ability  to  real- 
ize such  a  thought  is  only  worthy  of  a 
smile  and  pity.  We  feel  ourself  mean 
in  conceiving  such  a  feasible  thing,  and 
would  keep  it  silent.  This  is  not  suffi- 
cient self-abandonment  for  our  being, 
scarce  enough  to  affect  it.  To  die  is 
easy,  scarce  worth  a  thought ;  but  to  be 
and  live  is  an  inconceivable  greatness. 
It  would  be  folly  to  sit  still  and  starve 
from  mere  emptiness,  but  to  leave  be- 
hind the  casement  in  battling  for  some 
hidden  idea  is  an  attitude  beyond  con- 
ception, a  monument  more  durable  than 
the  chisel  can  sculpture. 

I  imagine  us  walking  among  the  past 


374     Correspondence  betioeen  Henry   Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker. 


and  present  greatness  of  our  ancestors 
(for  the  present  in  fact,  the  present  of 
the  old  world,  to  us  is  ancient),  doing 
reverence  to  their  remaining  glory.  If, 
though,  I  am  inclined  to  bow  more  low- 
ly to  the  spiritual  hero  than  to  the  ex- 
hibition of  great  physical  strength,  still 
not  all  of  that  primitive  heroic  blood 
of  our  forefathers  has  been  lost  before 
it  reached  our  veins.  We  feel  it  swell 
sometimes  as  though  it  were  cased  in 
steel,  and  the  huge  broad-axe  of  Co3ur 
de  Lion  seems  glittering  before  us,  and 
we  awake  in  another  world  as  in  a 
dream. 

I  know  of  no  other  person  but  you 
that  would  be  inclined  to  go  on  such  an 
excursion.  The  idea  and  yourself  were 
almost  instantaneous.  If  needs  be,  for 
a  few  dollars  we  can  get  across  the 
ocean.  The  ocean !  if  but  to  cross  this 
being  like  being,  it  were  not  unprofit- 
able. The  Bishop  thought  it  might  be 
done  with  a  certain  amount  of  funds  to 
depend  on.  If  this  makes  it  practicable 
for  others,  to  us  it  will  be  but  sport. 
It  is  useless  for  me  to  speak  thus  to 
you,  for  if  there  are  reasons  for  your 
not  going  they  are  others  than  these. 

You  will  inform  me  how  you  are  in- 
clined as  soon  as  practicable.  Half  in- 
clined I  sometimes  feel  to  go  alone  if 
I  cannot  get  your  company.  I  do  not 
know  now  what  could  have  directed  my 
steps  to  Concord  other  than  this.  May 
it  prove  so. 

It  is  only  the  fear  of  death  makes  us 
reason    of    impossibilities.      We    shall 
possess  all  if  we  but  abandon  ourselves. 
Yours  sincerely, 

ISAAC. 

N.  Y.,  August  15,  '44. 
To  HENRY  THOREAU. 

THOREAU    TO    HECKER. 

I  improve  the  occasion  of  my  mo- 
ther's sending  to  acknowledge  the  re- 
ceipt of  your  stirring  letter.  You  have 
probably  received  mine  by  this  time. 
I  thank  you  for  not  anticipating  any 
vulgar  objections  on  my  part.  Far 


travel,  very  far  travel,  or  travail, 
comes  near  to  the  worth  of  staying  at 
home.  Who  knows  whence  his  educa- 
tion is  to  come!  Perhaps  I  may  drag 
my  anchor  at  length,  or  rather,  when 
the  winds  which  blow  over  the  deep  fill 
my  sails,  may  stand  away  for  distant 
parts  —  for  now  I  seem  to  have  a  firm 
ground  anchorage,  though  the  harbor  is 
low- shored  enough,  and  the  traffic  with 
the  natives  inconsiderable  —  I  may  be 
away  to  Singapore  by  the  next  tide. 

I  like  well  the  ring  of  your  last 
maxim,  "It  is  only  the  fear  of  death 
makes  us  reason  of  impossibilities." 
And  but  for  fear,  death  itself  is  an  im- 
possibility. 

Believe  me,  I  can  hardly  let  it  end 
so.  If  you  do  not  go  soon  let  me  hear 
from  you  again. 

Yrs.  in  great  haste, 
HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

(Subjoined  note,  apparently  in  Heck- 
er's  handwriting:  — 

"The  proposition  made  to  Thoreau 
was  to  take  nothing  with  us,  work  our 
passage  across  the  Atlantic,  and  so 
through  England,  France,  Germany, 
and  Italy.  I.  T.  H.") 

It  was  not  permitted  the  youthful 
enthusiasts  to  " compare  notes  at  last." 
From  that  hour  their  paths  widely  di- 
verged. In  a  twelvemonth  the  Atlan- 
tic, and  more  than  the  Atlantic,  lay  be- 
tween them.  The  novitiate  had  joined 
the  order  of  the  Redemptorist  Fathers 
at  Saint-Trond  in  Belgium ;  and  the 
hermit,  "the  bachelor  of  thought  and 
Nature, "  as  Emerson  calls  him,  was  in 
his  cabin  on  the  wooded  shore  of  Walden 
Pond.  Neither  ever  looked  back,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  they  ever  met  again. 
The  ardent  propagandist  did  indeed 
pursue  Thoreau,  as  he  pursued  Curtis, 
with  kindly  meant  letters  of  fervent 
appeal  to  enter  with  him  the  labyrinth 
of  the  Catholic  Church;  but  he  might 
as  well  have  called  after  a  wild  deer  in 
the  forest  or  an  eagle  in  the  upper  air. 


Correspondence  between  Henry  Thoreau  and  Isaac  Hecker.     375 


The  work  which  these  men  did  in  af- 
ter years  cannot,  it  seems  to  me,  be 
profitably  compared.  It  will  inevitably 
be  judged  from  opposite  points  of  view. 
It  is  idle  to  talk  of  more  or  less  where 
the  difference  is  one  not  of  degree  but 
of  kind. 

However,  with  aims  and  means  so 
diverse  and  exclusive  as  to  be  distinctly 
antagonistic,  Thoreau  and  Hecker  pos- 
sessed in  common  one  predominant  char- 
acteristic, namely,  a  redoubtable  ego- 
ism —  using  the  term  in  no  disparaging 
sense,  something  that  suggests  what  is 
called  in  physics  the  hydrostatic  para- 
dox, in  virtue  of  which  the  smallest 
single  drop  of  water  holds  its  own 
against  the  ocean.  The  manifestation 
of  this  quality,  however,  as  a  trait  of 
character  was  wholly  unlike  in  the  two, 
even  apparently  to  the  point  of  diamet- 
ric opposition.  In  Thoreau  its  devel- 
opment was  outward  and  obvious,  in 
rugged  features  of  eccentricity  and  self- 
sufficiency,  sculptured  as  it  were  in  high 
relief  against  the  background  of  society 
and  custom.  He  was  well  practiced 
in  the  grammar  of  dissent.  Emerson 
says,  "  It  cost  him  nothing  to  say  No ; 
indeed,  he  found  it  much  easier  than  to 
say  Yes."  It  was  nothing  for  him  to 
declare,  and  to  repeat  in  one  form  or 
another  on  almost  every  page  of  his 
writings,  "  The  greater  part  of  what  my 
neighbors  call  good  I  believe  in  my  soul 
to  be  bad."  This  he  says  without  em- 
phasis, as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course, 
scarcely  calculated  to  provoke  surprise 
or  dissent.  The  selfsame  quality  in 
Hecker,  on  the  contrary,  took  the  sub- 
tle and  illusive  shape  of  obedience  to 
an  Inward  Voice,  never  suspected  of 
being  his  own,  always  projected  as  a 
Brocken  spectre  upon  the  clouds,  not 
unlike  the  daemon  of  Socrates,  and  which 
thus  wore  the  guise  of  self-effacement 
and  pious  submission  to  the  immediate 
and  almost  articulate  behests  of  a  di- 
vine authority.  The  figure  of  Heck- 
er's  egoism  was  engraved  in  his  nature 
like  a  die  or  an  intaglio,  while  in  Tho- 


reau, as  I  have  said,  it  was  reversed 
and  stood  out  with  the  bold  relief  of  a 
cameo.  But  the  lineaments  were  the 
same  in  both,  with  only  this  difference, 
that  Thoreau 's  personal  pronoun  was  J, 
and  Hecker 's  was  It. 

The  late  Professor  Clifford  was  wont 
to  maintain  that  there  is  a  special  the- 
ological faculty  or  insight,  analogous  to 
the  scientific,  poetic,  and  artistic  fac- 
ulty ;  and  that  the  persons  in  whom  this 
genius  is  exceptionally  developed  are 
the  founders  of  religions  and  religious 
orders.  It  is  apparent  that  Isaac  Heck- 
er's  nature  from  his  youth  partook 
largely  of  this  quality.  He  early  showed 
an  affinity  with  the  supersensible  and 
the  supernatural,  was  easily  "pos- 
sessed," his  mind  on  that  side  being 
primitive  and  credulous  to  a  degree. 
Such  logic  as  he  had  —  and  his  writ- 
ings are  full  of  it  —  was  the  logic  of 
instinct  and  feeling,  not  of  fact.  To 
him,  possibilities,  if  conceivable  and 
desirable,  easily  became  probabilities, 
and  probabilities  certainties.  With  this 
temperament,  which  Curtis  mildly  char- 
acterizes as  "sanguine,"  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  understand  why  the  paramount 
purpose  of  his  life  should  have  been  to 
establish  in  this  country  a  propaganda  of 
such  persuasive  power  as  to  sweep  the 
American  people  en  masse  into  the  Cath- 
olic Church,  and  it  was  upon  this  object 
that  all  his  energies  and  hopes  were  cen- 
tred in  a  burning  focus  of  endeavor. 

The  genius  of  Thoreau  moved  in  a 
totally  different  plane.  He  was  pre- 
eminently of  this  world,  both  in  its  ac- 
tual and  ideal  aspects,  and  he  found 
it  so  rich  and  satisfying  to  his  whole 
nature  that  he  yearned  for  no  other. 
Channing  aptly  names  him  "poet-natu- 
ralist," for  he  united  in  harmonious 
combination  accurate  perception  of  ex- 
ternal facts  and  relations  with  an  im- 
aginative insight  and  sympathy  that 
easily  and  habitually  transcended  the 
scope  of  mere  science  and  ratiocination. 
He  had  not  only  feet,  but  wings,  and 
was  equally  at  home  on  the  solid  ground 


376      Correspondence  between  Henry   Thoreau  and  Isaac  HecTcer. 


of  natural  law  and  in  the  airy  spaces  of 
fancy.  Time,  which  he  said  was  the 
stream  he  went  a-fishing  in,  —  time 
and  the  world  about  him,  these  were  the 
adapted  and  sufficient  habitat  of  his 
soul.  He  held  it  but  poor  philosophy 
to  make  large  drafts  on  the  past  or  the 
future  or  the  elsewhere.  Nature  was 
his  heaven,  and  the  present  moment  his 
immortality.  Hear  what  he  writes  in 
his  Journal,  under  date  of  November 
1,  1858,  less  than  four  years  before  his 
death:  "There  is  no  more  tempting 
novelty  than  this  new  November.  No 
going  to  Europe  or  to  another  world  is 
to  be  named  with  it.  Give  me  the  old 
familiar  walk,  post-office  and  all,  with 
this  ever  new  self,  with  this  infinite  ex- 
pectation and  faith  which  does  not  know 
when  it  is  beaten.  We  '11  go  nutting 
once  more.  We  '11  pluck  the  nut  of  the 
world  and  crack  it  in  the  winter  even- 
ings. Theatres  and  all  other  sight- 
seeing are  puppet  shows  in  comparison. 
I  will  take  another  walk  to  the  cliff, 
another  row  on  the  river,  another  skate 
on  the  meadow,  be  out  in  the  first  snow, 
and  associate  with  the  winter  birds. 
Here  I  am  at  home.  In  the  bare  and 
bleached  crust  of  the  earth,  I  recognize 
my  friend.  .  .  .  This  morrow  that  is 
ever  knocking  with  irresistible  force  at 
our  door,  there  is  no  such  guest  as  that. 
I  will  stay  at  home  and  receive  com- 
pany. I  want  nothing  new.  If  I  can 
have  but  a  tithe  of  the  old  secured  to 
me,  I  will  spurn  all  wealth  besides. 
Think  of  the  consummate  folly  of  at- 
tempting to  go  away  from  here.  .  .  . 
How  many  things  can  you  go  away 


from  ?  They  see  the  comet  from  the 
northwest  coast  just  as  plainly  as  we 
do,  and  the  same  stars  through  its  tail. 
Take  the  shortest  way  round  and  stay 
at  home.  A  man  dwells  in  his  native 
valley  like  a  corolla  in  its  calyx,  like 
an  acorn  in  its  cup.  Here,  of  course, 
is  all  that  you  love,  all  that  you  ex- 
pect, all  that  you  are.  Here  is  your 
bride-elect,  as  close  to  you  as  she  can 
be  got.  Here  is  all  the  best  and  the 
worst  you  can  imagine.  What  more  do 
you  want  ?  Foolish  people  think  that 
what  they  imagine  is  somewhere  else. 
That  stuff  is  not  made  in  any  factory 
but  their  own." 

To  clarify  and  keep  sane  his  vision, 
bodily  and  spiritual ;  to  observe,  to  re- 
cord, to  interpret ;  to  glorify  and  enjoy 
to  the  full  the  life  that  here  and  now 
is,  —  this  was  Thoreau' s  mission,  and  he 
fulfilled  it  to  the  end,  through  evil  re- 
port and  good  report,  "more  straining 
on  for  plucking  back."  Nor  did  his 
determination  waver  or  his  ardor  blanch 
in  the  very  face  of  death,  as  the  follow- 
ing incident  strikingly  attests :  A  few 
days  before  he  died  his  friend  Parker 
Pillsbury  (of  anti-slavery  fame)  made  a 
brief  farewell  call  at  his  bedside,  and 
he  closes  his  scrupulous  account  of  the 
interview  in  these  words :  "  Then  I 
spoke  only  once  more  to  him,  and  can- 
not remember  my  exact  words.  But 
I  think  my  question  was  substantially 
this:  'You  seem  so  near  the  brink  of 
the  dark  river,  that  I  almost  wonder 
how  the  opposite  shore  may  appear  to 
you.'  Then  he  answered :  'One  world 
at  a  time.'  " 

E.  H.  Russell. 


On  the    Off- Shore  Lights. 


377 


ON  THE  OFF-SHORE  LIGHTS. 


I. 


THE    LOSING    OF    MOTHER. 

"  'T  AIN'T  brownkitis,  ye  don't  think, 
ma?  "  he  croaked. 

"Lord,  no!  "  said  mother,  bringing 
the  smallest  washtub  and  crowding  it  in 
between  father's  chair  and  the  stove. 
"'T ain't  on'y  a  cold  in  yer  head,  fa- 
ther, kinder  gone  down  on  yer  chest. 
You  've  slep'  jest  like  an  infant  right 
here  'side  the  fire  this  good  while.  It 's 
'most  midnight.  Git  yer  stockin's  off, 
father." 

"I  gut  ter  g'win  the  light,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"Well,  I  guess  yer  hain't  gut  ter  do 
no  sech  a  thing, "  mother  replied  stout- 
ly. "I  guess  I  kin  g'win  the  light  my- 
self an'  not  kill  myself,  I  guess.  Git 
yer  stockin's  off,  father.  An'  now  you 
tip  yer  head  back  so  's  I  kin  git  the  salt 
pork  round  yer  neck  good,  an'  the  ki-en 
'11  fetch  the  cold  out.  I  '11  make  yer 
some  ki-en  tea  when  I  come  out  o'  the 
light.  My  soul  an'  body!  I  hain't  set 
the  kittle  on  front.  Hev  ter  hev  the 
water  hot  or  the  pepper  '11  float." 

"I  wisht  yer  hed  n't  gut  ter  g'win  the 
light,  ma!" 

"O  Lord !  'T  ain't  goin'  ter  kill  me ! 
There,  now,  pa,  I  guess  you  kin  git 
both  feet  in,  now  —  you  try." 

The  old  man  was  dandling  a  bare  foot 
scarily  over  the  hot  water.  Mother 
threw  a  little  woolen  shawl  across  his 
knees  to  hang  over  his  long  thin  legs. 

"Dunno  when  I  hain't  hed  a  cold 
'fore,  ef  't  ain't  brownkitis,  an'  prob'ly 
it 's  the  grip.  Blasted  gov'munt  orter 
'low  me  an  'sistant." 

"Lord,  no,  pa,  anybuddy  else  'd  be 
«ech  a  bother  'round,  'sides  ourselves. 
My  soul  an'  body !  how  it  doos  blow,  to 
be  sure !  "  The  stout  little  house  trem- 
bled and  rocked  ,in  the  gale. 


"You  ketch  a  holt  o'  somethin',  mo- 
ther, "  said  the  old  man  anxiously. 

"I'll  ketch  a  holt  —  the  —  door 
jamb, "  she  said,  out  of  breath,  stooping 
to  draw  on  father's  long  stockings  over 
her  shoes.  "  My  goodness  gracious !  I 
hain't  gut  yer  balsam,  an'  ye  might  ez 
well  be  a-snuffin'  it  whilst  I  'm  gone," 
she  added,  trotting  hastily  out  of  the 
room  with  soft  woolen  footsteps. 

The  balsam  was  set  afloat  on  boiling 
water  in  a  little  yellow  and  blue  pitcher, 
and  given  to  the  old  man  to  hold  close 
under  his  nose. 

"I  hain't  a  bit  o'  doubt  that  '11  go 
straight  ter  yer  pipes  an'  do  'em  a  lot 
o'  good, "  said  mother  cheerily.  "Em'- 
line  said  so,  when  daughter  giv  it  to 
me  three  years  ago,  bein'  so  fur  frum 
a  doctor.  >It  's  the  same  her  husband 
took  when  he  died.  '  It 's  good  fer 
chest  troubles  an'  lung  difficulties, '  ' 
she  read,  laboriously,  from  the  bottle. 
"An'  here  's  a  picter  of  the  man  thet 
made  it,  prob'ly,  an'  thet  shows  it 's 
good,  an'  some  of  his  writin'  on  the 
back.  Lemme  see,  you  gut  ter  hev 
somethin'  throwed  over  yer  head.  It 's 
the  steam  o'  the  balsam  's  the  good 
part."  And  she  covered  his  head  and 
the  pitcher  from  view  under  a  generous 
draping  of  red  flannel. 

"Can't  breathe!  "  came  from  under 
it. 

"Oh  yes  you  kin!  You  gut  ter 
breathe!  Hold  yer  nose  down  close. 
It  '11  limber  up  yer  pipes,  splendid, 
pa!" 

She  lighted  the  lantern  and  set  it 
ready  on  the  table,  and  then  wound  her- 
self up  in  a  long  knitted  scarf,  over 
which  she  put  father's  reefer  with  the 
sleeves  turned  up,  and  crowned  herself 
with  a  big  fur  cap,  with  lappet  strings 
tied  in  a  bow  under  her  chin. 

"There,"ain't  thet  nice !  "  she  purred. 
"See how  nice  an'  warm  I  be,  pa!  Oh, 


378 


On  the   Off- Shore  Lights. 


you  can't  see !  Well,  I  guess  I  'm  ready. 
Lord!  don't  the  wind  blow!  "  she  said, 
peering  out  of  the  window.  "Ain't  it 
a  pretty  night!  Don't  the  water  look 
black!  Mercy!  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  be 
goin'." 

"Blasted  gov'munt  orter  built  a  pas- 
sageway 'fore  now,"  the  old  man  said, 
through  the  flannel. 

"OLord,  no!  The  gov'munt  's  giv 
us  a  fence,  pa!  A  real  nice  fence. 
Don't  yer  fret.  Keep  yer  legs  covered, 
pa." 

The  door  banged  after  her,  and  the 
old  man  listened  eagerly  for  the  heavy, 
miiffled  bang  of  the  tower  door,  a  few 
steps  beyond  the  house.  There  was  no 
bang. 

"She  orter  gut  there,"  he  said  to 
himself  uneasily. 

Mother  Tabb  crossed  the  piazza  se- 
renely enough,  but  the  wind  took  her 
petticoats  as  she  went  down  the  steps, 
slapping  and  twisting  them  round  her. 

"Lord!  "  she  said,  "don't  it  blow!  " 
cuddling  the  flickering  lantern  between 
two  billows  of  skirts,  and  turning  her 
back  to  the  wind.  "My  land!  ain't  it 
a  pretty  night !  "  The  little  round  island 
was  covered  with  crusted  snow,  and  the 
light  burned  aloft  like  a  candle  on  a 
holiday  cake.  . 

The  pretty  was  mother's  undoing. 
A  less  broad  back  than  hers  would  have 
tempted  the  wind  to  push,  so  mother 
never  reached  the  tower. 

The  wind  pushed  her,  expostulating, 
surely  and  steadily  down  the  slippery 
incline  of  the  garden,  forcing  her  un- 
willing feet  to  take  unconsidered  steps 
in  the  sadly  wrong  direction.  In  vain 
she  tried  to  dig  the  gray  woolen  heels 
into  the  glassy  crust.  Then  she  turned, 
as  she  scudded,  and  resolutely  dropped 
on  her  hands  and  knees. 

But  mother  was  plump  and  as  handy 
to  push  one  way  as  another.  She  went 
scudding  along,  dragging  the  tipsy  lan- 
tern after  her,  out  through  the  lower 
garden  gate  to  the  brink  of  the  icy 
hill,  where  even  Father  Tabb,  in  ice 


times,  always  sat  down  to  coast  to  the 
beach  on  the  two  fat  back  buttons  of  his 
ulster. 

"I  wisht  mother  'd  come,"  said  the 
old  man  after  a  time,  lifting  the  flan- 
nel off  his  head,  and  feeling  justified  in 
setting  down  the  balsam.  "I  don't  see 
what  in  time  's  gut  mother, "  he  whined 
fretfully.  "W'y,  I  seen  t'  the  whole 
business  myself,  lightin'-up  time.  Ma 
didn't  on'y  hev  ter  wind  her  up." 

He  fidgeted  and  waited,  and  the 
water  in  the  tub  got  chilly  about  his 
legs. 

"I  dunno  what  in  time  's  gut  mo- 
ther," he  said,  as  he  lifted  his  feet  out 
and  felt  round  for  his  stockings.  He 
got  up  stiffly,  bent  with  his  hard  cough, 
and  pattered  to  the  window.  But  mo- 
ther had  passed  that  way  some  time 
before. 

"Gittin'  some  worried  'bout  ma," 
he  said.  "S'pose  I  gut  ter  go  see 
what 's  gut  her."  And  he  warmed  his 
rubber  boots  one  at  a  time  over  the  glow- 
ing stove,  and  stamped  his' bare,  damp 
feet  into  them.  Then  he  felt  along  the 
entry  wall  for  his  reefer  and  found  his 
ulster,  and  felt  along  for  his  fur  cap 
and  found  his  sou'wester. 

"I  dunno  hardly  which  leg  I  be 
a-standin'  on,"  he  said  tremblingly, 
putting  the  little  woolen  shawl  over  his 
head  and  buttoning  the  sou'wester  on 
over  it.  "Wind  'd  like  t'  blow  m'  head 
off,  ef  I  didn't  hev  it  made  fast,"  he 
said,  and  lighted  the  second  best  lan- 
tern in  a  panic  of  clumsy  haste. 

He  did  not  stop  at  the  house  corner 
to  look  at  the  pretty  night.  He  fought 
the  wind  across  the  open  space  to  the 
tower. 

"Ma !  Mo-ther !  "  he  called  hoarse- 
ly at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  the 
hollow  tower,  full  of  weird  wind  noises, 
took  his  cry  and  tossed  it  up  and  brought 
it  back,  but  with  it  no  message  from 
mother.  "I  gut  ter  g'wup!  "  he  said 
anxiously. 

He  climbed  the  iron  stairs,  and  the 
little  cramped  ladder  to  the  gusty  Ian- 


On  the   Off-Shore  Lights. 


379 


tern,  with  the  wind  roaring  through  its 
peaked  hood  like  a  chimney  afire.  "  She 
ain't  here!"  he  gasped  breathlessly, 
peering  ahead  as  he  climbed. 

"She  ain't  ben  here!  "  he  said,  put- 
ting the  crank  on.  The  lamp  had  run 
down. 

"I  dunno  hardly  which  leg  I  be 
a-standin'  on,"  he  chattered,  coming 
fast  and  feebly  down  the  stairs  again. 
"I  dunno  —  I  dunno  whar  ter  look, "  he 
said.  He  went  round  the  corner  of  the 
house,  bowing  before  the  wind,  car- 
rying the  lantern  on  his  doubled  -  up 
arm.  and  step  by  step  winning  his  way 
out  of  the  upper  garden  gate.  He 
looked  down  the  smooth  cold  north  hill, 
this  way  and  that.  There  was  nothing 
mother  could  hide  behind  in  that  long, 
white  slant.  The  ice  floes  grated  and 
groaned  in  the  black  water  below  as  the 
tide  heaved  under  them  and  the  waves 
tore  between,  and  black  water  lay  far 
and  wide,  beyond.  He  turned  back 
helplessly,  hustled  now  the  same  way 
mother  had  gone,  but  he  kept  to  the 
path,  and  presently  it  brought  him  to 
the  back  door,  and  the  wind  hurried 
him  in. 

Mother  was  watching  him  from  the 
hillock  where  she  had  lodged.  And 
frantic  about  his  cold  and  the  danger 
and  all  the  things  left  undone  and  to  be 
done,  she  started  toward  the  house 
again,  on  hands  and  knees.  She  lost 
her  hold  at  times,  foothold  and  hand- 
hold, and  remembered  a  certain  little 
toy  turtle  on  her  parlor  mantel,  —  a 
little  green  turtle  that  rested,  with 
wildly  fluttering  feet,  on  a  pivot. 

Father  Tabb  pattered  distractedly 
about  the  kitchen,  fumbling  with  his 
coat,  and  going  to  the  window  again 
and  again  to  look  out,  and  listening  to 
the  wind,  and  poking  the  fire.  Pre- 
sently mother  burst  in,  her  nose  red,  and 
her  eyes  wild,  and  her  fur  cap  all  awry. 

"W'y,  mother!  "  the  old  man  said, 
coming  toward  her  delightedly.  "  Whar 
you  ben  ?  " 

" Where  've  I  ben!     I  guess  better 


say  where  you  ben!  W'y,  Josiah  Tabb, 
don't  yer  know  you  've  prob'ly  gut  yer 
death  o'  cold,  or  somethin'  or  ruther, 
goin'  ou'doors  right  out  o'  hot  water? 
I  declare  ter  goodness !  Here,  lemme  git 
my  things  off !  You  git  right  ter  bed, 
quick,  this  minute,  an'  I  '11  fetch  the 
brown  jug  in  out  th'  oven,  an'  the  ki-en 
tea.  My  goodness  gracious !  I  never  wuz 
so  scared  in  all  my  born  days !  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  't  ain't  goin'  ter  be  ez 
bad  ez  thet,  ma, "  he  said,  from  the 
kitchen  bedroom,  much  subdued  and 
comforted,  and  hurrying  into  bed .  Then 
when  all  was  still  in  the  bedroom,  mo- 
ther drew  the  tub  across  to  her  chair 
and  emptied  it  at  the  sink  and  softly 
filled  it  again  with  hot  water. 

"Makes  me  feel  bad  hevin'  you  watch 
both  ends  the  night,  ma!  "  came  from 
deep  down  in  the  bedclothes. 

"Oh,  you  go  ter  sleep  an'  stop  wor- 
ryin',  pa,"  mother  answered  fretfully. 
"I  kin  see  the  light  good  frum  whar  I 
set,  an'  I  shell  doze,  some."  She  was 
fixing  the  little  pitcher  with  more  hot 
water  and  balsam,  and  gathering  the 
shawls  handy  to  her  chair. 

"  'T  ain't  brownkitis,  yer  don't  think, 
ma?  "  the  old  man  called  out  again. 

"  Lord,  no !      Go  ter  sleep,  father !  " 

"Better  put  yer  feet  in  hot  water, 
ma,"  he  said. 

"Lord,  no!  I  don't  want  no  cod- 
dim'.  Mercy!  " 

Mother's  feet  were  already  in  the 
water,  and  the  balsam  steaming  benefi- 
cently close  to  her  nose.  The  cold  air 
and  the  comforting  foot-bath  made  her 
sleepy.  She  dropped  into  a  little  doze, 
and  waked  with  a  start. 

"Bet  yer '11  hev  brownkitis  ef  yer 
don't,"  he  said. 


II. 


AN    ISLAND    SORROW. 

"I  SAYS  to  him  when  I  bought  'em, 
says  I,  'I  don't  want  no  mistake  'bout 
it,  'long  ez  they  wuz  done  up  in  little 


380 


On  the   Off- Shore  Lights. 


tight  papers. '  I  told  him,  says  I,  *  I 
want  two  papers  o'  scarlet  runner  beans, ' 
says  I,  '  like  what  my  mother  used  ter 
hev, '  says  I;  I  've  lived  out  ter  the 
island  so  long  I  did  n't  know  but  what 
them  common  garding  flowers  lied  kind- 
er gone  by,  an'  I  wanted  jest  them  kind, 
an'  I  did  n't  want  no  others,  so  he 
told  me,  'There  ain't  no  mistake,'  says 
he;  '  them  's  the  ones  yer  want.' 

"Well,  I  don't  go  off' n  the  island  but 
once  in  the  spring  o'  the  year,  an'  once 
ev'ry  fall,  an'  I  'd  set  out  all  winter 
ter  hev  me  them  beans  when  I  went 
ashore,  an'  buy  'em  myself,  so  I  did, 
an'  the  baigs  hed  picters  o'  jest  the  kind 
o'  beans  they  wuz,  so  I  dunno  ter  save 
my  soul  how  it  come  ter  go  ez  it  did. 
Husband,  he  gut  the  dirt  an'  fetched  it 
'crost  in  the  dory  fer  me  ter  make  me 
my  garding  of,  an'  't  wuz  a  good  job  we 
saved  over  thet  ole  pig's  trough  thet 
come  'shore  high  water,  thet  time  the 
tide  riz  so,  an'  pile  o'  stuff  come  'crost 
thet  time  frum  folkses  dooryards  we 
wuz  real  glad  ter  git  an'  use,  same  ez 
thet  green  garding  chair  come  same  tide, 
thet  I  gut  out  now,  there,  front  the 
house.  Husband,  he  nailed  it  down 
some  ter  the  plank  walk  so  it  hain't 
never  bruk  adrift,  an'  I  set  out  there, 
consid'ble,  summers,  with  an  umbrella, 
an'  the  pig's  trough  come  same  tide. 
Husband,  he  wuz  fer  breakin'  of  it  up 
fer  firewood,  but  '  The  idea!  '  I  says, 
1  when  there 's  a  plenty  plain  wood 
comin'  ashore  the  whole  time, '  I  says, 
'  an'  't  ain't  ev'ry  day  yer  git  a  real 
nice,  handsome  pig's  trough/  says  I, 
an'  good  job  we  saved  it.  Clear  in  the 
middle  o'  the  winter  I  wuz  settin'  think- 
in'  how  we  'd  fix  to  hev  some  green  stuff 
growin'  kinder  round  the  house  so  's 
't  would  n't  wash  off'n  the  rock,  an' 
thet  pig's  trough  come  into  my  head. 
I  gut  me  a  lantern  lighted,  an'  I 
knocked  on  the  wall  fer  the  other  keep- 
er's wife,  an'  she  come  in,  an'  Mis' 
Hopkins  an'  me  we  went  ri'  down  ter 
the  boathouse  an'  looked  at  it,  where 
it  laid.  Then  she  come  in  my  side,  an' 


set  a  spell,  an'  we  hed  it  over  how  we  'd 
hev  that  flower  garding.  My  idea  wuz, 
we  'd  git  the  beans  up  fust,  jest  where 
it  laid,  so  's  ter  give  'em  a  good  start 
case  of  an  extra  bad  blow  fust  o'  June 
same  ez  sometimes  it  is.  An'  so,  thet 
spring,  when  I  fetched  the  beans  back 
an'  the  dirt  come  'crost,  we  begun  the 
garding  down  ter  the  boathouse,  her 
one  side  the  trough,  an'  me  the  other, 
an'  divided  it  in  the  middle,  an'  we  gut 
ri'  down  on  our  knees,  workin'  in  the 
dirt.  Don't  no  more  green  stuff  grow 
on  the  rock  than  out'n  the  back  yer 
hand,  an'  real  dirt  wuz  awful  good  ter 
feel  of  an'  smell  of,  an'  so  we  fixed, 
an'  dug,  an'  planned,  an'  talked,  an' 
bime-by  we  stuck  in  the  beans.  I 
dunno  to  goodness  how  it  ever  come  ter 
go  ez  it  did.  Them  beans  looked  jest 
alike,  an'  the  baigs  wuz  the  same.  It 
wuz  a  good  job  we  gut  that  garding 
agoin'  inside,  when  the  big  blow  come. 
We  'd  'a'  lost  it,  ef  we  didn't.  An' 
bime-by,  come  stiddy  weather,  hus- 
band he  an'  Mr.  Hopkins  they  hed  the 
garding  out  an'  set  it  long  ways  up  an' 
down  'tween  our  two  sets  o'  doorsteps. 
It  war  n't  more 'n  five  feet  long,  an' 
husband  an'  Mr.  Hopkins  they  drove  in 
two,  three  nails  agin  'nother  blow. 
An'  when  them  beans  really  come 
through,  I  'most  hed  a  fit !  Seems  I  'd 
'most  fergut  how  them  kind  o'  things 
did  look,a-loopin'  up  green  an'  a-liftin' 
up  them  dry  skins,  an'  keepin'  of  'em 
a  spell.  I  didn't  hardly  feel  to  part 
with  them  dry  skins,  hardly.  An* 
bime-by  them  little  plants  begun  ter 
kinder  reach  out  an'  try  ter  vine,  they 
wuz  five  come  up  each  side,  an'  Mis' 
Hopkins  an'  me  we  put  strings  to  keep 
'em  sep'ret.  Seems  they  'd  kinder  mix 
in  the  trough  ef  we  did  n't.  Well,  they 
done  well,  both  sides  of  it,  her'n  an' 
mine,  an'  bime-by  they  begun  ter  bud. 
I  dunno  ter  goodness  how  it  ever  come 
out  ez  it  did,  an'  I  wuz  real  sorry, 
'cause  I  often  said  ter  husband,  says  I, 
4  We  hain't  never  hed  a  fust  assistant's 
wife  so  easy  ter  live  with  sence  we  ben 


On  the   Off- Shore  Lights. 


381 


out  t'  the  light, '  says  I.  '  Mis'  Hop- 
kins an'  her  husband, '  says  I,  *  they  're 
both  fine  folks, '  I  says.  But  when  I 
come  out  my  door  the  mornin'  them 
beans  fust  bio  wed  a  leetle  mite,  Mis' 
Hopkins  she  come  jest  plumb  into  her 
door  past  me, an'  she  never  said  a  word. 
She  shet  her  door  right  square  in  my 
face  an'  eyes,  an'  she  never  said  a  word. 
Well,  I  wuz  some  mad  myself,  but 
thinks  says  I  ter  myself,  '  I  dunno  ez 
I  know  what  's  the  matter, '  says  I. 
Well,  I  felt  like  a  toothpick,  myself, 
but  I  kep'  on  a-lookin'  my  beans  over, 
an'  sure  's  you  live,  Mis'  Hopkins  must 
o'  thought  I  cheated.  Her'n  was  bud- 
din'  white,  an'  mine  wuz  buddin'  red. 
Seems  mother  did  hev  two  colors  o' 
scarlet  runner  beans  when  I  wuz  small. 
An'  it  come  so  sudden.  Mis'  Hopkins 
used  me  splendid  when  I  wuz  took  sick 
same  time  ez  Mr.  Hopkins  hed  his  lum- 
bago. She  'd  set  his  watch  in  the  tower 
nights,  an'  nuss  the  two  of  us  daytimes. 
But  thet  's  what  she  thought  'bout  them 
beans.  'T  war  n't  no  good  gittin'  her 
ter  hear  ter  reason.  Mr.  Hopkins  he 
says  to  husband,  says  he,  l  She  's  ez  sot 
ez  a  fence-post,'  says  he,  an'  so  she 
wuz.  Well,  I  kep'  a-goin'  over  it  in 
my  mind  all  day,  an'  then  I  done  it. 
I  crep'  out  after  dark  same  night,  wind 
blowin'  good  an'  seas  a-poundin'  so  's 
she  could  n't  'a'  possibly  heard  my  door, 
an'  I  felt  all  roun'  them  little  five 
vines  o'  mine,  an'  I  nipped  off  ev'ry 
single  bud.  Them  poor  little  doubled- 
up  blooms.  I  set  'em  in  a  bottle  o' 
water,  them  little  mites  o'  green.  I 
felt  kinder  ez  ef  somethin'  hed  hap- 
pened. That  little  garding  wouldn't 
never  be  the  same  ter  me.  Mis'  Hop- 
kins's  beans  come  mixed,  white  an' 
red,  jest  a  whole  tumblin',  spreadin' 
lot  o'  vines  an'  blooms.  But  Mis' 
Hopkins  she  hezn't  never  spoke  ter  me 
sence.  That 's  two  years  ago,  an'  the 
on'y  other  two  of  us  here  on  the  island 
jest  men,  that 's  all.  So  't  is  kinder 
lonesome,  not  hevin'  her  talk.  Thet 's 
how  she  come  ter  not  to." 


III. 

THEIR    WEDDING    DAY. 

THE  tide  was  over  the  bar.  and  the 
little  white  tower  far  from  shore  stood 
deep  in  the  rip.  The  sun  was  coming 
up  red  over  the  gray  sea  line,  and  pines 
along  the  shore  showed  black  against 
the  sky.  Sounds  of  breakfast-getting 
echoed  in  the  tower,  and  the  smell  of 
something  long  fried  rose  to  the  lan- 
tern. The  keeper  was  shouting  a  song 
as  he  worked  among  his  wicks  and  mea- 
sures and  cans  and  curtains :  — 

"  Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy, 
Hi-ti-ti. 
Hi-tiddy-i  "  — 

"Ja-y, "  a  mild  voice  called,  far 
down  below. 

"Ay!   Ay!"  he  shouted. 
"Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy, 

Hi-ti-ti." 

And  he  came  noisily  tramping  down  the 
iron  stairs,  round  and  round  the  echo- 
ing spiral  till  he  reached  the  kitchen. 

"Haul  the  table  out  little  mite," 
said  his  wife;  "hevin'  a  round  kitchen 
kinder  bothers,  some,  'bout  settin'  ter 
table.  Times  I  wisht  we  hed  a  square 
one.  You  wash  yer  face,  Ja-y.  I  gut 
buttered  toast  this  mornin'.  Doos  soak 
the  butter  consid'ble,  an'  some  says  it 's 
bad  fer  the  indigestion,  but  I  ain't  half 
so  'fraid  o'  hot  butter  ez  I  be  of  my 
death  pocket.  Thet 's  why  I  allus  seed 
my  raisins  sence  brother  died  of  it,  but 
his  wuz  a  cherry  stone,  I  b'lieve.  Some 
folks  likes  little  dried-up  toast,  an'  put 
yer  butter  on  yerself,  but  not  me.  I  'rn 
awful  glad  you  fetched  over  this  liver 
an'  sausage  yestiddy,  Ja-y.  I  love  the 
two  of  'em  together,  of  a  Sunday,  an' 
I  got  some  fresh  sponge  cake  I  made ; 
I  '11  git  right  up  an'  git  it,  an'  pump- 
kin pie,  whilst  I  'm  on  my  feet.  An' 
I  done  some  doughnuts  fer  yer  ter  eat 
in  yer  w^tch,  Ja-y." 

"Bully  fer  you!" 

"Case  o'  my  toothache;  but  I  guess 


382 


On  the   Of- Shore  Lights. 


I  '11  be  able  ter  set  up  all  right  ter-night, 
my  watch  out.  I  hain't  felt  it  jump. 
Nobody  wouldn't  know  we  come  frum 
the  Cape,  'thout  the  pie  an'  doughnuts. 
'T  is  kinder  long  ways,  ain't  it  ?  'Bout 
two  hundred  miles,  I  guess.  Ain't  so 
much  here  ter  tell  it  '&  Sunday  ez  where 
we  wuz,  bells  an'  all." 

"Ain't  no  diff'unce  between  ter-day 
an'  yestiddy  forenoon,  fur  's  I  see, "  said 
Jay,  "'thout  there's  fog  in  the  air. 
Good  gosh !  see  them  ducks !  "  he  cried, 
tipping  his  chair  to  look  out  of  the  deep- 
set  window.  "Portland  boat 's  comin' 
down,  too.  She  's  kinder  late.  Ben 
t'  the  bottom,  mebbe !  " 

"You  didn't  oughter  make  game  o' 
death,  Ja-y, "  murmured  his  wife. 

"That 's  right !  You  keep  right  on 
a-sassin'  me  an'  you  '11  git  fat  ez  a 
pollywog,  Drusy,  an'  pretty  ez  a  pic- 
ter, "  he  said  with  rough  tenderness, 
squaring  himself  with  the  table  again, 
and  looking  across  admiringly  at  his 
little  fair,  sad-eyed  wife. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  cried  suddenly, 
bringing  his  fist  down  with  a  thump  that 
shifted  the  dishes.  "Bet  yer  don't 
know  what  day  't  is !  " 

"Ain't  it  Sunday?"  his  wife  ex- 
claimed with  a  nervous  flush.  Once  she 
washed  clothes  out  at  the  light  on  Sun- 
day, mistaking  it  for  Monday. 

"Oh  yes,  it 's  Sunday,  all  right, "  her 
husband  answered,  "but  it 's  more  'n 
thet,  Drusy !  It 's  October  the  twenty- 
fith!  " 

"  W'y,  so  't  is !  I  declare !  I  dunno 
how  I  come  ter  f ergit, "  said  Drusilla. 

"Thet's  how  I  come  ter  fetch 
the  liver  an'  sausage  over  yestiddy," 
her  husband  continued  triumphantly. 
"  Ketch  a  weasel  asleep !  "  And  then, 
a  little  less  boisterously,  — 

"You  hain't  sorry  yer  merried  me, 
Drusy,  be  yer  ?  " 

"Lord,  no!      W'y,  no  indeed!  " 

"An*  come  here  ter  live?  " 

"  Oh  my,  no !  No  indeed !  I  like 
here  real  well.  I  think  it 's  real  kinder 
pretty  here,  summers." 


"'Cause  ef  yer  don't,  Drusy,  I'll 
lay  by  fer  a  noo  light,  an'  git  yer  one 
with  a  square  kitchen.  What  say  ter 
that  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  Ja-y !  Mebbe  we  '  d  git  a  lot 
worse  one  ter  live  in.  I  like  this  one 
real  well.  On'y  I  do  git  kinder  de- 
prest  when  water  gits  in  the  sullar." 

"I  '11  hev  them  damn  port-holes  fixed 
outer  my  own  pocket,  ef  the  gov'munt  's 
too  stingy, "  said  Jay  with  spirit. 

"An'  it  gits  kinder  dark,  times, 
when  we  hev  a  good  long  spell  o'  wea- 
ther. An'  wind  a-hoo-in',  an'  the  seas 
jigglin'  things  so  when  I  set  here  nights, 
an'  I  hain't  never  liked  the  fog-bell 
sence  brother  died." 

"Damn  fog's  so  thick  round  here, 
keeps  the  bell  a-goin'  out  o'  all  reason." 

"I  wuz  thinkin'  it  wuz  the  twenty- 
six,  but  I  remember  thet 's  the  way  we 
fixed  it  fust,  an'  the  minister  he  changed 
it  'cause  of  a  funeral  he  hed  a-comin' 
off  thet  time." 

"  Gol  darn  the  minister !  He  mixed 
me  up  same  way,  but  I  worked  it  all 
out  pullin'  'cross  yestiddy.  Too  darn 
smart,  thet  fellar  wuz,  fer  my  taste, 
but  he  '11  git  his  tail  pulled  one  o'  these 
days,  all  right." 

"An'  course  I  'd  kinder  like  ter  go 
ter  church,  on'y  the  bar  ain't  never  out 
long  nuff  ter  walk.  An'  thet  's  funny, 
too,  'cause  ter  home,  down  ter  the  Cape, 
the  ones  thet  lives  the  furthest  off  is 
allus  them  thet  goes." 

"Well,  Drusy,  year's  gone  quick; 
what  say?" 

"Oh  my,  yes!  Real  quick.  Iwisht 
I  liked  ter  read  books.  But  I  think  a 
lot.  Sometimes  I  wisht  I  'd  took  oil- 
paint  lessons  'fore  I  wuz  merried.  I 
could  'a'  done  lots  o'  oil-paint  fancy 
work  out  here.  Sunday  's  kind  of  a 
long  day.  Mis'  James  she  's  ben  rip- 
pin'  up  her  ole  black  dress,  two,  three 
Sundays,  over  to  Rockhaven.  I  hed  a 
letter  frum  her;  you  seen  it.  Somehow 
I  can't  feel  to,  myself.  Of  course  ef 
I  hev  a  button  come  off,  or  any  thin', 
thet 's  diff'rent.  I  often  says  ter  Mis' 


The,  New  Navy. 


383 


James  when  we  wuz  neighbors,  '  Don't 
yer  trim  you  a  hat  on  the  Sabbath ;  yer 
won't  never  like  it  ef  yer  do,'  I  says. 
She  trims  hats  real  pretty." 

"Say!  What  '11  we  do  ter  cele- 
brate ?  "  cried  her  husband  excitedly. 

"Oh  we  '11,  — well,  we  've  hed  the 
extra  breakfast,  thet  's  one,  an'  then 
we  could  —  W'y !  w'y  not  hev  three 
meals,  Ja-y  ?  " 

"Thet 's  the  idea!"  he  shouted. 
"Hev  three  meals!  Thet 's  the  idea!  " 

"  Sunday  is  so  kinder  long, "  his  wife 
said,  in  a  sorrowful  voice.  "Doos  seem 
almost  a  waste  o'  time.  I  jest  set  an' 
set  on  Sunday,  thinkin'  'bout  Monday. 
I  'm  real  glad  I  slep'  late.  Thet  takes 
off  a  lot  o'  the  time.  Oh  my,  yes, 
the  day  '11  go  real  quick  ef  we  hev  three 
meals !  An'  kinder  spin  my  work  out ! 
We  '11  hev  the  pork  steak  fer  dinner, 
an'  we'll— we  '11"  — 

"What  say  ter  openin'  a  can  o'  sweet 
stuff  fer  supper?  "  her  husband  suggest- 
ed with  great  animation. 

"W'y,  of  course!  There's  two  of 
pear,  —  you  git  up  the  pear,  Ja-y. 
Now  I  '11  be  workin'  good  piece  the  day, 
gittin'  the  meals  an'  washin'  the  dishes, 
an'  ef  we  don't  git  our  supper  till 
after  light-up,  I  kin  be  washin'  my 
dishes  good  piece  the  evenin'  whilst  I  'm 
on  watch !  'T  is  long  ter  set.  I  wisht 
I  could  feel  ter  play  tiddledy-winks, " 
she  said  wistfully.  "You  play  'em, 
Ja-y,  on  Sunday,  'cause  course  Jt  is 
Sunday  all  the  time  you  set  Sat'dy 
night,  after  I  turn  in  at  midnight." 


"Good  Lord!  I  guess  I  do,"  said 
Jay  decisively.  "I  jest  guess  I  reckon 
ter  do  more  work  an'  hev  better  fun 
Sundays  than  Mondays." 

"An'  ef  I  ever  do  crochet  a  stitch,  I 
don't  never  feel  comfortable  afterwards. 
I  can't  help  it.  I  wisht  I  could.  I 
don't  mind  livin'  here  in  the  summer 
time  the  least  mite.  I  allus  wuz  a  ter- 
rible hand  ter  git  up  early,  an'  it  's  real 
nice  an'  pleasant  here  mornin's,  sun 
comin'  up  'bout  half-past  four.  I  allus 
like  ter  lay  in  the  hammock  a  spell,  out 
on  deck,  after  I  've  gut  my  pies  in  the 
oven,  'bout  sun-up.  I  don't  fergit 
them  times.  The  tide  kinder  brims  up 
so,  an'  when  the  bar  's  under,  yer  feel 
a  long  ways  off  frum  folks,  an'  ves- 
sels movin'  'long  so  creepy,  kinder  like 
meetin'  "  — 

"All  right;  now  hang  the  rest, 
Drusy!  When  's  thet  extra  grub  com- 
in'  'long?  "  said  Jay,  rattling  his  chair 
back,  and  drawing  off  his  boots. 

"Hev  it  —  say  —  'bout  low  tide," 
she  said.  "An'  mebbe  you  kin  git  two, 
three  clams  off'n  the  bar,  fer  a  soup  fer 
supper,  mebbe,  after  you  wake  up." 

"Thet  's  the  idea!  Clam  soup,"  he 
said,  and  trolled  away  up  the  winding 
stairs  to  the  little  gray  cell  bedroom. 

"Ja-y,"  came  up  after  him. 

"Ay!  Ay!" 

"Case  I  fergit,  I  've  set  them  dough- 
nuts —  fer  night  —  yer  know  —  right 
under  the  fog-bell." 

"  Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy, 
Hi-ti-ti." 
Louise  Lyndon  Sibley. 


THE   NEW  NAVY. 


"  IN  times  of  peace,"  wrote  the  first  Ad- 
visory Board  summoned  for  a  new  navy 
by  Secretary  Hunt,  over  twenty  years 
ago,  in  its  report  November  7,  1881, 
"  ironclads  are  not  required  to  carry  on 
the  work  of  the  United  States  navy." 


"Including  the  battleships  mentioned, 
the  three  vessels  of  the  Maine  class  and 
the  five  of  the  New  Jersey  class,"  says 
that  standard  authority  Brassey's  Naval 
Annual  for  1902,  "  there  will  be  under 
construction  for  the  United  States  navy 


384 


The  New  Navy. 


during  the  present  year  no  less  than  ten 
first-class  battleships ;  a  larger  number 
than  for  any  other  navy  excluding  our 
own."  Even  the  English  navy  has  but 
three  more,  thirteen.  This  contrast  be- 
tween the  recommendation  of  a  board 
which  did  not  lack  for  ability  or  fighting 
blood  —  Admiral  John  Rodgers  was  its 
head,  and  commanders  (now  Admirals) 
R.  D.  Evans  and  A.  S.  Crowninshield 
were  members  and  signed  this  report  — 
and  the  battleship-building  now  in  pro- 
gress for  the  United  States  measures  the 
change  wrought  by  a  new  navy  which, 
when  it  was  begun,  found  us  twelfth  or 
fourteenth  among  the  world's  navies,  and 
has  made  us  fourth,  not  to  say  third,  in 
efficiency. 

In  any  nation,  this  would  be  a  mo- 
mentous change  for  the  world  and  for 
itself.  For  the  United  States,  with  its 
internal  resources  and  population,  a  coast 
line  of  some  6000  miles,  insular  posses- 
sions 12,000  miles  apart,  and  a  pledge 
to  exclude  all  foreign  interference  from 
a  territory  of  8,000,000  square  miles  and 
a  coast  line  of  19,000  miles  in  Central 
and  South  America,  an  advance  from 
an  insignificant  navy  to  one  equal  to  war 
with  any  navies  but  two,  and  to  war, 
with  a  reasonable  assurance  of  success, 
against  all  navies  but  three  or  four,  af- 
fects the  centre  of  political  gravity  in  all 
the  Seven  Seas.  Only  two  navies  are 
afloat,  Great  Britain  and  France,  which 
could  confront  the  United  States  with 
such  an  overwhelming  force  that  a  col- 
lision would  reduce  the  General  Naval 
Board  at  Washington  to  a  sole  study  of 
the  defensive  problem.  Both  these  flags 
are  united  by  so  many  ties  to  the  fortune 
and  future  of  the  republic  that  it  may 
be  doubted  if  either  enters  to-day  into 
the  imagination  of  the  American  people 
as  a  probable  or  possible  foe.  Two  na- 
vies more  there  are,  Russia  and  Germany, 
whose  force  afloat  is  so  strong  were  un- 
toward circumstances  to  break  the  un- 
broken peace  of  the  past  as  to  render  the 
issue  of  a  collision  one  about  which  no 


man  would  hastily  venture  an  opinion  as 
to  the  outcome  guided  by  considerations 
alone  of  tonnage,  armor,  engines,  and 
guns.  A  fifth  power,  Italy,  had  ten  to 
twenty  years  ago  a  powerful  navy.  It 
may  regain  its  relative  position.  At  pre- 
sent, its  ships  are  antiquated.  Three 
out  of  five  first-class  battleships  are  over 
ten  years  old,  and  all  its  second  and  third 
class  battleships  have  been  afloat  from 
seventeen  to  twenty  -  five  years.  Its 
founder,  Crispi,  in  1900,  pointed  out  that 
in  ten  years  it  had  sunk  from  seventh 
to  twelfth  place.  When  the  six  battle- 
ships launched  or  building  are  equipped, 
Italy's  navy  will  be  stronger  absolutely 
not  relatively,  for  the  progress  of  other 
larger  navies  will  be  even  more  rapid. 

No  other  navy  need  be  considered, 
though  one,  Japan,  has  already  reached 
a  point  at  which  its  force  in  its  own  wa- 
ters is  stronger  than  that  of  any  one 
navy  permanently  maintained  on  the 
same  coast.  Where  Russia  habitually 
keeps  in  Eastern  Asia  four  battleships  of 
the  size  of  the  Iowa,  10,960  tons,  and  all 
eight  years  old,  and  Great  Britain  the 
same  number  of  our  new  Maine  class, 
12,950  tons,  more  modern,  Japan  has 
now  six  battleships,  all  new  warships  and 
all  more  powerful.  What  is  true  of  bat- 
tleships is  as  true  of  cruisers  off  East- 
ern Asia.  The  Japanese  fleet  is  to-day 
stronger  than  any  one  Asiatic  squad- 
ron under  a  European  flag,  though  not 
stronger  than  any  two  combined.  When 
in  1896  the  united  Russian,  French,  and 
German  fleets  sent  their  boats  ashore  to 
prepare  for  action,  Japan  yielded,  as  it 
would  be  forced  to  yield  again.  Power- 
ful, the  Japanese  navy  is.  None  has 
made  fewer  mistakes  of  plan  or  construc- 
tion. None  averages  better,  ship  by  ship. 
It  is  well  handled.  Cruising  in  ill-chart- 
ed waters  and  for  twelve  years  making 
annual  manoeuvres,  it  is  the  only  navy 
afloat  that  in  thirty  years  has  never  had 
a  vessel  wrecked,  or  lost  a  ship  at  sea  by 
its  own  fault.  Our  navy  averages  a  ship 
lost  or  injured  every  other  year. 


The  New  Navy. 


385 


But  the  Japanese  navy  has  no  place 
in  the  world-reckoning  of  navies.  Al- 
lowing it  all  its  future  programme,  it 
will  not  for  twenty  years  to  come  have 
over  half  the  force  of  the  least  of  the 
world's  five  great  navies.  Nor  will  Italy. 
The  pace  is  beyond  the  fiscal  strength 
of  these  powers.  The  methodical  Ger- 
man programme  set  by  the  Act  of  April 
10,  1898,  gives  a  measure  that  every 
competing  nation  must  meet  or  be  left, 
hull  down.  It  provides  for  an  annual 
average  sum  for  new  construction  from 
1901  to  1916  of  $24,500,000.  Less 
than  this  means  naval  inferiority  in  an 
art  in  which  vessels  five  years  old  have 
perceptibly  lost  power,  vessels  ten  years 
old  are  outclassed,  and  those  fifteen  to 
twenty  yeajs  are  useful  only  for  con- 
voy or  in  harbor  defense  as  floating  forts. 
Admiral  Rawson  in  the  British  Channel 
mano3uvres  of  1900  found  his  flagship, 
the  Majestic,  14,900  tons,  completed  in 
1895,  hopelessly  handicapped  by  the  lim- 
ited coal  endurance  of  vessels  like  the 
Edinburgh,  9420  tons,  finished  1882,  the 
Conqueror,  6200  tons,  finished  1881, 
the  Dreadnought,  10,820  tons,  finished 
1875,  and  the  Sultan,  9290  tons,  launched 
in  1871.  Such  vessels  not  only  lack 
power  themselves,  they  hamper  stronger 
and  swifter  vessels  of  a  longer  coal  en- 
durance. They  may  bring  an  entire  fleet 
to  an  untenable  position  as  they  did  Ad- 
miral Rawson,  forced  in  these  manoau- 
vres  to  flee  from  a  fleet  no  stronger  be- 
cause the  weaker  vessels  he  had  must  be 
detached  to  coal. 

No  nation,  unless  able  and  willing  to 
spend  an  average  of  at  least  $25,000,000 
a  year  on  new  construction,  can  longer 
hold  the  sea  on  equal  terms.  Only  five 
rational  budgets,  all  over  $500,000,000 
annually,  —  Germany,  the  smallest,  was, 
ordinary  and  extraordinary,  $586,146,- 
500  for  1901,  —  can  afford  this  expendi- 
ture. Seventeen  years  ago,  Great  Britain, 

1  Numerically  taking  Japan,  the  weakest,  as 
100,  the  other  powers  on  this  basis  were  Great 
Britain,  638 ;  France,  257  ;  Russia,  188 ;  United 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  25 


leading  all  the  rest,  expended  on  hulls 
only,  in  thirteen  years,  1872-85,  $85,- 
340,065,  a  yearly  average  of  but  $6,564,- 
620,  and  France  $56,789,480,  an  annual 
average  of  but  $4,367,652.  The  total 
cost  for  new  construction  was  twice  this, 
but  the  entire  sum  spent  on  shipbuilding 
by  England  in  1884-85,  when  Egypt  and 
boundary  issues  in  Asia  had  quickened 
defense,  was  only  $19,455,000.  This 
was  for  the  world's  foremost  fleet ;  and 
Sir  Thomas  Brassey  in  a  speech  at  Ports- 
mouth in  1885,  while  Secretary  to  the 
Admiralty,  cited  this  expenditure  as 
proof  that  "  an  administration  pledged 
to  economy  "  was  determined  to  exceed 
the  French  in  ironclad  construction. 
The  maximum  annual  outlay  for  new 
construction  in  the  largest  iiavy  of  the 
world  a  score  of  years  ago  stands  to- 
day below  the  minimum  needed  to  main- 
tain a  position  in  the  world's  five  fore- 
most navies. 

Of  these  five  England  and  France 
are  in  advance  of  the  rest.  The  other 
three  would  be  differently  distributed, 
according  to  the  norm  used.  Two  years 
ago,  Mr.  J.  Holt  Schooling  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review  for  July,  1900,  in  an 
elaborate  calculation,  handicapped  the 
vessels  of  the  world's  navies  by  their 
age,  reducing  efficiency  ten  per  cent  for 
those  over  six  years  old,  and  so  on  back 
until  vessels  built  before  1880  were  rated 
at  one  fifth  their  fighting  weight.  This 
placed  the  United  States  fourth  in  battle- 
ships and  third  in  armored  and  protected 
cruisers,  while  its  navy  stood  ahead  of 
both  Germany  and  Italy,  and  therefore 
fourth  when  this  principle  was  applied  to 
the  navy  list  as  a  whole.1  If  the  world's 
battleships  are  reduced  to  terms,  let  us 
say  of  the  Indiana  or  Massachusetts,  10,- 
000  tons,  fifteen  knots  speed,  four  thir- 
teen-inch  guns,  launched  within  fifteen 
years,  the  United  States  in  1890  was 
sixth,  being  led  by  Great  Britain,  France, 

States,  165;  Germany,  134,  and  Italy,  103. 
The  United  States  would  to-day  lead  Russia, 
Japan,  and  Italy. 


386 


The  New  Navy. 


Italy,  Russia,  and  Germany.  By  1896, 
the  United  States  had  passed  Germany 
on  this  basis,  but  was  still  led  by  the  rest, 
and  by  1902,  the  United  States  has 
passed  Italy,  and  is  led  by  Russia  if  ex- 
isting, or  by  Germany  if  approaching, 
naval  strength  be  considered.  There  will 
be  a  period,  just  as  the  twelve  battleships 
and  two  armored  cruisers  building  or 
authorized  are  completed,  when  in  the 
fighting  line,  measured  by  efficiency,  the 
United  States  will  be  third ;  but  the  pe- 
riod will  be  brief  unless  our  naval  ex- 
penditure for  new  construction  is  kept  up 
to  an  inexorable  annual  average  of  from 
$25,000,000  to  $30,000,000.  This  is 
to-day  the  minimum  price  for  the  naval 
security  of  a  first-class  power,  one  of  the 
Big  Five,  whose  common  action  and  con- 
sent rule  the  world  and  make  up  a  world 
concert,  steadily  gravitating  into  three 
divisions,  Russia  and  France,  Germany 
and  Central  Europe,  England  and  the 
United  States.  In  the  last,  recent  events 
in  China  and  South  Africa  have  sudden- 
ly burdened  the  United  States  with  many 
of  the  responsibilities  and  some  of  the 
initiative  of  a  senior  partner. 

The  United  States  in  popular  Amer- 
ican discussion  is  credited  with  a  new 
place  in  the  world  because  of  its  new 
possessions.  This  is  to  mistake  cause 
and  effect.  The  United  States  owes 
both  its  new  position  and  its  new  pos- 
sessions to  the  new  fleet.  Without  that, 
it  would  have  neither.  Lacking  this,  it 
may  at  any  moment  lose  both.  Coaling 
strength  in  the  central  Pacific  —  where 
the  United  States  is  better  off  than 
Great  Britain  —  and  in  the  Gulf  and 
Caribbean,  the  new  possessions  give. 
They  give  nothing  else.  With  a  modern 
fleet  this  is  the  difference  between  a 
fleet  like  v  that  of  Germany  or  Russia, 
which  cannot  move  about  the  world  at 
will,  —  as  witness  Prince  Henry's  slow 
progress  to  China  with  the  Kaiser's 
"  Mailed  Fist  "  on  the  Brandenburg  by 
the  grace  of  British  coaling  stations,  — 
and  fleets  like  the  British,  French,  and 


American,  which  within  their  appropri- 
ate or  appropriated  sphere  have  supplies 
and  succor,  —  always  assuming  that  the 
same  wisdom  that  acquired  our  insu- 
lar possessions  and  dependency  is  wise 
enough  to  make  them  serviceable  by 
equipped  and  fortified  naval  stations. 
For  this,  allowance  is  made  in  the  esti- 
mate just  quoted. 

It  is  not  merely  that  the  American 
navy  ranks  among  the  first  world  five. 
All  lesser  fleets  have  disappeared.  There 
are  no  small  fleets  to-day.  There  were 
even  twenty  years  ago.  Two  centuries 
ago,  Holland  was  still  equal  to  an  even 
fight  with  England  in  a  contest  that 
had  endured  for  a  century,  and  might 
have  endured  longer,  but  for  the  peril 
in  which  Louis  XIV.  put  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. The  battle  of  the  Baltic  had  its 
centenary  only  last  year  ;  it  will  be  five 
years  before  that  of  the  Danish  sur- 
render to  Lord  Cathcart  and  Admiral 
Gambier  (whose  conduct  in  the  Basque 
Roads  had  its  recent  parallel  in  our  ser- 
vice), and  until  these  twin  events  Den- 
mark had  still  a  fleet  deemed  worth  de- 
stroying at  the  cost  of  an  act  of  atrocious 
bad  faith.  The  Barbary  States  had  fleets 
up  to  a  century  ago  equal  to  naval  war- 
fare. It  is  just  over  a  third  of  a  cen- 
tury since  an  Austrian  fleet  destroyed 
the  Italian  at  Lissa,  a  battle  with  the 
twin  lesson  that  ships  alone  do  not  make 
a  fighting  force,  and  that  a  naval  com- 
mander may,  like  Admiral  Tegetthoff, 
know  how  to  win  the  greatest  naval  vic- 
tory between  Navarino  and  the  Yalu, 
and  yet  so  use  his  fleet  as  to  make  its 
influence  unfelt  and  inappreciable  on  the 
general  conduct  of  the  war.  To-day, 
Austria  has  not  a  first-class  battleship  car- 
rying a  twelve-inch  gun,  and  but  two  mod- 
ern fighting  vessels  of  the  second  class 
worth  considering.  They  brought  Turkey 
to  terms.  They  would  be  feared  by  no 
other  power.  When  Secretary  Tracy 
wrote  his  first  report,  he  ranked  both 
Austria  and  Turkey  as  stronger  than  the 
United  States,  which  then  ranked  twelfth 


The  New  Navy. 


387 


in  the  list,  taking  the  mere  numerical 
strength  of  armored  vessels  and  cruisers. 
In  1877,  Turkey  had  a  fleet  which  held 
its  own  against  Russia  in  the  Black  Sea, 
and  under  a  commander  like  Hobart 
Pasha  would  have  sustained  the  tradi- 
tional reputation  of  its  flag  in  the  Le- 
vant. Since  the  Ertogrul  foundered  in 
1890  off  the  coast  of  Japan  with  a  loss 
of  547  out  of  600  men,  no  Turkish  ves- 
sel has  ventured  on  a  voyage,  though  a 
Turkish  yard  in  1898  launched  an  iron- 
clad which  was  laid  down  in  1878.  A 
London  engineering  weekly,  in  April, 
1898,  ranked  the  Spanish  fleet  above  the 
American.  Since  July,  1898,  no  such 
estimate  has  been  made.  The  Spanish 
navy  is  now  of  little  more  consequence 
than  the  fleet  its  only  great  admiral  de- 
feated at  Lepanto.  Chile,  in  1881,  had 
a  stronger  fleet  than  the  United  States. 
There  were  then  at  least  a  dozen  flags 
capable  of  giving  a  fair  account  of  them- 
selves, as  there  had  been  through  all  the 
history  of  organized  European  naval 
warfare.  So  far  as  the  reckoning  of  the 
day  goes,  they  have  disappeared.  The 
little  folk  among  the  nations  have  ceased 
to  maintain  navies.  The  fighting  force 
of  the  five  great  nations  has  become  so 
visible  and  so  calculable  that  nothing 
else  is  considered.  The  lesser  powers 
own  vessels.  They  no  longer  possess  a 
navy  in  any  proper  sense  of  the  word. 
Remembering  what  sea  power  is,  there 
is  in  the  current  development  of  civili- 
zation no  more  extraordinary,  unex- 
pected, or  unprecedented  fact  than  the 
change  in  a  quarter  of  a  century,  which 
at  its  opening  in  1875  found  many  na- 
vies, after  the  first  two,  France  and 
England,  of  fairly  comparable  force, 
where  to-day  there  are  but  five  of  the 
first  rank,  with  Japan  and  Italy  of  a  re- 
putable but  distinctly  secondary  consid- 
eration, and  the  rest  nowhere. 

When  that  first  Naval  Advisory  Board 
twenty  -  one  years  ago  considered  the 
needs  of  the  United  States,  this  country 
was  unaware  that  it  had  no  longer  before 


it  the  old  choice  of  placing  on  the  sea 
a  small  and  efficient  navy,  easily  to  be 
made  the  nucleus  of  a  larger  one  and 
ranking  high  among  secondary  navies. 
This  had  been  our  naval  policy  since 
John  Paul  Jones  first  gave  it  definition 
in  his  letter  to  the  Continental  Congress. 
The  alternative,  instead,  was  to  have  a 
navy  of  the  first  rank  or  none  at  all.  The 
fundamental  principle  of  naval  strategy, 
"  The  sea  is  never  common  territory  to 
belligerents,"  laid  down  by  Admiral 
Colomb  has  steadily  worked  itself  out 
by  the  elimination  of  lesser  navies,  while 
the  larger  tend  to  union.  France  and 
Russia,  Germany  and  Italy,  England  and 
Japan,  are  already  in  formal  alliances 
that  really  create  three  great  navies,  with 
the  United  States  as  a  fourth.  This 
was  not  only  unknown,  it  could  not  be 
known,  while  our  navy  was  first  planning. 
There  is  perhaps  in  all  our  history  no 
more  remarkable  proof  of  that  sure  and 
diffused  instinct  which  in  the  world's 
ruling  nations  leads  them,  like  a  homing 
bird,  to  where  supremacy  sits,  than  that 
after  twenty  years  of  fortuitous  action 
by  all  the  men  and  all  the  forces  which 
decide  our  naval  policy  we  find  ourselves 
with  a  navy  clearly  one  of  the  first 
five.  There  are  only  seven  navies  which 
Brassey's  or  any  other  competent  dis- 
cussion of  the  world's  naval  strength 
now  deems  worthy  of  analysis,  —  Eng- 
land, France,  Russia,  the  United  States, 
Germany,  Japan,  and  Italy.  There  is 
no  probable  combination  of  six  of  these 
navies  in  which  the  United  States  would 
not  turn  the  scale  one  way  or  the  other. 
It  is  this  unwritten  postscript  to  every 
despatch  leaving  the  State  Department 
which  is  to-day  the  simple  and  sufficient 
reason  why  for  two  years,  in  the  mo- 
mentous issues  presented  by  China  from 
Taku  to  Tientsin,  the  policy  of  the 
United  States  has  become  the  policy  of 
the  new  world  concert. 

By  that  strange  good  fortune  which  is 
the  proverbial  possession  of  the  United 
States  this  country  launched  no  vessel, 


388 


The  New  Navy. 


with  three  exceptions,  the  Miantonomoh, 
the  Terror,  and  the  Puritan,  for  twenty 
years,  from  1864  to  1884,  which  is  to- 
day on  its  effective  navy  list.  It  was  a 
period  of  transition.  Steel  was  repla- 
cing iron  in  the  hull  and  in  armor,  rifled 
ordnance  the  smooth-bore,  the  breech- 
loader the  muzzle-loader ;  the  triple  ex- 
pansion, or  to  speak  more  correctly  the 
three  stage  compound,  engine  was  repla- 
cing the  earlier  type,  to  which  in  the 
Wampanoag  we  contributed  on  the  whole 
the  costliest  and  the  most  ineffective  ever 
built.  By  the  close  of  this  period  the 
cost  of  a  vessel  per  ton  had  been  reduced 
nearly  half,  the  possible  and  expected 
speed  had  nearly  doubled,  and  the  initial 
velocity  of  a  steel-pointed  shot  a  little 
more  than  doubled.  When  war  vessels 
were  experimental,  costly,  slow,  cum- 
brous, and  possessing  an  ineffective  arma- 
ment, measured  by  modern  standards, 
we  built  none.  It  was  a  grave  risk  for  a 
great  country  to  run.  For  twenty  years 
we  were  defenseless,  with  only  the  low 
coal  capacity  of  the  armored  vessel  of  the 
day  and  a  foreign  policy  which  avoided 
assertion  or  collision,  for  the  protection 
of  American  citizens  or  the  discharge  of 
international  duties,  such  as  have  con- 
fronted us  on  the  Isthmus,  in  Samoa,  in 
Cuba,  and  in  China  since  a  navy  existed. 
It  was  a  costly  policy,  for  during  this 
period  the  United  States  had  a  naval 
establishment  but  no  naval  plant.  It 
was  in  the  position  of  a  steamship  line 
which  should  keep  up  its  force  of  officers, 
engineers,  and  seamen  and  provide  no 
steamers.  In  the  nineteen  years  be- 
tween the  close  of  the  war,  June  30, 1865, 
and  the  launch  of  the  first  vessels  of  the 
new  navy  in  1884  the  United  States 
spent,  to  accept  the  friendly  statement 
of  Mr.  B.  W.  Harris,  Representative 
from  Massachusetts,  on  the  maintenance 
of  its  navy,  $243,337,318,  and  it  had 
during  this  period  no  vessels  worthy  the 
name.  So  large  was  the  mere  cost  of 
maintaining  its  yards  and  docks  and  pro- 
viding for  their  administration  that  in 


this  period  $154,692,085  were  expended 
"  for  war  vessels  "  without  result.  The 
first  board  called  in  1881  to  consider  the 
situation  frankly  admitted  that  the  Unit- 
ed States  had  no  equipment,  public  or  pri- 
vate, equal  to  the  making  of  a  steel  vessel, 
of  armor,  or  of  high  power  ordnance. 

The  practical  result  now  is  that  the 
United  States  has  at  the  end  of  twenty 
years  a  navy  whose  construction  as  a 
whole  is  more  recent  than  that  of  any 
other  except  Japan.  All  its  vessels  have 
been  planned  and  built  after  the  present 
type  of  warship  had  been  reached.  The 
opposite  extremes  represented  by  vessels 
like  the  Italian  Duilio,  in  which  every- 
thing had  been  sacrificed  to  armor  or  ord- 
nance, and  the  Chilean  Esmeralda,  with 
all  given  over  to  speed  and  two  heavy 
guns,  had  ended  in  the  compromise  which 
for  the  last  decade  has  guided  marine  ar- 
chitecture. The  work  began  under  dif- 
ficulties. There  was  the  usual  bugbear  of 
labor,  some  seventy-seven  per  cent  high- 
er on  the  Delaware  than  on  the  Clyde. 
Material,  from  forty-five  to  forty-nine 
per  cent  of  the  cost  of  a  cruiser,  taking 
an  English  return  1  in  1881  for  guide, 
was  thirty  per  cent  higher  in  this  country 
than  in  England.  But  efficiency  makes 
up  for  all  things.  The  original  estimates 
for  a  4200-ton  cruiser  by  the  Board  of 
which  Commodore  Shufeldt  was  the  head 
calculated  the  cost  of  what  was  later  the 
Chicago  at  $1,352,000.  The  closest  com- 
parison is  with  the  Boadicea  and  Bac- 
chante, two  English  vessels  of  like  speed 
and  displacement,  though  of  lighter  arma- 
ment, whose  cost  was  $1,200,515  and 
$1,184,655  respectively.  The  actual  cost 
of  the  Chicago,  in  the  early  days  a  much 
abused  vessel,  was  $943,385.  These  are 
notable  exceptions,  but  on  the  average 
our  war  vessels  have  cost  little  if  any 
more  than  foreign  ships  measured  by 
gun-fire.  Per  ton,  our  vessels  cost  thirty- 
two  per  cent  more  than  English,  and  per 
horse  power  thirty  per  cent  more.  Into 

1  Dockyard  and  expense  account  of  the  Brit- 
ish navy  of  February  15,  1881. 


The  New  Navy. 


389 


the  tragedy  of  those  early  vessels,  which 
cost  the  solvency  of  the  firm  that  built 
them  and  the  life  of  their  builder,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  enter.  They  furnish 
one  more  illustration  of  a  fact  which  the 
public  is  slow  to  believe,  that  the  United 
States  Navy  Department  is  the  most 
rigorous  of  customers,  paying  least,  ex- 
acting most,  and  clogged  by  a  perpetual 
uncertainty  as  to  time  of  payment,  due 
to  varying  appropriations.  This  is  bal- 
anced by  a  final  certainty  of  settlement, 
unimpeachable  credit,  the  prestige  of 
government  work,  and  a  job  which  lasts 
long  and  is  not  often  pushed. 

The  work  began  slowly.  It  is  now 
clear  that  the  delays  of  Congress  were 
to  the  national  advantage.  Shipbuilding 
is  a  trade  for  whose  mastery  time  also 
is  needed.  In  August,  1882,  Congress 
reduced  the  scheme  laid  before  it  of 
sixty-eight  vessels  costing  $29,607,000 
to  two  costing  $3,202,000.  Begun  un- 
der the  firm  belief  in  cruisers  as  the  chief 
need  of  the  United  States,  —  a  tradition 
due  not  to  facts  but  to  the  way  in  which 
the  history  of  the  War  of  1812  has  been 
written,  —  for  ten  years  the  navy  had  no- 
thing but  cruisers.  It  is  nineteen  years 
since  the  keel  of  the  first  cruiser  was 
laid.  It  is  only  eleven  since  the  lines  of 
the  first  battleship  were  laid  down  in  the 
moulding-room.  In  1892,  ten  years  af- 
ter Congress  had  passed  the  first  appro- 
priation for  a  new  navy,  nothing  but 
cruisers  were  in  commission  save  the 
Monterey  and  Miantonomoh,  one  new 
and  the  other  a  reequipped  monitor. 
Neither  the  New  York  nor  Brooklyn, 
armored  sea-going  vessels,  was  ready  for 
sea.  The  four  battleships,  Iowa,  In- 
diana, Massachusetts,  and  Oregon,  or- 
dered were  not  half  done.  The  navy  in 
being  still  consisted  even  ten  years  ago 
of  nine  cruisers,  five  gunboats,  and  a 
schoolship.  The  work  has  been  cumula- 
tive. From  1881  to  1885  (Arthur)  five 
cruisers  and  three  gunboats  were  author- 
ized ;  in  the  next  four  years,  1885-89 
(Cleveland),  two  battleships  (counting 


the  Maine  and  Texas  in  this  class),  one 
armored  cruiser,  nine  cruisers,  and  four 
gunboats ;  1889-93  (Harrison),  four  bat- 
tleships, one  armored  cruiser,  and  two  pro- 
tected cruisers;  1893-97  (Cleveland), 
five  battleships  and  seven  gunboats ; 
1897-1902  (McKinley  and  Roosevelt), 
twelve  battleships,  two  armored  cruisers, 
six  protected  cruisers,  and  two  gunboats. 
The  succession  is  plain.  First  a  fleet  of 
cruisers,  next  armored  vessels,  and  then 
in  the  past  five  years  battleships  and 
armored  cruisers  to  supplement  and  com- 
plete the  fleet  already  built.  The  dis- 
covery of  some  way  to  see  in  a  submarine 
boat  will  instantly  relegate  this  fleet  to 
the  place  now  held  by  wooden  vessels. 
So  long  as  the  submarine  pilot  is  blind 
in  spite  of  a  periscope  and  other  devices, 
this  new  craft  is  in  its  experimental  stage. 
He  would  be  rash  who  predicted  it  would 
stay  thus.  Such  as  it  is,  the  United  States 
has  as  good  a  model  in  the  Holland  as 
any,  even  in  France.  The  water-tube 
boiler  this  country  was  slow  to  adopt.  So 
also  with  smokeless  powder.  But  it  has 
in  the  end  adopted  both.  At  other  points, 
its  vessels  have  for  ten  years  equaled  any. 
In  torpedo  boats,  it  has  been  slow  and 
right  in  being  slow. 

As  to  the  relative  size  of  the  new 
navy,  mere  lists  of  vessels  built  tell  little. 
Even  tonnage  launched  means  little  to 
the  lay  reader.  Still,  tonnage  is  a  rela- 
tive measure.  Brassey,  1902,  gives  the 
total  tonnage  of  the  United  States  navy 
as  close  as  may  be  at  the  opening  of  the 
year,  built  and  building,  at  476,739  tons. 
The  English  navy  is  1,898,470  tons,  the 
French  695,698  tons,  the  Russian  515,- 
318  tons,  the  German  401,525  tons,  the 
Italian  288,885  tons,  and  the  Japanese 
218,117  tons.  But  the  broad  difference 
in  efficiency  is  that  the  tonnage  of  all 
other  nations  except  Japan  extends  over 
thirty  years.  Of  our  new  navy  only  7863 
tons  were  built  before  1889,  or  adding 
the  monitors  27,065  ;  and  only  62,695, 
less  than  a  seventh,  about  an  eighth,  be- 
fore 1893.  Over  four  fifths  of  the  navy 


390 


The  New  Navy. 


is  the  work  of  the  last  ten  years.  On 
the  other  hand,  one  half  the  Italian  navy 
is  over  sixteen  years  old,  nearly  one  third 
the  English  and  French,  one  fifth  the  Rus- 
sian, and  one  sixth  the  German  against  a 
seventeenth  of  the  American.  It  would 
be  an  equal  error  to  assume  that  these  old 
vessels  are  worthless,  or  to  fail  to  see  that 
they  reduce  the  efficiency  of  a  squadron. 
Valuable  for  home  defense  and  for  much 
service,  they  have  no  such  relative  worth 
as  their  tonnage  indicates.  A  navy  all 
whose  vessels  are  of  one  period,  purpose, 
and  plan  has  indefinable  advantages  not 
easily  estimated  in  manoeuvres,  in  han- 
dling, in  supplies,  in  ammunition,  and  in 
the  greater  familiarity  with  their  new  sur- 
roundings of  officers  as  they  shift  from 
vessel  to  vessel.  No  man  can  foot  or  tab- 
ulate this ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  incon- 
testable, and  it  might,  like  the  relatively 
uniform  size  and  mano3uvring  of  Nel- 
son's fleet  at  Trafalgar,  render  possible  a 
concerted  attack,  for  which  vessels  built 
thirty  years  apart  would  be  unequal. 

Launched«as  they  are  within  a  little  over 
a  decade,  though  designed  over  a  longer 
span,  —  nearly  all  have  been  from  eight 
to  thirty-six  months  longer  in  building 
than  English  vessels,  a  grievous  loss,  — 
the  American  fleet  has  a  distinct  type 
beyond  any  other  afloat.  Mobility,  va- 
riety, handiness,  and  a  wide  range  of 
experiment  kept  short  of  freaks  mark 
the  British  navy.  The  French  has  car- 
ried to  an  extreme  armor  and  superstruc- 
ture. Since  the  terrible  year  defense  has 
seized  on  France  like  an  obsession.  The 
German  battleship  has  hitherto  been 
marked  by  a  narrow  coal  capacity.  The 
Italian  has  forced  gun-fire,  and  been 
plainly  affected  by  the  quieter  Italian 
seas,  which  permit  a  heavier  weight 
above  the  water  line.  A  spruce,  swift 
efficiency  is  the  note  of  a  Japanese  ship. 
The  Russian  fleet  is  eclectic,  and  singu- 
larly lacking,  as  is  curiously  enough  the 
Russian  church  and  cathedral,  in  defi- 
nite and  homogeneous  outline.  It  is  full 
of  crank  experiments.  Rash  experiment 


might  a  priori  have  been  anticipated  in 
American  vessels.  Sacrifice  to  extreme 
speed  would  have  been  predicted  by  most 
as  likely  to  be  our  temptation.  A  na- 
tional desire  to  have  the  "  biggest," 
"  fastest,"  or  "  most  powerfully  gunned" 
vessel  "  in  the  world  "  might  have  been 
confidently  expected  to  influence  our 
marine  designs.  None  of  this  has  been. 
Now  and  then  an  American  cruiser  has 
"  broken  the  record,"  but  not  for  long. 
Much  is  said  in  superlative  terms  of  our 
war  vessels  by  those  not  experts.  Great 
builders  disdain  the  advertising  of  news- 
paper headlines  as  little  as  any  men 
with  wares  to  sell  and  all  the  world  for  a 
market.  The  few  who  are  guided,  not 
by  claims,  but  by  a  patient  comparison 
of  navy  lists,  know  that  the  note  of  our 
American  men-of-war  is  a  keen  modera- 
tion and  a  clear  knowledge  that  for  all- 
round  efficiency,  balance  is  more  than 
bounce.  Our  battleships  have  been  from 
2000  to  4000  tons  short  of  the  extreme 
of  foreign  navies.  The  last  authorized 
are  limited  to  16,000  tons  where  larger 
are  now  planned  abroad.  In  speed,  our 
fighting-craft  have  been  deliberately  de- 
signed some  two  knots  slower.  We  built 
for  sixteen  knots  when  other  nations 
were  seeking  eighteen  and  are  launching 
vessels  of  eighteen  knots  —  taking  the 
records  as  they  go,  when  others  are  seek- 
ing twenty.  In  armor,  we  have  kept 
short  of  the  French  and  Italian  extreme. 
Our  tendency  is  toward  a  twelve-inch  gun 
instead  of  thirteen  or  more,  and  our  last 
cruisers  of  the  Essex  class  follow  the 
English  example  in  an  armament  of  six- 
inch  guns  only. 

It  is  a  tradition  of  the  American  navy 
to  over-gun.  Our  frigates  a  century  ago 
carried  the  guns  of  a  ship  of  the  line,  and 
our  sloops  the  guns  of  a  frigate,  —  a  cir- 
cumstance omitted  by  most  American, 
and  noted  by  most  English,  historians  of 
the  War  of  1812.  The  four  battleships 
at  Santiago  carried  on  a  displacement  of 
10,000  to  11,000  tons  the  armor  and  the 
four  twelve  or  thirteen  inch  guns  which 


The  New  Navy. 


391 


English  designers  have  mounted  on  ves- 
sels of  the  Resolution  class  of  13,000  tons, 
though  no  more  than  the  Nile  and  the 
Howe  carry  on  the  same  tonnage.  Our 
early  gunboats  were  furnished  with  the 
ordnance  of  cruisers,  and  went  through 
some  queer  and  trying  hours  and  "  mo- 
ments "  in  consequence.  At  least  one 
cruiser  had  her  military  masts  reduced  in 
height  and  number  to  keep  her  stable 
with  the  armament  of  a  small  battleship 
behind  her  sponsons.  Throughout  our 
navy,  the  old  American  tradition  of  gun- 
fire has  however  been  retained.  This  has 
had  its  perils.  They  have  been  surmount- 
ed. Stability  is  not  only  to  be  secured 
by  a  safe  metacentric  height  —  that  is,  a 
centre  of  mass  above  the  centre  of  gravity 
—  but  by  lines.  Skill  in  the  latter  has 
made  up  for  lack  in  the  former.  The 
early  designs  were  criticised.  Daring, 
they  were.  Experience  has  shown  that 
our  battleships  combine,  to  a  degree  which 
wins  admiration  in  proportion  to  one's 
knowledge,  safety  for  the  vessel,  stability 
for  the  gun-platform,  and  the  wise  use  of 
the  last  ounce  of  displacement  to  gain  ar- 
mor and  guns  well  above  the  water  line. 
Shaved  close,  we  have  in  these  things, 
but  after  the  American  fashion,  just  in- 
side of  the  line  of  safety.  The  Amer- 
ican, after  all,  has  always  seemed  more 
risky  to  others  than  to  himself,  for  an- 
other man's  risk  is  only  the  American's 
knowledge.  For  our  policy  in  speed  less 
is  to  be  said.  Speed  with  steam  is  all 
that  the  weather-gauge  once  was,  and 
with  occasional  exceptions  like  our  much 
bepraised  and  comparatively  useless 
"  commerce  destroyers  "  —  already  out- 
dated —  our  battleships  and  our  cruisers 
are  year  by  year  short,  tested  by  speed 
abroad.  Russia  counted  on  and  got  in 
the  Varyag  and  Retvizan  more  speed 
than  our  vessels  from  the  same  yard  had. 
But  this  also  is  a  part  of  the  moderation 
of  our  naval  designers  who  sought  ef- 
ficiency rather  than  spectacular  achieve- 
ment. Something  in  the  comparison  is, 
of  course,  due  to  our  speed  trials  being 


more  severe.  The  English  and  Conti- 
nental speed  test  is  a  mile  in  smooth  wa- 
ter, over  whose  familiar  stretch  a  vessel 
speeds  with  forced  draught,  picked  coal, 
trying  it  again  and  again,  often  with  sev- 
eral breakdowns,  until  a  fancy  record  is 
won.  The  American  speed  test  is  for 
forty  miles  in  blue  water,  unsheltered, 
with  service  coal  and  service  conditions. 
Failure  from  a  break  in  machinery  has 
been  most  rare.  The  allowance  this  dif- 
ference calls  for  no  one  can  give.  It  ex- 
ists and  modifies  comparison.  I  confess 
to  a  sneaking  fondness  for  sheer  speed. 
If  our  fleet  is  ever  engaged  in  some  long 
chase,  such  as  Villeneuve  led  Nelson,  we 
shall  gnash  our  teeth  over  every  missing 
knot.  But  the  plea  for  the  policy  of  our 
navy  is  strong.  Excessive  speed  can 
be  purchased  only  at  the  sacrifice  of  coal 
capacity  and  guns.  Of  all  qualities,  it 
•  deteriorates  most  rapidly.  An  eighteen- 
knot  vessel  falls  off  to  twelve  —  while  a 
sixteen-knot  cruiser  can  be  kept  to  four- 
teen or  even  sixteen.  The  Oregon  in  her 
matchless  voyage  around  South  America 
under  Admiral  Clark,  the  one  supreme 
feat  of  the  war,  averaged  eleven  knots, 
attaining  14.55  on  one  run  of  nine  hours, 
far  nearer  its  trial  trip  of  16.7  knots  than 
is  likely  with  the  Centurion,  begun  in 
the  same  year,  of  the  same  tonnage, 
and  18.25  knots.  This  extra  1.55  knots 
too  is  gained  by  putting  on  four  ten- 
inch  instead  of  four  thirteen-inch  guns, 
and  reducing  the  coal  supply  from 
1940  tons  in  the  Oregon  to  1240  for  the 
Centurion.  Enough  is  known  to  render 
it  at  least  probable,  that  while  the  trial 
speed  of  our  vessels  is  in  general  less, 
their  service  speed,  after  five  years'  use, 
is  relatively  higher  than  with  English  or 
Continental  craft  of  higher  trial  speed. 
In  any  case,  the  engines  of  a  war  vessel 
deteriorate  far  more  rapidly  than  those 
of  a  "  record-breaking  "  liner.  They  are 
less  carefully  tended.  They  are  not 
overhauled  by  a  shore  crew  of  engineers 
at  each  voyage.  They  are  not  kept  in 
the  same  condition.  One  trembles  to 


392 


The  New  Navy. 


think  what  would  be  the  result  of  a  speed 
trial  of  the  Columbia  or  Minneapolis 
to-day.  Taking  all  things  into  consid- 
eration, while  the  tactical  plea  is  all  for 
high  speed,  it  may  be  that  here,  as  else- 
where, the  refusal  of  our  designers  to  go 
to  extremes  may  have  given  better  re- 
sults than  have  been  attained  from  en- 
gines with  an  indicated  horse  power 
keyed  to  eighteen  knots  twenty  years 
ago,  twenty  knots  ten  years  ago,  and 
twenty-two  knots  or  more  now. 

The  American  battleship  or  the  Ameri- 
can cruiser  is  therefore,  more  than  any 
other,  a  balance  between  extremes,  —  of 
moderate  size,  eschewing  extreme  speed, 
of  great  power,  of  unusual  stability,  and 
of  low  but  safe  metacentric  height,  seek- 
ing an  all-round  fire  and  great  weight 
of  metal  with  a  high  muzzle  velocity 
and  diversified  battery,  but  without  guns 
of  abnormal  calibre  or  inordinate  thick-  * 
ness  of  armor,  —  all  limited  by  the  shal- 
low entrance  of  our  harbors,  which  fixes 
the  best  draught  at  under  twenty-five 
feet ;  though  our  later  vessels  reach  the 
English  limit  of  twenty-seven  feet  and  an 
inch  or  two.  No  small  share  of  this  even 
balance  of  size,  gun  power,  and  speed, 
which  make  our  navy  list  read  like  a 
homogeneous  whole,  is  due  to  the  coun- 
sel, the  wisdom,  the  ability,  and  the  ex- 
perience of  the  one  man  connected  with 
the  growth  of  our  new  navy  who  laid 
down  the  vessels  of  the  Civil  War,  yet 
whose  active  life  as  a  shipbuilder  spans 
the  whole  growth  of  modern  naval  con- 
struction—  Charles  H.  Cramp. 

Naval  warfare  from  Salamis  down 
has  been  an  issue  of  men  and  not  of 
ships.  China  and  Spain  have  in  the 
last  decade  again  reminded  all  the  world 
that  the  strength  of  a  navy  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  tonnage,  armor,  or  guns. 
Each  on  this  total  was  stronger  than 
the  opponent  of  each.  Our  fecund  fac- 
ulty has  coined  into  a  proverb  our  con- 
fidence in  the  "men  behind  the  guns." 
Their  excellence  is  accepted  as  an  Ameri- 
can attribute.  But  the  enrapturing  suc- 


cess with  which  that  new  complex  ma- 
chine, a  modern  battleship  or  cruiser, 
was  first  used  in  civilized  warfare  in 
1898  was  due  not  merely  to  the  Ameri- 
can birth  of  its  officers,  but  to  their 
special  training.  No  nation  provides  a 
longer  course  of  study  in  preparation  for 
a  naval  career,  or  requires  more  assidu- 
ous attention  to  technical  study  from 
men  on  active  duty.  Our  midshipmen 
begin  with  four  years'  more  schooling 
than  the  English  middies,  and  are  kept 
studying  two  years  longer.  The  Eng- 
lish "  gunnery,"  "  ordnance,"  or  "  elec- 
trical "  lieutenant  implies  a  man  the  mas- 
ter of  one  special  field,  where  our  offi- 
cers are  expected  to  be  trained  in  all 
fields.  Only  the  Russians  approach  us 
in  special  training,  and  only  the  Germans 
in  the  years  of  patient  study.  Any  man 
who  has  visited  the  ships  of  more  than 
one  flag  is  aware  that  it  is  under  our 
own  alone  that  every  officer  seems  able 
to  answer  all  questions.  American  pub- 
lic opinion  does  not  usually  lay  stress 
on  special  training.  Adaptability  is  the 
national  feat  and  foible,  but  in  our  navy 
we  have  carried  to  its  last  limit  the  ap- 
plication of  early  and  special  prepara- 
tion. Drawn  from  no  class  and  demo- 
cratic in  original  selection,  —  for  while 
we  have  what  are  called  "  naval  fami- 
lies," our  naval  heroes  in  each  genera- 
tion have  a  way  of  coming  from  the 
American  mass,  —  the  Naval  Academy 
has  for  sixty  years  created  the  spirit  and 
transmitted  the  tradition  of  an  order.  It 
colors  the  navy  far  more  completely  than 
West  Point  the  army.  No  service  makes 
it  more  difficult  to  rise  from  before  the 
mast.  Much  may  be  said  for  the  pro- 
motion to  a  commission  of  warrant  offi- 
cers, the  highest  point  to  which  a  seaman 
can  rise,  but  the  real  issue  is  not  whether 
the  promoted  seaman  is  not  as  good  a 
man  as  the  men  in  the  messroom  he  joins, 
but  whether  it  is  possible  at  thirty  to  make 
an  officer  the  equal  to  officers  whose  mak- 
ing began  at  fifteen.  Yet  in  order  to 
improve  the  level  of  men  enlisting  as 


The  New  Navy. 


393 


seamen,  it  is  well  that  promotion  should 
be  in  theory  possible  ;  in  fact  difficult. 

The  national  legislature  of  a  country 
which  beyond  any  other  has  required 
trained  naval  officers,  after  increasing  its 
navy,  refuses  to  increase  its  officers.  In 
1896  they  were  715.  In  1901  there  were 
only  728,  after  the  tonnage  of  the  navy 
built  and  building  had  been  doubled. 
The  English  navy  in  the  same  period  of 
rapid  naval  expansion  increased  its  offi- 
cers from  1728  to  2085,  Russia  from 
859  to  1096,  and  Germany  from  723  to 
974.  The  last  nation,  with  wise  previ- 
sion, increases  its  personnel  with  its 
ships,  provides  for  twenty  years  to  come 
an  average  annual  addition  of  sixty  offi- 
cers and  1743  men,  and  will  never  build 
a  ship,  though  it  lays  down  three  large 
vessels  a  year  for  sixteen  years  to  come, 
for  which  it  has  not  already  provided 
the  officers  and  men.  Congress,  instead 
of  doubling  the  supply  of  officers,  has 
added  only  one  hundred  new  appoint- 
ments at  Annapolis,  giving  an  average  of 
sixteen  more  new  officers  yearly  to  sixty- 
five  now  graduated.  Our  total  strength, 
officers  and  seamen,  which  was  13,460  in 
1895,  has  been  advanced  to  25,000  by 
the  last  naval  appropriation  bill,  but  it  re- 
mains 5000  short  of  that  of  Germany,  14,- 
000  short  of  that  of  Russia,  and  just  equal 
to  the  weaker  navies  of  Italy  and  Japan. 

This  illustrates  the  one  weak  point  in 
the  public  management  of  our  navy.  It 
was  long  since  pointed  out  by  a  great 
English  authority  that  it  was  our  tenden- 
cy to  emphasize  in  our  battleships  gun 
power  which  could  be  talked  about,  and 
to  forget  factors  as  important  and  less 
visible  to  the  vulgar.  For  battleships  it 
has  proved  easy  to  win  appropriations. 
But  the  modern  navy  has  three  factors 
for  success,  ships,  officers  with  men  (par- 
ticularly officers),  and  equipment.  Ships 
have  been  built  as  rapidly  as  needed. 
Officers  are  still  inadequate  in  number. 
There  remains  the  swarm  of  subsidiary 
naval  aids,  coaling  stations,  dockyards, 


f 

material,  and  a  distributed  store  of  am- 
munition. How  scant  this  last  was  in 
the  spring  of  1898  will  not  be  known 
for  a  generation.  Two  ships  went  into 
one  of  the  two  actions  of  the  war  with 
eighty -five  rounds  or  so  per  five -inch 
gun  when  they  should  have  had  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five.  Some  thirty-five 
rounds  won  the  fight.  Suppose  they  had 
not  ?  Without  fortified  bases  in  the  West 
Indies,  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  and  in 
the  Philippines,  and  all  needs  of  war  on 
hand  at  home,  our  fleet  at  the  critical 
moment  may  be  like  a  boiler  without 
steam.  This  third  need  Congress  and 
Parliament  both  fail  to  meet. 

Naval  policy  is  dictated  by  national 
needs.  England  must  preserve  a  fleet 
equal  to  any  two  in  Europe,  and  now  has 
it.  France  can  never  fall  behind  the 
joint  power  of  the  Triple  Alliance,  or  be 
unequal  to  a  defensive  English  campaign. 
Italy  seeks  to  equal  and  often  surpasses 
the  French  Mediterranean  squadron. 
Germany  once  had  a  navy  for  defense. 
Its  naval  plan  looks  in  twenty  years  to 
equal  the  existing  English  fleet  by  pro- 
viding four  squadrons  of  eight  battle- 
ships each,  two  for  foreign  service,  and 
two  for  reserve.  The  United  States  a 
decade  ago  looked  on  eighteen  battle- 
ships as  a  sufficient  complement.  This 
provided  squadrons  for  the  Atlantic,  the 
Gulf,  and  the  Pacific.  Our  needs  face 
a  larger  problem.  Pledged  to  protect 
the  Western  World  against  aggression, 
our  force  now  and  twenty  years  hence 
must  be  large  enough  to  meet  any  power 
likely  to  desire  colonies  in  South  or  Cen- 
tral America.  But  the  instinct  which 
without  a  plan  has  placed  the  United 
States  fourth  among  naval  powers  should 
keep  this  station  at  all  costs.  To  keep  it, 
the  United  States  must  add  to  its  nine- 
teen first-class  battleships  as  many  more 
in  the  next  sixteen  years,  or  two  by  each 
Congress.  If  this  is  done,  the  United 
States  will  never  have  to  resort  to  force 
to  support  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 

Talcott  Williams. 


394 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DARKNESS. 


WHEN  the  melancholy  old  factory 
bell  had  started  beating  out  the  call  for 
another  day  of  work,  and  the  still  drowsy 
operatives,  trooping  from  the  tenement 
blocks  into  the  half  light  of  a  dull  blue 
November  morning,  came  shuffling  si- 
lently along  the  damp  sidewalks  toward 
the  factory  gate,  it  began  to  be  known 
that  a  man  had  been  found  dead  in  the 
Irish  tenements.  Later  they  heard  his 
name.  It  was  Jerry  the  Priest.  The 
oddest  of  all  the  odd  forms  of  the  fac- 
tory town  —  the  wretch  who  would  have 
been  a  priest  —  would  be  seen  no  more 
upon  their  streets.  Never  again  would 
the  children  follow  him  as  he  wandered 
down  the  sidewalk,  a  wavering,  uncer- 
tain collection  of  rusty  black  clothes,  or 
the  boys  jeer  him  from  the  street  cor- 
ners, or  the  young  girls  turn  and  call 
their  shrill  taunts  after  him.  He  had 
shuffled  into  the  dingy  door  of  his  fa- 
ther's tenement,  and  disappeared  for- 
ever. 

Old  Bart  Sullivan  had  waked  at  the 
earliest  rising  bell  and  stepped  unstead- 
ily out  into  the  living-room  of  the  ten- 
ement. The  place  was  sick  with  the 
odor  of  a  burnt-out  lamp.  By  the  first 
slaty  light  of  the  early  morning  from 
the  windows  he  had  seen  the  dark  fig- 
ure of  his  son,  fallen  face  downward  on 
his  arms  on  the  white  oilcloth-covered 
table.  He  was  not  drunk  this  time, 
but  dead.  His  hands  and  face  were  al- 
ready cold.  Beside  him  on  the  table 
lay  a  little  empty  vial. 

In  the  Polish  section  men  die  as  they 
have  lived,  like  animals;  in  the  French 
quarters  dying  is  a  passing  event.  But 
here,  in  the  crowded  Irish  tenements, 
where  life  seems  so  sordid  and  monoto- 
nous and  commonplace,  death  arrives  in 
all  its  majesty  and  terror  and  impres- 
siveness.  In  the  mind  of  the  Irish  pea- 
santry, huddled  together  in  this  little 
space,  the  most  solemn  ceremonials  of 


their  ancient  church,  the  half -heathen 
customs  of  a  warlike  and  passionate 
past,  —  the  wake,  the  candles,  the  semi- 
barbaric  wailing  of  the  women,  tradi- 
tions sent  down  in  the  blood  from  the 
childhood  of  the  race,  —  all  cluster 
about  the  end  of  life,  and  demand  an 
honorable  death  for  every  individual, 
no  matter  how  valueless  his  living. 

Old  Bart  Sullivan  tottered  down  the 
street  to  the  undertaker's,  muttering  to 
himself.  He  was  arguing  against  what 
they  had  told  him  at  the  house,  —  that 
an  official  must  be  called  in  before  the 
boy  could  be  buried,  a  doctor  required 
by  law,  who  should  decide  whether  his 
boy  had  committed  suicide.  But  every 
one  could  see  at  a  glance  it  had  all  been 
accidental.  What  was  the  use  of  such 
fooling  ? 

The  undertaker  sat  lolling  back  in  his 
chair  when  the  old  man  entered.  He 
was  a  tall,  slender  Irishman,  dressed  in 
the  perennial  garments  of  his  profes- 
sion, —  a  long,  limp,  black  Prince  Al- 
bert coat,  left  unbuttoned  and  hanging 
loosely  from  his  shoulders,  and  a  soiled 
and  carelessly  tied  white  lawn  tie.  Be- 
neath his  coat-skirts,  after  the  manner 
of  a  person  partly  dressed  for  a  masquer- 
ade, showed  his  coarse  brown  striped 
trousers  and  a  pair  of  light  yellow 
shoes. 

"I  've  come  to  get  you  to  bury  the 
bye,"  said  the  caller  monotonously. 
"He  died  this  mornin'  from  takin* 
poison." 

"They  was  just  tellin'  me,  Bart," 
said  the  undertaker  sympathetically. 
"I  'm  sorry  for  you.  It 's  hard  for 
yourself  and  the  wife." 

"It  is.  He  was  a  good,  koind  bye. 
We  '11  be  wantin'  you  to  give  him  a 
good  funeral.  Will  you  come  right 
over  ?  "  asked  the  father,  a  little  anx- 
iously. 

"Yes;   I'll  be  there  later." 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


395 


"What 's  the  rayson  you  can't  come 
now  ?  "  asked  the  old  man  suspiciously. 

"We  '11  have  to  wait  for  the  medical 
examiner,  you  know." 

"What 's  this  about  a  midical  exam- 
iner? What  must  we  be  waitin'  for 
him  for  ?  " 

"So  's  to  be  sure  he  did  n't  kill  him- 
self." 

"Kill  himself!  "  repeated  the  father 
excitedly.  "Who's  been  tellin'  you 
he's  killed  himself?" 

"Nobody  has.  Only  the  examiner  's 
got  to  see  him.  It 's  the  law." 

"  Kill  himself  ?"  argued  the  other. 
"  Why  should  he  kill  himself,  —  a  young 
mon  loike  thot  ?  You  know  better  than 
thot,  Dan  Healey." 

At  last,  after  the  undertaker  had 
repeatedly  explained  the  matter,  he 
went  away,  still  muttering  to  himself. 
He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  he 
returned. 

"I  've  always  been  good  f rinds  with 
ye,  Dan  Healey  " 

"You  have." 

"  Yis,  and  yer  father  before  ye.  I  've 
known  ye,  Dan,  since  ye  was  a  little 
lod,  no  higher  than  me  knee.  If  the 
mon  should  ask  ye, "  he  pleaded,  "ye  '11 
say  a  good  word  for  us.  Ye  '11  tell  him 
he  didn't  kill  himself,  won't  ye,  now? 
'T  is  all  foolishness,  ye  know  thot. 
Ye  '11  say  so,  won't  ye,  Dan?  " 

"I  will,"  said  the  undertaker. 
He  stood  in  his  doorway  as  the  in- 
firm figure  shuffled  away.  Across  on 
the  outer  edge  of  the  sidewalk  was  Tim 
Mahoney,  the  tall,  angular  town  police- 
man, lazily  twirling  his  stick. 

"The  old  man  takes  it  hard,"  volun- 
teered the  officer. 

The  undertaker  nodded.  The  two 
men  watched  the  old  figure  passing 
slowly  down  the  street. 

"  I  saw  Jerry  last  night, "  announced 
the  policeman.  "I  was  just  comin'  on 
the  beat  at  twelve  o'clock,  when  he  come 
pokin'  up  the  street.  I  says  to  meself 
then,  *  We  '11  be  haulin'  you  out  o'  the 
canal  one  of  these  nights,  me  boy. '  ' 


"You  don't  think  he  killed  himself, 
do  you?  "  asked  the  undertaker. 

"No,  I  guess  'twas  accidental,  all 
right.  I  was  down  there  this  mornin', 
and  I  guess  prob'ly  he  took  it  by  mis- 
take." 

"He  was  a  queer  boy,  Jerry." 

"You  're  right,  he  was.  To  see  him 
comin'  up  the  street,  mumblin'  that 
Latin  stuff  to  himself,  you  'd  think  he 
wasn't  in  his  senses." 

"But  really,  if  you  'd  speak  to  him, 
he  was  all  right.  He  'd  been  a  smart 
feller  if  he  could  only  'a'  left  it  alone." 

"When  you  think  about  it,  he  did 
have  a  kind  of  look  like  a  priest,  after 
all." 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Kind  o'  silent  and  dignified  like, 
in  spite  of  everything.  He  could  n't 
ever  give  the  idea  of  it  up,  either.  You 
remember  when  he  first  come  back,  dis- 
graced for  life,  you  might  say,  he  must 
get  a  job  at  Father  Murphy's  just  so  's 
to  be  near  the  church.  Then,  after  that, 
they  had  him  in  the  church  as  janitor 
till  that  night  he  got  drunk  and  come 
near  bio  win'  up  the  steam  heatin'  boiler, 
and  they  had  to  let  him  go.  Ever  since 
then  he  's  been  try  in'  to  get  the  job 
again,  just  the  same.  And  every  Sun- 
day mornin'  and  evenin'  you  'd  see 
him  goin'  to  church.  Along  toward  the 
last  of  it,  specially,  you  'd  never  go 
there  but  you  'd  see  him  sittin'  there  in 
one  of  the  back  seats.  He  was  a  good, 
pious  feller  when  he  was  sober.  And 
they  say  he  could  read  Latin  like  a 
priest." 

"That 's  what  he  , could;  and  speak 
it,  too.  I  've  seen  him  down  to  Ash's 
gettin'  it  off  in  great  shape.  The  gang 
down  there  used  to  get  him  to  give  it 
to  'em  for  the  beer.  He  'd  do  anything 
you  'd  ask  him  for.  a  drink.  I  remem- 
ber one  time  they  had  him  goin'  through 
the  mass  for  'em.  You  must  'a'  heard 
of  it.  'T  was  along  in  the  evenin',  and 
they  was  all  of  'em  pretty  well  loaded. 
They  had  him  dressed  up  in  one  of  them 
oilcloth  covers  for  a  billiard  table,  and 


396 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


given  him  one  of  them  patent  beer  bot- 
tles for  a  censer,  and  he  was  swingin' 
that  and  goin'  through  it  in  great  shape. 
Just  then  Father  Murphy  goes  along  by 
the  door  and  sees  him.  Say,  you  ought 
to  been  there  that  time.  He  don't  wait 
a  minute ;  he  walks  right  into  the  place 
and  hauls  the  cover  off  him  right  there. 
Say,  but  he  was  fierce.  And  it  was  that 
next  Sunday  "  — 

"Here  he  comes  now,"  said  the  un- 
dertaker. "I  '11  bet  he  's  goin'  down 
there." 

The  two  men  went  silent  as  the  portly 
figure  of  the  priest  approached .  "  Good- 
mornin',  sir,"  they  said,  touching  their 
hats  reverently  as  he  passed  composedly 
along. 

"He's  a  strict  man,"  said  the  po- 
liceman, when  the  clergyman  was  out 
of  hearing.  "If  he  made  up  his  mind 
'twas  a  suicide,  the  old  man  won't  be 
havin'  his  funeral." 

"Well,  I  '11  be  goin'  along  up  to  the 
station,"  he  continued,  with  a  yawn. 
"It 's  time  I  was  gettin'  to  bed." 

The  medical  examiner  himself  was 
away;  the  active,  sharp-faced  young 
physician  who  took  his  place  got  the  call 
for  the  case  just  before  his  breakfast. 
He  ate  his  meal  leisurely,  then  jumped 
into  his  waiting  buggy,  and  drove  brisk- 
ly toward  the  factory  town.  Within 
half  an  hour  more  he  stopped  at  the 
police  station  beneath  the  town  hall, 
and  entered  the  black  walnut  railing  of 
the  inclosure  of  the  chief  of  police. 

"Good-mornin',  doctor,"  said  the 
official,  rising. 

"  (roo^-morning.  You  've  got  a  sui- 
cide case  here,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Suicide  or  accident ;  they  think  now 
it  was  an  accident." 

"How'd  it  happen?" 

"Well,  it  seems  this  feller,  Jerry 
Sullivan,  come  along  late  last  night  af- 
ter the  saloons  closed,  with  more  or  less 
drink  in  him,  and  this  mornin',  when 
the  family  got  up,  they  found  him  dead 
in  the  kitchen,  lyin'  up  against  the  ta- 


ble. He  must  'a'  taken  this  poison  at 
night  and  died  there.  But  not  one  of 
'em  heard  a  thing  all  night.  Now,  the 
way  they  say  it  happened  is  like  this : 
here  were  two  bottles  on  a  shelf,  — 
one  of  'em  he  had  to  gargle  his  throat 
with,  and  the  other  was  some  poison  for 
a  cat.  And  as  far  's  they  can  see,  he 
just  reached  up  when  he  was  a  little 
muddled  with  drink  and  got  the  wrong 
bottle.  I  had  a  man  see  the  druggist 
where  he  got  the  stuff,  and  he  says  he 
sold  it  to  him  three  days  ago.  So,  if 
he  'd  really  meant  to  kill  himself,  he  'd 
done  it  before  he  did.  That 's  the  way 
we  look  at  it." 

"  What  was  he,  a  laboring  man  ?  " 

"No,  one  of  these  fellers  'round 
town.  Half  the  time  we  'd  have  him 
here  for  drunkenness,  and  the  other  half 
he  'd  be  hangin'  'round  Tim  Ash's 
place.  Jerry  the  Priest,  they  called 
him.  You  must  have  seen  him  'round 
here,  —  a  little,  thin  feller,  with  a 
black  derby  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
and  his  chin  down  into  his  coat-collar ; 
walked  kind  of  loose  and  bent  over,  a 
feller  about  thirty-five,  I  should  say. 
They  trained  him  first  for  the  priest- 
hood, and  then  he  took  to  drinkin',  and 
ever  since  then  he  's  been  hangin'  'round 
here  makin'  trouble  for  us.  He  was 
quite  high  educated,  too.  He  knew  his 
Latin  as  well  as  anybody.  When  he 
was  down  at  the  jail  they  say  he  used 
to  help  the  jailer's  daughter  with  her 
lessons  right  along." 

The  doctor  started  to  go. 

"  When  you  go  along  down, "  said  the 
chief,  having  directed  him,  "you  might 
stop  at  Healey's,  the  undertaker.  He 
knows  the  family  pretty  well ;  he  might 
tell  you  something  more  about  it." 

The  undertaker,  standing  in  front  of 
his  place,  greeted  the  physician  with 
indolent  deference.  He  had  little  to 
add  to  the  circumstances. 

"I  guess  it  was  accidental,"  he  said. 
"Everybody  seems  to  think  so.  But 
even  if  there  was  a  little  chance  of  it, 
I  'd  give  'em  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


397 


They  're  pretty  good  clean  kind  of  peo- 
ple, and  that  thing  means  a  good  deal 
to  us  Catholics,  you  know." 

The  young  doctor  did  not  know,  but 
he  did  not  consider  it  worth  while  to 
say  so.  He  nodded  and  drove  on. 

As  he  approached  the  tenement  of 
Bart  Sullivan  two  small  boys  were  play- 
ing before  it. 

"  Come  on  away  from  here,  Jimmy, " 
the  older  one  was  saying;  "there's  a 
feller  dead  in  there.  We  must  n't  play 
here  to-day." 

"Who  's  dead  ?  "  asked  the  other  lag- 
ging behind. 

"Jerry  the  Priest;  he's  took  poi- 
son." 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  the  younger  one 
blankly. 

"He 'skilled  himself." 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  him,"  added 
the  elder  in  a  hoarse  and  instructive 
whisper,  "if  he  really  meant  to.  He 
won't  never  go  to  heaven.  That 's 
what  my  mother  says.  Oh,  here  's  the 
doctor  that's  come  to  see  him  now," 
he  said,  looking  up  and  scampering  to- 
ward the  curbstone. 

The  two  dirty  children,  forgetting 
their  awe-stricken  consideration  of  the 
suicide's  fate,  stood  absorbed  in  the 
magnificence  of  the  shining  Goddard 
and  the  sleek-haunched  bay  while  the 
doctor  alighted. 

As  the  physician  approached  the  ten- 
ement there  was  the  sound  of  some  one 
leaving  inside  the  doorway. 

"Very  well,  if  it  is  as  you  say, "  said 
an  imperative  voice,  "there  will  be  no 
trouble  about  it.  Good-morning." 

"  God  bliss  you,  your  riverence, "  said 
another  voice. 

A  large  man,  with  a  broad,  severe 
face,  dressed  in  the  neat  black  garments 
of  the  priest,  appeared  in  the  doorway 
of  the  sordid  hall,  and  walked  deliber- 
ately down  the  outside  steps  of  the 
block. 

He  accosted  the  doctor  with  urbane 
politeness.  "Are  you  the  medical 
examiner,  sir  ?  " 


"I  'm  acting  as  such  to-day." 

"Oh  yes."  He  paused  a  minute. 
"  Well,  sir,  I  am  the  priest  of  this  par- 
ish. I  'm  pleased  to  meet  you,  sir.  In 
regard  to  the  case  of  this  young  man 
here,  there  is  some  reason  to  believe  he 
has  taken  his  own  life  intentionally. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined  to 
think  his  death  was  accidental.  Now, 
will  you  do  me  a  favor,  sir?  When 
you  make  your  decision,  will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  leave  it  with  Mr.  Healey, 
the  undertaker,  as  you  're  going  by  ?  It 
would  be  a  great  accommodation.  You 
will?  Thank  you  very  much,  sir. 
Good-morning. " 

The  priest  waved  his  hand  in  a  dig- 
nified gesture  of  farewell,  and  passed 
on;  the  doctor  entered  the  tenement. 

A  slight  old  man  with  a  small  and 
patient  face  and  a  pleasant-featured  girl 
greeted  him  at  the  door.  Beyond, 
ranged  stiffly  along  the  wall,  were  three 
large  women  with  shawls  about  their 
heads. 

"I  am  the  medical  examiner,"  the 
doctor  stated  simply. 

"  Oh,  sor,  will  ye  be  sated, "  said  the 
man,  with  the  deep  and  instinctive 
courtesy  of  the  Irish  peasant.  "Norah, 
take  the  gintleman's  hat." 

The  shawled  women  rose  together  and 
silently  and  awkwardly  filed  out  of  the 
room. 

"You  're  come  to  see  the  bye,  I  sup-' 
pose,  sor, "  said  the  old  man  when  they 
were  gone.  "Ah,  he  was  a  foine  bye, 
doctor.  Always  koind  and  plisant  to 
his  mother  and  me.  Ah,  sor,  and  the 
learnin'  and  education  of  him.  This 
accidint  thot  's  killed  him  's  a  bitter 
blow  for  us." 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened." 

"You  see,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  sor, 
the  bye  was  a  drinkin'  mon.  'Twas 
somethin'  thot  come  on  him,  sor,  and 
he  could  n't  help.  But  last  noight  he  'd 
been  havin'  more  'n  he  should.  And 
whin  he  come  home,  here  stood  the  two 
bottles  on  the  shelf,  —  wan  of  them  was 
something  he  'd  been  takin'  for  his 


398 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


throat,  sor,  and  the  other  was  some- 
thin'  he  'd  got  to  kill  a  cat  we  had. 
And  I  suppose,  sor,  bein'  muddled  with 
the  drink,  and  bein'  in  the  dark  so,  he 
takes  from  the  wrong  bottle;  and  we 
never  hears  from  him  till  we  finds  him 
in  the  mornin',  lyin'  there  with  his 
face  to  the  tayble." 

"Did  he  ever  speak  of  killing  him- 
self?" 

"Why  should  he  spake  of  it,  sor,  if 
he  niver  felt  loike  it." 

"Then  you  don't  think  he  could  pos- 
sibly have  meant  to  take  it  ?  " 

"To  kill  himself,  ye  mane?  Aw, 
no,  sor,  what  rayson  would  he  have  to 
do  thot  ?  He  was  young  and  strong  and 
full  of  loife  loike  yerself .  You  would  n't 
be  wantin'  to  kill  yerself,  would  ye? 
True  for  you,  ye  would  not.  'Twas 
the  same  with  him,  sor.  How  old 
will  you  be,  sor?  Thirty- wan?  Ah, 
now  think  of  thot.  Ye  're  both  the 
same  age.  Ah,  yer  father  and  mother 
are  after  bein'  proud  of  ye,  sor.  Ye 
know  thot,  yerself.  'Twas  the  same 
way  with  us. 

"The  bye  was  a  grand  student; 
'twas  in  him,  sor.  He  had  an  oncle 
in  the  old  country  thot  was  a  praste  be- 
fore him.  From  the  toime  he  was  a 
little  lod,  he  had  the  look  of  the  praste 
on  him.  He  was  so  quiet  and  dignified 
loike.  So  thin  we  sint  him  to  school 
to  study  for  the  prastehood.  Ah,  sor, 
we  was  thot  proud  of  him.  Whin  he  'd 
come  home  from  the  school  with  his 
black  suit  and  his  foine  hat,  he  was  the 
admiraytion  and  invy  of  ivery  wan  in 
the  tiniments.  There  was  others  had 
their  byes  study  in'  to  be  lawyers  and 
tachers,  and  the  loike  of  thot,  but  none 
thot  would  be  study  in'  for  the  praste- 
hood. And  thin,  sor,  he  took  to  the 
drink,  as  -I  told  ye,  and  they  had  to 
sind  him  home.  But  whin  he  come 
back,  sor,  still  he  was  the  same  —  al- 
ways radin'  and  recitin'  in  the  Latin, 
loike  the  rale  prastes  at  the  altar.  He 
niver  gave  up  all  hopes  of  it. 

"Ye  're  a  scholar,  yerself,  sor.      I 


want  to  show  ye  somethin'  so  ye  '11  see 
for  yerself."  The  old  man,  rummaging 
around  in  his  pockets,  produced  a  piece 
of  cheap,  coarse,  blue-lined  letter  paper. 
"  Here  it  is,  sor, "  he  said,  handing  it 
to  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  father!  "  said  the  girl,  rising 
quickly  from  her  chair. 

"Oh,  don't  be  fussin',  Norah;  lit 
the  doctor  rade  it.  Maybe  he  might 
till  us  what  it  says. 

"Ye  see,  sor,"  he  continued,  with 
a  childish  pride,  "we  found  this  on  the 
tayble  by  him.  'T  is  somethin'  he  would 
be  writin'  whin  the  shtuff  overcome  him. 
Ye  see,  sor,  what  a  scholar  he  was. 
'Tis  in  Latin  he  wrote  it." 

Across  the  top  of  the  soiled  and 
crumpled  paper,  sprawled  in  the  large 
and  broken  hand  of  a  man  shaken  with 
dissipation  and  despair,  ran  the  writer's 
farewell,  the  last  hoarse  cry  of  a  ruined 
life:  — 

"Miserere  mei,  Deus,  miserere  mei: 
quoniam  in  te  confidit  anima  mea." 

The  doctor,  reading  it,  knitted  his 
brows  and  hesitated  before  he  spoke. 

"What  does  it  say,  sor?  "  asked  the 
old  man. 

"It  means  something  like  this: 
(  Have  mercy  on  me,  O  God,  have  mercy 
on  me :  for  my  soul  trusteth  in  thee.*  " 

The  quick-witted  Irish  girl,  catching 
its  significance  immediately,  bent  down 
and  started  sobbing,  with  her  face  hid- 
den in  her  apron.  Her  father  stood 
dazed. 

"Would  ye  be  so  koind,  sor,  as  to 
say  thot  again  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  doctor  did  so. 

"I  think  I  see,  sor,"  said  the  father 
at  last.  "It  manes  he  took  the  shtuff 
on  purpose.  And  I  showed  ye  the  pa- 
per, meself !  " 

"I  suppose,  sor,"  he  went  on,  after 
a  strained  silence,  "you  '11  have  to  be 
reportin'  thot  he  killed  himself?  " 

The  physician  nodded. 

"But  after  all,  sor,"  argued  the 
other,  rallying  a  little  from  the  blow, 
"it  don't  prove  it,  does  it?  Ye  can't 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


399 


tell,  sor.  He  might  have  been  only 
writin',  just  as  any  other  man  —  just 
for  practice,  sor." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,  sor,  but  even  if  it  did, "  plead- 
ed the  other,  "why  must  you  rayport 
it?  What  difference  does  it  make  to 
you,  sor?  " 

The  young  doctor  started  to  get  up. 

"Ah,  sor,  wan  moment  —  sit  down 
just  wan  moment.  We  '11  not  be  askin' 
you  to  do  anything  you  can't  rightly 
do ;  we  '11  not  be  wantin'  you  to  be  act- 
in'  dishonorable  to  your  duty.  But  ye 
can't  be  goin'  to  lave  us  this  way,  sor. 
Think  of  the  bye,  just  your  own  age. 
Ye  know  how  your  own  mother  'd  feel 
with  you  a  suicide,  and  your  grave  in 
The  Place  of  Darkness." 

"The  place  of  darkness?  " 

"And  sure  and  you  '11  know  of  thot  ?  " 

"You  '11  forgive  my  father, "  said  the 
girl;  "he  forgets  you  're  not  Irish  like 
himself.  'T  is  the  unconsecrated  ground 
he  manes,  sor,  — the  part  that  's  just 
beyond  the  holy  ground  in  the  cimetry. 
It 's  there  they  bury  the  lost,  sor,  —  the 
poor  little  children  that  was  never  bap- 
tized, and  them  that  left  the  holy  church 
while  livin',  and  them  that  killed  them- 
selves. The  place  of  darkness  they  call 
it.  For  them  that  '11  be  laid  there  will 
niver  see  the  light.  It  '11  be  only  dark- 
ness for  them  forever,  sor.  For  they  '11 
be  buried  in  their  sins." 

"T  is  a  pitiful  place,  sor, "  broke  in 
the  old  man,  "behint  a  little  hill,  —  a 
poor,  dismal  place,  without  gravestones 
mostly,  or  ony  of  the  dacincies  of  dyin' ; 
nothin'  but  the  drear  graves  of  the  lit- 
tle small  children,  and  the  poor  did 
souls  thot  '11  niver  be  at  rist." 

"'T  is  specially  hard  for  my  mother, 
sor." 

"Ah,  sor,  't  would  not  be  so  bad  but 
for  thot.  Years  ago,  whin  we  were  first 
in  this  country,  our  little  baaby  died,  just 
wan  or  two  days  after  it  was  born.  And 
she  bein'  sick  and  me  foolish,  'twas 
niver  baptized,  and  they  put  it  there. 
Ah,  sor,  she  's  niver  forgot  thot  day. 


"  And  thin  the  bye  came,  —  a  f oine, 
bright  lod  he  was.  From  the  first  she 
was  plannin'  for  him.  She  'd  niver  be 
satisfied  till  she  saw  him  a  praste,  say- 
in'  the  mass  at  the  altar.  She  would 
be  workin'  for  him  all  the  wake  and 
pray  in'  for  him  all  the  Sundays.  And 
now  he  's  lyin'  there,  and  they  '11  be  put- 
tin'  him  beside  the  baaby  —  and  't  will 
kill  her,  unliss  —  unliss  you  '11  help  us, 
sor." 

The  young  doctor,  with  the  weight 
of  his  delegated  duty  heavy  upon  him, 
rose  abruptly  from  his  chair. 

"You  ought  not  to  have  shown  me 
this,"  he  said. 

"I  know  it,  sor.  'T  is  all  my  fault. 
But  now  it 's  done,  sor,  can't  you  help 
us  ?  It 's  for  the  wife  I  ask  it." 

"It  'd  break  her  heart,  sor,"  broke 
in  the  girl. 

"She  's  in  there  with  the  bye,  now," 
continued  the  old  man,  "sittin'  in  a 
daze  loike.  She  don't  understand  really 
what  killed  him.  If  you  don't  rayport 
it,  sor,  she  '11  niver  know." 

"Ah,  doctor,"  sobbed  the  daughter, 
"'tis  disgrace  and  dishonor  and  sor- 
row for  us,  ye  hold  in  yer  hand.  De- 
stroy it,  sor,  for  the  love  of  God." 

"The  woife  is  old  and  fayble,  now; 
she  's  worked  herself  to  dith  for  the  bye, 
sor.  Ye  won't  rayport  it,  sor;  ye '11 
say  ye  won't?  " 

"God  bliss  you,  sor,"  said  the  girl, 
"you  couldn't  do  it;  you  couldn't  do 
it." 

"Has  any  one  but  me  seen  the  pa- 
per? "  asked  the  doctor  in  a  dry  voice. 

"No,  sor,"  said  both  eagerly. 

"Before  I  do  anything  I  must  see 
him, "  said  the  physician. 

He  passed  out  into  the  other  room. 
An  old  woman,  seamed  and  bent,  gro- 
tesquely ugly  even  in  her  grief,  rocked 
to  and  fro  by  the  body  of  her  son. 

The  examiner  gazed  a  moment  at  the 
dead  face ;  the  cause  of  death  was  writ- 
ten plainly  there.  Then  he  returned 
into  the  other  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 


400 


The  Place  of  Darkness. 


He  stood  silent  for  a  moment  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  then  reached  his 
hand  out  toward  the  girl. 

"  Here  is  the  paper, "  he  said  abrupt- 
ly; "destroy  it." 

She  took  it  eagerly  and  went  into  the 
other  room ;  in  a  few  moments  she  re- 
appeared. 

"What  did  you  do  with  it  ?  "  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  burned  it  up,  sor,  in  the  kitchen 
foire;  it 's  destroyed  entirely." 

"  All  this, "  said  the  physician  im- 
pressively, "must  never  go  outside  this 
room." 

"No,  sor,  niver, "  both  answered 
earnestly. 

"And  not  one  word  about  this  paper 
—  ever." 

"Niver  wan  word,  sor;  so  God  hilp 
us." 

The  visitor  started  to  go. 

"And  you  '11  not  rayport  it?  "  fal- 
tered the  old  man,  making  himself 
doubly  sure. 

"No." 

"  God  bliss  you,  sor ;  God  bliss  you ; 
God  bliss  you." 

The  girl,  relieved  of  the  strain,  broke 
out  again  into  hysterical  weeping;  the 
old  man  caught  eagerly  at  the  doctor's 
hand. 

He  drew  it  away,  hurried  down  the 
stairs,  and  drove  quickly  from  the  place, 
— -from  the  sight  of  the  mute  old  man 
in  the  doorway  and  the  rosette  of  cheap 
crape  beside  him  and  the  weeping  of  the 
girl  inside.  When  he  passed  the  un- 
dertaker's he  signaled  for  him  to  come 
out. 

"I  've  given  them  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,"  he  said  sharply.  "Tell  the 
priest  I  think  it 's  all  right.  Good- 
day." 

On  his  way  home  he  noticed  he  was 
passing  by  the  Catholic  cemetery. 
Urged  by  a  sombre  curiosity  he  drove 
inside.  Before  him,  across  an  open 
space,  lay  the  great  democracy  of  the 
dead,  —  a  few  ugly,  pretentious  granite 
monuments  in  front,  but  behind  them, 


in  thick-sown  squares,  the  simple  rest- 
ing places  of  the  common  people. 

Beyond  these,  on  the  brow  of  a  little 
declivity,  white  wooden  crosses  stretched 
their  appealing  arms  over  the  graves 
of  the  very  poor.  Over  their  surface, 
irregularly  disposed,  appeared  thick 
glasses,  and  broken  pitchers,  bowls  and 
saucers  of  coarse  white  ware,  full  of 
withered  remembrances  of  flowers ;  and 
occasionally  a  glass  crucifix,  leaning  up 
against  the  wooden  head-board,  —  the 
crude,  cheap  offerings  of  poverty  living 
to  poverty  dead. 

From  here  the  side-hill  dropped  down 
to  a  damp  corner  of  a  little  piece  of 
woods.  It  was  "The  Place  of  Dark- 
ness." Halfway  down  the  barren  slope 
huddled  in  a  little  colony  the  outcasts 
of  heaven  and  of  earth,  —  poor,  pa- 
thetic little  graves  of  unnamed  chil- 
dren, so  small  as  scarcely  to  be  seen; 
and  beside  and  above  them  the  great 
uncouth  mounds  of  the  unknown  and 
wretched  dead,  who  had  outraged  the 
kindness  of  God  beyond  forgiveness. 
No  grass  or  flower  had  been  planted 
in  this  place ;  only  the  melancholy  suc- 
cession of  mounds  appeared,  with  the 
naked  earth  upon  them  pitted  and  chan- 
neled and  broken  with  the  rain.  There 
were  no  tokens  of  remembrance  for  these 
dead.  At  head  and  feet  was  their  only 
claim  to  individual  memory,  — two 
wooden  pegs  stereotyped  with  a  number. 
Over  all  the  neglected  place  —  the  great 
graves  and  the  small  —  brooded  the  mo- 
notony of  hopelessness  and  the  terror 
of  a  nameless  death.  Only,  at  the 
further  end  of  the  lines,  one  little 
mound  of  the  fresh,  yellow  soil  had 
been  raised,  evidently  since  the  morn- 
ing, and  patted  into  an  odd  regularity 
with  the  spade,  and  at  its  top  lay  a 
meagre  bunch  of  violets. 

As  he  turned  to  go,  his  eye  swept 
again  across  the  resting  places  of  the 
more  fortunate  dead,  —  the  well-re- 
membered grounds,  the  flowers  on  the 
graves,  the  tiny  flags  above  the  soldiers, 
the  host  of  little  marble  stones  with 


The  Highlands,    Cape   Cod.  401 

their  chiseled    hopes    of    immortality,  fearful  vision  of  the  living.      He  felt 

Here  was  peace  and  honor  and  hope,  the  influence  himself.      What  a  place 

He  turned  once  more  to  look  down  on  for  a  despairing  woman   to   leave  her 

the  unconsecrated  hillside,  —  there,  dis-  dead  ! 

honor  and  remorse    and    hopelessness.  He    called    to    his   horse   and  drove 

The  wicked  and  unfortunate  must  not  along.      As  he  passed  slowly  down  the 

be  punished  in  their  life  alone.      Here  sandy  road,    musing  on  the  events  of 

the  great,    inscrutable,    irresistible  re-  the  morning  and  the  part  he  had  taken 

ligious  power  reached   out  beyond  the  in  them,  he  nodded  in  silent  self-ap- 

close  of  life  and  visited  its  judgments  proval.      Then     he     straightened     up, 

of  banishment  and  terror  and  despair  tucked  the  lap-robe  around  him,   and 

upon    the    offending    dead    before    the  drove  sharply  toward  his  office. 

George  Kibbe  Turner. 


THE    HIGHLANDS,    CAPE    COD. 

CROUCHED,  tiger-wise,   above  the  centuries'   prey 
Of  ships  and  men,    of  merchantry  and  pelf, 
It  lures  and  broods  beneath  its  sandy  shelf 
This  piteous  wreckage,    crumbling  to  decay. 
It  sweeps  the  sea  with  sullen,   half-mad  eye 
Dreaming  of  thundering  waves  and  shrieking  sky 
And  ships  that  shattered  at  its  feet  shall  lie 
Rent  by  the  storm,    as  merciless  as  itself. 

The  shore  rang  loud  with  flood- tide  yesternoon; 
And  I,    who  plodded  in  the  heat  and  glare 
Chanced  on  this  piece  of  silver,    lying  bare 
Upon  the  wimpling  sands  beneath  the  dune. 
Square-shapen,    battered,    still  it  bore  full  plain 
The  three  Herculean  pillars  of  old  Spain, 
And  straightway,    working  magic  in  my  brain 
The  passing  trade-ships  melted  into  air; 

Vanished  the  noon-tide  —  in  the  afterglow 

Of  purpling  sunset,    jeweled  with  a  star, 

Glided  a  caravel,    with  gleaming  spar, 

The  carven  prow  advancing  sure  and  slow. 

The  captain's  warning  tones  rang  loud  and  clear; 

Paled,    as  he  gazed,    the  roystering  buccaneer; 

The  swart,    rude  sailors  crossed  themselves  in  fear, 

And  quaking,    murmured,    "Dios!   Malabar!" 

Annie  Weld  Edson  Macy. 
VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539.  26 


402 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for  Children. 


WHAT  PUBLIC  LIBRARIES  ARE  DOING  FOR  CHILDREN. 


THE  present  may  be  called  an  age  of 
child  -  study.  Certainly  never  before 
were  the  needs  of  children  receiving 
such  conscientious  attention,  and  yet 
only  recently  has  the  public  library 
awakened  to  its  responsibilities  in  this 
direction.  A  hundred  and  sixty  years 
ago  no  books  were  written  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  children ;  only  fifty 
years  ago  the  first  public,  tax- supported 
library  in  the  United  States  was  found- 
ed in  Boston;  and  less  than  a  dozen 
years  ago  was  opened  the  first  children's 
room  in  a  public  library.  To-day  ju- 
venile books  flow  from  the  press  in 
a  bewildering  flood,  while  more  than 
five  thousand  public  libraries  are  scat- 
tered through  the  land,  and  most  of  the 
largest  of  these,  together  with  several 
of  the  smaller  ones,  have  within  the 
last  decade  established  special  depart- 
ments for  children,  —  often  implying 
one  or  more  commodious  rooms  devoted 
to  their  use,  and  a  staff  of  librarians  es- 
pecially trained  to  care  for  their  needs. 
So  rapid  has  been  this  development  of 
work  with  children,  and  so  considerable 
is  the  expenditure  of  time  and  money 
for  the  purpose,  that  the  public  may 
pertinently  ask  what  has  already  been 
accomplished,  and  what  amelioration 
is  so  much  effort  likely  to  effect. 

One  of  the  first  to  emphasize  the  im- 
portance of  this  branch  of  library  work 
was  Mr.  Charles  Francis  Adams,  Jr., 
who,  in  an  address  to  the  teachers  of 
Quincy,  impressed  on  them  the  danger 
of  teaching  children  how  to  read  and 
not  what  to  read,  and  the  consequent 
desirability  of  introducing  pupils  to  lit- 
erature through  the  use  of  library  books 
in  connection  with  their  lessons. 
Shortly  afterwards,  in  1879,  systematic 
cooperation  between  the  public  library 
and  the  schools  was  instituted  at  Worces- 
ter, Massachusetts.  The  librarian,  Mr. 
S.  S.  Green,  allowed  each  teacher  to 


borrow,  besides  half  a  dozen  volumes 
for  her  own  intellectual  improvement, 
a  much  larger  number  of  books  for  use 
by  her  pupils  in  school  or  at  home ;  and 
through  these  privileges  the  teachers 
secured  in  profusion  whatever  books 
they  needed  to  supplement  textbooks 
and  illustrate  topics  of  study,  —  geo- 
graphy and  history,  of  course,  being  par- 
ticularly susceptible  of  such  treatment. 

A  general  adoption  of  new  methods 
of  teaching  led  the  schools  elsewhere  to 
require  like  aid  from  the  libraries,  and 
as  a  result  it  is  not  uncommon  for  pub- 
lic schools  to  be  liberally  supplied  with 
library  books,  which  in  some  cases  are 
selected  and  borrowed  by  the  teacher, 
as  in  Worcester;  while  in  other  in- 
stances large  collections  numbering  per- 
haps two  or  three  hundred  volumes  are 
sent  from  the  library,  and  placed  in  the 
school  or  classroom  for  six  months  or 
a  year,  to  be  used  as  school  libraries. 

The  avidity  with  which  even  the  most 
ignorant  children  seize  such  opportuni- 
ties for  reading  I  have  seen  strikingly 
illustrated  in  the  poorest  quarter  of  a 
populous  city.  In  that  experiment  the 
pupils  of  a  large  grammar  school  were 
given  library  cards,  and  the  library 
wagon  twice  a  week  delivered  the  books 
asked  for  by  the  children.  Twenty- 
three  different  nationalities,  the  teacher 
told  me,  were  represented.  American 
children  there  were  none,  and  few  Eng- 
lish or  Irish;  but  Italians,  German 
Jews,  Poles,  Greeks,  Hungarians,  Rus- 
sians, and  Armenians  predominated. 
Some  of  the  pupils,  on  entering  the 
school,  were  unable  to  speak  English, 
and  by  the  time  of  graduation  could 
read  only  very  simple  books.  Yet  a 
few  months  after  the  delivery  was  be- 
gun, those  children  were  drawing  —  and 
presumably  reading  —  one  hundred,  two 
hundred,  sometimes  even  three  and  four 
hundred  volumes  a  week. 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for   Children. 


403 


A  glimpse  of  work  similar  to  this, 
which  is  being  carried  on  in  most  of  our 
large  cities,  furnishes  convincing  proof 
of  children's  receptivity  of  good  liter- 
v  ature.  In  Buffalo,  for  instance,  Mr. 
H.  L.  Elmendorf,  the  librarian  of  the 
Public  Library,  characterizes  the  dis- 
tribution of  books  through  the  schools 
as  "  the  best  work  the  library  is  doing, " 
and  his  report  shows  that  the  school 
circulation  in  that  city  last  year  reached 
the  astonishingly  large  figure  of  233,- 
102  volumes. 

From  the  beginning,  the  books  thus 
supplied  to  schools  were  not  restricted 
to  serious  works  or  to  those  for  use  sim- 
ply in  connection  with  lessons.  But 
good  literature  of  all  sorts,  including 
fiction,  reached  the  pupils;  and  as  a 
not  uncommon  library  regulation  ten  or 
fifteen  years  ago  prohibited  the  borrow- 
ing of  books  by  children  under  fourteen 
years  of  age,  distribution  through  the 
schools  early  became  an  effective  means, 
sometimes  the  only  means,  of  furnish- 
ing books  to  children  too  young  to  hold 
library  cards,  and  yet  old  enough  to  be- 
come eager  and  profitable  readers. 

But  notwithstanding  the  benefits,  the 
introduction  of  these  methods  was  not 
without  drawbacks.  For  frequently  the 
knowledge  necessary  to  choose  books 
adapted  to  young  children  was  lacking, 
—  as  in  the  case  of  the  teacher  who 
sent  for  Ibsen's  A  Doll's  House  under 
the  impression  that  it  was  suitable  for  a 
little  girl  of  doll-age.  Then  again,  as 
has  been  justly  remarked,  teachers  were 
not  in  the  habit  of  regarding  themselves 
as  members  of  the  leisure  class;  and 
they  might  ask,  very  pertinently,  grant- 
ing the  importance  of  good  reading  in 
broadening  and  stimulating  the  youthful 
mind,  and  its  immense  influence  in 
forming  the  child's  ideals,  why  should 
the  library  shirk  its  function  and  shift 
the  burden  upon  the  school  department  ? 

To  this  question  the  library  trustee 
could  give  no  satisfactory  reply,  and 
the  logical  result  was  a  very  general 
lowering  of  the  age  limit  for  holding 


library  cards.  In  fact,  there  is  now  a 
growing  tendency  to  make  no  restric- 
tion of  this  sort  whatever,  and  to  grant 
a  card  to  any  child  able  to  read. 

It  would,  however,  be  the  height  of 
folly  to  turn  young  people  loose  with 
unrestricted  access  to  "books  many  of. 
which  are  entirely  unsuited  to  child- 
hood ;  and  to  select  a  library  with  a ' 
view  to  giving  children  absolutely  equal 
privileges  with  adults  would  result  in 
rendering  it  valueless  to  the  latter.  In- 
deed, due  consideration  for  older  read- 
ers should  prevent  the  thronging  of  the 
delivery  desk  with  the  hordes  of  young- 
sters who  sometimes  compose  from  a 
third  to  a  half  of  the  library  clientage ; 
for,  after  all,  the  first  duty  of  a  library 
is  to  the  adult,  and  its  efforts  for  the 
child  look  not  solely  to  the  child's  im- 
mediate good,  but  to  the  necessity  of 
fitting  him  to  profit  by  the  use  of  the 
library  in  later  years.  The  natural  so- 
lution, therefore,  was  the  establishment 
of  the  children's  department,  either  in 
a  separate  room  or  in  a  railed-off  space 
in  the  main  hall  of  the  library. 

The  first  reading-room  devoted  exclu- 
sively to  children,  so  far  as  I  know,  was 
opened  by  the  Public  Library  of  Brook- 
line  in  1890.  In  the  larger  libraries 
the  children's  department  is  now  almost 
always  placed  in  a  separate  room  with 
special  attendants;  and  even  in  the 
smaller  buildings  which  are  springing 
up  all  over  the  country  as  the  fruit  of 
generous  benefactions  the  plans  usually 
allot  ample  space  for  this  purpose. 

On  entering  one  of  these  children's 
rooms  the  visitor  is  impressed  with  the 
air  of  cheerfulness  and  refinement.  The 
diminutive  tables  and  chairs  are  occu- 
pied by  quiet  readers,  while  interested 
borrowers  are  choosing  books  to  take 
home  from  a  wide  range  of  diverting 
and  instructive  literature  shelved  in 
low  cases  about  the  walls.  A  bulletin 
board  exhibits  pictures  and  lists  of 
books  relating  to  the  birds  of  the  season, 
or  perhaps  to  events  of  current  or  his- 
torical interest.  A  substantial,  printed  / 


404 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for   Children. 


catalogue  of  the  children's  books  can 
usually  be  purchased  for  a  few  cents. 
The  room  is  decorated  with  plants  or 
flowers ;  and  the  walls  are  adorned  with 
photographs  or  other  reproductions  of 
works  of  art,  occasionally  even  with  the 
originals,  —  although  few  libraries  are 
so  fortunate  as  that  in  Boston,  where 
the  children's  rooms  contain  the  paint- 
ings by  Mr.  Howard  Pyle  illustrating 
the  life  of  Washington,  and  the  ceiling 
is  covered  with  frescoes  by  the  English 
artist,  Elliott.  In  this  atmosphere  of 
books  and  art  rich  and  poor  roam  at 
will,  —  free  to  browse,  or  privileged  to 
seek  the  assistance  of  a  cultured  and 
sympathetic  attendant. 

The  far-reaching  influence  of  books 
upon  child-nature  is  hardly  realized,  in 
spite  of  all  that  has  been  written  on  the 
subject.  My  attention  was  recently 
directed  to  a  boy  of  eleven  who  ap- 
peared dull  and  uninterested  in  any- 
thing. In  school  he  was  called  stupid. 
One  day,  through  his  teacher j  the  boy 
got  hold  of  Mr.  Thompson-Seton's  fas- 
cinating Wild  Animals  I  Have  Known. 
He  read  the  book  eagerly,  and  came  to 
the  library  for  others.  So  marked  a 
change  took  place  in  the  boy  that  his 
teachers  expressed  surprise  at  his  sud- 
den access  of  interest  in  lessons,  and 
his  mother  came  to  the  library  for  the 
express  purpose  of  telling  us  of  the 
great  awakening  which  had  come  to  her 
boy  through  books. 

Great  as  is  their  power  in  broadening 
and  stimulating  the  young  intellect, 
books  have  a  still  stronger  influence  on 
the  moral  nature.  For  to  the  child 
there  are  three  sources  of  infallibility, 
—  parent,  teacher,  and  printed  book ; 
and  the  standards  of  right  and  wrong 
pervading  the  books  read  go  far  toward 
forming  youthful  ideals.  Examples  of 
moral  courage  strengthen  the  pliable 
nature;  even  the  time-worn  rescue  of 
the  cat  from  the  band  of  tormenting 
boys  doubtless  helps  to  create  an  abhor- 
rence of  cruelty,  and  the  prodigious 
deeds  of  valor  performed  by  many  a 


youthful  hero  may  stouten  the  heart  of 
the  admiring  reader.  So,  too,  a  boy 
may  be  quick  to  cry  fie  if  in  real  life 
a  playmate  be  guilty  of  meanness,  but 
if  in  a  book  —  as  sometimes  happens 
—  trickiness  and  deceit  are  exhibited 
as  excusable  or  "smart,"  his  ideal  of 
honor  is  exposed  to  serious  injury. 

Therefore,  while  two  opinions  may 
exist  as  to  the  propriety  of  censorship 
on  the  part  of  a  library  in  dealing  with 
adults,  there  can  hardly  be  disagree- 
ment as  to  the  importance  of  the  utmost 
care  in  the  choice  of  books  purveyed  to 
children.  Too  often  the  books  owned 
by  the  average  child,  even  in  good  cir- 
cumstances, are  acquired  at  Christmas, 
the  gift  of  an  undiscriminating  uncle 
or  an  aunt  whose  eye  has  been  caught 
by  the  illustrations  at  a  bargain  counter ! 
The  books  frequently  present  neither 
good  literature  nor  good  morals.  No 
such  laxity  can  be  charged  to  the  con- 
scientious children's  librarian.  She  re- 
gards her  work  with  due  —  the  carping 
bibliographer  says  with  undue  —  seri- 
ousness. For  her  the  professional  li- 
brary schools  have  established  a  special 
course  of  training  fitting  her  to  work 
with  children.  Before  admitting  a  book 
to  the  collection  she  examines  it  with 
scrupulous  care,  aiming  to  purchase  for 
recreative  reading  only  those  which  are 
entertaining,  wholesome  in  tone,  and 
decently  well  written.  As  to  the  inter- 
est of  a  book,  she  is  not  content  with 
her  own  judgment  solely,  but  often  con- 
sults the  opinions  of  the  children  them- 
selves. So  important  is  this  matter  of 
selection  considered,  that  librarians  are 
at  work  compiling  a  cooperative  list  of 
children's  books  which  shall  have  the 
benefit  of  the  criticism  and  experience 
of  many  experts. 

Having  gathered  a  suitable  collec- 
tion of  books,  the  intelligent  librarian 
studies  her  children  individually,  stimu- 
lates their  interest,  and  by  tactful  sug- 
gestion and  various  devices  strives  to 
cultivate  in  them  healthy  tastes  and  the 
habit  of  systematic  reading.  To  fur- 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for   Children. 


405 


ther  these  aims  the  children  are  some- 
times enrolled  in  a  library  league,  as  in 
Cleveland,  one  condition  of  membership 
being  a  pledge  to  respect  and  take  good 
care  of  the  books.  In  Pittsburg  and 
elsewhere  reading  aloud  and  story-tell- 
ing have  been  resorted  to  for  inciting 
the  children  to  read  books  containing 
the  stories  told.  The  bulletin  board  and 
exhibitions  of  pictures  and  objects  are 
frequently  used  to  arouse  interest  in  spe- 
cial classes  of  books.  Courses  of  read- 
ing are  laid  out,  and  various  inducements 
to  follow  them  are  offered.  But  in  all 
these  efforts  the  books  themselves,  dis- 
played in  attractive  bindings,  are  the 
strongest  ally.  For  although  it  is  fre- 
quently impossible  to  admit  the  public 
to  the  shelves  in  the  main  library,  in 
the  children's  room  the  readers  may 
almost  invariably  go  directly  to  the 
books. 

While  the  aim  of  the  children's  as- 
sistant is  to  lead  them  to  read,  she 
takes  pains  to  send  into  the  fresh  air 
those  too  much  inclined  to  stay  indoors, 
and  is  the  friend  and  counselor  of  all  in 
many  ways.  In  some  few  libraries  the 
children's  department  has  been  extend- 
ed to  include  social  work  of  various 
sorts,  such  as  illustrated  lectures  and 
talks,  or  games,  even  military  drill, 
nature  -  study,  music,  gymnastics,  and 
clubs.  It  may  be  a  debatable  question 
whether  such  diverse  pursuits  are  wise- 
ly undertaken:  conservative  librarians 
have  confined  their  activities  to  promot- 
ing library  work  proper. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however, 
that  the  somewhat  elaborate  provision 
for  the  needs  of  children  commonly  made 
by  the  larger  libraries  has  in  the  least 
made  unnecessary  the  use  of  the  library 
by  the  schools.  Rather  has  it  intensi- 
fied their  community  of  interest.  The 
importance  of  leading  the  children  to 
the  library  .itself  is  emphasized  lest, 
if  accustomed  to  receiving  library  books 
at  the  schools  only,  they  cease  their 
reading,  as  most  of  them  drop  all  study 
by  the  end  of  the  grammar-school  course. 


But  the  librarian  can  employ  no  truant 
officer:  he  can  reach  directly  only  the 
children  who  enter  his  doors.  He  needs 
the  active  aid  of  the  teachers  to  reach 
all  the  children  of  the  community,  most 
of  whom,  once  tasting  books,  make  per- 
manent readers.  He  needs  also  the  aid 
of  the  wise  teacher  who  has  perhaps  the 
greatest  opportunity  to  stimulate  inter- 
est in  the  best  books. 

For  a  distinctly  different  purpose  the 
library  most  depends  on  the  cooperation 
of  the  schools ;  that  is,  for  the  prose- 
cution of  what,  for  lack  of  a  better 
term,  is  called  reference  work  with  chil- 
dren. Much  of  the  library  activity 
described  above  is  devoted  to  the  single 
end  of  offering  good  books  to  children 
for  the  purpose  of  cultivating  in  them 
the  so-called  reading  habit,  —  an  of- 
fensive term  suggestive  of  the  opium 
habit  or  the  alcohol  habit,  —  let  us 
rather  say,  of  acquainting  them  with  the 
pleasures  of  reading  and  fostering  a  re- 
fined taste.  By  reference  work,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  meant  the  effort  to  teach 
the  use  of  books  as  sources  of  informa- 
tion. Thus,  while  in  the  former  case 
we  are  concerned  largely  with  "  the  lit- 
erature of  power, "  in  the  latter  we  are 
dealing  with  "the  literature  of  know- 
ledge ;  "  and  in  this  direction  lies  a  wide 
and  rich  field  to  be  developed. 

Unfortunately,  not  only  to  children, 
but  to  a  large  part  of  the  adult  com- 
munity, the  library  often  represents 
merely  a  storehouse  of  entertaining 
books,  as  is  evinced  by  the  fact  that 
commonly  some  three  fourths  of  the  vol- 
umes borrowed  are  works  of  fiction.  It 
is  astonishing  to  discover  what  a  track- 
less wilderness  the  library  shelves  be- 
yond those  containing  fiction  appear  to 
.  some  of  the  most  frequent  borrowers. 
A  typical  incident  occurred  recently 
when  two  intelligent,  middle-aged  bor- 
rowers were  seen  to  be  in  difficulties  be- 
fore a  card  catalogue,  and  the  attendant 
who  went  to  their  rescue  found  them 
patiently  searching  for  books  on  plumb- 
ing under  the  caption  "geometry." 


406 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for   Children. 


Such  an  incident  is  by  no  means  unusual, 
for  there  are  many  habitues  of  a  library 
who  have  learned  to  look  for  a  novel  in 
the  catalogue  under  author  or  title,  but 
have  no  comprehension  of  the  meaning 
of  the  subject  entries,  have  no  familiar- 
ity with  the  commonest  reference  books 
except  possibly  the  dictionary  and  en- 
cyclopaedia, and  are  ignorant  of  the 
use  of  any  bibliographical  aids.  Que- 
ries in  literary  or  daily  papers  bear  evi- 
dence of  this.  It  is  not  their  unfamil- 
iarity  with  the  means  that  is  deplorable, 
but  their  ignorance  of  the  end ;  for  it 
never  occurs  to  them  to  use  the  library 
for  any  purpose  beyond  recreative  read- 
ing. 

Yet  surely  the  free  public  library  has 
higher  functions.  If  it  existed  merely 
to  furnish  elevating  and  refined  amuse- 
ment, the  community  might  with  equal 
propriety  support  a  free  public  theatre. 
Even  the  thoughtfulness  and  mental 
quickening  which  may  be  assumed  to 
result  from  imaginative  reading  do  not 
entirely  justify  its  existence.  It  must 
serve  a  directly  educational  purpose  just 
as  surely  as  the  school  or  college. 

Such  a  service,  without  doubt,  it  does 
now  perform  and  in  a  high  degree,  but 
for  the  few.  The  scholarly  part  of  the 
community  values  its  indispensable  aid. 
The  women's  clubs,  which  though  some- 
times reproached  for  superficiality  are 
nevertheless  a  potent  agency  for  encour- 
aging study  as  an  avocation,  depend  on 
its  constant  assistance.  But  only  a 
comparatively  small  proportion  even  of 
the  cultured  classes  use  it  systematically 
for  studious  purposes ;  and  how  many 
of  the  young  men  or  ambitious  boys  and 
girls  entitled  to  its  privileges,  for  many 
of  whom  a  grammar-school  course  com- 
pletes formal  education,  realize  that  in 
the  library  —  if  they  will  use  them  — 
lie  the  means  of  self-education  and  self- 
help? 

There  are  some,  it  is  true.  Any 
experienced  librarian  can  cite  cases  of 
young  men  and  boys  especially,  and 
sometimes  girls  too,  who  have  followed 


a  special  line  of  study  and  mastered  not 
only  the  material  bearing  upon  that  sub- 
ject in  their  own  library,  but  also,  if 
it  be  a  small  library,  books  which  it 
has  borrowed  for  their  use  from  larger 
institutions.  The  subject  may  be  a 
science  followed  purely  for  intellectual 
pleasure,  or,  as  more  often  happens, 
the  student  is  a  young  mechanic  or 
artisan  eager  to  perfect  himself  in  a 
theoretical  knowledge  of  his  calling. 
"In  such  cases  a  significant  fact  is  the 
surprise  frequently  manifested  by  the 
inquirer  when  he  discovers  the  ample 
opportunities  afforded  by  the  library. 

If  the  public  schools  are  to  do  more 
than  give  a  course  of  instruction  which 
is  to  stop  abruptly  at  the  end  of  nine 
or  thirteen  years,  as  the  case  may  be,  a 
part  of  the  equipment  of  every  boy  and 
girl  going  out  from  them  into  the  world 
must  be  not  only  a  love  of  literature, 
but  also  some  appreciation  —  as  definite 
as  may  be  —  of  the  opportunities  af- 
forded by  the  library  to  continue  their 
education  through  the  wise  and  syste- 
matic use  of  books.  To  instill  some  re- 
cognition of  this  vital  fact,  as  well  as 
to  give  some  facility  in  handling  books 
as  tools,  is  the  aim  of  reference  work 
with  children. 

One  large  factor  in  achieving  this  aim 
has  been  described  already,  and  consists 
in  employing  in  connection  with  school 
lessons  collateral  reading  drawn  from 
the  library.  In  this  way  the  pupil 
learns  that  the  sum  of  knowledge  is  not 
contained  in  a  single  textbook,  but 
that  a  whole  literature  may  be  found 
amplifying  a  subject  and  treating  its 
many  different  aspects;  he  learns  to 
compare  statements  and  weigh  evidence. 

With  the  same  end  in  view  it  is  not 
uncommon  for  a  teacher  to  conduct  a 
class  to  the  library  for  the  purpose  of 
examining  all  the  resources  of  that  in- 
stitution, —  books,  pamphlets,  maps, 
photographs,  — everything  which  the 
librarian  can  gather  to  illustrate  a  spe- 
cial subject.  So,  again,  the  teacher 
constantly  refers  pupils  individually  to 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doing  for   Children. 


407 


the  library  to  verify  some  fact  by  means 
of  its  reference  books  or  to  search  for 
information  on  some  topic  of  which 
they  are  later  to  present  a  re'sume'  to 
the  class.  Thus  they  gain  facility  in 
hunting  down  a  piece  of  information, 
in  making  notes,  and  in  abstracting  the 
essence  from  a  book  or  article. 

Such  work  is  not  unusual,  but  it  is 
only  recently  that  libraries  have  at- 
tempted to  go  beyond  these  simple  mea- 
sures and  to  experiment  in  the  direction 
of  more  systematic  instruction.  The 
first  reference  department  for  children 
separate  from  their  reading-room,  I  be- 
lieve, was  that  opened  by  the  Public 
Library  of  Boston  in  1899. 

By  a  unique  arrangement  the  refer- 
ence work  with  school  children  in 
Brookline,  Massachusetts,  is  supported 
by  a  special  appropriation  asked  for 
jointly  by  the  trustees  of  the  library 
and  the  school  committee.  The  money 
is  expended  by  the  library  trustees,  but 
the  books  are  selected  with  deference  to 
the  wishes  of  the  school  authorities.  A 
large  room  is  maintained  called  the 
school  reference  room,  —  quite  distinct 
from  the  general  children's  reading- 
room,  —  and  in  it  are  shelved  some  three 
thousand  volumes  adapted  to  throw  light 
on  subjects  taught  in  school  and  kept 
for  the  sole  use  of  pupils  at  the  library 
or  in  the  classroom.  A  printed  and 
annotated  catalogue  acquaints  teachers 
with  the  character  of  the  books  and  the 
number  of  copies  of  each  available,  as 
it  is  often  found  expedient  to  purchase 
numerous  copies  of  the  same  book.  In 
charge  of  the  room  is  a  special  assistant 
of  experience  both  in  library  work  and 
in  teaching,  who  is  employed  for  this 
work  alone.  A  private  telephone  con- 
nects the  room  with  all  the  schools,  so 
that  a  teacher,  for  instance,  need  only 
telephone  in  the  morning  for,  say,  twenty 
books  illustrating  the  geography  of  In- 
dia, suitable  for  seventh-grade  pupils, 
and  the  books  will  be  selected  and  deliv- 
ered by  express  the  same  day.  To  this 
room  the  pupils  resort  individually,  and 


here  they  are  brought  in  classes  to  be 
taught  how  to  use  a  library. 

One  of  the  earliest  experiments  in 
giving  systematic  instruction  to  school 
children  at  the  library  was  made  in 
1896  at  Cardiff,  Wales.  There  the 
pupils  of  all  the  elementary  schools  in 
and  above  the  fourth  standards — that 
is,  roughly,  children  from  ten  to  four- 
teen years  of  age  —  were  taken  once  a 
year  to  the  library,  in  parties  numbering 
about  forty,  to  receive  an  illustrated 
lesson  from  the  librarian  upon  some 
definite  subject.  The  topic  chosen  the 
first  year  was  The  History  of  a  Book, 
and  the  proceedings  cannot  be  better 
described  than  by  extracts  from  an  ac- 
count read  before  the  Library  Associ- 
ation of  the  United  Kingdom  by  the 
librarian,  Mr.  John  Ballinger :  — 

"We  did  n't  tell  the  children  we  were 
going  to  give  them  a  lesson  on  the  his- 
tory of  a  book,  or  that  we  were  going 
to  give  them  a  lesson  at  all.  We  start- 
ed by  saying  that  we  were  going  to  show 
them  different  kinds  of  books,  and  then 
beginning  with  a  clay  tablet,  of  which 
we  had  one  genuine  specimen  (Babylo- 
nian) and  one  cast  (Assyrian)  made  from 
an  original  in  the  British  Museum,  we 
proceeded  to  show  how  the  book  and  the 
art  of  writing  and  reading  had  gradually 
developed.  We  explained  to  them  the 
papyrus  books  of  ancient  Egypt,  using 
as  illustrations  the  beautiful  reproduc- 
tions of  papyri  published  by  the  trustees 
of  the  British  Museum.  We  explained 
to  them  also  that  there  had  been  differ- 
ent kinds  of  letters  used  to  denote 
sounds,  showing  them  the  difference  be- 
tween cuneiform  writing  and  the  picture 
writing  of  Egypt.  We  also  dealt  with 
books  written  upon  vellum,  using  by 
way  of  illustration  various  MSS.  and 
deeds  belonging  to  the  library.  Pass- 
ing from  the  written  to  the  printed 
book,  we  explained  a  few  elementary 
facts  about  the  early  history  of  printing 
and  about  early  printing  in  England, 
using"  as  illustrations  four  or  five  books 
printed  before  the  year  1500,  which  we 


408 


What  Public  Libraries  are  doiny  for   Children. 


happen  to  possess.  Having  introduced 
the  subject  of  printing,' we  passed  light- 
ly over  the  interval  between  the  early 
printed  book  and  the  modern  book,  ex- 
plaining that  the  former  had  no  title- 
page,  no  headlines,  no  pagination,  no 
printer's  name,  no  place  of  printing, 
and  that  the  capital  letters  were  omit- 
ted for  the  purpose  of  being  put  in  by 
hand,  and  we  showed  them  specimens 
of  such  capitals  and  also  of  books  in 
which  the  capitals  had  never  been  in- 
serted. To  lead  up  from  this  point  to 
the  magnificent  books  of  the  present  day 
was  to  give  the  children  an  object  les- 
son in  human  progress  which  was  not 
only  instructive,  but  delightful.  We 
showed  them  by  the  way  the  facsimile 
examples  of  the  Horn  Book  from  Mr. 
Tuer's  interesting  monograph  on  that 
subject.  We  also  showed  them  books 
printed  in  Japan  and  other  countries, 
books  for  the  blind,  and  similar  byways 
of  the  book  world." 

Commenting  on  the  far-reaching  re- 
sults of  these  talks,  — in  many  in- 
stances the  parents  being  led  to  the 
library  by  hearing  about  it  from  their 
children,  —  Mr.  Ballinger  adds :  — 

"After  giving  thirty-nine  lessons  to 
a  total  of  about  sixteen  hundred  chil- 
dren, between  January  and  July  of  the 
present  year,  I  say,  without  hesitation, 
that  nothing  I  have  ever  been  able  to 
do  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life  has 
been  so  full  of  satisfaction  as  the  work 
which  I  have  just  attempted  to  de- 
scribe." 

In  the  half-dozen  American  libraries 
where  like  work  has  been  attempted,  it 
has  usually  been  confined  to  more  rig- 
orously practical  instruction  regarding 
the  use  of  books  and  the  library.  A 
brief  description  of  the  process  of  book- 
making  is  often  given,  showing  how  the 
sheets  are  printed  and  folded,  sewed  on 
bands,  and  the  covers  laced  in.  This 
matter  is  touched  on  because  a  know- 
ledge of  the  mechanical  make-up  of  a 
book  leads  to  more  respect  and  better 
care  on  the  part  of  the  borrower.  Next 


the  attention  of  pupils  is  directed  to  the 
title-page,  and  they  learn  to  understand 
the  important  facts  contained  in  it,  as 
well  as  the  particulars  of  imprint  and 
copyright  entry.  Then  the  children  are 
shown  the  importance  —  often  over- 
looked —  of  the  introduction  or  preface 
as  showing  the  point  of  view  or  aim  of 
the  author;  and,  finally,  they  are  taught 
how  to  use  the  table  of  contents  and  the 
index.  A  later  lesson  perhaps  deals 
more  directly  with  the  use  of  the  libra- 
ry, the  card  catalogue,  the  periodical 
indexes,  and  the  commoner  reference 
books. 

In  at  least  two  libraries  bibliographi- 
cal work  of  an  elementary  character  is 
attempted.  The  pupils  are  assigned 
closely  limited  topics  in  history  or  lit- 
erature, and  are  set  to  find  and  make 
lists  of  every  book,  article,  chapter, 
every  paragraph  or  note,  in  the  volumes 
of  the  school  collection  which  may  bear 
upon  their  particular  topics.  This  prac- 
tice not  only  gives  an  idea  of  the  re- 
sources of  a  library,  but  promotes  the 
ability  to  find  without  difficulty  the  ma- 
terial relating  to  any  subject  in  which 
the  pupil  may  be  interested. 

The  talks  to  children  in  classes  are 
customarily  given  in  school  hours,  while 
the  bibliographical  work  is  done  after 
school  closes,  and  is  at  least  semi-vol- 
untary. Bibliographical  work  of  a  like 
nature,  though  on  a  larger  scale,  is  a 
feature  of  some  college  courses;  but 
experience  shows  that  children  in  the 
upper  grades  of  the  grammar  school,  of 
whom  three  fourths  never  enjoy  a  col- 
lege or  even  a  high-school  course,  are 
amply  able  to  pursue  such  work  with 
profit,  and  with  pleasure. 

What  is  to  be  the  result  of  this  wide- 
spread effort  on  the  part  of  libraries  and 
schools  for  the  benefit  of  children  ?  All 
of  the  work  is  recent,  much  of  it  has 
hardly  passed  the  experimental  stage. 
The  largest  section  of  the  American  Li- 
brary Association  is  devoted  expressly 
to  studying  these  vital  problems ;  while 
from  the  other  side  the  same  questions 


William  Black. 


409 


are  being  considered  by  the  Library 
Section  of  the  National  Education  As- 
sociation, composed  of  teachers  and  edu- 
cators throughout  the  United  States. 

Results  are  already  observable.  The 
statistics  show  an  enormous  increase  in 
the  number  of  books  read.  This  ten- 
dency is  criticised  in  high  quarters  on 
the  ground  that  with  the  increase  in 
quantity  there  has  been  deterioration  in 
the  quality  of  the  reading.  This  charge 
may  or  may.  not  be  true ;  but  fifty  years 
ago  in  the  prospectus  of  a  new  periodi- 
cal we  find  Lowell  in  the  same  way  la- 
menting over  "the  enormous  quantity 
of  thrice-diluted  trash  "  poured  out  by 
the  magazines  of  that  day;  and  fifty 
years  ago  books  were  hard  to  procure, 
reading  was  largely  confined  to  the  cul- 
tured and  studious  classes,  while  with 
the  wonderful  growth  of  free  libraries 
and  the  cheapening  of  books  reading  is 
becoming  universal  among  all  classes. 
The  solution  of  the  problem  lies  not  in 


attempting  to  restrict  the  use  of  books, 
but  in  elevating  the  quality  of  the  read- 
ing. This  the  library  can  accomplish 
in  no  other  way  than  by  improving  the 
taste  of  the  children.  Boys  and  girls 
now  read  less  fiction  and  a  larger  pro- 
portion of  informing  works  than  do  their 
elders.  While  by  reference  work  with 
children  no  sane  librarian  expects  to 
produce  a  generation  of  scholars,  he 
may  at  least  hope  to  give  every  ambi- 
tious boy  and  girl  a  knowledge  of  the 
road  to  that  self-education  which  lies 
open  to  them  in  the  public  library. 

The  author  of  The  Gospel  of  Wealth 
has  borne  witness  to  the  vast  influence 
of  books  upon  his  early  career,  and  has 
testified  to  his  faith  in  their  value  by 
the  gift  of  millions  that  others  may  en- 
joy like  advantages.  At  the  least  we 
may  hope  that  this  work  for  children 
will  contribute  in  some  measure  to  the 
great  democratic  ideal,  —  equalization 
of  opportunity. 

Hiller  C.  Wellman. 


WILLIAM   BLACK. 


THIRTY  years  ago  —  or,  to  be  exact, 
in  May,  1871  —  a  novel  was  published 
in  England,  which  within  a  few  weeks 
was  being  read  and  praised  everywhere. 
In  those  days  the  Saturday  Review  could 
well-nigh  make  or  break  a  literary  repu- 
tation ;  and  the  Saturday  Review  praised 
A  Daughter  of  Heth  warmly  and  gen- 
erously. The  chorus  was  taken  up  quickly 
by  other  journals,  and  when  the  anony- 
mous author  was  ready  to  avow  himself 
he  stepped  at  once  into  the  full  light  of 
fame.  For  at  least  a  decade  everything 
that  William  Black  wrote  was  read  with 
avidity  by  an  ever  increasing  public ; 
and  although  Trollope,  Reade,  Collins, 
Blackmore,  and  Mrs.  Oliphant  were  then 
at  the  height  of  their  powers,  he  was 
perhaps  the  most  popular  of  living  nov- 


elists— at  least  among  cultivated  readers 
—  both  in  England  and  America.  The 
turn  of  Mr.  Hardy  came  a  little  later ; 
but  when  Macleod  of  Dare  and  The  Re- 
turn of  the  Native  were  in  course  of 
serial  publication  together,  it  was  a  com- 
mon subject  of  debate  among  such  per- 
sons as  believe  that  questions  of  the  kind 
can  be  settled  by  weight  of  numbers 
whether  Black  or  Hardy  were  better  en- 
titled, George  Eliot  being  barred,  to  take 
the  supreme  place  among  the  writers  of 
fiction  of  the  time. 

There  was  certain  to  be  a  reaction 
from  such  praise  as  this.  Macleod  of 
Dare  was  the  zenith  of  Black's  fame  no 
less  than  of  his  power.  Shandon  Bells 
was  a  later  book ;  so  was  Sunrise ;  so 
was  In  Far  Lochaber ;  and  each  has  its 


410 


William  Black. 


particular  claim  to  admiration.  Even 
in  his  last  novel,  Wild  Eelin,  written  when 
the  hand  of  death  was  visibly  upon  him, 
there  are  potent  flashes  of  his  old  tragic 
fire.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  his 
yearly  volume  was  not  always  quite 
worthy  of  him.  Perhaps  he  could  hard- 
ly have  escaped  some  decline  in  vogue 
in  any  case.  Popularity  is  a  fickle  god- 
dess ;  new  candidates  for  favor  come  in 
to  crowd  out  the  old.  It  is  no  exaggera- 
tion, however,  to  say  that  Black's  work 
is  a  real  contribution  to  literature,  and 
that  the  best  of  it  deserves  to  survive. 
Curious  illustrations  might  be  cited  of 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  opinion  regarding 
every  author  whose  place  is  not  indis- 
putably among  the  gods.  We  have  seen 
in  our  own  day  revivals  of  half -forgotten 
celebrities.  Among  those  very  contem- 
poraries of  Black  named  above  the  oper- 
ation of  this  principle  may  be  noted. 
If  it  be  Trollope  to-day  who  is  enjoy- 
ing renewed  reputation,  it  may  be  Reade 
to-morrow.  Sir  Wemyss  Reid,  in  the  in- 
teresting biography  1  recently  published, 
says  that  at  the  last  Black  had  more 
readers  in  this  country  than  in  his  own  ; 
and  certainly  there  must  be  many  Ameri- 
cans who  hold  him  in  affectionate  regard, 
and  who  will  welcome  a  closer  acquaint- 
ance with  his  character  and  career. 

William  Black  was  born  in  Glasgow 
on  the  15th  of  November,  1841.  But 
although  he  was  thus  geographically  a 
Lowlander,  he  was  temperamentally  a 
Highlander ;  his  family  had  come  origi- 
nally from  the  North,  and  the  distinct 
Celtic  strain  in  his  blood  manifested  it- 
self all  his  life  through.  "  He  had," 
says  his  biographer,  "the  romanticism 
of  his  race ;  its  vivid  imagination ;  its 
reticence  (the  necessary  weapon  of  de- 
fense in  the  troublous  times  when  a 
chance  word  might  so  easily  have  brought 
a  household  to  ruin  )  ;  its  brooding  con- 
templation of  things  unseen  by  the 

1  William  Black,  Novelist.  A  Biography. 
By  WEMYSS  REID.  $2.25.  New  York  and 
London  :  Harper  &  Bros. 


natural  eye ;  and  its  proneness  to  rare 
outbursts  of  high  spirits."  It  is  not  sur- 
prising to  learn  that  he  was  a  shy,  silent 
boy,  or  that  he  early  showed  character- 
istics which  led  his  father  to  predict  that 
he  would  be  a  great  man.  That  father 
died  when  Black  was  only  fourteen  ;  and 
as  the  household  was  in  narrow  circum- 
stances it  became  at  once  desirable  that 
he  should  make  his  way  in  the  world. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  wished  to  be 
an  artist.  "  I  labored  away  for  a  year 
or  two  at  the  Government  School  of 
Art,"  he  says,  "  and  presented  my  friends 
with  the  most  horrible  abominations  in 
water  color  and  oil."  But  at  sixteen  he 
was  writing  sketches  for  the  Glasgow 
Weekly  Citizen,  and  at  twenty  he  had 
written  his  first  novel,  —  a  remarkable 
book,  we  are  told,  for  so  young  a  man, 
although,  naturally  enough,  it  met  with 
no  success,  and  was  regarded  by  its  au- 
thor with  contempt  in  after  years.  Lon- 
don was  the  obvious  Mecca  for  Black, 
however,  and  at  twenty-two  he  went 
thither,  taking  first  a  commercial  posi- 
tion, but  soon  drifting  into  journalism. 
"  Black  wrote  some  sketches  for  the 
Star,"  says  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  who 
was  then  its  editor,  "in  which  we  all 
saw,  and  could  not  fail  to  see,  remark- 
able merit;  and  he  received  a  regular 
engagement  in  one  of  the  editorial  de- 
partments." Thus  he  was  able  to  make 
his  living  from  the  first,  and  had  no  spe- 
cial hardships  to  endure  ;  but  eight  years 
were  to  pass  before  he  won  his  great  suc- 
cess with  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  despite 
the  touch  of  genius  plainly  evident  in 
Kilmeny,  and  In  Silk  Attire.  They  were 
years  of  sorrow  as  well  as  of  growth. 
Black  married  a  young  German  girl  in 
1865,  and  lost  her  a  year  afterwards; 
and  the  son  born  to  them  died,  too,  at 
the  age  of  five.  Such  episodes  give  a 
new  and  deeper  note  to  life.  Coquette's 
death  could  hardly  have  moved  readers 
as  it  did  had  not  the  author  experienced 
himself  a  poignant  anguish.  But  of 
these  things  he  never  spoke,  even  to  his 


William  Black. 


411 


intimates.  Sir  Wemyss  Reid  first  met 
Black  in  1866.  What  struck  him  then, 
he  tells  us,  was  Black's  air  of  abstrac- 
tion. "  He  seemed  to  have  his  thoughts 
absorbed  by  quite  other  things  than  those 
which  were  passing  around  him.  His 
very  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed  upon  the 
future  ;  and  while  he  talked  pleasantly 
enough  on  such  small  topics  as  our  sur- 
roundings suggested,  his  mind  was  clearly 
occupied  elsewhere.  From  some  one  or 
other  — I  know  not  from  whom  —  I  had 
heard  that  he  either  had  written  or  was 
about  to  write  a  novel.  I  was  at  the 
time  when  one  is  most  susceptible  to  the 
illusions  and  enthusiasms  of  youth  ;  and 
I  remember  trying  to  weigh  up  my  com- 
panion and  forecast  his  chances  as  a 
novelist.  It  struck  me,  as  it  struck  most 
persons  when  they  first  met  him,  that  he 
was  too  hard,  inelastic,  and  reticent  to 
be  successful  as  a  writer  of  romance.  I 
was  no  more  able  than  other  people  were 
to  penetrate  through  that  mask  of  re- 
serve which  he  wore  so  constantly,  or  to 
see  the  fires  of  sensitive  emotion  which 
burned  within." 

Reticence,  indeed,  was  what  few  of 
his  readers  would  have  attributed  to 
Black  ;  judging  him  simply  by  his  books 
his  nature  seemed  expansive.  And  it  was 
into  them  that  he  put  his  true  self.  His 
methods  of  composition  show  how  in- 
tense was  the  life  which  he  lived  with 
the  creatures  of  his  brain.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  postscript  that  he 
addressed  to  the  characters  in  Madcap 
Violet,  —  the  favorite,  we  are  told,  of  all 
his  literary  offspring  ?  "  To  me  you  are 
more  real  than  most  I  know  ;  what  won- 
der then  if  I  were  to  meet  you  on  the 
threshold  of  the  great  unknown,  you  all 
shining  with  a  new  light  on  your  face  ? 
Trembling  I  stretch  out  my  hands  to 
you,  for  your  silence  is  awful,  and  there 
is  sadness  in  your  eyes  ;  but  the  day 
may  come  when  you  will  speak,  and  I 
shall  hear  —  and  understand."  This 
passage,  says  Sir  Wemyss  Reid,  was 
"  no  clever  touch  of  art,"  but  the  real 


expression  of  the  author's  passionate 
mood,  "  written,  as  it  were,  in  his  heart's 
blood."  It  is  not  surprising  that  the 
man  capable  of  such  an  attitude  to  the 
shadows  of  his  imagination  never  talked 
much  about  his  work  and  required  abso- 
lute isolation  when  he  wrote.  It  is  not 
surprising,  either,  that  this  work  cost  him 
dear,  or  that  it  made  him  prematurely 
old.  The  Highland  nature  fed  too  fierce 
a  flame.  Macleod  of  Dare,  that  wonder- 
ful romance  which  has  in  it  something  of 
the  pity  and  the  terror  of  a  Greek  drama, 
shook  his  own  soul  to  its  very  founda- 
tions ;  the  tragedy  on  the  wild  shores  of 
Mull  was  as  real  to  him  as  to  his  hero  ; 
he  came  through  these  experiences  pros- 
trated in  mind  and  body. 

But  Black's  novels  are  not  all  tragic, 
nor  was  his  life  without  its  sunny  side. 
It  will  not  be  necessary  here  to  give  a 
catalogue  of  his  books.  Perhaps  one  that 
is  not  tragic,  A  Princess  of  Thule,  has  the 
greatest  charm  for  the  largest  number 
of  readers.  This  appeared  two  years 
after  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  and  won  im- 
mediate popularity  throughout  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking world.  Sheila  is  indeed 
one  of  the  permanent  additions  to  the  still 
restricted  gallery  of  really  lovable  hero- 
ines ;  but  the  impression  she  made  might 
have  been  less  but  for  the  background  to 
the  picture.  In  taking  us  to  the  He- 
brides Black  introduces  us  to  a  world 
which  when  he  first  explored  it  was  quite 
unknown.  His  sensitive  appreciation  of 
nature  —  a  quality  which  drew  praise 
from  the  critical  Ruskin  —  fitted  him 
peculiarly  to  convey  the  charm  of  those 
remote  solitudes,  and  impose  upon  others 
something  of  that  spell  of  the  North 
which  so  possessed  him.  And  yet,  de- 
spite the  glamour  which  he  throws  around 
her,  Sheila  is  a  very  real  and  human  per- 
son ;  while  in  old  Mackenzie,  in  Frank 
Lavender,  in  Ingram,  and  the  rest,  his 
exact  and  luminous  delineation  of  char- 
acter might  satisfy  the  sternest  realist. 
Indeed,  nothing  is  more  noteworthy  in 
Black's  work  than  his  power  to  combine 


412 


William  Black. 


romantic  fervor  with  absolute  fidelity  to 
the  common  details  of  life.  His  por- 
trait of  George  Miller  in  Madcap  Violet 
is  a  case  in  point.  The  modern  young 
man,  who  is  a  good  fellow,  and  perfectly 
honorable  according  to  his  lights,  but 
who  is  utterly  incapable  of  comprehend- 
ing the  finer  ethics  of  renunciation,  could 
not  be  more  vividly  presented.  As  to 
the  minor  persons  in  all  Black's  novels, 
they  are  remarkably  clear  and  distinct. 
This  is  the  case  in  an  especial  degree  with 
his  Highlanders.  No  previous  writer 
had  dealt  at  length  with  the  Scottish 
Highlands.  Scott  ventured  thither  more 
than  once,  but  in  the  main  he  preferred 
a  scene  nearer  the  Border.  It  was  left 
for  Black  to  become  prose  laureate  of 
the  land  which  binds  to  itself  more  close- 
ly than  any  other  the  hearts  of  those  who 
know  it.  He  wrote  of  Ireland  in  Shan- 
don  Bells,  of  Cornwall  in  Three  Fea- 
thers, of  London  in  other  novels;  but 
still,  to  paraphrase  the  exquisite  quat- 
rain, his  heart  was  true,  his  heart  was 
Highland,  and  he  in  dreams  beheld  the 
Hebrides. 

In  writing  of  the  man  and  his  inner 
life  Sir  Wemyss  Reid  has  shown  great 
discretion  and  good  taste.  Black  mar- 
ried a  second  time  in  1874,  and  his  home 
life  was  happy  thereafter.  He  had  two 
daughters  and  a  son,  and  some  pleasant 
glimpses  are  given  of  his  affection  for 
them.  Until  1878,  when  he  went  to 
Brighton,  he  lived  at  Camberwell  Grove 
—  much  in  the  company  at  one  time,  as 
his  biographer  tells  us,  of  Mr.  James 
Drummond  and  Miss  Violet  North  and 
other  friends  whom  his  readers  know. 
At  Brighton  he  had  a  most  attractive 
house  ;  and  he  left  it  only  for  his  sum- 
mer trips  to  Scotland  or  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  for  his  brief  visits  to  London, 
where  he  had  the  rooms  in  Buckingham 
Street  described  in  Sunrise.  And  here 
an  extract  from  Sir  Wemyss  Reid's 
pages  may  well  be  quoted :  — 

"  I  think  that  Black  was  never  seen 
by  his  friends  to  greater  advantage  than 


on  those  nights  in  Buckingham  Street. 
Certainly  I  never  heard  him  talk  better 
than  in  that  familiar  room,  when  the  veil 
of  reticence  in  which  he  was  so  common- 
ly shrouded  was  rent,  and  he  bared  his 
heart  to  his  friends.  Under  no  other 
conditions  could  one  so  fully  realize  all 
that  he  was,  —  the  poet,  the  thinker,  the 
artist,  the  man  of  lofty  ideals,  the  eager 
and  untiring  student  of  life,  with  its 
manifold  unspeakable  mysteries,  its  aw- 
ful tragedies,  and  its  glorious  possibili- 
ties. Listening  to  him  then,  that  which 
at  other  times  seemed  to  be  an  insoluble 
puzzle  was  explained,  and  men  knew  how 
it  was  that  he  had  created  and  endowed 
with  life  the  rare  and  beautiful  charac- 
ters of  many  of  his  novels.  No  jarring 
note  was  ever  struck  in  those  long  talks 
beneath  the  stars  and  above  the  river ; 
no  ungenerous  word  fell  from  his  lips, 
no  mean  or  sordid  thought.  And  yet 
his  mood  would  change  with  startling 
suddenness,  passing  from  grave  to  gay, 
from  deep  speculations  on  those  questions 
upon  which  human  hopes  and  happiness 
depend,  to  the  lightest  and  brightest  of 
the  topics  which  attracted  him,  the  beau- 
ties of  some  spot  seen  once  far  away,  or 
the  glorious  uncertainties  of  salmon-fish- 
ing on  the  Oykel,  or  the  delights  of  yacht- 
ing in  the  western  seas.  But  whatever 
the  theme,  no  one  who  was  privileged  to 
listen  to  him  in  these  moments  of  com- 
plete unreserve  could  resist  the  spell  that 
was  cast  over  him,  or  fail  to  realize  the 
fact  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  mas- 
ter. To  all  who  took  part  in  those  mid- 
night gatherings  in  Buckingham  Street 
the  memory  of  them  will  remain  among 
the  most  cherished  possessions  of  their 
lives." 

Black's  capacity  for  friendship  and  his 
devotion  to  those  whom  he  loved  were 
manifested  in  many  ways,  —  never  more 
strikingly,  perhaps,  than  in  his  relations 
with  William  Barry,  a  young  Irish  jour- 
nalist, an  intimate  of  his  early  days  in 
London.  When  Sir  Wemyss  Reid  asked 
Black  to  become  the  London  corre- 


William  Slack. 


413 


spondent  of  the  Leeds  Mercury,  he  at 
first  accepted  eagerly  an  oft'er  greatly  to 
his  advantage ;  but  a  moment  later  he 
thought  of  Barry,  then  in  failing  health, 
and  proposed  that  he  should  take  the 
place,  promising  his  own  help  when  it  was 
needed.  "  Barry's  illness  increased,  and 
soon  the  bright  young  Irishman  .  .  .  was 
stretched  upon  his  death-bed.  Then  the 
chivalrous  kindness  of  Black's  nature 
asserted  itself.  He  was  then  in  the  full- 
ness of  his  career  as  the  most  popular 
novelist  of  the  day,  and  was  able  to  com- 
mand his  own  terms  from  the  publishers, 
but  he  voluntarily  undertook  to  do  Bar- 
ry's work  as  correspondent  on  condition 
that  the  latter  continued  to  receive  his 
salary.  .  .  .  Very  touching  it  was  during 
that  time  to  visit  the  dying  man,  and  to 
see  the  wistful  tenderness  of  his  gaze 
when  his  eyes  rested  upon  Black.  No 
one  in  the  outer  world  would  have  be- 
lieved that  the  silent,  self-centred  man, 
whose  genius  men  admired,  but  whose 
real  spirit  was  a  mystery  to  them,  —  a 
mystery  hidden  behind  a  mask  of  stolid, 
unbroken  reserve,  —  could  inspire  the 
love  and  gratitude  which  in  those  last 
sad  days  shone  upon  Barry's  face."  On 
another  occasion,  when  Black  found 
Charles  Gibbon  ill  and  in  distress  be- 
cause he  could  not  finish  in  time  a  novel 
upon  which  he  was  engaged,  he  got  from 
his  friend  an  outline  of  what  he  had  in- 
tended to  do,  and  postponed  his  own  work 
until  he  had  finished  Gibbon's  book. 
Barry,  we  are  told,  was  the  original  of 
Willie  Fitzgerald  in  that  delightful  novel, 
Shandon  Bells,  which  Black  wrote  as  a 
tribute  to  one  whom  he  never  forgot,  and 
whose  portrait  always  hung  above  his 
desk.  Here  is  in  truth  the  man  whose 
real  heart  was  revealed  in  his  writings, 
and  who  could  draw  with  supreme  fidel- 
ity the  most  exquisite  emotions  of  which 
our  humanity  is  capable.  No  wonder 
that  his  heroines  were  loved,  and  that  let- 
ters came  from  all  over  the  world  to  their 
creator  thanking  him  for  the  consolation 
he  had  bestowed  in  many  a  weary  hour. 


Black  visited  America  in  1877,  and 
afterwards  he  had  many  American 
friends ;  indeed,  in  his  later  years  they 
were  in  the  majority.  There  are  agree- 
able glimpses  in  these  pages  of  Mr.  Ed- 
win A.  Abbey  and  Mr.  Parsons,  of  Miss 
Mary  Anderson,  of  Bret  Harte,  and  of 
James  R.  Osgood,  who  was  an  especial- 
ly congenial  spirit.  Miss  Anderson  was 
very  intimate  with  the  family  during  her 
stay  in  England ;  she  was  the  Beauti- 
ful Wretch,  —  a  name  taken  from  one 
of  Black's  stories,  —  and  he  was  the  D. 
D.  B.  V.,  otherwise  the  Double-Dyed 
Black  Villain.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see 
the  shadow  of  Miss  Anderson  in  the 
Peggy  of  the  House-Boat  party.  There 
have  been,  it  may  be  added,  some  absurd 
efforts  to  identify  Black's  characters  with 
living  persons.  Like  all  artists  he  drew 
on  experience  as  on  imagination,  and 
there  were  perforce  in  his  portraits  some 
characteristics  of  those  he  knew ;  but  he 
was  no  copyist,  and  he  was  naturally  an- 
noyed when  foolish  persons  tried  to  fit 
caps  too  closely.  One  of  the  most  ab- 
surd legends  was  that  which  identified 
Sheila  with  the  daughter  of  the  innkeep- 
er at  Garra-na-hina.  Gossip  of  this  kind, 
as  publicity  of  every  kind,  was  particu- 
larly distasteful  to  Black  ;  and  it  is  not 
strange  that  except  among  his  closest 
friends  he  was  often  misunderstood.  Yet 
the  picture  which  Sir  Wemyss  Reid  gives 
of  him  is  in  every  sense  attractive.  There 
have  been  authors  who  have  suffered  in 
the  esteem  of  their  readers  by  the  indis- 
creet revelations  of  their  biographers  ; 
but  in  this  case  there  is  no  indiscretion, 
nor  anything  to  conceal.  Black's  last 
years  were  clouded  by  physical  pain,  but 
he  worked  on  bravely  to  the  end,  and 
bore  his  suffering  with  a  cheerful  face. 
He  was  only  fifty-seven  when  he  died. 

Black's  place  may  not  be  among  the 
gods  of  literature  ;  but  surely  when  the 
last  account  of  the  century  just  ended  is 
made  up  his  name  will  not  be  forgotten. 
As  in  all  such  cases  the  world  will  select 
something  to  survive  oblivion.  Readers 


414 


Books  New  and  Old. 


to-day  will  differ  with  regard  to  that 
choice.  It  seems  as  if  Macleod  of  Dare 
and  A  Princess  of  Thule,  at  least,  must 
be  included  in  any  list ;  next  to  these,  if 
the  dangerous  experiment  of  making  pre- 
dictions may  be  ventured  upon,  one  might 
place  A  Daughter  of  Heth  and  Madcap 
Violet  and  In  Far  Lochaber ;  while  Shan- 
dori  Bells  and  Sunrise  certainly  stand 


high  among  the  successful  novels.  Let 
who  will,  however,  pick  and  choose  among 
so  much  that  is  admirable.  Black's  ap- 
peal to  some  of  us  is  so  strong  that  we 
can  hardly  exclude  anything  he  wrote. 
In  any  case  we  must  be  grateful  for  an 
account  of  the  man  so  interesting  as  Sir 
Wemyss  Reid's,  and  so  well  calculated 
to  enhance  the  affection  we  feel  for  him. 
Edward  Fuller. 


BOOKS   NEW   AND   OLD. 


AMERICAN   HUMOR. 


So  many  wise  things  have  been  said 
about  American  humor,  there  seems  to 
be  little  occasion  for  saying  anything  else 
about  it,  unless  humorously.  Absit 
omen  !  that  is  not  within  the  intention  of 
the  present  remarks,  which  aim  rather 
to  offer  some  simple  explanation  of  a  fa- 
miliar phenomenon,  the  "  petering  out " 
of  the  American  humorist,  and  to  point 
a  moral. 

i. 

One  difficulty  in  talking  about  humor 
lies  in  the  indeterminate  meaning  of  the 
word.  The  trouble  is  not  so  much  that 
it  has  changed  as  that  it  has  not  made  a 
thorough  job  of  changing.  We  are  in- 
clined to  give  it  a  sense  well-nigh  the 
most  profound  before  it  has  rid  itself  of 
a  very  trivial  one.  We  brevet  it  on  even 
terms  with  "imagination"  while  it  is 
still  trudging  in  the  ranks  beside  such 
old  irresponsible  comrades  as  "  whimsy  " 
and  "  conceit ;  "  and,  worst  of  all,  we 
too  often  allow  it  to  be  confounded  with 
that  vulgar  civilian,  "  facetiousness." 
Mr.  Budgell,  according  to  Goldsmith, 
bore  "  the  character  of  an  humorist  " — 
the  name  of  an  eccentric  fellow.  He  is  not 
at  all  a  joking  kind  of  man,  and  might 
perfectly  well,  for  all  this  description 
tells  us,  lack  what  we  call  a  "  sense  of 
humor."  Cranks  are  notoriously  defi- 


cient in  that  sense,  and  the  people  who 
are  hitting  off  Mr.  Budgell  as  "  an  hu- 
morist "  mean  simply  that  he  is  a  crank. 
Now  I  do  not  think  we  have  quite  out- 
grown this  conception  of  the  word's 
meaning,  though  we  have  added  some- 
thing to  it.  We  like  to  think  that  our 
popular  humorists  are  first  of  all  queer 
fellows.  Jesters  like  Bill  Nye  have  not 
been  slow  to  recognize  this  taste  in  their 
audience,  and  the  absurd  toggery  of  the 
clown  has  been  deliberately  employed 
to  enhance  the  relish  of  their  screaming- 
ness.  In  fact,  our  professional  man  of 
humor  is  a  pretty  close  modern  equiva- 
lent of  the  Old  World  Fool ;  a  creature 
of  motley  who  is  admitted  to  have  some 
sense  about  him,  but  must  appear  under 
a  disguise  if  he  wishes  to  be  taken  seri- 
ously. More  than  one  of  Shakespeare's 
Fools  possess  the  illuminating  kind  of 
humor  ;  but  the  jest  is  what  they  were 
valued  for.  It  would  not  be  very  hard, 
perhaps,  to  show  that  in  America  this 
ideal  of  the  silly-funny  man  has  survived 
with  especial  distinctness,  and  that  upon 
this  survival  the  quality  of  our  alleged 
American  humor  really  depends. 


II. 


If  we   apply  this  supposition   to  the 
work  of  the  man  who  is  generally  con- 


Books  New  and  Old. 


415 


ceded  to  be  the  foremost  of  American 
humorists,  it  will  at  first  seem  not  to  fit 
at  all ;  for  here  is  a  personality  so  mel- 
low and  venerable  as  to  be  fairly  above 
its  task.  It  would  be  a  mock-respect, 
however,  which  should  feign  to  forget 
what  that  task  was,  or  shrink  from  frank- 
ly recognizing  it  as  in  itself  a  respect- 
able rather  than  venerable  task  —  to  per- 
fect and  to  communicate  the  American 
joke. 

In  his  prime  Mark  Twain  was  often 
more  than  merely  funny,  but  rather 
against  his  method  than  by  it.  In  what- 
ever direction  or  company  he  at  that 
time  traveled,  motley  was  his  only  wear. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  information  and 
not  a  little  wisdom  in  Innocents  Abroad, 
but  this  is  not  what  the  book  was  read 
for;  indeed,  much  of  the  information 
and  wisdom  must  have  been  discounted 
by  uncertainty  as  to  whether  or  not  they 
were  part  of  the  fun.  Later,  partly  per- 
haps because  his  eminence  seemed  to 
him  an  inferior  if  not  a  bad  one,  part- 
ly because  no  cruse  of  jokes  can  yield 
indefinitely,  he  has  shown  a  disposition 
to  adopt  a 'soberer  coat.  The  attempt 
has  not  been  altogether  successful ;  he 
has  kept  on  being  funny  in  the  familiar 
way,  almost  in  spite  of  himself.  The 
anonymity  of  his  historical  romance  was 
rendered  nominal  by  the  frequency  with 
which  his  French  followers  of  Jeanne  de- 
liver themselves  of  excellent  American 
jokes,  and  seem  to  feel  better  for  it. 
Since  that  was  written,  he  has  produced 
a  considerable  number  of  essays  upon  a 
variety  of  sober  themes.  His  public  has 
not  known  quite  what  to  do  with  them. 
Its  attention,  granted  respectfully  enough, 
has  been  conscious  of  undergoing  a  sort 
of  teetering  process,  now  inclined  to  the 
sober  philosophy  of  Mr.  Clemens,  now 
diverted  by  the  sudden  reverberation  of 
some  incontinent  Mark  Twain  jest. 

There  would  be  nothing  disturbing  in 
this  situation,  or  rather  the  situation 
would  not  exist,  if  the  author,  writing 
under  whatever  name  or  in  whatever 


mood,  were  essentially  and  first  of  all  a 
humorist.  But  the  fact  seems  to  be  that 
the  humorist  in  Mark  Twain  is  naturally 
subordinate  to  the  jester.  That  he  pos- 
sesses this  superior  power  the  epical  nar- 
rative of  Huckleberry  Finn  would  abun- 
dantly prove.  But  it  has  never  been 
dominant ;  as  the  smiling  interpreter  of 
life  his  "  genius  is  rebuked  "  by  his  su- 
perlative quality  as  a  magician  of  jokes. 

Readers  will  very  likely  differ  as  to 
whether  A  Double-Barrelled  Detective 
Story  *  is  superior  or  inferior  to  classi- 
fication, but  they  will  hardly  succeed  in 
classifying  it.  The  brutal  crime  with 
which  it  opens,  and  the  mysterious  pow- 
er with  which  the  avenger  of  that  crime 
is  endowed,  might  have  yielded  extra- 
ordinary results  under  the  prestidigital 
manipulation  of  Poe,  or  the  clairvoyant 
brooding  of  Hawthorne.  But  as  it  stands 
the  net  effect  of  the  story  fails  of  being 
an  effect  of  tragic  horror.  The  sombre 
note  is  not  sustained  enough  for  that, 
and  the  concise  and  businesslike  style, 
very  effective  in  the  preliminary  state- 
ment of  the  motive,  is  inadequate  for  its 
development.  Indeed,  not  much  can  be 
said  for  the  substance  of  its  develop- 
ment. The  villain  is  a  person  of  melo- 
dramatic uncompromisingness,  and  the 
boy  avenger  is  curiously  unperturbed  in 
the  fulfillment  of  his  painful  office. 

For  humor  in  any  sense  the  situation 
certainly  affords  the  smallest  possible  op- 
portunity. Yet  what  if  not  humor  is 
to  prevent  uncertainty,  the  intrusion  of 
false  notes,  and  anything  like  half-heart- 
edness  in  the  treatment  of  such  a  theme  ? 
—  to  the  artist  so  gross  an  error  as  to 
amount  almost  to  sacrilege.  The  most 
characteristic  thing  in  the  book  is  the 
Sherlock  Holmes  episode  which,  as  a 
piece  of  burlesque,  is  totally  out  of  place. 
Elsewhere  ingenuity  rather  than  power 
is  the  noticeable  characteristic.  One  is 
irresistibly  convinced  that  the  story  can 

1  A  Double -Barrelled  Detective  Story.  By 
MARK  TWAIN.  New  York  and  London  :  Har- 
per &  Brothers.  1902. 


416 


Books  New  and  Old. 


have  taken  very  little  hold  of  the  author 
himself. 

In  the  work  of  the  late  Frank  Stock- 
ton, a  much  more  delicate  humorist,  a 
far  more  skillful  artist  than  Mark  Twain, 
the  joke  element  was  also  dominant, 
though,  as  it  happened,  he  cultivated  the 
joke  of  situation  rather  than  of  phrase. 
But  his  demure  manner  does  not  prevent 
the  delicious  collocation  of  rubber  boots 
and  Mrs.  Aleshine  from  entering  into 
one's  soul  with  all  the  poignancy  of  a 
well-aimed  jest.  Nor  can  it  be  denied 
that  some  of  his  later  work  showed  signs 
of  the  same  uncertainty  of  tone  which 
we  have  just  noticed  in  A  Double-Bar- 
relled Detective  Story.  Especially  in 
the  luckless  Kate  Bonnet,  of  which 
nobody  can  wish  to  speak  lightly,  one 
recognizes,  however  unwillingly,  a  lack 
of  spontaneity  and  a  tameness  which  it 
is  hard  to  associate  with  the  author  of 
Rudder  Grange. 

A  curious  question  suggests  itself  here. 
How  does  it  happen  that  the  later  wo?k 
of  these  two  prominent  American  hu- 
morists should  exhibit  so  marked  a  de- 
ficiency in  the  larger  sort  of  humor? 
Are  these  to  be  taken  as  simple  instances 
of  decadence,  or  is  there,  after  all,  a  screw 
loose  in  our  vaunted  American  humor  ? 

in. 

To  answer  this  question  will  be  to 
state  more  baldly  the  fact  suggested 
above  :  that  we  have  been  content  to  let 
the  reputation  of  our  humor  stand  or  fall 
by  the  quality  of  the  American  joke. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  we  like  our  jokes 
better  than  other  people's,  and  there  is 
some  excuse  for  us  if  we  fancy  that  the 
gods  like  them  better,  though  even  that 
audience  appears  as  a  rule  to  have  re- 
served its  inextinguishable  laughter  for 
its  own  jokes.  It  is  because  the  Eng- 
lish type  of  set  jest  appears  inferior  to 
ours  that  we  have  always  sneered  at  Eng- 
lish humor,  and  particularly  at  its  great- 
est repository,  Punch. 

But  at  its  best  the  joke  is  not  a  very 


high  manifestation  of  humor.  Luckily 
the  Miller  jest-book  is  now  extinct  as  a 
literary  form,  just  as  drunkenness  is  ex- 
tinct as  a  gentlemanly  accomplishment. 
In  one  form  or  other  the  jest  is  bound  to 
exist,  but  it  cannot  in  this  age  well  serve 
as  a  staple  food  for  the  cultivated  sense 
of  humor.  This  would  not  be  a  bad 
thing  for  us  to  bear  in  mind  when  we 
get  to  comparing  our  comic  papers  with 
Punch,  which  is  both  more  and  less  than 
a  comic  paper.  We'  may  fairly  consider 
the  amazing  number  of  genuine  contri- 
butions to  literature  which  have  been 
made  through  the  columns  of  Punch, 
and  reflect  whether  our  Life,  witlv  its 
little  dabs  of  Dolly-in-the-Conservatory 
verse,  its  stunted  though  suggestive  edi- 
torial matter,  its  not  over-brilliant  jokes 
about  the  mother-in-law  and  about  the 
fiance'e,  and  the  overwhelming  prettiness 
of  its  illustrations,  can  show  much  of  a 
hand  against  its  sturdy  English  contem- 
porary. It  may  not  be  agreeable  to  our 
volatile  national  mind  to  concede  some- 
thing to  English  solidity  even  in  the 
matter  of  humor,  but  it  is  simple  jus- 
tice. 

We  know  very  well,  when  we  come 
to  think  of  it,  that  some  of  the  finest 
humorists  have  been  indifferent  jokers. 
We  can  hardly  imagine  Addison  setting- 
a  table  in  a  roar  —  or  Goldsmith,  unless 
by  inadvertence.  As  for  Dr.  Holmes, 
our  greatest  legitimate  humorist,  his  no- 
tion of  a  set  joke  was  mainly  restricted 
to  the  manhandling  of  the  disreputable 
pun. 

In  the  meantime  the  torch  of  jocosity 
is  still  being  carried  on  by  fresh  and  un- 
preoccupied  hands  ;  and  if  the  line  of 
eager  spectators  is  now  mainly  at  the 
level  of  the  area  windows,  that  is,  per- 
haps, not  the  affair  of  the  torch-bearer. 
A  surprising  number  of  persons  above 
that  level,  it  must  be  said,  appear  to  take 
satisfaction  in  the  quasi-humorous  work 
of  Mr.  John  Kendrick  Bangs.  It  is 
work  which  deserves  consideration  be- 
cause it  represents  the  reductio  ad  absur- 


Books  New  and  Old. 


417 


dum  of  "American  humor."  It  con- 
sists in  a  sort  of  end-man  volley  of  quips, 
manufactured  and  fired  off  for  their  own 
sake.  A  book  produced  by  this  method 
cannot  be  deeply  humorous.  It  is  not 
the  outcome  of  an  abiding  sense  of  com- 
edy value,  and  naturally  bears  much  the 
same  relation  to  a  veritable  work  of  hu- 
mor that  a  bunch  of  fire-crackers  in 
action  bears  to  the  sun.  The  true  hu- 
morist cannot  help  concerning  himself 
with  some  sort  of  interpretation  of  life  : 
Mr.  Bangs  can.  His  folly  is  not  a  stalk- 
ing-horse under  the  presentation  of  which 
he  shoots  his  wit,  but  an  end  in  itself. 
There  could  be  no  better  illustration  of 
the  difference  between  the  jocose  and 
the  humorous  than  a  comparison  of  one 
of  Mr.  Bangs's  farces  with  one  of  Mr. 
Howells's.  That  recent  extravagance  of 
the  new  adventures  of  Baron  Munchau- 
sen  1  cuts  no  figure  beside  the  classical 
because  really  humorous  adventures  of 
Alice :  on  the  one  hand,  a  series  of 
meaningless  whoppers  strung  into  a  nar- 
rative ;  on  the  other,  a  sustained  jeu 
d 'esprit  which,  absurd  as  it  is,'  contains 
hardly  more  nonsense  than  philosophy. 
Of  his  latest  book 2  it  need  only  be  said 
that  it  furnishes  another  installment  of 
the  Houseboat  on  the  Styx  business, 
much  the  sort  of  thing  one  might  expect 
of  a  clever  sophomore,  with  a  thumbing 
acquaintance  with  the  Classical  Diction- 
ary. The  fact  seems  to  be  that  Mr. 
Bangs  represents  the  survival  of  a  school 
of  facetionsness,  now  happily  moribund, 
which  had  some  standing  during  the  last 
century,  in  England  as  well  as  in  Amer- 
ica. Puns,  elaborate  ironies,  fantastic 
paradoxes,  all  manner  of  facetiae  were 
good  form  from  the  early  days  of  Chris- 
topher North  to  the  end  of  the  Dickens 
vogue.  Nowadays  the  English  jest  has 
been  for  the  most  part  remanded  to  its 
proper  place  as  the  servant  and  not  the 

1  The  New  Munchausen.  By  JOHN  KEN- 
DBICK  BANGS.  Boston :  Noyes,  Platt  &  Co. 
1902. 


divinity  of  the  humorous  machine.  In 
our  ears  the  English  jest  is  no  better  than 
such  as  it  is  ;  which  we  do  not  believe  of 
ours,  so  that  we  continue  to  give  literary 
credit  to  a  function  which  is  merely 
human.  We  have  a  right  to  use  Mr. 
Bangs  for  our  private  consumption,  as  a 
man  may  choose  to  smoke  a  brand  of  to- 
bacco which  he  knows  to  be  bad,  and 
cannot  recommend  to  his  friends ;  but 
we  may  properly  be  careful,  too,  not  to 
confound  qualities,  not  to  yield  to  mere 
f  acetiousness  the  honors  which  belong  to 
humor. 

IV. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  in  this  day  of 
smiles  across  the  sea  the  boundary  line 
even  between  national  methods  of  joking 
is  not  always  indisputable.  Jerome  Je- 
rome, for  instance,  belongs  fairly  to  our 
school  of  jocoseness  ;  and  Three  Men  in 
a  Boat  was  popular  with  us  because  he 
applied  our  method  to  English  condi- 
tions. The  village  and  seafaring  tales 
of  Mr.  W.  Wr  Jacobs  are  more  plainly 
insular  in  quality,  but  in  the  delicious 
and  unlabored  absurdity  of  his  plots  and 
the  whimsicalness  of  his  dialogue  he 
strongly  resembles  Mr.  Stockton.  His 
latest  story3  is  hardly  a  favorable  ex- 
ample of  his  work,  which  lies  properly 
in  the  field  of  the  short  humorous  story 
of  situation.  His  characters  and  action 
are  plainly  more  interesting  to  him  than 
the  details  of  his  text ;  and  the  joking  of 
which  his  tales  are  full  comes  naturally 
and  inevitably  from  the  mouths  of  his 
persons.  Mr.  Jacobs  is  nevertheless, 
judged  by  his  work  so  far,  to  be  ranked 
among  the  jokers  rather  than  among  the 
humorists. 

So  far  as  pure  humor  is  concerned, 
there  has  never  been  the  shadow  of  a 
boundary  line  between  England  and 
America.  Different  as  they  are  in  per- 
sonality and  in  the  total  effect  of  their 

2  Olympian  Nights.      By  JOHN  KENDBICK 
BANGS.   Ne  w  York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  1902. 

3  At  Sunwich  Port.   By  W.  W.  JACOBS.   New 
York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1902. 


VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  539. 


27 


418 


Books  New  and  Old. 


work,  what  radical  distinction  in  mere 
quality  of  humor  is  there  between  Mr. 
Cable  and  Mr.  Barrie  ?  Was  it  not  the 
same  genial  sense  of  the  delicate  alter- 
nating currents  of  the  feminine  tempera- 
ment which  produced  both  Jess  and  Au- 
rore  Naucanon  ?  And  is  not  Fielding's 
humor  as  much  at  home  in  America  as 
Dr.  Holmes's  in  England  ? 

v. 

But  the  domain  of  humor  is  not  in- 
frequently subdivided  on  other  than  na- 
tional lines.  If  there  is  any  distinction 
of  sex  upon  which  man  prides  himself, 
it  is  his  superior  sense  of  humor.  When 
the  matter  comes  to  analysis,  it  may  ap- 
pear that  the  distinction  is  a  somewhat 
narrow  one ;  that  the  question  of  the 
jest  is  once  more  the  real  question  in 
point.  There  is  a  certain  sort  of  verbal 
nonsense,  as  there  are  forms  of  the  prac- 
tical joke,  which  induces  a  masculine 
hysteria  while  it  commands  only  toler- 
ance from  the  other  sex.  —  Repeated  ex- 
perimenting with  Chimmie  Fadden's  joke 
about  the  way  to  catch  a  squirrel  has 
shown  pretty  clearly  that  the  unrespon- 
siveness  of  his  French  auditor  was  due 
rather  to  a  limitation  of  sex  than  of 
race.  Yet  among  men  it  has  been  one 
of  the  jokes  of  the  year.  I  think  men 
are  often  unfair  when  after  such  ex- 
periments, painful  enough  (for  what  is 
more  disheartening  than  to  angle  for 
laughter  and  catch  civility),  they  accuse 
the  woman  of  not  seeing  the  joke.  She 
does  see  it,  but  it  does  not  appeal  to  her 
as  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world.  She 
has  heard  other  jokes,  and  is  ignorant  of 
the  necessity  for  all  this  side-holding  and 
slapping  on  the  back.  She  therefore 
finishes  her  tea  in  quietude  of  spirit  long 
before  the  last  reminiscent  detonations 
have  ceased  to  echo  in  the  masculine 
throat. 

But  it  is  a  dull  and  hasty  guess  to 
hazard,  that  because  of  this  difference  in 
taste  Miss  Austen's  sex  is  deficient  in 
humor.  There  are  women  nowadays  — 


there  have  always  been,  one  suspects, 
since  new  womanhood  is  as  old  as  every- 
thing else  under  the  sun  —  who  have  so 
far  cultivated  the  masculine  point  of 
view  as  to  have  actually  come  into  pos- 
session of  the  masculine  sense  of  the 
joke.  But,  as  George  Marlow  says  in  a 
very  different  connection,  "  they  are  of 
us."  A  true  woman's  sense  of  humor  is 
ordinarily  less  spasmodic,  probably  less 
acute,  than  a  man's,  but  (though  a  man 
may  be  a  little  ashamed  of  thinking  so, 
as  he  might  be  of  believing  in  woman's 
suffrage)  hardly  less  real  or  less  fruitful. 
A  very  large  .  part  of  the  work  done  in 
legitimate  humor  for  the  past  few  years 
by  Americans  has  been  done  by  women. 
Unless  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  or 
in  that  delightful  classic  of  feminine  hu- 
mor, Cranford,  one  hardly  knows  where 
to  look  for  so  mellow  and  sympathetic  a 
touch  as  characterizes  the  Old  Chester 
Tales  of  Mrs.  Deland.  The  central  fig- 
ure of  Dr.  Lavendar  it  seems  hardly  ex- 
travagant to  class  with  or  only  a  little 
beneath  Dr.  Primrose  and  Sir  Roger,  as 
a  creature  of  pure  humor.  In  Mrs. 
Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch,1  again, 
Miss  Hegan  has  created  a  character 
which  in  spite  of  the  utmost  freedom  of 
treatment  entirely  escapes  the  farcical. 
Mrs.  Wiggs  will  not  take  her  place  among 
the  eligible  and  decorative  heroines  of 
fiction,  but  she  will  have  an  abiding 
charm  for  unromantic  lovers  of  human 
nature.  In  Sonny,  Mrs.  Stuart  employed 
a  somewhat  broader  method.  Yet  what- 
ever farcical  possibilities  it  may  con- 
tain, it  would  be  hard  to  conceive  a  more 
genuinely  humorous  situation  than  is  af- 
forded by  the  belated  paternity  of  Mr. 
Deuteronomy  Jones  ;  a  situation  not  al- 
together funny,  but  tempered  by  the  lit- 
tle touch  of  pitifulness  which  belongs  to 
the  deeper  effects  of  humor.  In  the 
work  of  Miss  Daskam  one  discerns  a 
sharper  note,  a  little  tendency  to  dig  and 

1  Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch.  By  ALICE 
CALDWELL  HEGAN.  New  York :  The  Century 
Company.  1901. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


419 


fling,  which  now  and  then  becomes  too 
insistent.  In  her  latest  collection  of  sto- 
ries, indeed,  it  becomes  almost  dominant. 
The  initial  story,  The  Madness  of  Philip, 
is  at  once  a  genial  interpretation  of  child- 
nature  and  a  pungent  bit  of  satire  against 
the  wooden  sentimentality  of  which  the 
kindergarten  method  is  capable.  It  neat- 
ly suggests  that  to  the  child-rights  which 
the  disciples  of  Froebel  so  eloquently 
champion  should  be  added  the  right  to 
exercise  common  sense  as  well  as  fancy, 
and  the  right  to  be  spanked  when  the 
condition  of  the  system  calls  for  that 
tonic  treatment.  The  story  of  Ardelia 
in  Arcady  is  equally  keen  and  sympa- 
thetic. We  have  been  led  to  suppose 
that  the  country  is  the  natural  home  of 
every  child,  so  that  the  pathos  of  the 
city  child  stranded  in  the  country  is  a 
new  conception.  Miss  Daskam,  however, 
makes  it  an  intelligible  one. 

VI. 

If  there  is  a  characteristic  form  in 
which  the  American's  sense  of  humor  is 
inclined  to  express  itself,  it  is  probably 
satire,  the  form  which  lies  closest  upon 
the  borderland  of  wit.  And  our  talent 
for  satire  is  still  further  defined  by  our 
preference  for  the  method  of  the  inter- 
locutor. The  Biglow  Papers  established 
a  sort  of  canon  by  which  our  work  in 
this  field  will  long  be  judged.  We  have 
done  nothing  of  late  in  satirical  verse,  to 
be  sure,  while  much  has  been  done  in 
England  —  if  indeed  this  impression  is 
not  due  to  the  fact  that  the  newspaper 
provides  our  only  market  for  such  wares. 
But  it  can  hardly  escape  notice  that  in 
other  respects  our  recent  successful  ex- 
periments in  satire  have  held  to  the 
method  of  Lowell  and  Artemus  Ward : 
the  expression  of  wisdom  in  dialect  or 
in  the  vernacular. 

The  satire  in  the  Chimmie  Fadden 
books *  deals  mainly  with  class  questions. 
In  addition  to  the  Bowery  boy's  own 

1  Chimmie  Fadden  and  Mr.  Paul.  New 
York :  The  Geutury  Company.  1902. 


acute  remarks,  we  are  given  his  report 
of  the  observations  of  Mr.  Paul,  a  young 
society  man  whose  somewhat  tedious  ad- 
diction to  the  "  small  bottle  "  does  not 
interfere  with  his  delivery  of  sententious 
comments  upon  life  which  doubtless  gain 
much  from  Fadden's  garbling  Bowery 
version  of  them.  The  attempted  thread 
of  narrative  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
really  worth  while.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  book  has  been  more  considered 
than  the  early  Chimmie  Fadden  papers. 
Perhaps  for  that  reason  it  is  tamer. 
Chimmie's  lingo  rolls  from  his  lips  less 
spontaneously.  The  old  familiar  exple- 
tives will  be  missed,  the  "  sees  "  and 
"  hully  chees  "  and  "  wat  t'  ells  "  which 
endeared  him  to  the  public  some  years 
ago.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
satire  is  of  a  thinner  order. 

But  that  is  not  at  all  remarkable.  I 
do  not  think  anything  like  justice  has 
been  done  to  the  literary  merit  of  the 
Dooley  books.2  This  may  be  due  to  the 
copiousness  with  which  the  sage  of 
Archey  Road  has  poured  forth  his  opin- 
ions ;  or,  again,  it  may  be  due  to  the 
fact  that  so  clean  and  acceptable  a  vin 
du  pays  has  needed  no  bush.  Critics, 
it  may  be  supposed,  are  useful  in  point- 
ing out  excellences  which  most  of  us  are 
not  likely  to  perceive  :  but  everybody  un- 
derstands Mr.  Dooley.  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  the  latter  supposition  is  true.  Much 
of  the  Dooley  satire  seems  so  good  that 
it  must,  in  part,  escape  the  comprehen- 
sion of  many  readers  who  are  convulsed 
by  the  Dooley  phraseology. 

That  phraseology  in  itself  is  a  remark- 
able thing.  Nothing  is  harder  to  catch 
than  the  Irish  idiom,  nothing  harder  to 
suggest  on  paper  than  the  Irish  brogue. 
We  are  only  too  familiar  with  the  sham 
bedad  and  bejabers  dialect,,of  some  com- 
mercial value  to  writers  of  fiction,  but 
not  otherwise  existent.  Some  readers 
will  have  noticed  what  painful  work  has 
been  made  of  it  lately  by  the  inventor 

2  Mr.  Dooley 's  Opinions.  New  York :  R.  H. 
Russell  &  Company.  1902. 


420 


Books  New  and  Old. 


of  that  unconvincing  figure,  Policeman 
Flynn.  But  Mr.  Dooley  —  one  can  hard- 
ly elsewhere,  unless  from  the  mouth  of 
Kipling's  Mulvaney,  hear  so  mellow 
and  lilting  a  Hibernian  voice  as  this. 
The  papers  must  have  been  written  with 
great  care,  although  they  have  appeared 
very  often.  It  is  astonishing,  in  view  of 
the  great  range  of  theme  involved,  and 
the  periodicity  of  their  publication,  that 
there  is  so  little  unevenness  in  them. 
They  are  practically  monologues,  for  the 
occasional  introductory  word  is  of  the 
briefest,  and  the  supernumerary  Mr. 
Hennessey  serves  simply  as  the  neces- 
sary concrete  audience. 

For  several  years  now  Mr.  Dooley  has 
been  expressing  himself  in  this  manner 
upon  the  most  serious  themes,  social, 
civil,  and  political.  During  the  Spanish 
War  his  criticisms  of  army  methods  and 
of  the  general  administrative  policy  were 
sharp  and  uncompromising.  It  has  been 
said  by  a  friend  of  McKinley's  that  the 
President  followed  the  papers  as  they 
appeared  in  the  press  with  the  keenest 
amusement  and  attention.  Certainly  this 
was  true  of  a  great  many  of  the  Ameri- 
can people.  The  reason  for  his  vogue  is 
obvious.  With  all  his  pure  Irishness, 
he  is  pure  American,  too  ;  and  his  com- 
mentary upon  current  events  with  its 
alternating  simplicity  and  shrewdness, 
its  avoidance  of  sentimentality,  and  its 
real  patriotism,  probably  represents,  very 
much  as  Hosea  Biglow  represented,  the 
sober  sense  of  the  people.  This  union 
of  individual  and  representative  humor 
must  be  the  basis  of  whatever  claim  can 
be  made  for  the  permanent  value  of  Mr. 
Dooley. 

But  this  is  enough  to  give  his  creator 
a  place  among  the  humorists.  A  vein 
of  jests  is  soon  worked  out,  but  humor 
is  a  perennial  fount.  The  advance  of 
years  is  too  much  for  the  cleverness  of 
the  funny  man,  while  the  humorist  is 
fruitful  to  the  end,  and  after. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


IN  herself,  Mary  Boyle  had  most  of 

M  Bo  le  t^ie  ?  ^*tS  w^"cl1  bring 
happiness  to  their  possessor, 
—  a  bright  intelligence,  warm  affec- 
tions, unfailing  cheerfulness,  a  large 
capacity  for  giving  and  receiving  plea- 
sure, for  making  and  retaining  friends. 
And  a  kind  fortune  attended  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  life.  Well-born  in 
every  sense,  the  love  and  good  com- 
radeship she  found  in  her  own  house- 
hold extended  outward  to  an  exceed- 
ingly large  circle  of  agreeable  kinsfolk 
whose  houses  were  her  "extra  homes." 
"  Mary  Boyle  is  a  cousin  of  mine, "  said 
Lord  Carlisle  to  Dickens.  "I  suppose 
so,"  was  the  reply,  "I  have  never  yet 
met  any  one  who  was  not  her  cousin." 
It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  enu- 
merate the  variously  accomplished  men 
and  women  whom  she  met  in  her  Lon- 
don life,  in  her  visits  to  great  country 
houses,  or  in  her  sojourns  in  Italy,  a 
country  she  fell  in  love  with,  early  in 
life.  Lowell  speaking  of  her  as  he  knew 
her,  in  her  little  house  in  South  Audley 
Street,  when  she  was  verging  on  four- 
score, says:  "No  knock  could  surprise 
the  modest  door  of  what  she  called  her 
Bonbonniere,  for  it  has  opened  and  still 
opens  to  let  in  as  many  distinguished 
persons,  and,  what  is  better,  as  many 
devoted  friends,  as  any  in  London. 
However  long  Mary  Boyle  may  live, 
hers  can  never  be  that  most  dismal  of 
fates,  to  outlive  her  friends  while  cheer- 
fulness, kindliness,  cleverness,  content- 
edness,  and  all  the  other  good  nesses 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  making 
of  them." 

One  gift  she  possessed  in  so  remark- 
able a  degree  that  under  other  circum- 
stances she  might  have  become  famous 
as  a  comedian.  "She  is  the  very  best 
actress  I  ever  saw  off  the  stage, "  wrote 
Dickens  to  Bulwer,  "  and  immeasurably 
better  than  many  I  have  seen  on  it." 
Her  dramatic  reminiscences  —  begin- 
ning with  an  amusing  account  of  the 
"romantic  and  tragical  "  play  she  wrote 
at  the  age  of  seven,  and  successfully 


Books  New  and   Old. 


421 


performed,  with  the  aid  of  two  of  her 
small  brothers,  before  a  large  audience, 
parts  being  doubled  or  trebled,  with 
lightning  changes  of  costume  —  are 
among  the  most  entertaining  portions 
of  her  book.1  A  friend  of  Mary  Boyle 
declares  that  her  conversation  had  a 
charm  that  was  indescribable  and  per- 
haps unique.  It  is  not  difficult  to  be- 
lieve this.  Her  gifts  were  preeminent- 
ly social,  and  she  would  give  her  best  in 
talk  rather  than  with  the  pen.  But  her 
recollections,  though  dictated  in  old 
age,  and  when  blindness  prevented  her 
from  revising,  rearranging,  or  supple- 
menting what  had  been  written,  are 
pleasant  to  read  and  to  remember. 
They  will  assuredly  add  to  the  number  of 
her  friends,  so  attractive  in  its  gay  good 
humor,  its  sweetness,  and  sanity  is  the 
personality  revealed  in  these  sketches 
for  an  autobiography. 

S.  M.  F. 

FIVE  Oxford  men  have  written  with 
Some  Brief  knowledge  as  well  as  with 
Biographies,  excellent  judgment  and  taste 
sketches  of  the  lives  of  five  princesses  of 
the  House  of  Stuart, 2  four  of  whom,  by 
their  close  relationship,  their  connec- 
tion with  and  influence  upon  the  history 
of  their  time,  can  well  be  placed  together 
in  a  single  volume,  their  stories  being 
in  a  way  different  portions  of  the  same 
family  chronicle.  The  first  of  these  la- 
dies is  Elizabeth,  only  the  Winter  Queen 
of  Bohemia,  but  always  the  Queen  of 
Hearts,  —  no  less  so  in  the  long  years 
of  exile,  of  ceaseless  ill-fortune  and  ca- 
lamity, than  in  her  happy  girlhood  in 
the  England  still  bright  with  the  after- 
glow of  the  Elizabethan  age.  It  was  in 
the  ominous  year  when  she  wore  a  crown 
that  Wotton  dedicated  one  of  the  love- 
liest of  English  lyrics  to  The  Mistress, 
and  in  the  evil  time  to  come  there  were 
always  those  willing  to  devote  life  and 
fortune  to  her  service  with  the  ardor  of 

1  Mary  Boyle:  Her  Book.  Edited  by  Sir 
COUBTBNAY  BOYLE,  K.  C.  B.  New  York: 
E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  1902. 


knights  of  romance.  Her  marriage  had 
been  the  occasion  of  unexampled  public 
rejoicings,  she  had  left  England  with 
thousands  acclaiming  her;  fifty  years 
later  she  returned  almost  unnoticed  to 
a  world  where  all  had  changed,  —  re- 
turned only  to  die.  Mr.  Hodgkin  tells 
her  story  admirably;  history  and  per- 
sonal biography  are  mingled  in  their 
just  proportions,  and  the  narrative  is 
vivid  and  full  of  interest,  notwithstand- 
ing the  necessity  for  heroic  condensation 
laid  upon  the  author. 

Not  one  of  Elizabeth's  children  was 
dull  or  commonplace,  and  her  youngest 
daughter,  though  perhaps  not  so  excep- 
tionally gifted  as  two  of  her  elder  sis- 
ters, was  a  woman  of  keen  intelligence, 
quick-witted,  humorous,  tolerant,  in- 
terested in  many  things,  and  always 
herself,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  a  most 
interesting  personage.  It  was  a  mel- 
ancholy fatality  that  Sophia's  eldest  son 
should  be  the  one  of  all  her  children 
least  to  resemble  her.  From  -his  mother 
came  his  splendid  regal  inheritance,  but 
scarcely  a  quality  of  person,  mind,  or 
spirit  was  transmitted  to  him  from  the 
brilliant  Palatines.  Could  not  the  ed- 
itor have  allowed  himself  a  little  more 
space  wherein  to  have  expanded,  to  the 
still  greater  pleasure  of  his  readers,  his 
well-considered  sketch  of  the  Electress  ? 
The  studies  of  the  little  known  Mary 
of  Orange  and  of  Henrietta  of  Orleans, 
the  theme  of  so  many  eloquent  tongues 
and  pens,  are  adequate,  though  in  the 
first,  biography  is  rather  overweighted 
by  history.  Mr.  Bridge  is  to  be  com- 
mended for  his  treatment  of  the  fable 
regarding  Henrietta's  death,  which 
Saint-Simon  believed  and  perpetuated. 
The  invincible  ignorance  of  physicians 
like  to  those  Moliere  drew  naturally 
encouraged  the  growth  of  such  fictions, 
but  they  should  not  be  repeated  to-day 
as  facts.  Far  distant  from  these  latter- 
day  Stuarts  seems  the  shadowy  but  ap- 

2  Five  Stuart  Princesses.  Edited  by  ROBERT 
S.  RAIT,  Fellow  and  Lecturer  of  New  College, 
Oxford,  New  York:  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  1902. 


422 


Books  New  and  Old. 


pealing  figure  of  Margaret,  the  beloved 
daughter  of  the  poet-king  James  I.,  and 
the  unloved  wife  of  the  Dauphin  who 
was  to  be  Louis  XI.  The  pathetic  story 
of  the  beautiful,  sensitive  girl,  with  her 
passion  for  poetry,  —  "  She  often  spent 
the  hours  of  the  night  in  writing  roun- 
dels, as  many  as  twelve  perchance,  in 
the  revolution  of  one  day, "  —  who  was 
so  early  done  to  death  by  slanderous 
tongues,  has  been  sympathetically  told 
by  Mr.  Butler,  though  as  a  conscien- 
tious historian  he  has  been  compelled 
to  set  aside  some  of  the  charming  leg- 
ends that  have  clustered  about  the  young 
Dauphine's  memory,  legends  doubtless 
true  in  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter. 

The  volume  is  made  still  more  at- 
tractive by  a  number  of  well-selected 
portraits ;  but  how,  in  so  competently 
edited  a  book,  does  a  reproduction  of  a 
picture  by  Vandyck  —  plainly  of  Mary 
of  Orange,  whom  the  artist  painted  so 
often,  from  her  babyhood  till  she  went 
a  ten-year  old  bride  to  Holland,  that 
her  child  face  is  a  familiar  one  —  ap- 
pear as  a  portrait  of  Henrietta,  who  was 
not  born  till  some  years  after  Sir  An- 
thony's death? 

The  lady  whose  pen  name  is  George 
Paston  has  already  shown  considerable 
skill  in  the  not  altogether  easy  task  of 
giving  in  some  sort  the  quintessence  of 
certain  more  or  less  elaborate  biogra- 
phies, thus  making  the  way  easy  for 
readers  to  obtain  a  good  deal  of  enter- 
tainment and  even  enlightenment  with 
the  smallest  possible  expenditure  of  time 
and  trouble.  In  her  latest  volume,1 
which  mainly  illustrates  English  liter- 
ary and  artistic  life  in  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  place  of 
honor  is  given  to  Haydon,  an  extraor- 
dinary man,  if  not,  as  he  passionately 
believed,  a  great  painter.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  his  Journal  is  still  read  in 
its  entirety  by  some  even  of  the  larger 

1  Little  Memoirs  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
By  GEORGE  PASTON.  London:  Grant  Richards ; 
New  York  :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1902, 


public,  for  not  only  is  it  one  of  the  most 
complete  self -revelations  in  English  lit- 
erature, and  one  of  its  most  moving 
tragedies,  but  it  is  also  the  work  of  a 
man  who  read  and  thought,  who  could 
observe  and  describe.  May  George  Pas- 
ton's  clever  sketch  serve  as  a  step- 
ping-stone for  adventurous  readers. 
Lady  Morgan  is  brightly,  fairly,  and 
sufficiently  dealt  with;  but  the  study 
of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  seems  some- 
thing like  task-work,  —  an  uncommon 
fault  in  this  author.  The  Howitts  are 
written  of  sympathetically,  but  it  is 
rather  painful  to  find  these  dearly  be- 
loved friends  of  one's  childhood  rele- 
gated so  completely  to  the  past.  Two 
aliens  complete  the  group,  Prince  Piick- 
ler-Muskau  and  N.  P.  Willis,  both  on 
account  of  their  pictures  of  English  so- 
ciety in  the  twenties  and  thirties.  The 
Prince  who  was,  in  no  insignificant  de- 
gree, soldier,  sportsman,  traveler,  fash- 
ionable author,  landscape  gardener, 
dandy,  Don  Juan,  unconscious  humor- 
ist, and  heiress  hunter,  visited  England 
in  the  last  capacity,  and,  his  two  years r 
search  being  vain,  revenged  himself  bj 
publishing  his  travels.  Willis,  a  decade 
later,  was  a  more  appreciative  and  bet- 
ter-tempered observer  than  the  disap- 
pointed German.  The  lapse  of  time 
not  only  has  rendered  that  early  but 
shining  example  of  "personal  journal- 
ism," Pencillings  by  the  Way,  innocu- 
ous, but  has  given  to  those  graphic  and 
readable  letters  a  distinct  and  increas- 
ing value.  Here,  as  elsewhere  in  this 
agreeable  book,  proper  names  are  some- 
times maltreated,  as  when  the  lady  who 
became  Mrs.  Motley  is  called  "Mary 
Benham, "  and  Willis's  biographer  (to 
whom  George  Paston  owes  so  much  in 
this  sketch  that  it  is  to  be  wished  she 
had  always  followed  his  lead  more  care- 
fully) appears  as  "Mr.  De  Beers." 
There  are  slips  too  in  dates,  and  less 
than  justice  is  done  to  Willis  on  one 
sad  occasion  in  his  life  by  the  confound- 
ing of  one  year  with  another.  S.  M.  F. 


Recent  Religious  Literature. 


423 


RECENT   RELIGIOUS   LITERATURE.1 


AN  American  professor  of  psychology, 
an  American  preacher,  and  an  English 
theologian  each  present  to  us  a  book  on 
the  subject  of  religion,  and  all  three  are 
noteworthy.  Professor  James  speaks 
modestly  of  his  ability  to  discuss  this 
theme,  but  his  published  essay,  entitled 
The  Will  to  Believe,  and  his  Ingersoll 
Lecture  on  Immortality  show  that  it  has 
long  been  in  his  mind.  While  he  may 
not  have  the  technical  equipment  ex- 
pected of  a  writer  on  the  history  of  re- 
ligion, he  nevertheless  has  observed  wide- 
ly in  the  field  of  religious  phenomena, 
and  he  has  also  looked  into  history  for 
illustrative  material.  The  results  of  his 
study  are  embodied  in  the  lectures  which 
he  delivered  at  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh during  the  past  year.  Although 
less  profound  than  several  previous  vol- 
umes in  the  same  series,  this  one  will 
compare  favorably  with  any  of  them  in 
genuine  human  interest.  The  author  and 
his  Harvard  colleague,  Professor  Royce, 
enjoy  the  distinction  of  being  the  first 
Americans  invited  to  lecture  on  the  Gif- 
ford  foundation.  There  is  good  reason 
to  believe  that  they  will  not  be  the  last. 

Psychological  considerations  determine 
in  advance  the  limits  of  Dr.  James's 
treatment  of  his  subject.  He  will  deal  not 
with  any  religious  organization,  whether 
pagan  or  Christian,  but  with  personal  re- 
ligion, "  the  feelings,  acts,  and  experi- 
ences of  individual  men  in  their  soli- 
tude "  (page  31).  True  to  New  England 
traditions,  the  author  sets  about  his  task 
as  an  individualist.  Like  Schleiermach- 
er,  he  is  bent  on  "  rehabilitating  the  ele- 
ment of  feeling  in  religion  "  (page  501)  ; 

1  The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience.  A 
Study  in  Human  Nature.  The  Gifford  Lec- 
tures for  1901.  By  WILLIAM  JAMES.  New 
York  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  1902,  pp.  xii, 
534. 

Through  Science  to  Faith.     Lowell  Institute 


but  unlike  Schleiermacher,  his  word  is 
not  spoken  at  the  critical  moment.  For 
there  is  little  danger  in  our  day  that  re- 
ligion will  become  too  exclusively  an  af- 
fair of  the  intellect.  Professor  James 
draws  his  illustrations  deliberately  from 
extreme,  rather  than  from  normal  types 
of  religious  experience,  and  anticipates 
adverse  criticism  by  urging  their  unique 
value  for  his  purpose,  just  as  in  medical 
science  the  abnormal  case  is  often  the 
most  instructive  for  one  who  is  attempt- 
ing to  formulate  a  theory  of  disease. 

The  sole  novelty  to  which  our  au- 
thor lays  claim  is  in  the  wide  range  of 
phenomena  passed  under  review.  He 
finds  that  all  religions  agree  in  positing 
"  an  uneasiness  and  its  solution  "  (page 
508).  There  is  something  wrong  about 
us,  from  which  we  are  saved.  The  es- 
sentials of  religion  are  few,  but  after 
these  have  been  enumerated,  there  re- 
mains room  for  "  over-beliefs,"  which 
enlarge  the  content  of  each  one's  faith. 
A  distinction  must  be  drawn  between 
the  respective  spheres  of  psychology  and 
religion.  "  Both  admit  that  there  are 
forces  seemingly  outside  of  the  conscious 
individual  that  bring  redemption  into  his 
life,"  but  psychology  "  implies  that  they 
do  not  transcend  the  individual's  person- 
ality," while  Christianity  "insists  that 
they  are  direct  supernatural  operations 
of  the  Deity  "  (page  211).  Within  the 
mysterious  domain  of  the  "subliminal 
consciousness  "  Dr.  James  finds  a  possi- 
ble point  of  contact  between  man  and 
God.  For  when  he  refers  any  given 
phenomenon  to  the  subliminal  self  as 
its  source,  he  refuses  thereby  to  exclude 

Lectures,  1900-1901.  By  NEWMAN  SMYTH. 
New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1902, 
pp.  x,  282. 

The  Philosophy  of  the  Christian  Religion.  By 
A.  M.  FAIKBAUBN.  New  York  :  The  Mac- 
millan  Co.  1902,  pp.  xxviii,  583. 


424 


Recent  Religious  Literature. 


the  notion  of  the  "  direct  presence  of  the 
Deity  "  (page  242).  In  attempting  to 
set  forth  what  this  theory  involves  for 
religious  faith,  he  concludes  with  the 
half  -despairing  comment,  "  I  feel  as  if 
it  must  mean  something,  something  like 
what  the  hegalian  (sic)  philosophy  means, 
if  one  could  only  lay  hold  of  it  more 
clearly"  (page  388).  Another  valuable 
distinction  which  the  author  draws  is 
that  between  religion  and  ethics.  Re- 
ligion exhibits  the  "  enthusiastic  temper 
of  espousal  "  where  morality  simply  "  ac- 
quiesces "  (page  48). 

It  is  characteristic  of  Professor  James 
to  discard  the  rationalistic  method,  which 
he  regards  as  distinctly  inferior  to  his 
adopted  "  pragmatism  "  (pages  73, 444). 
He  will  judge  everything,  religion  in- 
cluded, by  its  utility,  by  the  empiricist 
principle  of  its  value  "  on  the  whole  " 
(page  327).  "  The  true  is  what  works 
well "  (page  458).  One  might  query 
how  far  to  go  in  applying  this  princi- 
ple. Our  author,  for  example,  finds  that 
"  Stoic,  Christian,  and  Buddhist  saints 
are  practically  indistinguishable  in  their 
lives  "  (page  504).  Shall  we  apply  his 
test  here,  and  argue  the  equal  practical 
truth  of  Stoicism,  Buddhism,  and  Chris- 
tianity ?  However  we  may  answer  such 
questions  as  this,  it  is  interesting  to  note 
that,  in  thus  emphasizing  the  importance 
of  Werturteile,  Dr.  James  falls  back  on 
the  Kantian  principle  so  high  in  favor 
with  the  Ritschlian  school  of  theologians. 
To  be  sure,  he  will  have  none  of  theology 
in  any  form.  He  pronounces  it  dead. 
Yet  even  while  he  is  bidding  it  "  a  defin- 
itive good-by  "  (page  448),  some  of  its 
most  active  supporters  are  putting  forth 
their  new  system,  based  upon  funda- 
mental principles  very  like  those  of  Dr. 
James  himself ! 

Lectures  IV.  and  V.,  entitled  The  Re- 
ligion of  Healthy-Mindedness,  must  have 
seemed  especially  fresh  to  the  Scottish 
audience  that  heard  them.  Here  are 
discussed  the  mind -cure  and  kindred 
themes,  including  Christian  Science,  all 


of  which  make  up  "  America's  only  de- 
cidedly original  contribution  to  the  sys- 
tematic philosophy  of  life  "  (page  96). 
The  unfavorable  judgment  finally  pro- 
nounced upon  Christian  Science  (that 
its  denial  of  evil  is  "  a  bad  speculative 
omission,"  page  107)  is  all  the  more  se- 
vere because  of  Professor  James's  mani- 
fest desire  to  regard  the  movement  sym- 
pathetically and  seriously. 

The  English  style  of  the  book  is  vig- 
orous, terse,  and  racy  throughout.  The 
reader  chuckles  over  many  a  neat  turn 
of  expression  and  pointed  anecdote.  In 
referring  to  the  theory  of  religion  which 
makes  it  out  to  be  the  attitude  one  as- 
sumes toward  the  universe,  Professor 
James  relates  a  story  of  Margaret  Fuller, 
who,  in  the  genuine  spirit  of  New  Eng- 
land transcendentalism,  once  exclaimed, 
"  I  accept  the  universe."  This  being 
reported  to  Carlyle,  he  coolly  remarked, 
"  Gad  !  She  'd  better !  "  (page  41).  The 
warrior  chiefs  of  barbarism  are  likened 
to  "  beaked  and  taloned  graspers  of  the 
world,"  while  religious  devotees  are  by 
comparison  "  herbivorous  animals,  tame 
and  harmless  barnyard  poultry  "  (page 
372).  If  mere  "  feeling  good  "  were  ac- 
cepted as  the  criterion  of  truth  "  drunk- 
enness would  be  the  supremely  valid 
human  experience "  (page  16).  The 
difference  which  may  exist  between  the 
various  methods  of  approaching  a  prob- 
lem is  illustrated  by  the  remark,  "  from 
the  biological  point  of  view,  St.  Paul  was 
a  failure,  because  he  was  beheaded  " 
(page  376).  But  some  other  statements, 
while  undeniably  clever,  strike  the  read- 
er as  a  little  too  realistic.  The  man  who 
has  been  to  the  confessional  is  said  to 
have  "  exteriorized  his  rottenness  "  (page 
462).  St.  Teresa's  idea  of  religion  is 
described  as  "an  endless  amatory  flirta- 
tion "  (page  347).  The  sallies  of  Scho- 
penhauer and  Nietzsche  remind  the  au- 
thor more  than  half  the  time  of  "  the 
sick  shriekings  of  two  dying  rats  "  (page 
38). 

But  the  most  striking  thing  about  this 


Recent  Religious  Literature. 


425 


book  is  that,  after  describing  and  classi- 
fying his  observations,  after  attributing 
certain  experiences  to  their  sufficient 
physical  causes,  and  after  assigning  to 
"  the  subliminal  consciousness  "  its  due 
part,  Professor  James  confesses  that  the 
how  and  the  why  of  it  all  are  still  un- 
known. There  remains  for  religion  a 
"  vital  meaning  "  (cf.  pages  270,  364). 
The  fact  of  definite  and  real  religious 
experiences  is  amply  demonstrated  ;  the 
attempt  to  explain  the  cause  remains  the 
legitimate  business  of  religion  itself.  And 
if  religion  cannot  offer  a  sufficient  hy- 
pothesis, nothing  can.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  note  that  Professor  James  hopes  to 
publish  a  second  work,  in  which  he  will 
treat  at  length  the  more  profound  phil- 
osophical problems  which  the  subject 
involves. 

Our  Harvard  professor  believes  that 
science  and  religion  are  both  genuine  keys 
with  which  we  may  "  unlock  the  world's 
treasure-house,"  and  that,  although  at 
first  sight  the  facts  of  science  and  the 
facts  of  religion  may  appear  completely 
disjoined,  yet  the  divorce  between  them 
may  not  prove  so  eternal  as  it  seems. 
Dr.  Newman  Smyth  of  New  Haven  is 
of  the  same  opinion,  only  he  would  go 
much  further.  The  title  of  his  Lowell 
Lectures,  Through  Science  to  Faith,  in- 
dicates at  once  his  point  of  view  and  his 
method.  His  tone  is  distinctly  modern. 
In  fact,  each  of  the  three  writers  with 
whom  we  are  concerned  has  opened  his 
eyes  and  gazed  with  satisfaction  at  the 
world  of  to-day.  They  all  find  it  hopeful. 
Of  course  their  modes  of  dealing  with 
their  subjects  differ,  and  the  proportions 
in  which  religion  and  science  mix  in  them 
are  various.  James  has  little  if  any 
theology,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  aims 
to  be  thoroughly  scientific.  Smyth  frank- 
ly commits  himself  to  accepting  what- 
ever science  proves,  yet  he  would  remain 
a  theologian  still.  Fairbairn  (whose  book 
will  be  reviewed  below)  is  primarily  a 
theologian,  but  his  ears  are  not  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  science.  He  only  insists  that 


its  conclusions  shall  submit  themselves  to 
philosophical  examination  and  rational 
interpretation.  Smyth  and  Fairbairn 
agree  in  seeking  to  discern  the  ultimate 
significance  of  the  facts  of  nature.  For 
them  it  is  not  enough  simply  to  observe 
and  to  record  ;  one  must  also  interpret. 
Things  have  a  meaning,  —  this  is  a 
fundamental  axiom  with  them  both. 

Dr.  Smyth  is  concerned  to  frame  a 
new  natural  theology.  We  gain  only 
hints  of  what  his  systematic  theology 
would  be,  but  we  learn  that  it  would  in- 
volve some  modification  of  older  systems 
(page  9).  Accepting  the  approved  re- 
sults of  experimental  science,  he  affirms 
the  unity  of  nature,  and,  by  applying  the 
evolutionary  hypothesis,  he  attempts  to 
show  that  all  nature  reveals  intelligent 
direction.  Its  revelation  "  increases  as 
the  capacity  for  perception  of  it  grows  " 
(page  42).  The  real  problem  of  the  uni- 
verse does  not  lie  in  the  question,  "  Is 
nature  one  ?  "  but  in  the  larger  question, 
"  How  is  it  one  ?  "  (page  11).  And  this 
question  is  not  mathematical  or  physical, 
but  philosophical  (page  79).  Dr.  Smyth 
finds  indication  of  "  an  unknown,  or 
mathematically  immeasurable  factor  in 
evolution  "  (page  18),  which  affords  rea- 
sonable ground  for  believing  in  a  com- 
pletion of  things  somewhere  beyond  the 
confines  of  our  present  experience. 
Whatever  progress  we  may  make  to- 
ward this  completion  must  lie  along  the 
line  of  a  spiritual  rather  than  of  a  ma- 
terial conception  of  the  universe,  since 
it  is  the  former  alone  which  discovers 
any  idea,  or  intelligence,  in  nature  (page 
52).  In  the  beautiful,  for  instance,  we 
may  see  one  aspect  of  intelligence  and 
deity,  "  an  expression  of  reason  to  rea- 
son "  (page  154).  In  spite  of  all  appar- 
ent hindrances  and  disasters,  nature  ad- 
vances toward  good  results ;  nature  there- 
fore manifests  moral  character.  The 
losses  and  retrogressions  of  the  nature- 
process  are  more  than  equalized  by  com- 
pensating restorations,  and  thus  evolution 
is  seen  to  bear  a  Ideological  character 


426 


Recent  Religious  Literature. 


(page  232).  The  net  outcome  of  what 
our  author  so  happily  calls  "  the  pro- 
phetic value  of  unfinished  nature "  is 
pure  optimism.  In  the  application  of  his 
*' principle  of  completion"  he  becomes 
personal,  and  touches  closely  our  highest 
aspirations.  What  is  it,  he  asks,  which 
shows  the  highest  "  survival  value  "  in 
this  world  of  ours  ?  Men,  is  the  answer, 
—  individual  human  beings,  possessed 
of  reason  and  of  soul.  The  importance 
of  the  individual  has  at  last  outrun  that 
of  the  species  (page  189).  Hence  per- 
sonal immortality  becomes  a  reasonable 
expectation,  as  well  as  a  fond  religious 
hope.  "  The  sure  principle  of  natural 
prophecy  is  ...  that  nature  will  not 
stop  nor  tarry  till  all  her  decrees  of  per- 
fection shall  be  completed"  (page  253). 

Perhaps  the  most  valuable  contribu- 
tions made  by  Dr.  Smyth  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  his  subject  are  the  emphasis 
placed  upon  "the  sign  of  increasing  vital 
value  "  (page  103),  and,  to  a  less  degree, 
upon  the  "  moral  significance  of  the  in- 
troduction of  play  as  well  as  work  into 
the  animal  kingdom,"  which  receives  in- 
teresting treatment  (page  123).  On  the 
other  hand,  the  place  where  one  might 
most  easily  interpose  an  objection  is  in 
the  sections  treating  of  the  moral  charac- 
ter of  nature.  It  is  hard  to  see  why  the 
greater  happiness  of  man,  as  compared 
with  a  monad,  indicates  that  man's  de- 
velopment is  moral,  or  how  natural  beau- 
ty manifests  a  "  moral  aspect  of  nature  " 
(pages  120,  157).  But  in  spite  of  im- 
perfections in  detail,  the  book  is  inter- 
esting and  valuable.  It  forms  a  con- 
venient connecting  link  between  the  psy- 
chological lectures  of  Professor  James 
and  the  theological  essay  of  Dr.  Fair- 
bairn,  to  which  we  must  now  turn. 

The  Philosophy  of  the  Christian  Re- 
ligion is  an  able  apology  for  the  orthodox 
faith,  from  the  pen  of  an  expert  dialec- 
tician. Dr.  James  has  insisted  that  the- 
ology is  dead,  yet  here  we  have  it,  in  an 
elaborate  treatise,  wearing  all  the  appear- 
ance of  health  and  e,ven  of  capacity  for 


useful  service.  The  persistence  of  re- 
ligion in  clothing  itself  in  philosophic 
dress  is  indeed  noteworthy.  Not  long 
ago  a  professor  in  Leipzig  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  the  church  originally 
knew  nothing  of  ecclesiastical  law,  and 
that,  in  ideal,  Christianity  and  legal  in- 
stitutions were  incompatible.  But  he 
also  pointed  out  how  legalism  entered 
the  church,  and  there  grew  up  into  an 
extensive  corpus  juris  canonici.  Now 
a  somewhat  similar  process  went  on  in 
another  department  of  the  church's  life. 
Although  Christianity  and  metaphysics 
were  far  enough  apart  at  first,  circum- 
stances led  the  new  religion  to  come  to 
terms  with  philosophy,  to  pour  a  new 
content  into  its  ancient  forms,  and  to 
give  it  fresh  meaning  and  a  vital  func- 
tion in  the  world,  —  whence  proceeded 
dogma,  which  is  nothing  but  doctrinal 
belief  reduced  to  formal  and  official  defi- 
nition. 

Professor  James  has  said  that  in  re- 
ligion men  feel,  which  is  true,  for  re- 
ligion deals  primarily  with  experience. 
Dr.  Fairbairn  asserts  that  about  religion 
men  think,  which  is  also  true,  for  re- 
ligion deals  secondarily  with  thought. 
There  never  was  a  more  foolish  attempt 
to  state  a  problem  than  to  ask  whether 
religion  is  "  a  dogma  or  a  life,"  for  with 
intelligent  beings  it  must  be  both.  There- 
fore each  of  the  two  modes  of  treatment, 
adopted  the  one  by  Professor  James  and 
the  other  by  Dr.  Fairbairn,  is  entirely 
valid,  but  it  would  be  futile  to  claim  ex- 
clusiveness  for  either  of  them. 

One  cannot  resist  the  conviction  that 
in  Dr.  Fairbairn's  book  we  have  a  con- 
scious effort  to  produce  the  "  new  Anal- 
ogy," for  which  the  author  fondly  yearns 
in  his  Preface,  in  calling  to  mind  Bishop 
Butler.  At  any  rate,  the  result  is  not 
unworthy  of  the  aim.  The  thesis  is  thus 
stated  :  "  The  conception  of  Christ  stands 
related  to  history  as  the  idea  of  God  is 
related  to  nature,  that  is,  each  is,  in  its 
own  sphere,  the  factor  of  order,  or  the 
constitutive  condition  of  a  rational  sys- 


Recent  Religious  Literature. 


427 


tern"  (page  18).  In  view  of  the  order 
of  the  world  and  the  constitution  of  the 
human  mind,  we  cannot  conceive  that 
nature  is  unintelligent  or  godless.  And 
finding  ourselves  led  to  accept  a  rational 
universe,  we  are  forced  by  the  same  logic 
to  seek  a  rational  cause  for  history  (page 
435).  Thus  the  author  extends  the 
boundaries  of  the  discussion  followed  in 
his  earlier  book,  The  Place  of  Christ  in 
Modern  Theology,  for  he  now  finds  in 
the  Incarnation  a  point  of  departure  for 
interpreting  the  meaning  of  all  history. 
He  exalts  "  the  extraordinary  significance 
of  Christ's  person,  which,  till  it  was  in- 
terpreted, was  but  the  immanent  possi- 
bility of  a  religion"  (page  533).  Of 
course  he  recognizes  that  the  Incarna- 
tion presents  peculiar  problems,  but  he 
so  develops  his  analogical  principle  as 
to  enable  him  to  maintain  that  "  there 
is  no  problem  raised  by  the  idea  of  God 
manifest  in  the  flesh,  .  .  .  which  is  not 
equally  raised  by  the  inter-relations  of 
God  and  nature"  (page  479).  This 
thought  is  elaborated  with  great  skill  and 
cogency. 

Some  of  Dr.  Fairbairn's  reasoning  is 
so  highly  speculative  as  to  provoke  dis- 
sent, almost  without  regard  to  the  va- 
lidity of  his  conclusions,  yet  he  frankly 
recognizes  the  final  supremacy  of  ethical 
values  in  controlling  our  conclusions  as 
to  what  is  true.  "  There  is  indeed  in  all 
history,"  he  says,  "  nothing  more  tragic 
than  the  fact  that  our  heresies  have  been 
more  speculative  than  ethical,  more  con- 
cerned with  opinion  than  with  conduct  " 
(page  565).  The  book  reproduces  a 
few  traditional  opinions  not  very  vigor- 
ously maintained  in  recent  years,  such 
as  the  statement  that  the  Gospel  mira- 
cles though  "  supernatural "  are  not "  con- 
tra-natural "  (page  336).  This  is  like 


the  assertion  that  man  is  "  more  than  a 
natural  being"  (page  68).  But  every- 
thing depends  on  what  we  mean  by  our 
terms.  The  first  question  is,  What  is  na- 
ture ?  The  more  nearly  we  approach  an 
adequate  understanding  of  that,  the  less 
perhaps  shall  we  feel  disposed  to  empha- 
size the  conventional  distinction  between 
"  nature  "  and  the  "  supernatural."  Hor- 
ace Bushnell  wrote  to  Dr.  Bartol,  more 
than  fifty  years  ago  :  "I  hope  it  will 
some  time  or  other  be  made  to  appear 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  more  of  super- 
naturalism  in  the  management  of  this 
world  than  even  orthodoxy  has  begun  to 
suspect." 

Formally  considered,  the  book  suffers 
from  wearisome  over-analysis.  Dr.  Fair- 
bairn's  readers  are  not  so  dull  as  to  need 
the"  aid  of  all  sorts  of  mechanical  divi- 
sions and  subdivisions.  There  is  often 
more  difficulty  in  understanding  the  clas- 
sification than  in  following  the  thought. 
We  prefer  the  under-analysis  of  Profes- 
sor James,  who  has  only  lecture-division 
(and  sometimes  not  even  that).  Less 
space  devoted  to  refuting  the  views  of 
other  men  would  also  have  conduced  to 
clarity,  although  we  could  ill  spare  such 
a  fine  bit  of  criticism  as  that  relating  to 
the  philosophy  of  Hume.  Typograph- 
ical errors  are  more  numerous  than  they 
should  be.  The  author's  English  is  high- 
ly rhetorical,  and  not  a  few  passages 
show  a  rare  poetic  beauty.  In  this  re- 
spect his  book  presents  a  decided  con- 
trast to  that  of  Dr.  James,  whose  style 
is  simple,  though  never  commonplace, 
and  also  to  the  straightforward  writing 
of  Dr.  Smyth.  On  the  whole,  Dr.  Fair- 
bairn's  book  must  be  pronounced  the 
most  powerful  defensive  statement  of 
the  Christian  faith  that  has  recently  ap- 
peared. 

John  Winthrop  Plainer. 


428 


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THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


WHAT  proved  to  be  the  last  of  many 
A  Walk  with  good  walks  and  talks  with 
Mr.  Warner.  jy/[r>  "Warner  was  made  espe- 
cially memorable  by  so  concise  an  ac- 
count of  his  method  of  writing  in  gen- 
eral, and  of  his  Winter  on  the  Nile  in 
particular,  that  it  seems  selfish  not  to 
attempt  to  share  the  pleasure  received 
with  the  many  loving  admirers  of  his 
charming  work. 

It  was  during  the  last  mile  of  a  seven- 
mile  tramp  through  the  brilliant  autumn 
foliage  that  lends  a  brief  glory  to  every 
New  England  village ;  he  had  been  talk- 
ing of  the  joys  of  travel,  and  the  joys 
of  getting  home  again ;  the  pleasure  of 
prowling  about  in  search  of  "things," 
and  the  final  unpacking  and  bestowal  of 
foreign  treasures  in  the  home  they  were 
to  adorn,  pausing  from  time  to  time,  and 
leaning  on  his  cane,  to  admire  a  yellow 
birch  reflected  in  the  blue  lake,  a  flam- 
ing maple,  or  the  scarlet  cranberries  in 
the  dark  purple  bog.  Suddenly  he 
turned  the  conversation,  and  for  the 
very  first  time  during  a  long  acquaint- 
ance, to  his  own  way  of  working,  and 
to  his  manner  of  strengthening  the  ac- 
tive memory  required  in  his  methods  of 
writing. 

I  felt  strongly  at  the  time  that  it  was 
meant,  indirectly,  to  serve  as  a  friendly, 
helpful  lesson,  and  knowing  now  how 
near  the  end  then  was,  I  am  confirmed  in 
the  thought  that,  in  his  simple,  gener- 
ous way,  he  meant  to  make  the  passing 
hour  of  more  than  ordinary  value  to 
one  who  had  studied  and  cared  for  his 
work  and  had  ventured  to  tell  him  so. 

"I  have  always  made  a  practice  of 
remembering  everything  I  listen  to," 
he  said.  "Never  mind  how  long  the 
sermon,  nor  how  great  the  number  of 
heads  into  which  it  was  divided,  even 
as  a  boy  I  would  follow  every  word,  and 
at  the  close  could  write  a  synopsis  of 
the  whole  discourse.  It  is  only  a  ques- 


tion of  habit.  The  same  was  true  in 
the  case  of  the  most  trivial  conversa- 
tion." And  is  this  not  a  key  to  the 
secret  of  one  of  Mr.  Warner's  greatest 
charms  ?  Was  it  not  really  his  keen, 
warm  sympathy  with  all  that  was  hu- 
man which  led  him  to  listen  to,  to  pay 
close  heed  to,  the  slightest  expression  of 
another's  inner  life? 

"At  one  time,"  he  continued,  stop- 
ping short  in  his  walk  and  driving  his 
cane  deep  into  the  ground,  as  if  the 
better  to  recall  a  pleasing  vision  of  his 
youth,  "I  wrote  newspaper  reports  of  , 
a  whole  course  of  lectures,  taking  no 
notes  at  the  time.  These  reports  were 
written  in  every  case  some  days  after 
the  lectures  were  delivered,  and  it  so 
chanced  that  they  proved  to  be,  in  the 
course  of  time,  of  value  tc^  the  man  who 
had  delivered  the  original  lectures. 
And  this  was  done  with  no  conscious 
effort,  but  was  the  result  of  constant, 
unremitting  concentration  of  thought. 

"My  book  on  the  Nile  was  written 
at  Venice,  under  ideal  conditions  for 
work,  and  some  months  after  the  jour- 
ney was  made,  in  a  big,  empty  room, 
overlooking  the  Grand  Canal.  It  was 
reached  by  several  flights  of  marble 
stairs,  guarded  by  an  iron  grating  on 
the  first  floor,  which  flew  open  every 
morning  on  my  ringing  the  bell.  No 
one  appeared  except  for  a  brief  monthly 
settling  of  the  terms  of  the  lease,  and 
thus  the  feeling  of  solitude  was  com- 
plete during  the  morning  hours.  The 
room  was  simply  furnished  with  all  that 
one  needs,  —  a  table,  a  chair,  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  and  —  the  view  up  and  down 
the  Canal !  I  had  a  tiny  book  of  brief 
notes  taken  during  the  journey  up  the 
Nile,  one  book  of  reference,  and  a  guide- 
book, —  nothing  more.  As  I  wrote, 
all  the  sayings  of  our  delightful  drago- 
man came  back  to  me,  with  the  very  in- 
tonations of  his  voice.  The  lights,  the 


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429 


atmosphere,  the  daily  life  of  the  river 
and  the  desert,  the  visits  to  the  tem- 
ples, all  were  vividly  present  again  to 
my  mind's  eye,  as  if  freshly  drawn  up 
from  some  well  of  memory."  "And 
the  novels  ?  Yes.  Many  of  the  scenes 
are  literally  true  to  life,  word  for  word, 
as  experienced  by  actual  workers  and 
players  in  all  classes  of  society." 

The  chilly  close  of  a  gray  autumn  af- 
ternoon, lit  only  by  the  waning  lights  of 
a  crimson  sunset,  —  the  regretful  ar- 
rangements for  taking  an  early  train 
the  next  morning  because  of  an  appoint- 
ment with  some  "beginner,"  whose 
MSS.  he  had  promised  to  read  and 
pass  judgment  upon,  —  the  pleasantly 
prompt  letter  received  the  day  after  his 
return  home,  full  of  quiet  fun  and  plans 
for  more  work,  graceful  words  of  thanks 
for  a  hospitality  we  had  felt  it  an  honor 
and  privilege  to  offer ;  —  would  that  all 
last  memories  might  prove  equally  pre- 
cious and  satisfying! 

IT  is  wonderful  how  often  analysis 
The  New  proves  our  intuitive  likes  and 
Altruism.  dislikes  to  be  correct.  Now 
I  have  always  disliked  philanthropists 
and  altruists  without  knowing  why,  and 
yet  the  reason  is  one  that  should  be  in- 
stantly obvious  to  any  thoughtful  man. 
The  trouble  is  jthat  they  lack  subtlety, 
and  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  their  "I  am 
holier  than  thou "  attitude.  Their  al- 
truism is  all  back  end  foremost,  and  that 
is  why  so  many  of  them  are  regarded 
by  a  large  section  of  the  public  as  men 
who  have  not  learned  the  difficult  art 
of  minding  their  own  business.  Instead 
of  elevating  those  to  whom  they  devote 
their  attention,  they  make  them  feel  mean 
and  worthless,  or  else  fill  them  with  un- 
holy wrath.  Feeling  that  this  was  wrong, 
I  investigated  carefully  and  made  the 
startling  discovery  that  the  true  altruist 
helps  his  superiors  rather  than  his  in- 
feriors. 

Having  a  large  and  assorted  collection 
of  friends  and  acquaintances,  I  studied 
my  relations  with  them,  and  found  that 


when  I  felt  called  upon  to  advise  a  strug- 
gling brother,  and  elevate  him  to  rny  own 
high  moral  and  intellectual  plane,  I  al- 
ways felt  personally  uplifted  and  more 
inclined  to  reverence  myself  as  a  man, 
as  Goldsmith  so  wisely  advises.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  circumstances  made 
me  realize  that  I  was  only  a  "  poor  weak 
sister,"  and  my  superiors  came  to  com- 
fort me  after  the  manner  of  Eliphaz  the 
Temanite,  and  Elihu  the  son  of  Barachel 
the  Buzite,  of  the  kindred  of  Ram,  whose 
name  was  no  worse  than  he  deserved,  I 
noticed  that  they  immediately  began  to 
swell  out  their  chests  and  to  feel  better. 
Having  observed  this,  it  was  not  long  un- 
til I  discovered  the  great  truth  I  am  now 
doing  my  utmost  to  apply  in  conduct.  I 
found  that  I  could  get  as  fine  a  philan- 
thropic glow  from  permitting  myself  to 
be  advised,  and  watching  the  beneficial 
effect  on  my  adviser,  as  ever  I  did  from 
giving  advice  myself.  Of  course  I  found 
it  hard  at  first  to  give  up  the  luxury  of 
advising  my  inferiors,  and  still  harder  to 
submit  to  being  constantly  advised,  but 
the  subtlety  of  the  scheme  appeals  to  my 
artistic  sense,  and  I  look  forward  confi- 
dently to  a  time  when  I  can  meekly  sub- 
mit to  having  my  finer  feelings  clawed 
over  by  such  of  my  superior  friends  as 
I  wish  to  help,  and  get  all  the  strength 
I  need  myself  from  the  consciousness  of 
good  work  well  and  secretly  done.  In- 
deed I  have  accomplished  enough  in  this 
line  already  to  spur  me  on  to  greater 
achievements.  One  superior  friend,  to 
whom  I  have  often  listened  meekly  when 
he  felt  that  I  needed  moral  homilies,  al- 
ready feels  so  uplifted  that  he  is  about  to 
take  orders  ;  another  who  devoted  him- 
self to  my  financial  affairs  is  looking 
forward  to  a  successful  career  in  Wall 
Street ;  and  a  third  who  has  favored  me 
with  exhaustive  literary  criticisms  has 
secured  such  a  grasp  on  his  art,  and  such 
confidence  in  himself,  that  he  has  al- 
ready broken  ground  for  what  is  to  be 
The  Great  American  Novel.  If  these 
men  succeed,  just  think  what  a  source 


430 


The,   Contributors'    Club. 


of  secret  joy  it  will  be  to  me  to  know 
that  I  am  the  cause  of  it  all,  and  if  they 
fail  —  well,  I  shall  at  least  have  revenge 
for  all  they  have  made  me  endure. 

As  for  my  inferiors,  I  by  no  means 
neglect  them,  as  a  hasty  consideration  of 
my  scheme  might  lead  the  reader  to  sup- 
pose. No,  indeed.  I  am  gradually  get- 
ting them  all  to  consider  themselves  my 
superiors,  an  easy  thing  to  do,  by  the 
way,  and  many  of  them  are  now  uplifting 
themselves  by  lavishing  advice  on  me. 

But  besides  my  inferiors  and  rapidly 
growing  list  of  superiors,  I  have  a  few 
friends  who  are  so  comfortably  self-cen- 
tred that  I  have  been  able  to  discuss  my 
altruistic  scheme  with  them,  and  they 
seem  to  fear  that  I  shall  get  into  trou- 
ble. They  hold  that  unless  I  take  the 
advice  that  is  tendered,  I  shall  offend 
and  discourage  my  beneficiaries,  while 
if  I  take  one  tenth  of  it  I  shall  land  in  a 
sanitarium,  and  have  trustees  appointed 
to  administer  my  liabilities.  That  shows 
their  lack  of  insight.  The  man  that  has 
once  contracted  the  advice  habit  simply 
advises  for  the  self-confidence  and  plea- 
sure it  gives  him,  and  then  goes  forth 
and  straightway  forgets  what  he  advised. 
Knowing  this  I  feel  privileged  to  do  the 
same.  Of  course  that  is  probably  what 
I  would  do  in  any  case,  but  it  is  a  great 
satisfaction  to  feel  that  I  have  a  philo- 
sophical reason  for  doing  it. 

Having  explained  briefly  the  scope  and 
effects  of  my  altruistic  methods,  I  would 
like  in  conclusion  to  offer  some  advice  to 
such  readers  as  feel  tempted  to  give  them 
a  trial ;  but  to  do  so  would  imply  that 
I  consider  them  inferiors,  and  for  that 
reason  I  must  refrain.  If  any  readers, 
however,  feel  moved  to  advise  me  as  to 
how  I  might  improve  and  amplify  my 
scheme  I  shall  be  meekly  delighted,  and 
I  feel  that  I  may  depend  upon  the  cour- 
teous editor  to  forward  their  letters. 

OF  the  shelves  in  my  library  none  is 

My  Friends'  so  dear  ^°  me  as  ^e  one  dedi- 
Bookshell.  cated  «  to  my  fiends'  books." 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  that  I  am  an  un- 


scrupulous borrower  and  non-returner  of 
books,  and  that  I  keep  them  all  on  one 
shelf,  a  guilty  witness.  Who  would  be 
so  rash  as  to  concentrate  his  sins  in  one 
place?  —  for  most  of  us  they  are  bad 
enough  scattered.  No,  I  mean  a  shelf 
wherefrom  my  pride  receives  constant 
flattery  in  the  consciousness  that  I  have 
friends  who  "  write  books ; "  who  are 
thoughtful  enough  of  me  to  present 
them,  with  inscriptions,  short  or  long ; 
and  sometimes,  alas  !  lazy  enough  to  send 
them  with  only  the  printed  slip  With 
the  Compliments  of  the  Author.  There 
is  excuse  for  this,  understandable  enough, 

—  if  the  author  sends  in  this  way,  all 
the  trouble  he  has  is  to  inclose  a  list  of 
names  to  his  publishers,  and  they  tie  up 
(how  few  authors  know  how  to  tie  up), 
direct,  stamp,  and  mail,  —  and  the  charge 
for  all  is  made  against  the  prospective 
royalty  account. 

"  Prospective  royalty !  "  —  ah,  pleasant 
hope  !  ah,  sad  reality !  when,  after  the 
year  goes  by,  the  report  comes :  "  There 
is  no  royalty,"  and  all  those  presentation 
copies  charged  —  at  a  reduced  rate,  to 
be  sure  —  have  to  be  paid  for  in  cash  ! 
Then  does  the  ebullient  and  generous 
author  sigh  that  he  had  so  many  friends 
who  "  waited  with  interest "  his  first 
book  —  it  is  the  first  which  circulates 
so  freely  to  the  waiting  friends.  And 
yet  he  has  had  his  pleasure,  and  his 
vanity  sops,  as  well  as  the  recipients,  — 
all  those  notes  of  thanks !  He  tries,  in 
his  depression,  to  renew  the  titillation  of 
his  vanity  by  re-reading  them,  and  again 
he  almost  glows  at  the  warm  praises  and 
the  burning  prophecies  of  success  in  his 
career.  It  palls  a  bit,  this  re-read  flat- 
tery ;  and  still  it  helps  to  pay  with  better 
grace  the  publisher's  bill. 

My  pride  receives  falls  from  this 
shelf,  too,  as  well  as  elation  ;  for  there 
are  spaces  in  it  which  ought  to  be  filled 
with  presentation  copies  which  are  not. 
Some  of  these  vacancies  have  corre- 
sponding "  filleds  "  on  the  other  shelves 

—  books  bought  in  the  ordinary  course, 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


431 


because  I  really  wanted  them.  But  if 
I  have  to  buy  my  friends'  books  they 
cannot  take  a  place  on  the  honored 
shelf. 

I  seem  to  hear  an  author  say  :  "  Yes, 
this  is  just  like  people !  they  expect 
their  literary  friends  to  give  them  their 
books  ;  friends  never  buy.  If  an  author 
depended  on  his  friends  to  start  a  sale 
I  wonder  where  we  authors  would  be." 
Not  so  fast  —  that  may  be  so  in  actual 
buying,  but  can  an  author  know  how 
much  talking  (and  all  publishers  allow 
that  talk  is  the  best  "advertising  me- 
dium ")  the  grateful  recipient  does  ?  I 
do  believe  most  of  us  ease  our  con- 
sciences for  not  buying  by  making  up 
for  it  in  talking  of  our  friends'  books. 
It  is  easy,  the  talking,  and  it  soothes  the 
conscience,  and  also  it  titillates  the  vanity 
by  adding  to  one's  reputation  among 
non-"  literary  friends."  It  is  impres- 
sive to  say :  "  My  friend  Brown  has 
just  published  this  book,  —  gave  it  to 
me,  —  see  what  a  pleasant  inscription  ! 
I  tell  you,  he  's  a  man  of  taste  and  abil- 
ity, —  bound  to  have  a  successful  *  liter- 
ary career.' "  One  must  always  speak 
of  a  "  literary  career  "  to  those  without 
the  pale.  Yes,  sir  or  madame,  do  not 
stop  giving  away  your  "  works  "  to  your 
friends  —  only  don't,  in  the  beginning, 
count  too  much  on  offsetting  royalties. 
Give  away  as  many  books  as  you  can 
afford  to,  it  pays ;  of  this  I  can  assure 
you  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt,  from 
both  sides,  author's  and  publisher's  ;  it 
pays,  it  pays.  And  if  a  "  crush  "  comes, 
as  sometimes  happens,  and  "  remain- 
ders "  are  advertised  for  sale,  it  is  far 
better  for  pride  and  reputation  to  see 
announced  "  one  hundred  left  out  of  an 
edition  of  five  hundred "  than  "  four 
hundred  "  even  if  you  are  conscious  that 
the  "  give  away  "  column  on  the  pub- 
lisher's records  is  long. 

The  discerning  reader  can  see  that  I 
am  not  professional  —  not  a  reviewer, 
not  connected  with  "  the  press  ;  "  that  I 
have  no  specific  way  of  helping  "  boom  " 


a  book,  else  my  friends'  "  shelf  "  would 
be  "  shelves,"  or  "  side  of  my  room,"  or 
"library  annex."  No,  I  am  just  "a 
friend "  of  a  few  authors,  mostly  be- 
ginners ;  just  enough  "  in  "  "  literary 
circles  "  to  receive  occasionally,  and  to 
be  pleased  and  flattered  thereby,  a  few 
presentation  copies  :  one  who  just  wants 
a  hearing  for  his  fancy  of  keeping  a 
"friends'  bookshelf"  —  and  to  explain 
the  mutual  excellences  of  authors'  copies. 

And  shall  I,  if  the  lurking  ambition 
of  all  the  "  fringers "  of  the  writing 
guild  to  u  write  a  book  "  is  ever  grati- 
fied, take  my  own  advice  and  give  away 
widely  ?  Indeed  I  promise  "  yes,"  for 
I  know  that  the  author's  generosity  is 
like  the  quality  of  mercy  —  it  is  twice 
blessed,  it  blesseth  him  that  gives  and 
him  that  takes. 

I  HAVE  always  found  it  a  rather  tan- 
talizing thing  that  nothing- 
Concerning  .  J 
the  Good  ever  happens  to  me,  just  as  it 

ought  to  happen,  for  the  de- 
mands of  anecdote ;  nothing  is  quite  as 
amusing  as  it  might  be  made  by  a  slight 
addition  or  alteration,  a  trifling  turn  or 
twist ;  nothing  is  dramatically  complete. 
The  children  that  I  pet  and  play  with 
come  near  saying  deliciously  quotable 
things,  but  they  never  exactly  say  them  ; 
though  sometimes  they  come  so  very 
near  that  one  xcan  hardly  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  editing  their  remarks  a  little, 
and  giving  them  to  the  world  as  authentic 
specimens  of  infantile  brilliancy.  Only 
last  week  I  honestly  believed  that  a  little 
three  year  old  nephew  of  mine  had  said 
something  so  amusing,  so  characteris- 
tically childlike,  that  it  was  worthy  of 
print :  and  I  forthwith  sat  down  and  wrote 
it  off  for  a  certain  magazine ;  sealed, 
stamped,  and  mailed  my  letter.  Then 
I  mentioned  to  his  mother  what  I  had 
done,  and  found,  of  course,  that  I  had 
simply  misunderstood. 

I  thought  this  past  summer  that  I 
should  surely  come  into  a  fortune  of  racy 
stories.  I  have  laughed  so  often  at  the 
experiences  of  a  relative  of  mine  off  upon 


432 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


fishing  excursions  in  remote  mountain 
regions  that  this  year  I  embraced  an 
opportunity  of  going  upon  just  such  a 
trip,  he  being  a  member  of  the  party. 
We  took  up  our  quarters  in  a  fascinating- 
ly unconventional  hotel  of  virgin  pine, 
adorned  inside  and  out  with  a  liberal 
sprinkling  of  brown  knots  ;  and  so  ar- 
ranged that,  roughly  speaking,  every- 
body had  to  go  through  everybody  else's 
room,  without  regard  to  age,  sex,  or  pre- 
vious condition.  The  cuisine  and  table 
service  had  about  them  some  eccentric 
features  ;  the  company  was  interestingly 
typical,  and  yet  contained  some  striking- 
ly individual  figures ;  and  the  humbler 
mountaineers,  who  gave  "human  inter- 
est "  to  the  glorious  landscape,  —  espe- 
cially the  men,  dust-colored  of  clothes 
and  skin  and  hair,  who  stared  at  one 
artlessly  out  of  beautiful,  childlike,  tur- 
quoise eyes,  —  were  perfectly  satisfactory 
—  spectacularly.  But  nothing  in  par- 
ticular happened  ;  nobody  summed  him- 
self up  in  any  one  characteristic  act,  and 
the  natives  obstinately  refused  to  talk 
dialect,  except  in  the  most  commonplace 
and  unlocalized  form.  In  a  word,  the 
spirit  of  the  situation  took  no  concrete 
shape  in  utterance  or  episode  ;  and  I 
came  away  without  a  single  real  windfall 
of  incident. 

The  born  story  -  teller,  however,  of 
whom  I  spoke  brought  back  a  wealth  of 
good  things,  much  funnier  than  reality, 
and  at  the  same  time  more  characteristic 
perhaps  of  the  place  than  wholly  un- 


idealized  fact.  In  his  own  mind  I  have 
no  doubt  the  truth  of  fact  and  the  truth 
of  tendency  and  potentiality  remain  per- 
fectly distinct.  One,  I  fancy,  may  find 
in  what  he  tells  an  indefinable  note  of 
caricature,  of  hyperbole,  which  forbids 
too  literal  credence.  Yet,  more  and  more 
convinced  that  fact  is  not  malleable  into 
anecdote  without  more  or  less  alloy  of 
fiction,  I  mean  henceforth  to  eschew 
good  stories,  or  borrow  them,  merely, 
ready-made,  from  my  neighbors.  My 
kinsman's  stories  no  doubt  may  be  said 
to  be  true,  as  an  impressionist  landscape 
is  true,  even  though  the  real  cows  are 
not  purple,  and  the  real  trees  are  not 
pink.  But  I  am  in  bondage  to  the  actual. 
I  have  not  the  idealism  which  makes  his 
course  possible.  The  only  way  that  I 
might  obtain  freedom  from  the  shackles 
of  reality  would  be  by  cultivating,  or  al- 
lowing myself  to  fall  into,  the  not  un- 
common habit  of  mind  which  may  be 
called  Anecdotage ;  a  condition  resem- 
bling hypnotism,  in  which  the  subjective 
triumphs  over  the  objective  ;  and  what- 
ever is  right  (anecdotally)  —  is.  "  Which 
from  myself  far  be  it !  "  as  honest  Joe 
Gargery  says.  And  so,  on  the  whole,  I 
repeat,  I  abandon  anecdote.  I  have  la- 
bored painfully  to  reconcile  hard  fact 
and  dramatic  fitness,  and  in  so  doing 
have  never  wholly  escaped  twinges  of 
conscience,  nor  artistic  regret.  I  will 
struggle  no  longer  with  the  uncompro- 
mising Constitution  of  Things,  which 
distinctly  abhors  the  Good  Story. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


at  iftaga?ine  of  literature^,  ^cience^  art,  ann 

VOL.  XC.—  OCTOBER,  1902.  —  No.  DXL. 


A  STUDY  OF  LOCAL  OPTION. 


THE  idea  that  the  sale  of  intoxicating 
liquors  stands  on  the  same  footing  as 
any  other  business  is  one  not  widely 
entertained  in  the  United  States,  ex- 
cept among  the  persons  who  are  direct- 
ly interested  in  the  liquor  trade.  Public 
sentiment,  as  crystallized  into  legisla- 
tion in  the  several  states,  agrees  in  re- 
garding the  business  as  "extra-hazard- 
ous "  to  the  community,  and  in  singling 
it  out  for  exceptional  treatment.  Some- 
times it  squeezes  it  for  revenue,  some- 
times it  surrounds  it  with  restrictions, 
sometimes  it  forbids  it  altogether. 

Three  of  the  New  England  states, 
Maine,  New  Hampshire,  and  Vermont, 
wholly  prohibit  the  sale  of  intoxicating 
liquors  for  use  as  a  beverage.  The 
three  others  remit  to  the  voters  of  the 
several  cities  and  towns  the  responsibil- 
ity of  determining  whether  licenses  for 
the  sale  of  liquor  shall  be  granted  or 
withheld  in  their  respective  communi- 
ties. This  is  "Local  Option."  It  may 
result  in  local  prohibition,  or  in  local 
license ;  but  the  principle  in  either  case 
is  the  same,  that,  whatever  method  may 
be  adopted,  it  shall  have  behind  it  the 
expressed  will  of  a  majority  of  the  local 
voters.  The  laws  of  the  three  states 
are  alike  in  this,  that  they  allow  fre- 
quent opportunities  for  a  revision  of 
judgment.  The  decision,  when  made, 
does  not  stand  for  any  long  period. 
In  Connecticut  and  Massachusetts,  the 
question  is  brought  each  year  before  the 
voters  automatically,  at  the  town  and 
municipal  elections;  in  Rhode  Island, 


it  may  be  brought  up  any  year  in  any 
town  or  city  on  petition  of  a  certain 
percentage  of  the  local  electorate. 

The  Local  Option  law  of  Massachu- 
setts, in  particular,  invites  study  as  a 
method  of  dealing  with  the  liquor  prob- 
lem that  has  endured  the  test  of  prac- 
tical application  for  twenty  years.  It 
was  ehacted  after  the  state  had  ex- 
perimented with  statutory  prohibition 
and  with  a  general  license  law.  Those 
systems,  opposites  in  other  respects, 
were  alike  in  this,  that  they  ignored  lo- 
cal conditions  and  preferences,  and  ap- 
plied precisely  the  same  regulations  to 
the  small  towns  and  the  great  cities. 
When  the  idea  is  once  firmly  grasped 
that  what  is  good  for  Gosnold  may  not 
necessarily  be  the  best  thing  for  Bos- 
ton, and  vice  versa,  it  is  only  a  short 
step,  logically,  to  the  conclusion  that 
Gosnold  and  Boston  may  wisely  be  left 
each  to  determine  the  question  for  it- 
self. The  Local  Option  law  of  Massa- 
chusetts sprang  from  a  tardy  recogni- 
tion of  the  fact  that  each  community  is 
best  fitted  to  decide  for  itself  whether 
it  does  or  does  not  want  saloons ;  and 
that  the  conditions  of  law  enforcement 
are  simplified  when  the  same  body  of 
voters  which  has  decided  upon  one  sys- 
tem or  the  other  elects  the  officers  who 
are  charged  with  the  duty  of  carrying 
out  the  decision.  To  those  people  who 
would  rather  extirpate  the  liquor  traffic 
on  paper,  at  the  cost  of  whatever  farces 
of  non-enforcement,  than  restrict  it  and 
minimize  its  evil  consequences  by  prac- 


434 


A   Study  of  Local  Option. 


tical  measures,  the  Local  Option  system 
must  always  be  objectionable  because  it 
results  in  certain  instances  in  giving  to 
saloons  the  sanction  of  law.  But  to 
others  the  system  presents  itself  as  a 
wise  extension  of  the  general  principle  ' 
of  self-government.  It  is  significant 
that,  while  in  each  of  the  three  New 
England  states  which  have  adopted  pro- 
hibition there  is  increasing  restiveness 
under  the  exactions  of  that  system  and 
the  scandals  which  arise  from  it,  there 
are  no  manifestations  of  discontent  in 
the  Local  Option  states.  In  Massachu- 
setts, the  alternative  of  constitutional 
prohibition  was  submitted  to  the  people 
in  April,  1889,  and  was  rejected  by  a 
majority  of  nearly  46,000.  On  the 
other  hand,  persistent  efforts  to  modify 
the  law  in  favor  of  the  liquor  interests 
have  failed  in  legislature  after  legisla- 
ture. 

The  Massachusetts  Local  Option  law, 
as  has  been  already  remarked,  takes  the 
town  or  city  as  the  unit  for  the  deter- 
mination of  the  question.  The  only 
apparent  exception  is  the  proposal  to 
introduce  "District  Option  "  in  Boston, 
upon  which  a  referendum  is  to  be  taken 
in  that  city  next  month.  If  the  Act 
submitted  by  the  legislature  should  be 
accepted  by  a  majority  of  the  voters, 
the  vote  on  the  license  question  in  Bos- 
ton, beginning  with  the  municipal  elec- 
tion of  1903,  will  be  taken  by  districts, 
each  of  the  eight  districts  into  which 
the  city  is  divided  by  the  Act  determin- 
ing for  itself  whether  saloons  shall  be 
licensed  within  its  limits.  But  the  ex- 
ception instituted  by  this  Act  is  appar- 
ent rather  than  real.  The  lines  of  the 
eight  districts  are  not  drawn  arbitrarily, 
but  represent  approximately  the  lines 
of  the  municipalities  which  have  been 
absorbed  in  Boston.  The  idea  underly- 
ing this  proposition  is  to  restore  to  the 
communities  which  joined  their  fortunes 
with  those  of  Boston  the  liberty  of  ac- 
tion on  the  saloon  question  that  they 
would  have  had  if  they  had  retained 
their  independent  corporate  existence. 


The  question  annually  submitted  to 
the  voters  of  Massachusetts  cities  and 
towns  is  beautifully  concrete.  It  is  put 
in  these  words :  "  Shall  licenses  be  grant- 
ed for  the  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors  in 
this  town  ?  "  —  or  city,  as  the  case  may 
be.  To  this  the  voter  answers  "Yes" 
or  "  No  "  by  marking  a  cross  against 
the  word  which  expresses  his  judgment. 
No  question  of  general  theories,  or  of 
personal  habits,  or  of  political  predilec- 
tions is  involved.  Moral  considerations 
may  or  may  not  determine  the  voter's 
action,  but  the  question  is  first  of  all 
a  local  one.  A  man  who  might  vote 
"No  "  in  Gosnold  may  vote  "Yes  "  in 
Boston.  Men  of  absolutely  abstemious 
habits  may  vote  "  Yes  "  because  they 
think  that  the  town  or  city  needs  the 
revenue  which  may  be  derived  from  li- 
cense fees ;  while  men  who  scarcely  draw 
a  sober  breath  may  vote  "No  "  because 
they  do  not  want  their  own  property 
depreciated  by  the  proximity  of  saloons. 

The  Massachusetts  Local  Option  law 
must  be  viewed  in  connection  with  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  restrictive  legisla- 
tion, which  from  time  to  time  has  been 
added  to  it.  The  path  of  the  intend- 
ing saloon  keeper,  in  communities  that 
have  voted  for  license,  is  by  no  means 
unobstructed.  To  begin  with,  he  en- 
counters eager  competition  from  his  fel- 
lows. The  number  of  places  which  may 
be  licensed  is  limited  by  law  to  one  for 
each  500  of  the  population  in  Boston, 
and  one  for  each  1000  of  the  popula- 
tion in  places  outside  of  Boston.  The 
supply  of  licenses  is  naturally  never 
equal  to  the  demand.  Again,  the  law 
fixes  a  minimum  fee  of  $1000  for  a  li- 
cense which  carries  saloon  privileges. 
The  actual  price  charged  soars  upward 
from  that  figure,  as  local  exigencies  may 
require,  but  there  is  no  maximum  limit, 
and  an  attempt  in  this  year's  legislature 
to  fix  one  at  $2400  failed.  Moreover, 
the  theory  of  the  law  is  that  liquor 
should  be  consumed  only  in  connection 
with  food,  and  the  would  be  saloon 
keeper  must  have,  as  a  peg  on  which  to 


A  Study  of  Local  Option. 


435 


hang  his  liquor  license,  a  license  as  a 
common  victualer,  and  must  furnish  his 
premises  with  the  appliances  necessary 
for  cooking  and  serving  food.  Finally, 
if  the  saloon  keeper  is  prepared  to  meet 
these  requirements,  another  obstacle 
presents  itself.  His  application  for-  a 
license  must  be  advertised,  and  when 
that  is  done,  any  owner  of  real  estate 
situated  within  twenty-five  feet  of  the 
premises  described  may  file  an  objection 
to  the  granting  of  the  license.  This 
objection  is  final,  unless  voluntarily 
withdrawn.  No  tribunal  exists,  from 
the  licensing  board  up  to  the  Supreme 
Court,  that  can  overrule  it.  Moreover, 
in  no  case  may  a  saloon  be  established 
within  four  hundred  feet  of  a  public 
school. 

After  the  saloon  keeper  has  sur- 
mounted all  these  obstacles  and  is  ready 
for  business,  other  restrictions  embar- 
rass his  operations  and  dimmish  his 
profits.  He  must  not  sell  after  eleven 
o'clock  at  night  or  before  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  or  at  any  time  on  Sunday ; 
he  must  not  sell  to  an  habitual  drunk- 
ard, or  to  a  person  who  is  at  the  time 
intoxicated,  or  to  one  who  has  been 
wholly  or  partly  supported  by  charity, 
or  to  a  minor ;  nor  must  he  allow  a  mi- 
nor to  loiter  about  his  premises.  He 
must  not  sell  adulterated  liquors.  He 
must  not  maintain  screens  or  other  ob- 
structions that  interfere  with  a  clear 
view  of  the  licensed  premises  from  with- 
out. He  must  not  sell  on  election  days 
or  on  legal  holidays ;  he  must  not  em- 
ploy in  his  business  persons  who  are  un- 
der eighteen  years  of  age ;  and  he  musj 
not  sell  to  persons  who  use  intoxicating 
liquors  to  excess,  after  he  has  received 
a  written  notice  from  the  husband,  wife, 
parent,  child,  guardian,  or  employer  of 
such  persons,  requesting  him  not  to  sell 
to  them.  This  list  of  prohibitions  is  not 
exhaustive,  but  it  will  suffice  to  show 
that  the  lot  of  a  licensed  saloon  keeper 
in  Massachusetts  is  not  free  from  anxie- 
ties. If  he  is  convicted  of  violating 
the  law  in  any  particular  he  is  liable  to 


a  fine  and  imprisonment,  and  his  con- 
viction of  itself  makes  his  license  void, 
which  is  often  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
penalty. 

In  communities  which  vote  no-license, 
all  sales  of  liquor  for  use  as  a  beverage 
are  illegal.  This  prohibition  applies  to 
distilled  spirits,  ale,  porter,  strong  beer, 
lager  beer,  cider,  wines,  and  any  bever- 
age containing  more  than  one  per  cent 
of  alcohol.  The  law  relents  a  little 
toward  farmers  by  permitting  them  to 
sell  cider  that  they  make  from  their 
own  apples,  provided  the  cider  itself  is 
not  drunk  on  the  premises.  A  similar 
exception  is  made  of  native  wines ;  these 
also  can  be  sold  by  those  who  make 
them,  on  the  premises  where  they  are 
made,  but  not  to  be  drunk  on  the  pre- 
mises. Druggists  are  allowed  to  sell 
pure  alcohol  for  medicinal,  mechanical, 
or  chemical  purposes.  They  may  be, 
and  usually  are,  granted  what  is  known 
as  a  sixth-class  license,  for  a  nominal 
fee  of  one  dollar,  under  which  they  may 
sell  liquors  for  either  of  the  foregoing 
purposes ;  but  the  purchaser  is  required 
to  sign  a  declaration  of  the  use  for 
which  the  liquor  is  designed,  and  the 
druggist  must  always  be  ready  to  pro- 
duce his  record  of  sales  with  the  signa- 
tures of  purchasers.  These  provisions 
are  designed  to  meet  the  actual  needs 
of  a  community  for  liquors  as  a  medi- 
cine. The  privilege,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, is  often  abused.  No  climatic 
or  hygienic  conditions  can  explain  the 
multiplication  of  drug  stores  in  no-li- 
cense communities.  But  the  fact  that 
in  one  year  recently  three  druggists  from 
a  single  city  served  terms  in  the  county 
jail  for  illegal  liquor  selling  shows  that 
Nemesis  sometimes  gets  upon  the  track 
of  offenders  of  this  class. 

The  law  is  undeniably  so  framed  as 
to  dip  the  scale  toward  no-license  rather 
than  license.  Thus,  a  tie  vote  is  equiv- 
alent to  a  negative  vote.  Again,  the 
law  provides  that,  where  the  vote  is  for 
license,  the  local  authorities  "may " 
not  "shall"  grant  licenses.  Almost 


436 


A  /Study  of  Local  Option. 


every  year  there  are  towns  that  vote 
for  license,  the  selectmen  of  which  use 
the  discretion  that  the  law  allows  them 
by  refusing  to  grant  licenses.  Two  years 
ago  there  were  five  towns  which  were 
thus  kept  "  dry  "  in  spite  of  their  vote 
for  license.  Sometimes  selectmen  avail 
themselves  of  the  latitude  allowed  as  to 
license  fees,  by  fixing  the  fee  deliber- 
ately at  a  sum  which  they  are  sure  no 
one  can  afford  to  pay. 

There  is  a  tendency  toward  a  stable 
equilibrium  in  the  voting.  If  the  re- 
cord of  particular  cities  and  towns, 
chosen  at  random,  is  traced  back  for  a 
series  of  years,  it  will  usually  be  found 
that  after  a  period  of  oscillation,  one 
method  or  the  other  has  commended  it- 
self to  the  voters  as  on  the  whole  best 
for  that  community,  and  has  been  ad- 
hered to  with  considerable  steadiness. 
There  are  license  cities  —  Worcester, 
Lawrence,  Lowell,  and  Fall  River,  for 
example  —  which  have  made  one  or  two 
experiments  with  no-license,  prompted 
perhaps  by  some  passing  caprice,  only  to. 
return  to  license  at  the  next  election. 
There  are  no-license  cities,  such  as 
Brockton,  which  have  reverted  to  license 
for  a  single  year,  only  to  give  a  larger 
vote  than  ever  against  the  saloons  after 
a  year's  experience  with  them.  But  in 
general  the  proportion  of  changes  in 
each  year's  voting  is  small.  Last  year, 
out  of  353  towns  and  cities  in  the  state, 
there  were  only  thirty  -  seven  which 
changed  their  position  on  this  question. 
Of  these,  nineteen  changed  from  no- 
license  to  license,  and  eighteen  changed 
from  license  to  no-license,  the  first  group 
almost  exactly  balancing  the  other  nu- 
merically. In  the  year  preceding,  there 
were  fifteen  changes  to  license  and  twen- 
ty changes  to  no-license.  A  compari- 
son of  these  changes,  in  detail,  shows 
that,  in  a  considerable  number  of  in- 
stances, the  same  communities  figure  in 
them.  Of  the  nineteen  no-license  com- 
munities which  in  1901  changed  to  li- 
cense, nine  had  shifted  the  preceding 
year  from  license  to  no-license;  and  of 


the  eighteen  license  towns  and  cities 
which  in  1901  changed  to  no-license,  six 
the  preceding  year  had  shifted  from  no- 
license  to  license.  It  is  fortunate  that 
the  number  of  these  pendulum  commu- 
nities which  swing  back  and  forth  be- 
tween the  two  systems  is  so  small,  for 
they  do  not  secure  the  best  results  of 
either  system.  The  saloons  which  get 
a  footing  in  license  years  in  these  com- 
munities are  not  likely  to  be  so  well  con- 
ducted as  if  their  tenure  were  more  se- 
cure. The  men  who  keep  them  know 
that  the  chances  are  that  they  will  be 
turned  out  at  the  next  election,  and  they 
do  a  reckless  business  with  the  idea  of 
making  the  most  of  it  while  it  lasts. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  the  no-license 
years,  there  will  not  be,  and  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  there  cannot  be  expected 
to  be,  the  rigorous  enforcement  of  the 
laws  against  saloons  which  may  be  looked 
for  where  the  no-license  policy  repre- 
sents the  deliberate  and  continuous 
judgment  of  the  voters. 

The  annual  no-license  campaigns  in- 
fuse an  interesting  element  into  elec- 
tions in  Massachusetts  cities  and  towns. 
Sometimes  they  are  carried  on  only  with 
the  machinery  of  moral  agitation. 
Churches  and  temperance  organizations, 
separately  or  together,  appeal  to  the 
moral  sentiment  of  the  community  with 
the  familiar  temperance  arguments ;  and 
stirring  rallies,  in  the  weeks  immediate- 
ly preceding  the  election,  arouse  voters 
who  are  hostile  to  the  saloons  to  active 
exertions  against  them.  But  in  the  cit- 
ies and  larger  towns,  the  moral  agita- 
tion usually  is  supplemented  and  made 
more  effective  by  the  work  of  citizens' 
committees.  These  are  organized  with- 
out reference  to  distinctions  of  race, 
creed,  political  affiliation,  or  social  posi- 
tion. Catholics  and  Protestants,  Re- 
publicans, Democrats,  Prohibitionists, 
and  all  shades  of  independents  frater- 
nize in  them.  The  campaigns  are  polit- 
ical, yet  not  political.  They  are  polit- 
ical, in  that  the  committees  follow  the 
usual  methods  of  political  committees. 


A  Study  of  Local  Option. 


437 


They  make  a  personal  canvass  of  voters. 
They  attend  to  all  details  of  registration 
and  naturalization.  They  publish  cam- 
paign papers  addressed  to  the  local  is- 
sue, under  such  catching  titles  as  The 
Frozen  Truth,  The  Eye-Opener,  Hot 
Shot,  etc.  They  send  out  circulars  and 
appeals  to  different  classes  of  voters. 
They  give  special  attention  to  new  resi- 
dents and  to  young  men  just  becoming 
voters.  On  election  day,  they  supply 
the  voting  places  with  "checkers," 
workers  and  carriages,  and  "  round  up  " 
tardy  or  forgetful  voters  with  an  ener- 
gy and  thoroughness  that  rival  the  best 
work  of  party  campaign  committees. 
Yet  the  no-license  campaigns  are  non- 
political  in  that  they  are  kept  wholly 
apart  from  personal  or  partisan  contests. 
It  is  a  point  of  honor  with  the  commit- 
tees that  no  candidate  or  party  shall 
benefit  by  their  activities  at  the  expense 
of  any  other.  It  can  hardly  be  doubted 
that  such  campaigns,  unselfish,  demo- 
cratic, and  educational,  are  of  great 
value  to  the  communities  concerned,  even 
aside  from  the  main  question  at  issue. 
They  break  down  religious  and  other 
barriers,  divert  attention  from  petty 
strifes,  and  afford  opportunity  for  high 
civi<*  effort,  free  from  any  taint  of  self- 
seeking. 

The  real  test  of  the  efficiency  of  the 
Local  Option  system  is  its  application 
in  the  larger  towns  and  cities.  In  the 
small  towns,  especially  those  of  com- 
paratively homogeneous  population  of 
the  New  England  stock,  the  law-abid- 
ing instincts  of  the  people  might  be 
trusted  to  secure  the  enforcement  of 
prohibition,  whether  local  or  general. 
But  in  the  cities  it  is  a  different  mat- 
ter. Local  Option  has  not  been  put  to 
this  test  in  Rhode  Island  or  Connecti- 
cut. In  Rhode  Island,  the  reluctant 
legislature  that  enacted  the  law  load- 
ed it  with  the  provision  to  which  refer- 
ence has  already  been  made,  which  re- 
quires the  presentation  of  a  petition 
signed  by  a  certain  percentage  of  voters 
before  the  question  is  submitted.  To 


circulate  and  sign  such  a  petition  in- 
volves a  certain  measure  of  odium  and 
calls  for  moral  courage.  It  is  partly 
perhaps  in  consequence  of  this  obstacle 
that  none  of  the  larger  places  in  Rhode 
Island  have  voted  for  no-license,  al- 
though there  have  been  several  spirited 
campaigns  in  Providence.  In  Connec- 
ticut, there  is  no  such  obstacle.  The 
question  comes  up  automatically,  as  in 
Massachusetts.  Yet  the  larger  towns 
shrink  from  the  experiment.  This  year, 
out  of  ninety-four  Connecticut  towns 
which  voted  for  no-license,  the  largest 
was  Stonington,  with  a  population  of 
8540.  But  in  Massachusetts  there  is 
a  chance  to  study  the  workings  of  no- 
license  under  the  Local  Option  system, 
in  cities  of  considerable  size.  This 
year,  out  of  thirty-three  cities,  thirteen 
are  under  no-license,  and  in  some  years 
the  number  has  been  larger.  Nor  is  it 
only  the  smaller  cities  which  are  in- 
cluded in  the  list.  Of  the  thirteen,  six 
have  a  population  of  more  than  25,000 
each.  Brockton,  which,  with  a  single 
break,  has  voted  for  no-license  since 
1886,  has  a  population  of  40,063; 
Somerville,  which  has  never  voted  for 
license,  has  61,643;  and  Cambridge, 
which  has  voted  against  saloons  for  six- 
teen consecutive  years,  has  a  population 
of  91,886. 

One  of  the  most  important  questions 
relating  to  the  practical  workings  of  no- 
license  under  the  Local  Option  system 
is  its  effect  upon  drunkenness.  Does 
the  closing  of  the  saloons  affect  appre- 
ciably the  amount  of  drunkenness  in  the 
community  ?  Comparisons  of  any  given 
city  or  town  under  no-license  with  an- 
other city  or  town  of  equal  population 
under  license  might  be  misleading ;  since 
the  arrests  for  drunkenness,  which  af- 
ford the  only  test,  are  influenced  by  lo- 
cal conditions  or  the  temper  of  the  au- 
thorities, or  other  causes  which  make 
comparisons  futile.  But  a  comparison 
of  the  same  town  or  city  in  successive 
years  —  one  year  under  one  system, 
and  the  next  year  under  the  other  — 


438 


A  Study  of  Local   Option. 


furnishes  a  basis  for  accurate  judgment. 
Evidence  of  this  sort  is  all  one  way,  and 
it  seems  to  be  conclusive. 

To  begin  with,  the  Massachusetts 
Bureau  of  Statistics  of  Labor,  in  1895, 
under  special  instructions  from  the  leg- 
islature, made  an  investigation  of  the 
relation  of  the  liquor  traffic  to  pauper- 
ism, crime,  and  insanity.  In  connection 
with  this  investigation,  it  collected  sta- 
tistics which  showed  36.24  arrests  for 
drunkenness  to  every  1000  of  the  pop- 
ulation in  license  cities  and  towns ;  and 
only  9.94  such  arrests  to  every  1000 
of  the  population  in  no-license  commu- 
nities. The  striking  difference  between 
the  license  and  no-license  groups  of  com- 
munities, although  the  total  population 
in  each  group  was  about  the  same,  was 
exaggerated  by  the  fact  that  Boston  was 
included  in  the  license  group,  while  a 
large  part  of  the  other  group  was  com- 
posed of  rural  communities.  There 
were,  however,  in  that  year,  five  cities 
which  at  the  preceding  December  elec- 
tion had  changed  their  saloon  policy; 
arid  as  the  license  year  begins  on  the 
first  of  May,  these  cities  were  for  a  part 
of  the  year  under  license,  and  for  a  part 
of  the  year  under  no-license.  The  ta- 
bles prepared  by  the  Bureau  of  Statis- 
tics show  that  in  Haverhill  the  average 
number  of  arrests  for  drunkenness  per 
month  under  license  was  81.63,  under 
no-license,  26.50;  in  Lynn,  under  li- 
cense, 315,  under  no-license,  117.63; 
in  Medford,  under  license,  20.12,  under 
no-license,  13.25;  in  Pittsfield,  under 
license,  93.25,  under  no-license,  36.75; 
and  in  Salem,  under  license,  140.50; 
under  no-license,  29.63. 

In  this  connection,  the  experience  of 
Brockton  is  interesting.  That  city,  in 
December,  1897,  after  voting  against 
saloons  for  eleven  years  consecutively, 
voted  by  a  majority  of  thirteen  for  li- 
cense. During  the  no-license  year  be- 
ginning May  1,  1897,  the  arrests  for 
drunkenness  in  Brockton  numbered  435, 
and  for  assaults  forty-four.  During  the 
license  year  beginning  May  1,  1898,  the 


arrests  for  drunkenness  mounted  up  to 
1627,  and  for  assaults  to  ninety-nine. 
One  year  of  this  was  enough  for  Brock- 
ton. The  next  December,  the  city  voted 
by  2132  majority  to  return  to  no-li- 
cense, and  immediately  the  arrests  for 
drunkenness,  for  the  year  beginning 
May  1,  1899,  dropped  to  455,  and  those 
for  assaults  to  sixty-six. 

Here  also  are  some  recent  figures, 
from  the  reports  of  the  city  marshals  of 
Salem  and  Waltham,  showing  the  arrests 
for  drunkenness,  month  by  month,  in 
license  and  no-license  years,  1900  and 
1901:  — 


Salem. 


Waltham. 


1900.  1901.  1900.  1901. 

License.  No-License.  License.  No-License. 

May,           122  23  57  14 

June,          113  19  34  9 

July,           141  40  78  14 

August,      122  28  62  18 

Sept.           101  29  48  14 

Oct.            130  27  66  19 


729 


166 


345 


Such  comparisons  might  be  multi- 
plied, but  it  is  unnecessary.  There  is 
no  escaping  the  conclusion  that  the  clos- 
ing of  the  saloons,  under  the  Local 
Option  system,  which  brings  the  support 
of  local  sentiment  to  the  enforcement 
of  the  law,  does  sensibly  diminish  the 
volume  of  drunkenness.  And  it  follows 
that  the  associated  moral  questions  are 
answered  by  the  same  comparisons.  The 
report  of  the  Massachusetts  Bureau  es- 
tablished the  fact  that  more  than  two 
fifths  of  the  pauperism  in  the  state  is 
directly  attributable  to  drunkenness ; 
that  at  least  one  fourth  of  the  cases  of 
insanity  originate  from  the  same  cause ; 
and  that,  disregarding  convictions  di- 
rectly for  drunkenness,  intemperance  is 
responsible  for  one  half  of  the  remain- 
ing cases  of  crime.  If  the  closing  of 
the  saloons  under  no-license,  in  the 
communities  referred  to  above,  reduced 
the  amount  of  open  drunkenness  by 
three  fourths,  it  is  impossible  that  it 
should  not  have  had  a  somewhat  propor- 
tionate effect,  even  though  more  remote 


A  Study  of  Local  Option. 


439 


and  less  tangible,  in  diminishing  the 
burdens  of  the  community  from  pauper- 
ism, insanity,  and  crime. 

Corroborative  evidence  in  support  of 
this  inference  is  found  in  the  experience 
of  Quincy.  In  1881,  the  last  year  of 
license  in  that  city,  the  sum  paid  in  the 
relief  of  pauperism  was  $15,415.07. 
In  1901,  the  amount  was  $13,455.86. 
In  the  interval,  the  population  had  in- 
creased 120  per  cent,  or  from  10,885 
to  23,899;  but  the  amount  expended 
for  the  poor  department,  instead  of  in- 
creasing with  the  population,  decreased 
twelve  per  cent.  While  the  cost  of  poor 
support  in  Quincy,  in  1901,  was  $0.56 
per  capita,  in  the  license  cities  of  Chico- 
pee,  Marlboro,  and  Newburyport,  all 
of  them  smaller  than  Quincy,  it  was 
$1.22,  $1.30,  and  $1.77  respectively. 

Such  figures  as  these  go  far  to  explain 
why  it  is  that,  in  communities  which 
have  given  no-license  a  trial  for  a  suf- 
ficient period  to  test  its  results,  the 
ranks  of  those  who  begin  the  agitation 
against  the  saloons  from  moral  motives 
are  steadily  reinforced  by  conservative 
citizens  who  are  convinced  that,  merely 
for  financial  and  economic  reasons,  it  is 
better  to  close  the  saloons  than  to  license 
them.  It  is  true  that  the  revenue  that 
may  be  derived  from  license  fees  offers 
a  considerable  inducement  to  the  adop- 
tion of  the  license  policy.  Although 
the  number  of  places  that  may  be  li- 
censed is  limited,  the  price  which  may 
be  exacted  for  each  license  is  limited 
only  to  "what  the  traffic  will  bear," 
and  three  fourths  of  the  sum,  in  each 
case,  goes  into  the  city  or  town  trea- 
sury, the  remainder  being  taken  by  the 
state.  But  if,  aside  from  all  moral 
considerations,  the  open  saloons  cost  the 
community  more,  in  the  depreciation  of 
property  and  in  burdens  imposed  upon 
the  public  in  the  police  and  poor  de- 
partments and  elsewhere,  than  the  rev- 
enue represented  by  the  license  fees,  it  is 
manifestly  no  economy  to  license  them. 

There  is  perhaps  no  city  where  data 
bearing  upon  these  aspects  of  the  ques- 


tion have  been  more  carefully  prepared 
or  more  effectively  presented  than  in 
Cambridge.  Last  year,  the  no-license 
campaign  organ  of  Cambridge,  The 
Frozen  Truth,  invited  attention  to  a 
comparison  of  conditions  during  the  ten 
years  of  license  from  1875  to  1885 
with  those  of  the  following  fifteen  years 
under  no-license.  Briefly  summarized, 
the  comparison  shows  that  the  growth 
of  the  population  and  the  increase  in  the 
number  of  new  houses  annually  erected 
were  nearly  twice  as  great  in  the  no-li- 
cense as  in  the  license  years ;  that  the 
valuation  of  the  city,  which  during  the 
license  period  actually  diminished  $3,  - 
000,000,  increased  more  than  $36,- 
000, 000  during  the  fifteen  years  of  no- 
license  ;  and  that  the  average  annual  gain 
in  the  savings-banks  deposits  was  near- 
ly three  times  as  great  in  the  no-license 
as  in  the  license  years.  It  may  be  that 
these  comparisons  are  not  wholly  scien- 
tific, and  that  not  all  of  the  changes 
recorded  may  fairly  be  assumed  to  be 
fruits  of  no-license ;  but,  taken  together, 
they  point  strongly  in  one  direction. 
Their  effect  upon  public  sentiment  in 
Cambridge  may  be  read  in  the  fact  that, 
while  the  no-license  majorities  in  the 
first  five  years  of  the  experiment  aver- 
aged 571,  in  the  last  five  years  they 
have  averaged  1793,  or  more  than  three 
times  the  earlier  figure. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  fur- 
ther details.  The  experience  of  Cam- 
bridge, Quincy,  and  other  cities  where 
no-license  has  been  voted  and  enforced 
for  a  period  of  years  fully  attests  the 
efficiency  of  that  system.  The  present 
year  finds  thirteen  of  the  thirty-three 
cities  of  Massachusetts  and  238  of  its 
320  towns  voluntarily  under  local  pro- 
hibition through  the  expressed  will  of 
their  voters  ;  and  in  these  communities, 
as  a  consequence  of  the  expressed  will 
of  the  voters,  there  is  an  average  of  ef- 
fective and  impartial  law  enforcement 
far  above  anything  that  could  be  looked 
for  under  statutory  or  constitutional 
prohibition. 


440 


Wide  Margins. 


The  question  suggests  itself  whether 
the  license  cities  and  towns  are  not  in 
a  worse  condition  than  they  would  be 
under  a  general  license  law,  inasmuch 
as,  in  addition  to  the  normal  local  bur- 
den of  drunkenness  and  the  evils  atten- 
dant upon  it,  they  have  to  bear  a  part 
of  the  burden  of  places  which  close  the 
saloons  within  their  own  limits,  but 
whose  thirsty  citizens  seek  the  saloons 
and  later  bring  up  in  the  courts  of  neigh- 
boring cities.  Boston,  for  example,  is 
surrounded  by  a  nearly  complete  cordon 
of  no-license  territory ;  and  the  cynical 
witticism  which  described  "the  Cam- 
bridge idea  "  as  "no-license  for  Cam- 
bridge and  rapid  transit  to  Boston " 
has  enough  truth  in  it  to  give  it  a  sting. 
In  other  license  cities  and  towns,  simi- 
lar conditions  exist,  though  in  a  less 
degree.  But  it  may  be  said  of  these 
places  that  the  general  regulations  and 
prohibitions  of  the  Massachusetts  law 
applicable  to  license  communities  make 
up  a  body  of  restrictive  legislation, 
state-imposed,  far  in  excess  of  anything 
that  the  towns  or  cities  affected  would 
voluntarily  frame  for  themselves,  and 
probably  all  that  can  be  enforced  in 


them.  It  may  be  said,  further,  that 
the  remedy  is  in  their  own  hands,  and 
that,  whenever  they  weary  of  serving 
the  uses  of  moral  sewerage  for  adjoin- 
ing communities,  they  can  close  their 
saloons  by  their  own  votes.  The  rem- 
edy for  them,  if  remedy  there  is,  lies 
in  the  infusion  of  a  sterner  purpose  into 
their  own  citizens  rather  than  in  the 
application  of  further  pressure  from 
without.  The  principle  that  a  stream 
rises  no  higher  than  its  source  applies 
in  politics  and  government  as  well  as 
elsewhere.  Under  American  institu- 
tions the  source  of  government  is  the 
people ;  and  a  law  which  very  far  out- 
runs the  wishes  of  the  people  is  likely 
to  become  at  the  best  a  dead  letter  and 
at  the  worst  a  public  scandal. 

The  Massachusetts  Local  Option  sys- 
tem may  not  be  perfect;  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  there  has  yet  been  de- 
vised a  plan  of  dealing  with  the  liquor 
traffic  which,  on  the  whole,  works  bet- 
ter, is  more  in  accord  with  American 
ideals  of  self-government,  or  is  more 
stimulating  in  its  continually  recurring 
presentation  of  moral  standards  to  the 
individual  judgment  and  conscience. 
Frank  Foxcroft. 


WIDE   MARGINS. 

PRINT  not  my  Book  of  Days,   I  pray, 
On  meagre  page,    in  type  compact, 

Lest  the  Great  Reader's  calm  eye  stray 
Skippingly  through  from  fact  to  fact; 

But  let  there  be  a  liberal  space, 

At  least   'twixt  lines  where  ill  is  writ, 

That  I  with  tempering  hand  may  trace 
A  word  to  dull  the  edge  of  it. 

And  save  for  me  a  margin  wide 
Where  I  may  scribble  at  my  ease 

Elucidative  note  and  guide 
Of  most  adroit  apologies! 


Meredith  Nicholson. 


Montaigne. 


441 


MONTAIGNE. 


THERE  have  been  greater  men  in  lit- 
erature than  Montaigne,  but  none  have 
been  more  successful.  His  reputation  is 
immense ;  he  is  in  men's  mouths  as  often 
as  Dante  or  Cervantes.  We  look  at  that 
intelligent,  contemplative,  unimpassioned 
face,  with  its  tired  eyes,  and  wonder  that 
he  should  have  achieved  fame  as  immor- 
tal as  that  of  the  fierce  Italian  or  the  noble 
Spaniard.  In  the  affairs  of  fame  luck 
plays  its  part.  Sometimes  a  man's  gen- 
ius keeps  step  with  his  country  and  his 
time  ;  he  gains  power  from  sympathy, 
his  muscles  harden,  his  head  clears,  as 
he  runs  a  winning  race.  Another  man 
will  fail  in  the  enervating  atmosphere  of 
recognition  and  applause ;  he  needs  ob- 
stacles, the  whip  and  spur  of  difficulty. 
Montaigne  was  born  under  a  lucky  star. 
Had  fate  shown  him  all  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world  and  all  time,  and  given  him 
the  choice  when  and  where  to  live,  he 
could  not  have  chosen  better. 

Montaigne's  genius  is  French  in  every 
fibre  ;  he  embodies  better  than  any  one 
other  man  the  French  character.  In 
this  world  nationality  counts  for  much, 
both  at  home  and  abroad.  Frenchmen 
enjoy  their  own  ;  they  relish  French  na- 
ture, its  niceties,  its  strong  personality. 
Sluggish  in  turning  to  foreign  things, 
they  are  not  prone  to  acquire  tastes,  but 
whatever  is  native  to  them  they  culti- 
vate, study,  and  appreciate  with  rare  sub- 
tlety. They  enjoy  Montaigne  as  men 
enjoy  a  work  of  art,  with  the  satisfaction 
of  comprehension. 

In  truth,  all  men  like  a  strong  national 
flavor  in  a  book.  Montaigne  typifies  what 
France  has  been  to  the  world  :  he  exhib- 
its the  characteristic  marks  of  French 
intelligence  ;  he  represents  the  French 
mind.  Of  course  such  representation  is 
false  in  many  measures.  A  nation  is 


too  big  to  have  her  character  completely 
shown  forth  by  one  man.  Look  at  the 
cathedrals  of  the  He  -de  -  France  ;  read 
the  lives  of  Joan  of  Arc  and  St.  Francis 
of  Sales,  of  the  Jesuits  in  Canada ;  re- 
member Liberty,  Fraternity,  Equality, 
and  that  it  was,  as  M.  de  Vogue'  says, 
the  mad  caprice  of  France  which  raised 
Napoleon  to  his  high  estate ;  and  we  re- 
alize how  fanciful  it  is  to  make  one  man 
typify  a  nation.  Nevertheless,  it  is  com- 
mon talk  that  France  takes  ideas  and 
makes  them  clear ;  that  she  unravels  the 
tangled  threads  of  thought,  eliminating 
disorder  ;  that  she  is  romantic  ;  that  she 
is  not  religious;  that  she  shrugs  her 
shoulders  at  the  vague  passions  of  the 
soul ;  that  she  is  immensely  intelligent ; 
that  she  is  fond  of  pleasure  ;  and  that 
her  favorite  diversion  is  to  sit  beside  the 
great  boulevard  of  human  existence  and 
make  comments,  fresh,  frank,  witty,  wise. 
In  these  respects  Montaigne  is  typi- 
cal. He  does  not  create  new  ideas,  he 
is  no  explorer ;  he  takes  the  notions  of 
other  men,  holds  them  up  to  the  light, 
turns  them  round  and  about,  gazing  at 
them.  He  is  intellectually  honest;  he 
dislikes  pretense.  At  bottom,  too,  he  is 
romantic :  witness  his  reverence  for  Soc- 
rates, his  admiration  of  the  Stoics,  his 
desire  for  the  citizenship  of  Rome.  He 
has  the  French  cast  of  mind  that  regards 
men,  primarily,  not  as  individuals,  but 
rather  as  members  of  society.  He  has 
the  sense  of  behavior.  "  All  strangeness 
and  peculiarity  in  our  manners  and  ways 
of  life  are  to  be  avoided  as  enemies  to 
society.  .  .  .  Knowledge  of  how  to  be- 
have in  company  is  a  very  useful  know- 
ledge. Like  grace  and  beauty,  it  concili- 
ates at  the  very  beginning  of  acquaint- 
ance, and  in  consequence  opens  the  door 
for  us  to  learn  by  the  example  of  others, 
and  to  set  an  example  ourselves,  if  we 
have  anything  worth  teaching." 


442 


Montaigne. 


Montaigne  is  not  religious,  —  certainly 
not  after  the  fashion  of  a  Bishop  Brooks 
or  a  Father  Hecker.  He  is  a  pagan  ra- 
ther than  a  Christian.  He  likes  gayety, 
wit,  agreeable  society  ;  he  is  fond  of  con- 
versation. He  boards  his  subject  like  a 
sociable  creature,  he  is  a  born  talker,  he 
talks  away  obscurity.  He  follows  his 
subject  as  a  young  dog  follows  a  carriage, 
bounding  off  the  road  a  hundred  times 
to  investigate  the  neighborhood.  His 
loose-limbed  mind  is  easy,  light,  yet  se- 
rious. He  pares  away  the  rind  of  things, 
smelling  the  fruit  joyously,  not  as  if  em- 
ployed in  a  business  of  funereal  looks,  but 
in  something  human  and  cheerful.  He 
has  good  taste. 

Montaigne  had  good  luck  not  only  in 
his  country,  but  also  in  his  generation. 
He  lived  at  the  time  when  the  main  cur- 
rent of  Latin  civilization  was  diverting 
from  Italy  to  France.  In  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  Italy  was  the  in- 
tellectual head  of  the  Latin  world,  her 
thought  and  art  were  the  moulding  forces 
of  modern  civilization.  When  the  seven- 
teenth century  opened,  France  had  as- 
sumed the  primacy.  The  great  culmi- 
nation of  the  Italian  Renaissance  came 
close  to  the  time  of  Montaigne's  birth ; 
when  he  died,  Italy  was  sinking  into  de- 
pendence in  thought  and  servility  in  art, 
whereas  France  was  emerging  from  her 
civil  wars,  under  the  rule  of  one  of  the 
greatest  of  Frenchmen,  ready  to  become 
the  dominant  power,  politically  and  intel- 
lectually, in  Europe.  Coming  at  this 
time,  Montaigne  was  a  pioneer.  His  was 
one  of  the  formative  minds  which  gave 
to  French  intelligence  that  temper  which 
has  enabled  it  to  do  so  much  for  the 
world  in  the  last  three  hundred  years. 
He  showed  it  a  great  model  of  dexter- 
ity, lightness,  and  ease. 

Not  only  did  Montaigne  help  fashion 
the  French  intelligence  in  that  impor- 
tant period,  but  he  did  much  to  give  that 
intelligence  a  tool  by  which  it  could  put 
its  capacities  to  use.  It  is  from  Mon- 
taigne that  French  prose  gets  a  buoyant 


lightness.  He  has  been  called  one  of  the 
great  French  poets.  Had  it  not  been  for 
Montaigne  and  his  contemporaries,  the 
depressing  influence  of  the  seventeenth 
century  would  have  hardened  the  lan- 
guage, taking  out  its  grace,  and  making 
it  a  clever  mechanical  contrivance.  His 
influence  has  been  immense.  It  is  said 
that  an  hundred  years  after  his  death  his 
Essays  were  to  be  found  on  the  book- 
shelves of  every  gentleman  in  France. 
French  critics  trace  his  influence  on  Pas- 
cal, La  Bruyere,  Rousseau,  Montesquieu, 
Sainte-Beuve,  and  Renan.  To-day,  no 
one  can  read  M.  Anatole  France  or  M. 
Jules  Lemaitre  without  saying  to  him- 
self, "  This  is  fruit  from  the  same  rich 
stock."  ' 

There  are  reasons  besides  these,  which 
have  given  Montaigne  his  great  position 
in  the  world's  literature.  The  first  is 
his  habit  of  mind.  He  is  a  considerer, 
an  examiner,  a  skeptic.  He  prowls  about 
the  beliefs,  the  opinions  and  usages,  of 
men,  and,  taking  up  a  thought,  lifts  from 
it,  one  by  one,  as  if  he  were  peeling  an  ar- 
tichoke, the  envelopes  of  custom,  of  pre- 
judices, of  time,  of  place.  He  holds  up 
the  opinion  of  one  school,  praising  and 
admiring  it ;  and  then  the  contradictory 
opinion  of  another  school,  praising  and 
admiring  that.  In  his  scales  he  balances 
notion  against  notion,  man  against  man, 
usage  against  usage.  It  was  his  great 
usefulness  that,  in  a  time  when  impor- 
tant men  put  so  much  trust  in  matters 
of  faith  that  they  constructed  theologies 
of  adamant  and  burnt  dissenters,  he 
calmly  announced  the  relativity  of  know- 
ledge. He  was  no  student  mustily  think- 
ing in  a  dead  language,  but  a  gentleman 
in  waiting  to  the  king,  knight  of  the 
Order  of  St.  Michael,  writing  in  fresh, 
poetic  French,  with  all  the  captivation  of 
charm,  teaching  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  doubt  and  uncertainty ;  for  if 
there  be  doubt  there  will  be  tolerance, 
if  there  be  uncertainty  there  will  be  lib- 
erality. He  laid  the  axe  to  the  root  of 
religious  bigotry  and  civil  intolerance. 


Montaigne. 


443 


"Things  apart  by  themselves  have,  it 
may  be,  their  weight,  their  dimensions, 
their  condition  ;  but  within  us,  the  mind 
cuts  and  fashions  them  according  to  its 
own  comprehension.  .  .  .  Health,  con- 
science, authority,  knowledge,  riches, 
beauty,  and  their  contraries,  strip  off 
their  outward  semblances  at  the  thresh- 
old of  the  mind,  and  receive  at  its  hands 
new  garments,  of  such  dyes  as  it  please." 
The  emphasis  of  self  is  at  the  base  of 
modern  life.  The  art  of  the  Renaissance 
sprung  from  the  passion  for  self-expres- 
sion. The  Reformation  took  self  as  the 
hammer  which  broke  the  yoke  of  the 
Roman  Church.  Self  stood  on  its  feet 
and  faced  God ;  what  need  of  priests 
and  intermediaries  ?  Montaigne  is  a 
great  exponent  of  this  spirit.  A  man  of 
letters  and  a  philosopher,  he  did  not 
find  in  duty  an  explanation  of  life,  but 
he  realized  the  significance  of  this  im- 
perious self,  this  I,  I,  I,  that  proclaims 
itself  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  everything. 
Step  by  step,  as  he  goes  from  Plato  to 
Cicero,  from  Cicero  to  Seneca,  from  Sen- 
eca to  Plutarch,  he  discovers  humanity 
taking  individual  form  ;  compressed  into 
the  likeness  of  a  single  man,  it  puts  on 
familiar  features,  it  speaks  with  a  well- 
known  voice,  and,  at  the  same  time,  phi- 
losophy turns  and  shapes  itself  in  the 
mould  of  a  single  human  mind :  that 
face,  that  voice,  that  mind,  are  his  own. 
Start  how  he  will,  every  road  twists  and 
winds  back  to  himself.  As  if  by  com- 
pulsion, like  a  man  under  the  spell  of 
another's  will,  he  gradually  renounces 
all  other  study.  In  self  is  to  be  found 
the  philosophy  of  life.  If  we  once  firm- 
ly accept  the  notion  that  we  know  nothing 
but  ourselves,  then  the  universe  outside 
becomes  a  shadowy  collection  of  vapors, 
mysterious,  hypothetical,  and  self  hard- 
ens into  the  only  reality.  Here  is  a  basis 
for  a  religion  or  a  philosophy.  So  specu- 
lating, the  philosopher  opened  the  eyes 
of  the  artist.  If  self  be  the  field  of  phi- 
losophy, it  is  the  opportunity  of  the  ar- 
tist. Never  had  a  man  of  letters  sat  to 


himself  for  his  own  portrait.  Montaigne 
is  the  "  prince  of  egotists,"  because  he  is 
a  philosopher  and  a  great  artist.  He  is 
a  skeptic,  but  he  points  a  way  to  posi- 
tive doctrine.  He  is  a  man  of  letters, 
but  he  teaches  the  primary  rules  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  Holy  Church,  Apostolic  and  Ro- 
man, but  he  lays  the  foundation  of  a 
philosophy  open  to  Reformer  and  to  infi- 
del. Profoundly  interested  in  the  ques- 
tions lying  at  the  base  of  life,  he  is  one 
of  the  greatest  artists  of  the  Renaissance. 

n. 

Montaigne  was  a  Gascon,  of  a  family 
of  merchants.  His  great-grandfather, 
Ramon  Eyquem,  founded  the  family 
fortunes  by  trade,  and  bettered  them  by 
a  prudent  marriage.  He  became  one  of 
the  richest  merchants  of  Bordeaux,  deal- 
ing in  wine  and  salt  fish,  and  bought  the 
estate  of  Montaigne,  a  little  seigniory 
near  the  river  Dordogne,  not  very  far 
from  the  city.  His  son,  Grimon,  also 
prospered,  and  in  his  turn  left  to  his  son, 
Pierre,  Montaigne's  father,  so  good  a 
property  that  Pierre  was  enabled  to 
give  up  trade,  and  betake  himself  to 
arms.  Pierre  served  for  several  years  in 
Italy,  under  Francis  I.  On  his  return 
he  married  Antoinette  de  Louppes,  or 
Lopes,  a  rich  lady  of  Spanish  descent, 
with  some  Jewish  blood  in  her  veins. 
He  was  an  active,  hard-working,  consci- 
entious, capable  man,  devoting  himself 
to  public  affairs.  He  held  one  office 
after  another  in  the  city  of  Bordeaux, 
and  finally  was  elected  mayor.  He  took 
especial  interest  in  education,  improv- 
ing the  schools,  and  making  changes  for 
the  better  in  the  college.  His  interest 
amounted  to  a  hobby,  if  we  may  judge 
from  his  method  of  educating  his  son. 
His  years  in  Italy  had  opened  his  mind, 
and  though  no  scholar  himself,  he  was  a 
great  admirer  of  the  new  learning,  and 
sought  the  company  of  scholars-.  Evi- 
dently, he  was  a  man  who  liked  to  think, 
and  was  not  afraid  to  put  his  ideas  into 


444 


Montaigne. 


practice.  He  enlarged  the  seigniory  of 
Montaigne  and  rebuilt  the  chateau.  His 
son  says  of  him  that  he  was  the  best  fa- 
ther that  ever  was  ;  that  he  was  ambitious 
to  do  everything  that  was  honorable,  and 
had  a  very  high  regard  for  his  word. 

Michel  was  born  on  the  last  day  of 
February,  1533.  He  was  the  third  of 
eleven  children ;  the  two  elder  died  in 
infancy.  His  education  began  at  once. 
Still  a  baby,  he  was  put  in  charge  of 
some  peasants  who  lived  near  the  cha- 
teau, in  order  that  his  earliest  notions 
should  be  of  simple  things.  His  god- 
parents were  country  folk  ;  for  Pierre 
Ey quern  deemed  it  better  that. his  son 
should  early  learn  to  make  friends  "  with 
those  who  stretch  their  arms  toward  us 
rather  than  with  those  who  turn  their 
backs  on  us."  The  second  step  in  edu- 
cation was  to  direct  Michel's  mind  so 
that  it  should  naturally  take  the  heroic 
Roman  mould.  His  father  thought  that 
this  result  would  be  more  likely  to  fol- 
low if  the  baby  spoke  Latin.  He  was 
therefore  put  into  the  hands  of  a  learned 
German,  \rho  spoke  Latin  very  well,  and 
could  speak  no  French.  There  were 
also  two  other  scholars  in  attendance  on 
the  little  boy,  —  less  learned,  however, 
—  who  took  turns  with  the  German  in 
accompanying  him.  They  also  spoke 
nothing  but  Latin  in  Michel's  presence. 
"  As  for  the  rest  of  the  household,  it 
was  an  inviolable  rule  that  neither  my 
father  nor  mother,  nor  the  man  servant 
nor  the  maid  servant,  should  speak  when 
I  was  by,  except  some  Latin  words  which 
they  had  learned  on  purpose  to  talk  with 
me."  This  rule  was  so  well  obeyed  that 
not  only  his  father  and  mother  learned 
enough  Latin  to  understand  it  and  to 
speak  it  a  little,  but  also  the  servants  who 
waited  on  him.  In  fact,  they  all  became 
so  very  Latin  that  even  the  people  in  the 
village  called  various  implements  and 
utensils  by  their  Latin  names.  Mon- 
taigne was  more  than  six  years  old  before 
he  heard  any  French  spoken  ;  he  spoke 
Latin  as  if  it  were  his  native  tongue. 


At  six  Montaigne  was  sent  to  the  Col- 
lege of  Guyenne,  in  Bordeaux,  where  his 
Latin  began  to  get  bad,  and  served  no 
better  purpose  than  to  make  his  studies 
so  easy  that  he  was  quickly  put  into  the 
higher  classes.  He  stayed  at  college  till 
he  had  completed  the  course  in  1546, 
when  he  was  thirteen  years  old.  He 
says  that  he  took  no  knowledge  of  any 
value  away  with  him.  This  statement 
must  be  taken  with  a  grain  of  salt,  for 
he  had  been  under  the  care  of  very  fa- 
mous scholars,  and  instead  of  wasting  his 
time  over  poor  books  or  in  idleness  he 
had  read  the  best  Latin  authors.  He 
did  not  even  know  the  name  of  Amadis 
of  Gaul,  but  fell  upon  Ovid,  Virgil,  Ter- 
ence, and  Plautus.  After  them  he  read 
the  Italian  comedies.  This  reading  was 
done  on  the  sly,  the  teachers  winking  at 
it.  "  Had  they  not  done  so,"  he  says, 
"  I  should  have  left  college  with  a  ha- 
tred for  books,  like  almost  all  the  young 
nobility." 

Whether  or  not,  so  bred,  Montaigne 
became  more  like  Scipio  and  Cato  Ma- 
jor, his  father's  interest  in  education  no 
doubt  stimulated  his  own.  In  all  the 
shrewdness  of  the  Essays  there  is  no 
more  definite  and  practical  teaching 
than  his  advice  on  education,  especially 
in  his  asseverations  of  its  large  purposes. 
"  There  is  nothing  so  noble,"  he  says, 
"as  to  make  a  man  what  he  should  be  ; 
there  is  no  learning  comparable  to  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  live  this  life  aright 
and  according  to  the  laws  of  nature." 
Montaigne  laid  down,  clearly  and  sharp- 
ly, principles  that  sound  commonplace 
to-day :  that  the  object  of  education  is  to 
make,  not  a  scholar,  but  a  man  ;  that  edu- 
cation shall  concern  itself  with  the  under- 
standing rather  than  with  the  memory  ; 
that  mind  and  body  must  be  developed 
together.  It  would  be  easy  to  quote 
pages.  "To  know  by  heart  is  not  to 
know ;  it  is  only  holding  on  to  what  has 
been  put  into  the  custody  of  the  memory. 
.  .  .  We  receive  as  bailiffs  the  opinions 
and  learning  of  others ;  we  must  make 


Montaigne. 


445 


them  our  own.  .  .  .  We  learn  to  say  Cicero 
says  this,  Plato  thinks  this,  these  are  Aris- 
totle's words  ;  but  we,  what  do  we  say  ? 
What  do  we  do  ?  What  is  our  opinion  ? 
...  If  the  mind  does  not  acquire  a 
better  temper,  if  the  judgment  does  not 
become  more  sound,  I  had  as  lief  the 
schoolboy  should  pass  his  time  playing 
tennis  :  his  body,  at  least,  would  be  more 
supple.  See  him  come  back  after  years 
spent :  there  is  nothing  so  unfit  for  use ; 
all  that  you  see  more  than  he  had  before  Is 
that  his  Latin  and  Greek  leave  him  more 
silly  and  conceited  than  when  he  left 
home.  He  ought  to  have  brought  back  a 
full  mind :  he  brings  it  back  blown  out ;  in- 
stead of  having  it  bigger,  it  is  only  puffed 
up.  .  .  .  It  is  also  an  opinion  accepted 
by  everybody  that  a  boy  ought  not  to 
be  brought  up  round  his  parents'  knees. 
Natural  affection  makes  them  too  tender 
and  too  soft ;  they  are  not  able  to  pun- 
ish his  faults,  nor  to  see  him  nourished 
hardily,  as  he  should  be,  and  run  risks. 
They  won't  let  him  come  back  sweating 
and  dusty  from  exercise,  drink  hot,  drink 
cold,  nor  see  him  on  a  horse  backwards, 
nor  facing  a  rough  fencer  foil  in  hand, 
nor  with  his  first  gun.  There  's  no  help 
for  it :  if  you  wish  to  make  a  man,  you 
must  not  spare  him  such  matters  of  youth. 
You  must  often  break  the  rules  of  medi- 
cine. It  is  not  enough  to  make  his  soul 
firm  ;  his  muscles  must  be  firm,  too.  The 
soul  is  too  hard  pressed  if  she  be  not 
supported  well,  and  has  too  much  to  do 
if  she  must  furnish  strength  for  both." 

Montaigne  himself  must  have  learned 
the  value  of  exercise,  for  he  became  a 
great  horseman,  more  at  home  on  horse- 
back than  on  foot.  Till  the  time  of  ill 
health  he  seems  to  have  had  a  vigorous 
body ;  he  could  sit  in  the  saddle  for 
eight  or  ten  hours,  and  survived  a  very 
severe  fall,  though  he  "  vomited  buckets 
of  blood." 

Of  Montaigne's  life  after  leaving  the 
college  we  know  little  or  nothing.  He 
must  have  studied  law,  —  perhaps  at  the 
University  of  Toulouse,  perhaps  in  Bor- 


deaux. But  matters  other  than  the  clas- 
sics or  civil  law,  and  more  profitable  to 
a  great  critic  of  life,  must- have  been 
rumbling  in  his  ears,  making  him  begin 
to  speculate  on  the  opinions  and  customs 
of  men,  and  their  reasonableness.  Al- 
ready troubles  prophetic  of  civil  war  were 
afoot. 

in. 

In  1554  the  king  established  a  Court 
of  Aids  at  Pe'rigueux.  Pierre  Eyquem 
was  appointed  one  of  the  magistrates, 
but  before  he  took  his  seat  he  was  elected 
mayor  of  Bordeaux,  and  resigned  his 
position  as  member  of  the  court  in  favor 
of  his  son,  who,  under  the  system  then 
prevalent,  became  magistrate  in  his  stead. 
Montaigne  was  twenty-one  years  old. 
After  a  year  or  two  the  Court  of  Aids 
was  annulled,  and  its  magistrates  were 
made  members  of  the  Parlement  of  Bor- 
deaux. Here  Montaigne  met  Etienne 
de  La  Boe'tie,  who  was  also  a  member. 
The  two  men  at  once  became  most  lov- 
ing friends.  La  Boe'tie  had  a  noble,  pas- 
sionate character.  Montaigne  says  that 
he  was  cast  in  the  heroic  mould,  an  an- 
tique Roman,  the  greatest  man  of  their 
time.  After  six  years  La  Boe'tie  died, 
in  1563.  Seventeen  years  later,  while 
traveling  in  Italy,  Montaigne  wrote  to  a 
friend,  "  All  of  a  sudden  I  fell  to  think- 
ing about  M.  de  La  Boe'tie,  and  I  stayed 
so  long  without  shaking  the  fit  off  that  it 
made  me  feel  very  sad."  This  was  the 
master  affection  of  Montaigne's  life,  and 
the  noblest.  It  was  a  friendship  "so 
whole,  so  perfect,  that  there  are  none 
such  to  be  read  of,  and  among  men  to- 
day there  is  no  trace  to  be  seen.  There 
is  need  of  so  happy  a  meeting  to  fashion 
it  that  fortune  does  well  if  it  happens 
once  in  three  hundred  years."  They 
were  wont  to  call  each  other  "  brother." 
"  In  truth,  the  name  of  brother  is  beau- 
tiful and  full  of  sweetness ;  for  this  rea- 
son he  and  I  gave  it  to  the  bond  be- 
tween us." 

La  Boe'tie  died  of  the  plague,  or  some 
disease  like  it.  He  told  Montaigne  that 


446 


Montaigne. 


his  illness  was  contagious,  and  besought 
him  to  stay  with  him  no  more  than  a 
few  minutes  at  a  time,  but  as  often  as 
he  could.  From  that  time  Montaigne 
never  left  him.  This  act  must  be  re- 
membered, if  we  incline  to  blame  Mon- 
taigne for  shunning  Bordeaux  when  the 
plague  was  upon  it. 

Two  years  afterwards  Montaigne  mar- 
ried Francoise  de  la  Chassaigne.  It  was 
a  match  made  from  considerations  of 
suitability.  The  Eyquems  were  thrifty 
wooers.  Montaigne  had  no  romantic  no- 
tions about  love  in  marriage  ;  he  did  not 
seek  a  "  Cato's  daughter  "  who  should 
help  him  climb  the  heights  of  life.  He 
says  :  "  The  most  useful  and  honorable 
knowledge  and  occupation  for  a  mother 
of  a  family  is  the  knowledge  of  house- 
keeping. That  should  be  a  woman's  pre- 
dominant attribute  ;  that  is  what  a  man 
should  look  for  when  he  goes  a-courting. 
From  what  experience  has  taught  me,  I 
should  require  of  a  wife,  above  all  other 
virtues,  that  of  the  housewife."  Never- 
theless, they  were  very  happily  married. 
She  was  a  woman  of  good  sense  and 
ability,  and  looked  after  the  affairs  of 
the  seigniory  with  a  much  quicker  eye 
than  her  husband.  He  dedicated  to  her 
a  translation  made  by  La  Boe'tie  from 
Plutarch.  "  Let  us  live,"  he  says,  u  you 
and  me,  after  the  old  French  fashion. 
.  .  .  I  do  not  think  I  have  a  friend  more 
intimate  than  you."  He  had  five  chil- 
dren, all  of  whom  died  very  young,  ex- 
cept one  daughter,  who  outlived  him. 
For  these  children  his  feeling  was  placid. 

Montaigne  remained  magistrate  for 
fifteen  years.  He  did  not  find  the  duties 
very  much  to  his  taste,  but  he  must  have 
acquitted  himself  well,  because  a  year  or 
two  after  his  retirement  the  king  deco- 
rated him  with  the  Order  of  St.  Michael. 
These  years  of  his  magistracy  were  calm 
enough  for  Montaigne,  but  they  were 
not  calm  for  France.  In  1562  the  civil 
wars  broke  out.  There  is  something  too 
fish  -  blooded  about  a  man  who  sits  in 
the  "  back  of  his  shop  "  and  attends  to 


his  judicial  duties  or  writes  essays,  clam- 
mily watching  events,  while  the  country 
is  on  fire.  But  what  has  a  skeptic  to 
do  with  divine  rights  of  kings  or  divine 
revelations  ? 

Little  by  little  Montaigne  was  getting 
ready  to  forsake  the  magistracy  for  lit- 
erature. He  began  by  translating,  at 
his  father's  wish,  the  Theologia  Natura- 
lis  of  Raymond  de  Sebonde,  —  a  treatise 
which  undertook  to  establish  the  truth 
of  the  Christian  religion  by  a  process  of 
reasoning.  His  father  died  before  he 
finished  it.  It  was  published  in  1569. 
The  next  year  Montaigne  resigned  his 
seat  in  the  Parlement  of  Bordeaux,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  publication  of 
various  manuscripts  left  by  La  Boe'tie. 
This  done,  the  new  Seigneur  de  Mon- 
taigne—  he  dropped  the  unaristocratic 
name  of  Eyquem  —  retired  to  his  sei- 
gniory, "  with  a  resolution  to  avoid  all 
manner  of  concern  in  affairs  as  much  as 
possible,  and  to  spend  the  small  remain- 
der of  his  life  in  privacy  and  peace." 
There  he  lived  for  nine  years,  riding 
over  his  estates,  planting,  tending,  —  or 
more  wisely  suffering  his  wife  to  super- 
intend, —  receiving  his  friends,  hospi- 
table, enjoying  opportunities  to  talk,  or 
more  happy  still  in  his  library.  Here, 
in  the  second  story  of  his  tower,  shut 
off  from  the  buzz  of  household  life,  his 
friends,  Plutarch,  Cicero,  Seneca,  Herod- 
otus, Plato,  with  a  thousand  volumes 
more,  on  the  shelves,  the  ceiling  carved 
with  aphorisms,  Latin  and  Greek,  he 
used  to  sit  fulfilling  his  inscription  :  "  In 
the  year  of  Christ  1571,  at  the  age  of  thir- 
ly-eight,  on  his  birthday,  the  day  before 
the  calends  of  March,  Michel  de  Mon- 
taigne, having  quitted  some  time  ago  the 
servitude  of  courts  and  public  duties, 
has  come,  still  in  good  health,  to  rest 
among  the  Muses.  In  peace  and  safety 
he  will  pass  here  what  days  remain  for 
him  to  live,  in  the  hope  that  the  Fates 
will  allow  him  to  perfect  this  habitation, 
this  sweet  paternal  asylum  consecrated  to 
independence,  tranquillity,  and  leisure." 


Montaigne. 


447 


rv. 


It  was  quiet  in  the  Chateau  de  Mon- 
taigne ;  Plutarch  and  Cicero  sat  undis- 
turbed, except  for  notes  scribbled  on 
their  margins ;  but  in  Paris  the  Duke 
of  Guise  and  the  royal  house  were  mak- 
ing St.  Bartholomew  a  memorable  day. 
Civil  war  again  ravaged  France,  the 
League  conspired  with  Spain,  Henry 
of  Navarre  rallied  the  Huguenots,  while 
the  king,  Henry  III.,  dangled  between 
them,  making  and  breaking  edicts.  The 
Seigneur  de  Montaigne  rode  about  his 
estates,  or  sat  in  his  library,  writing  Con- 
cerning Idleness,  Concerning  Pedantry, 
Concerning  Coaches,  Concerning  Soli- 
tude, Concerning  Sumptuary  Laws. 

The  most  apathetic  of  us,  knowing 
that  Henry  of  Navarre  and  Henry  of 
Guise  are  in  the  field,  become  so  many 
Hotspurs  at  the  thought  of  this  liberal- 
minded  gentleman,  the  Order  of  St. 
Michael  hanging  round  his  neck,  culling 
anecdotes  out  of  Plutarch  about  Cyrus 
or  Scipio.  "  Zounds !  how  has  he  lei- 
sure to  be  sick  in  such  a  justling  time  !  " 
We  readers  are  a  whimsical  people ; 
cushioned  in  armchairs,  we  catch  on  fire 
at  the  white  plume  of  Navarre.  What  is 
the  free  play  of  thought  to  us  ?  Give  us 
sword  and  pistol,  —  Ventre-Saint-Gris  ! 
But  the  best  fighting  has  not  been  done 
on  battlefields,  and  Montaigne  has  helped 
the  cause  of  justice  and  humanity  better 
than  twenty  thousand  armed  men. 

Once,  when  there  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  an  immediate  prospect  of  a 
fight,  Montaigne  offered  his  services  to 
one  of  the  king's  generals.  Instead  of 
being  ordered  to  the  field,  he  was  sent 
back  to  Bordeaux  to  harangue  the  Parle- 
ment  on  the  need  of  new  fortifications. 
He  was  a  loyal  servant  of  the  king,  and 
deemed  the  Huguenots  a  rebellious  fac- 
tion, fighting  against  lawful  authority; 
but  his  heart  could  not  take  sides ;  he 
was  disgusted  with  the  hypocrisy  of  both 
parties,  and  the  mask  of  religion.  "  I 
see  it  is  evident  that  we  render  only 


those  offices  to  piety  which  tickle  our 
passions.  There  is  no  enmity  so  excel- 
lent as  the  Christian.  Our  zeal  does 
wonders,  when  it  goes  following  our  in- 
clination toward  hate,  cruelty,  ambition, 
avarice,  detraction,  rebellion.  But  the 
converse,  —  toward  goodness,  kindness, 
temperance,  —  if,  as  by  miracle,  some 
rare  conjunction  takes  it  that  way,  it 
goes  neither  afoot  nor  with  wings.  Our 
religion  was  made  to  pluck  out  vices  ;  it 
uncovers  them,  nurses  them,  encourages 
them.  .  .  .  Let  us  confess  the  truth :  he 
that  should  pick  out  from  the  army,  even 
the  loyal  army,  those  who  march  there 
only  for  zeal  of  religious  feeling,  and 
also  those  who  singly  consider  the  main- 
tenance of  their  country's  laws  or  the 
service  of  their  sovereign,  he  could  not 
make  a  corporal's  guard  of  them." 

Montaigne  was  a  Catholic.  He  did 
not  share  that  passionate  care  of  conduct 
which  animated  the  Reformers.  He  did 
not  see  that  the  truth  of  a  religion 
was  affected  by  the  misbehavior  of  its 
priests.  When  he  heard,  in  Rome,  that 
"  the  general  of  the  Cordeliers  had  been 
deprived  of  his  place,  and  locked  up, 
because  in  a  sermon,  in  presence  of  the 
Pope  and  the  cardinals,  he  had  accused 
the  prelates  of  the  Church  of  laziness 
and  ostentation,  without  particularity, 
only,  speaking  in  commonplaces,  on  this 
subject,"  Montaigne  merely  felt  that  civil 
liberty  had  been  abused.  He  was  not 
troubled  to  find  the  ceremonies  in  St. 
Peter's  "more  magnificent  than  devo- 
tional," nor  to  learn  that  the  Pope,  Greg- 
ory XIII.,  had  a  son.  He  was  amused 
at  the  luxurious  ways  of  the  cardinals. 
He  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  maitre 
d'hotel  of  Cardinal  Caraffa.  "  I  made 
him  tell  me  of  his  employment.  He  dis- 
coursed on  the  science  of  the  gullet  with 
the  gravity  and  countenance  of  a  judge, 
as  if  he  had  been  talking  of  some  grave 
point  of  theology  ;  he  deciphered  a  dif- 
ference of  appetites,  —  that  which  one 
has  when  hungry,  that  which  one  has  af- 
ter the  second  and  after  the  third  course ; 


448 


Montaigne. 


the  means  first  merely  to  please  it,  then 
to  wake  it  and  prick  it ;  the  policy  of 
sauces,"  etc.  He  heard  on  the  portico 
of  St.  Peter's  a  canon  of  the  Church 
"  read  aloud  a  Latin  bull,  by  which  an 
immense  number  of  people  were  excom- 
municated, among  others  the  Huguenots, 
by  that  very  name,  and  all  princes  who 
withheld  any  of  the  lands  of  the  Church. 
At  this  article  the  cardinals,  Medici 
and  Caraffa,  who  were  next  to  the  Pope, 
laughed  very  hard."  The  Master  of 
the  Sacred  Palace  had  subjected  the  Es- 
says to  examination,  and  found  fault  with 
Montaigne's  notion  that  torture  in  addi- 
tion to  death  was  cruelty.  Montaigne 
replied  that  he  did  not  know  that  the 
opinion  was  heretical.  To  his  mind,  such 
matters  had  nothing  to  do  with  truth  or 
religion.  He  accepted  the  Apostolic  Ro- 
man Catholic  faith.  He  was  not  disposed 
to  take  a  single  step  out  of  the  fold.  If 
one,  why  not  two  ?  And  if  reason  once 
mutinied  and  took  control,  where  would 
it  stop  ?  He  denied  the  competence  of 
human  reason  to  investigate  things  di- 
vine. "  Man  can  only  be  what  he  is  ; 
he  can  only  imagine  according  to  his 
measure." 

To  a  man  who  took  pleasure  in  turn- 
ing such  matters  in  his  mind,  to  a  man 
of  the  Renaissance  full  of  eagerness  to 
study  the  ancients  and  to  enjoy  them, 
to  a  man  by  no  means  attracted  by  the 
austerities  of  the  Calvinists,  a  war  for 
the  sake  of  supplanting  the  old  religion 
of  France  was  greatly  distasteful.  He 
could  not  but  admit  that  the  Huguenots 
were  right  so  far  as  they  only  wished 
liberty  of  worship,  nor  fail  to  respect 
their  obedience  to  conscience.  But  his 
heart  had  not  the  heroic  temper;  he 
wanted  peace,  comfort,  scholarship,  ele- 
gance. It  is  one  thing  to  sit  in  a  libra- 
ry and  admire  heroic  men  in  the  pages 
of  Plutarch,  and  another  to  enjoy  living 
in  the  midst  of  them. 

Montaigne  spent  these  years  in  plea- 
sant peacefulness,  dawdling  over  his  li- 
brary, and  putting  his  Essays  together 


scrap  by  scrap.  In  1580,  at  the  age  of 
forty-seven,  he  published  the  first  two 
books  of  his  Essays,  which  had  an  imme- 
diate and  great  success.  After  this  he 
was  obliged  to  forego  literature  for  a  time, 
because  he  was  not  well.  He  had  little 
confidence  in  doctors,  but  hoped  that  he 
could  get  benefit  by  drinking  natural 
waters.  Therefore  he  went  traveling. 
He  also  wanted  to  see  the  world  :  Rome, 
with  which  he  had  been  familiar  from 
boyhood,  and  Italy,  of  which  he  had 
heard  so  much  from  his  father,  and  all 
strange  lands.  Perhaps,  too,  he  was 
not  unmindful  that  he  was  now  not  only 
the  Seigneur  de  Montaigne,  but  the  first 
man  of  letters  in  France,  not  even  ex- 
cepting Ronsard.  He  set  forth  in  the 
summer  of  1580,  with  his  brother,  the 
Seigneur  de  Mathecoulon,  and  several 
friends,  journeying  on  horseback  to  Swit- 
zerland, Germany,  and  Italy.  He  kept 
a  journal,  which  contains  notes  of  travel, 
and  also  a  full  account  of  .the  effects  of 
medicinal  waters  on  his  health.  The 
interest  of  the  journal  consists  chiefly  in 
the  pictures  of  those  countries  at  that 
time,  sketched  by  an  intelligent  traveler ; 
but  now  and  again  there  is  a  more  per- 
sonal interest,  when  Montaigne  sees 
something  that  excites  his  curiosity. 
There  is  a  likeness  in  his  curiosity  for 
foreign  lands  and  his  curiosity  for  ideas. 
He  travels  into  Germany  as  if  it  were 
a  new  volume  of  Plutarch.  He  is  agog 
for  novelty,  and  new  ways  of  life,  new 
points  of  view.  His  secretary  says  :  "  I 
never  saw  him  less  tired  nor  less  com- 
plaining of  ill  health  ;  he  was  in  high 
spirits  both  traveling  and  stopping,  so 
absorbed  in  what  he  met,  and  always 
looking  for  opportunities  to  talk  to 
strangers.  ...  I  think  if  he  had  been 
alone  with  his  servants  he  would  have 
gone  to  Cracow  or  to  Greece  overland, 
rather  than  directly  into  Italy." 

In  this  journal,  written  first  at  his 
direction,  perhaps  at  his  dictation,  by  a 
secretary,  and  then,  with  some  incon- 
venience, as  he  says,  by  himself,  we  find 


Montaigne. 


449 


his  interests  and  affections  in  the  light 
and  shadow  of  the  first  impression.  In 
the  Essays  every  paragraph  is  the  cud 
of  long  rumination.  Of  Rome  the  jour- 
nal says  :  "  We  see  nothing  of  Rome 
but  the  sky  under  which  she  lies  and  the 
place  of  her  abode  ;  knowledge  of  her 
is  an  abstraction,  framed  by  thought, 
with  which  the  senses  have  no  concern. 
Those  who  say  that  the  ruins  of  Rome 
at  least  are  to  be  seen  say  too  much, 
for  the  ruins  of  so  tremendous  a  fabric 
would  bring  more  honor  and  reverence 
to  her  memory ;  here  is  nothing  but  her 
place  of  burial.  The  world,  hostile  to 
her  long  dominion,  has  first  broken  and 
dashed  to  pieces  all  the  parts  of  that 
admirable  body  ;  and  because,  even  when 
dead,  overthrown  and  mutilated,  she 
still  made  the  world  afraid,  it  has  buried 
even  the  ruins.  The  little  show  of 
them  that  appears  above  the  sepulchre 
has  been  preserved  by  fortune,  to  bear 
witness  to  that  matchless  grandeur  which 
centuries,  conflagrations,  conspiracies  of 
a  world  again  and  again  plotting  its  ruin, 
have  failed  to  destroy  utterly." 

Rome,  "  the  noblest  city  that  ever  was 
or  ever  will  be,"  had  laid  hold  of  his 
imagination.  He  says,  "  I  used  all  the 
five  senses  that  nature  gave  me  to  ob- 
tain the  title  of  Roman  Citizen,  if  it 
were  only  for  the  ancient  honor  and  re- 
ligious memory  of  its  authority."  By 
the  help  of  a  friend,  the  Pope's  influence 
procured  him  this  dignity.  The  decree, 
bearing  the  S.  P.  Q.  R.,  u  pompous  with 
seals  and  gilt  letters,"  gave  him  great 
pleasure. 

He  showed  special  interest  in  strange 
customs,  as  in  the  rite  of  circumcision, 
and  in  a  ceremony  of  exorcising  an  evil 
spirit.  This  examination  of  other  ways 
of  living,  other  habits  of  thought,  is  the 
lever  by  which  he  lifts  himself  out  of 
prejudices,  out  of  the  circle  of  authority, 
into  his  free  and  open-minded  state.  He 
always  wished  to  see  men  who  looked 
at  life  from  other  points  of  view.  In 
Rome,  as  his  secretary  writes,  "  M.  de 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  29 


Montaigne  was  vexed  to  find  so  many 
Frenchmen  there  ;  he  hardly  met  any- 
body in  the  street  who  did  not  greet 
him  in  his  own  tongue."  In  the  Essays 
Montaigne  says  that,  for  education,  ac- 
quaintance with  men  is  wonderfully  good, 
and  also  to  travel  in  foreign  lands ;  not 
to  bring  back  (after  the  fashion  of  the 
French  nobility)  nothing  but  the  mea- 
sures of  the  Pantheon,  but  to  take  home 
a  knowledge  of  foreign  ways  of  thought 
and  of  behavior,  and  to  rub  and  polish 
our  minds  against  those  of  others. 

v. 

While  abroad,  Montaigne  received 
word,  in  September,  1581,  that  he  had 
been  elected  mayor  of  Bordeaux,  to  suc- 
ceed the  Mare'chal  de  Biron.  He  hesi- 
tated ;  he  had  no  mind  to  give  up  his 
freedom.  But  the  king  sent  an  order, 
flattering  and  peremptory,  that  he  should 
betake  himself  to  his  office  "  without  de- 
lay or  excuse."  Accordingly  he  went. 

It  seems  likely  that  there  was  some 
hand  behind  the  scenes  which  pointed 
out  to  the  councilors  a  man  who  would 
be  acceptable  to  persons  in  high  place. 
The  Mare'chal  de  Biron  wished  to  be 
reflected,  but  both  the  king  and  Hen- 
ry of  Navarre,  the  nominal  governor  of 
Guyenne,  were  opposed  to  him.  His- 
tory does  not  tell  what  happened,  but 
the  mayoralty  was  given  to  this  distin- 
guished, quiet  gentleman,  who  had  kept 
carefully  aloof  from  partisanship.  The 
office  of  mayor  was  not  very  burden- 
some ;  the  ordinary  duties  of  adminis- 
tration fell  upon  others.  Montaigne's 
first  term  of  two  years  passed  unevent- 
fully. De  Thou,  the  historian,  who 
knew  him  at  this  time,  says  that*  he 
learned  much  from  Montaigne,  a  man 
"  very  well  versed  in  public  affairs,  es- 
pecially in  those  concerning  Guyenne, 
which  he  knows  thoroughly."  In  1583 
he  was  reelected.  Times  grew  more 
troubled.  On  the  death  of  the  king's 
brother,  Navarre  became  heir  to  the 
throne.  The  League,  alarmed,  made 


450 


Montaigne. 


new  efforts.  Guise  made  a  secret  treaty 
with  Spain  that  Navarre  should  not  be 
recognized  as  king.  Coming  storms  be- 
gan to  blow  up  about  Bordeaux.  The 
League  plotted  to  seize  the  city.  Poor 
Montaigne  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  excursions  and  alarms.  He  was  glad 
to  lay  down  his  charge  when  his  term 
ended,  on  July  31, 1585.  In  June  a  hor- 
rible plague  broke  out,  and  people  in 
Bordeaux  died  by  hundreds.  Montaigne 
was  away  from  the  city.  The  council 
asked  him  to  come  to  town  to  preside 
over  the  election  of  his  successor.  He 
answered,  "  I  will  not  spare  my  life  or 
anything  in  your  service,  and  I  leave 
you  to  judge  whether  what  I  can  do  for 
you  by  my  presence  at  the  next  election 
makes  it  worth  while  for  me  to  run  the 
risk  of  going  to  town."  The  council 
did  not  insist,  and  Montaigne  did  not  go. 
This  is  the  act  of  his  life  which  has 
called  forth  blame,  not  from  his  contem- 
poraries, but  from  stout-hearted  critics 
and  heroic  reviewers.  To  set  an  exam- 
ple of  indifference  to  death  is  outside 
the  ordinary  path  of  duty.  We  like  to 
hear  tell  of  splendid  recklessness  of  life, 
of  fools  who  go  to  death  out  of  a  mad 
desire  to  stamp  the  fear  of  it  under  their 
feet  ;  and  when  disappointed  of  so  fine 
a  show,  we  become  petulant,  we  betray 
that  we  are  overfond  of  excitement.  It 
was  not  the  mayor's  duty  to  look  after  the 
public  health  ;  that  lay  upon  the  council. 
His  office  ended,  Montaigne  went 
back  to  his  library,  to  revise  and  correct 
the  first  two  books  of  his  Essays,  to  stuff 
them  with  new  paragraphs  and  quota- 
tions, and  to  write  a  third.  But  he  could 
not  retire  far  enough  to  get  away  from 
the  sounds  of  civil  war.  Coutras  was 
but  a  little  too  far  for  him  to  hear  Na- 
varre harangue  his  troops  to  victory,  and 
the  voices  of  the  soldiers  singing  the 
psalm :  — 

"  This  is  the  day  which  the  Lord  hath  made  ; 
We  will  rejoice  and  be  glad  in  it." 

A  few  days  afterwards  Henry  of  Na- 


varre stopped  at  the  chateau  and  dined 
with  Montaigne.  He  had  once  before 
been  there,  making  a  visit  of  two  days, 
when  Montaigne  was  still  mayor.  The 
relations  of  these  two  men  are  very  in- 
teresting, but  somewhat  difficult  to  deci- 
pher. De  Thou  says  that  Montaigne 
talked  to  him  about  Henry  of  Navarre 
and  the  Duke  of  Guise,  and  their  hatred 
one  of  the  other.  "  As  for  religion," 
added  Montaigne,  "both  make  parade 
of  it ;  it  is  a  fine  pretext  to  make  those 
of  their  party  follow  them.  But  the  in- 
terest of  religion  doesn't  touch  either 
of  them ;  only  the  fear  of  being  aban- 
doned by  the  Protestants  prevents  the 
king  of  Navarre  from  returning  to  the 
religion  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  duke 
would  betake  himself  to  the  Augsburg 
Confession,  for  which  his  uncle,  Charles, 
Cardinal  of  Lorraine,  had  given'  him  a 
taste,  if  he  could  follow  it  without  pre- 
judice to  his  interests."  But  Navarre, 
though  he  was  open-minded  on  the  sub- 
ject of  creeds,  and  a  most  dexterous  pol- 
itician, was  a  noble  and  loyal  gentleman, 
as  Montaigne,  with  his  keen,  unpreju- 
diced eyes,  could  well  see.  Navarre  had 
been  bred  a  Protestant,  his  friends  were 
Protestants,  and  he  would  not  forswear 
his  religion  so  long  as  abjuration  might 
work  harm  to  them.  When  his  conver- 
sion became  of  great  moment  to  France, 
and  promised  to  confer  the  blessings  of 
peace  on  the  country  without  hurt  to  the 
Protestants,  he  turned  Catholic.  This 
was  conduct  such  as  Montaigne  would 
most  heartily  approve.  Henry  IV.  act- 
ed as  if  he  had  been  nursed  on  the  Es- 
says. And  there  is  much  to  show  that 
De  Thou's  conversation  is  a  very  incor- 
rect account  of  Montaigne's  opinion  of 
Henry. 

After  Henry  had  succeeded  to  the 
throne,  and  was  still  struggling  with  the 
League,  Montaigne  wrote  to  him  :  "  I 
have  always  thought  of  you  as  enjoying 
the  good  fortune  to  which  you  have  come, 
and  you  may  remember  that,  even  when 
I  was  obliged  to  confess  it  to  the  curs', 


Montaigne. 


451 


I  always  hoped  for  your  success.  Now, 
with  more  cause  and  more  freedom,  I 
salute  it  with  full  affection.  Your  suc- 
cess serves  you  where  you  are,  but  it 
serves  you  no  less  here  by  reputation. 
The  noise  does  as  much  as  the  shot.  We 
could  not  draw  from  the  justice  of  your 
cause  arguments  to  establish  or  win  your 
subjects  so  strong  as  we  do  from  the 
news  of  the  prosperity  of  your  enter- 
prises. .  .  .  The  inclinations  of  people 
flow  in  a  tide.  If  the  incline  is  once  in 
your  favor,  it  will  sweep  on  of  its  own 
weight,  to  the  very  end.  I  should  have 
liked  very  much  that  the  private  gain  of 
your  soldiers  and  the  need  of  making 
them  content  had  not  deprived  you,  es- 
pecially in  this  great  city,  of  the  noble 
commendation  of  having  treated  your 
rebellious  subjects,  in  the  hour  of  vic- 
tory, with  more  consideration  than  their 
own  protectors  do ;  and  that,  differently 
from  a  transitory  and  usurped  claim, 
you  had  shown  that  they  were  yours  by 
a  fatherly  and  truly  royal  protection." 
The  letter  shows  admiration  and  com- 
prehension of  the  king,  and  an  intimacy 
honorable  to  both.  There  was  some  in- 
vitation for  Montaigne  to  come  to  court, 
and  an  offer  of  money,  but  he  answered  : 
"  Sire,  your  Majesty  will  do  me,  if  you 
please,  the  favor  to  believe  that  I  will 
neyer  stint  my  purse  on  an  occasion  for 
which  I  would  not  spare  my  life.  I  have 
never  received  any  money  from  the  liber- 
ality of  kings,  —  I  have  neither  asked 
nor  deserved  it ;  I  have  never  received 
payment  for  the  steps  I  have  taken  in 
their  service,  of  which  your  Majesty  in 
part  has  knowledge.  What  I  have  done 
for  your  predecessors  I  will  do  very 
much  more  willingly  for  you.  I  am, 
Sire,  as  rich  as  I  desire."  But  ill  health 
would  not  permit  him  to  go,  even  if  he 
had  wished. 

In  the  meantime  Montaigne  had  been 
in  Paris  (in  1588)  to  publish  a  new  edi- 
tion of  the  Essays.  There  he  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  Mademoiselle  de  Gour- 
nay,  a  young  lady  of  twenty,  who  had 


conceived  a  great  enthusiasm  for  the  Es- 
says. Montaigne  called  her  his  adopted 
daughter.  After  his  death,  helped  by 
Madame  de  Montaigne,  she  devoted  her- 
self to  the  preparation  of  a  new  edition 
of  the  Essays,  with  all  the.  last  changes 
and  additions  that  the  author  had  made. 
This  edition  was  marked  by  great  care 
and  skill. 

Montaigne  spent  the  last  few  years  of 
his  life  on  his  seigniory.  He  lived  quiet- 
ly, his  health  growing  worse,  till  he  died, 
on  September  13,  1592,  at  the  age  of 
fifty-nine.  It  is  said  that  when  he  felt 
his  death  near,  no  longer  able,  to  speak, 
he  wrote  a  little  note  asking  his  wife  to 
summon  several  gentlemen  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, that  he  might  take  leave  of 
them.  When  they  had  come,  he  had 
mass  said  in  his  room  ;  and  when  the 
priest  came  to  the  elevation  of  the  host, 
he  threw  himself  forward  as  best  he 
could,  his  hands  clasped,  and  so  died. 

VI. 

We  are  wont  to  call  a  man  of  letters 
great  when  many  generations  of  men 
can  go  to  his  book,  read  what  he  says  on 
the  subject  that  concerns  them,  —  con- 
duct, religion,  love,  the  significance  of 
life,  —  and  find  that  he  has  cast  some 
light,  or  at  least  has  shifted  the  problem. 
Such  is  Montaigne.  There  were  greater 
men  living  in  his  time,  Shakespeare,  Cer- 
vantes ;  but  life  plies  many  questions  to 
which  poetry  and  idealism  give  no  direct 
answer.  If  a  man  would  look  serenely 
upon  the  world,  and  learn  the  lesson 
that  "  ripeness  is  all,"  he  must  go  to  the 
poet  and  to  the  idealist,  but  he  must  go 
to  the  skeptic,  too.  Uncertainty  is  one 
of  our  lessons,  and  what  man  has  talked 
so  wisely  and  so  persuasively  as  Mon- 
taigne concerning  matters  that  lie  at  the 
threshold  of  the  great  questions  of  re- 
ligion and  philosophy,  which  must  un- 
derlie all  reasonable  life  ?  Hear  him, 
for  instance,  after  finding  fault  with  an 
excessive  credulity,  blaming  its  opposite  : 
"  But  also,  on  the  other  part,  it  is  pre- 


452 


Montaigne. 


sumptuous  and  foolish  to  go  about  dis- 
daining and  condemning  as  false  that 
which  does  not  seem  probable  to  us.  This 
is  a  vice  common  to  those  who  think  they 
have  an  intelligence  out  of  the  ordinary. 
I  had  that  habit  once,  and  if  I  heard 
of  ghosts  or  prophecies  of  future  events, 
or  of  magic,  of  witchcraft,  or  some  won- 
derful story  which  I  could  not  endure, 
I  felt  compassion  for  the  poor  people 
abused  by  this  nonsense.  Now  I  find 
that  I  myself  was  at  least  as  much  to  be 
pitied.  Not  that  I  have  ever  had  any 
experience  beyond  my  first  beliefs,  and 
nothing  has  ever  appealed  to  my  curios- 
ity ;  but  reason  has  taught  me  that  to 
condemn  finally  a  thing  as  false  and  im- 
possible is  to  claim  to  comprehend  the 
boundaries  and  limits  of  the  will  of  God 
and  of  the  power  of  our  mother  Nature, 
and  that  there  is  no  more  remarkable 
folly  in  the  world  than  to  bring  them 
down  to  the  measurements  of  our  capa- 
city and  intelligence.  If  we  give  the 
names,  —  monsters  or  miracles,  —  there 
where  our  reason  cannot  go,  how  many 
continually  come  before  our  eyes  ?  Con- 
sider in  what  a  mist,  and  how  gropingly, 
we  come  to  a  knowledge  of  most  things 
that  are  under  our  hands  ;  we  shall  find 
that  it  is  familiarity,  not  knowledge, 
which  has  taken  the  strangeness  away, 
and  that,  if  those  things  were  presented  to 
us  afresh,  we  should  find  them  as  much 
or  more  unbelievable  than  any  others." 
Montaigne  commends  us  to  a  prudent 
but  brave  open-mindedness.  He  warns 
us  against  the  dogmas  of  affirmation  and 
the  dogmas  of  denial.  He  bids  us  pause 
and  consider.  Nothing  could  be  more 
wrong  than  the  vulgar  notion  that  Mon- 
taigne has  something  in  common  with 
Mephistopheles,  the  spirit  that  denies. 
He  was  a  skeptic  ;  but  a  single  epithet  is 
always  incorrect.  He  was  a  believer, 
too.  He  believed  in  education,  in  hu- 
manity, in  tolerance,  in  the  many-sided- 
ness of  life,  in  the  infinite  power  of  God, 
in  the  nobleness  of  humanity.  Nothing 
excites  his  indignation  so  violently  as 


the  "  great  subtlety  "  of  those  men  who 
sneer  at  heroic  deeds,  and  attribute  no- 
ble performance  to  mean  motives.  He 
makes  no  pretense  of  special  interest  in 
conduct ;  but  conduct  is  not  his  business, 
—  he  is  concerned  with  the  philosophy 
which  underlies  conduct.  Some  men 
are  impatient  for  action ;  they  will  be- 
lieve this,  that,  anything,  for  an  excuse 
to  be  up  and  doing.  Montaigne  is  not 
a  man  of  action  ;  he  feels  uncomfortable 
when  within  hearing  of  the  whir  and  rush 
of  life  ;  he  retires  into  the  "  back  of  his 
shop  "  to  get  away  from  the  noisy,  rois- 
tering band  that  tramps  tumultuous  down 
the  great  avenue  of  life.  He  was  for 
contemplation  and  meditation.  It  was 
this  shrinking  from  action  that  made  him 
a  skeptic.  Action  is  the  affirmation  of 
belief,  but  also  its  begetter.  I  believe  be- 
cause I  act.  The  heart  beats,  the  blood 
circulates,  the  breath  comes  and  goes,  the 
impatient  muscles  do  not  wait  for  the 
tardy  reason  to  don  hat  and  overcoat, 
arms  twitch,  legs  start,  and  the  man  is 
plunged  into  the  hurly-burly  of  life. 
There  he  goes,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd 
of  human  beings,  hurrying,  struggling, 
squirming,  all  filled  to  surfeit  with  most 
monstrous  beliefs.  Montaigne's  heart 
beats  more  slowly ;  he  is  in  no  hurry  to 
act ;  the  meaning  of  life  will  not  yield  to 
mere  importunity ;  let  us  keep  cool.  "  If 
any  difficulties  occur  in  reading,  I  do  not 
bite  my  nails  about  them,  but,  after  an 
attempt  or  two  to  explain  them,  I  give 
them  over.  Should  I  insist  upon  them, 
I  should  lose  both  myself  and  my  time ; 
for  I  have  a  genius  that  is  extremely  vol- 
atile, and  what  I  do  not  discern  at  the 
first  attempt  becomes  the  more  obscure 
to  me  the  longer  I  pore  over  it.  ... 
Continuation  and  a  too  obstinate  con- 
tention stupefy  and  tire  my  judgment. 
I  must  withdraw  it,  and  leave  it,  to  make 
new  discoveries,  just  as,  in  order  to  judge 
rightly  of  the  lustre  of  scarlet,  we  are 
ordered  to  pass  it  lightly  with  the  eye, 
and  to  run  it  over  at  several  sudden  re- 
peated views." 


Montaigne. 


453 


Montaigne  is  of  the  Latin  people, 
men  of  the  south,  children  of  the  mar- 
ket place  and  the  piazza.  He  sits  in 
peacefulness,  watching  the  comedy  and 
tragedy  of  the  world.  He  lives  apart ; 
for  him,  life  is  a  show,  a  school  for  phi- 
losophy, a  subject  for  essays.  If  you 
have  been  bred  in  the  Adirondacks  or 
on  the  slope  of  Monadnock,  up  betimes, 
to  tire  your  legs  all  the  long  day,  and  at 
evening  to  watch  the  setting  sun  and  lis- 
ten for  the  first  call  of  the  owl,  you  will 
not  like  Montaigne.  There,  in  the  morn- 
ing of  life,  the  blue  sky  overhead,  the 
realities  of  life  looking  so  strong  and  so 
noble,  the  speculations  of  a  skeptic  come 
like  a  cloud  of  dust.  Montaigne  is  not 
for  the  young  man.  Youth  has  convic- 
tions ;  its  feelings  purport  absolute  veri- 
ty ;  it  possesses  reality  :  why  go  a-fishing 
for  dreams  ?  But  when  the  blood  runs 
cooler,  when  we  are  glad  to  be  safe  on 
earth,  when  of  a  winter's  evening  we  lis- 
ten to  the  pleasant  shoot  of  the  bolt  that 
shall  keep  us  to  ourselves,  and  draw  up 
to  the  fire,  then  Montaigne  is  supreme. 
He  is  so  agreeable,  so  charming,  so  skill- 
ful in  taking  up  one  subject,  then  another, 
so  well  practiced  in  conversation,  so  per- 
fect a  host.  We  are  translated  into  his 
library.  He  wanders  about  the  room, 
taking  from  his  shelves  one  book  after 
another,  opening  them  at  random,  read- 
ing a  scrap,  and  then  talking  about  it. 
On  he  goes,  talking  wisely,  wittily,  kind- 
ly, while  the  flickering  firelight  plays 
over  his  sensitive,  intelligent  face,  and 
the  Gascon  moon  shines  in  patches  on 
the  floor,  till  the  world  we  are  used  to 
dissolves  under  his  talk,  and  its  constitu- 
ent parts  waver  and  flicker  with  the  fire- 
light. Everything  aerifies  into  dream- 
made  stuff,  out  of  which  our  fancy  builds 
a  new  world,  only  to  see  it  again  dissolve 
and  fade  under  his  bewitching  talk. 

Montaigne  talks  of  himself.  But  his 
self  is  not  the  vulgar  self  of  the  gossip  ; 
it  is  the  type  and  model  of  humanity. 
Like  a  great  artist,  he  makes  himself 


both  individual  and  type.  He  is  the 
psychologist  studying  man.  He  is  his 
own  laboratory,  his  own  object  of  ex- 
amination. When  we  try  to  discover 
the  movements  of  the  mind,  have  we 
any  choice  ?  Must  we  not  examine  our- 
selves ?  He  does  not  bring  us  to  him- 
self for  the  mere  exhilaration  of  talk- 
ing about  himself.  His  subject  is  man  ; 
through  the  windows  of  man's  mind  he 
makes  us  gaze  at  the  universe,  forever 
reiterating  in  our  ears  that  man  is  a 
prisoner  in  the  four  walls  of  his  mind, 
chafe  how  he  will.  If  this  be  egotism, 
it  is  egotism  with  all  its  teeth  drawn. 

Skeptic,  philosopher,  abstracted  from 
the  world,  Montaigne  nevertheless  does 
not  shirk  when  the  choice  comes  between 
speaking  out  and  keeping  silent.  We  can- 
not repeat  too  often  his  "  We  must  rend 
the  mask  from  things  as  well  as  from 
men."  This  is  no  easy  task.  Even  the 
strength  of  the  young  mountaineer  may 
not  suffice.  Masks  familiar  to  us  all  our 
lives  become  very  dear ;  let  us  leave 
them,  —  there  are  other  things  to  do.  Is 
there  not  something  ignoble  in  this  use 
of  our  courage,  to  maltreat  an  old,  ven- 
erable appearance  ?  Give  us  some  work 
of  poetry  and  romance  ;  bid  us  scale 
heaven.  And  so  the  masks  of  things 
remain  unremoved.  Old  Montaigne  had 
something  sturdy  in  him  at  bottom. 
There  is  the  admiration  of  the  heroic 
in  him  always.  "  All  other  knowledge 
is  useless  to  him  who  does  not  know  how 
to  be  good.  .  .  .  The  measure  and  the 
worth  of  a  man  consist  in  his  heart  and 
will ;  in  them  is  the  home  of  his  honor. 
.  .  .  True  victory  lieth  in  the  fight,  not 
in  coming  off  safely  ;  and  the  honor  of 
courage  is  in  combat,  not  in  success."  Of 
the  three  philosophies  that  he  studied, 
the  Epicurean,  the  Pyrrhonian,  the  Stoic, 
his  heart  was  inclined  to  the  last,  and  I 
think  he  would  rather  have  had  a  nod 
of  approval  from  Cato  the  younger  than 
have  heard  Sainte-Beuve  salute  him  as 
the  wisest  of  Frenchmen. 

H.  D.  Sedgwick,  Jr. 


454  Pipes  of  Passage.  —  The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


PIPES  OF  PASSAGE. 

IN  the  gray  of  earliest  dawn, 
When  the  night  was  not  yet  gone 
But  the  street-lamps  lonely  and  strange 
Burned  in  a  still  sea-change, 
Over  the  ghostly  ghostly  street 
I  heard  the  voices  passing  sweet, 
Pipes  of  passage  !• 

Wings  of  the  summer  forth 

And  the  silent  throats  of  the  north 

Southward  southward  away 

Peopling  the  ghostly  gray, 

Over  the  city's  sleep  they  ran, 

The  innumerable  caravan, 

Pipes  of  passage ! 

Over  our  drowsy  heads, 
Death-beds  and  bridal-beds, 
Over  our  human  hush, 
Swallow  and  sparrow  and  thrush, 
Over  our  life,  if  life  be  sleep, 
Hear  my  voyagers  laugh  and  weep, 
Pipes  of  passage! 

Joseph  Russell  Taylor. 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  AXE. 

FOB  two  days  the  rain  slopped  down  "It 's    unseasonable   weather  —  un- 

prodigally  over  the  wilderness  and  the  seasonable !  "  he  said.      In  his  hateful 

high  barrens.   Then  the  weather  turned,  fatigue  he  had  not  sense  to  move  out 

It  froze,  sharp  as  the  closing  of  a  trap,  of  the  wind ;  he  stood  and  stared  around 

and  caught  many  a  small   thing  that  and  before  him. 

could  have  done  with  another  month  of  It  was  a  sufficiently  depressing  pros- 
careless  life.  Of  human  life  there  was  pect  for  a  dry  man ;  for  a  wet  one  who 
none,  till  in  the  late  afternoon  of  the  was  also  homeless,  hungry,  and  lost,  it 
day  of  frost  McNally  stood  alone  on  was  a  wicked  prospect.  Behind  and 
the  high  lands,  and  hugged  himself  to-  around  him  lay  the  high  barrens,  a 
gether  in  his  canvas  coat  that  had  been  waste  of  withered  blueberry  bushes, 
sodden  and  now  was  frozen  over  his  wet  spruce  scrub,  and  gray  boulders.  There 
woolen  shirt.  He  looked  up  at  the  was  not  a  sign  of  a  path.  How  he  had 
iron  sky,  and  remembered  that  the  come  there  he  knew  less  than  any  one. 
month  was  November.  He  spoke  to  In  front  of  him  opened  out  a  valley, 
himself  with  sudden  peevish  anger:  —  There  the  boulders  were  bigger,  closer 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


455 


together;  farther  on,  and  down,  they 
were  packed,  the  size  of  cabs,  then  of 
houses.  Out  of  the  scanty  crevices  be- 
tween them  grew  tall  pine  trees,  soli- 
tary black  pillars  or  sombre  groups,  as 
their  roots  could  find  mould.  Over  all 
there  lay  a  palpable  silence.  A  thin 
shiver  ran  through  McNally  as  he  stood. 

The  place  was  a  place  to  die  in ;  no 
more !  He  had  always  had  the  thought 
that  it  would  be  best  to  die  in  bed,  and 
a  whisper  of  chill  wind  that  dame  up 
the  valley  made  him  more  sure  of  it  than 
ever.  He  was  suddenly  cold  inside  him, 
colder  than  outside ;  he  shivered  in  his 
empty  stomach,  at  his  heart.  This  hol- 
low was  hostile,  menacing ;  it  could  not 
be  the  valley  he  had  meant  to  come  to ; 
and  yet,  somewhere  in  his  dim  thoughts, 
he  had  the  lingering  hope  that  it  was; 
that  it  only  eluded  him.  He  was  baby- 
ish in  his  exhaustion,  and  he  spoke 
aloud  again,  resentfully :  — 

"It  ought  to  be  here!  It  shan't  go 
back  on  me!  "  His  anger  gave  him 
strength,  even  in  the  face  of  the  great 
contemptuous  silence  around  him ;  he 
pushed  forward  with  trembling  knees, 
up  and  down  a  rise,  and  up  again.  "It 
must  be  here !  " 

He  meant  the  dark  lake  that  lay  far 
back  from  civilization,  in  a  hopeless 
country  for  lumberers.  Any  man  might 
cut  good  logs  there,  but  five  hundred 
could  not  get  them  out,  with  profit.  It 
was  shunned,  too ;  he  had  never  known 
why.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  had  had 
it  in  his  mind  for  weeks  as  his  only 
refuge,  the  one  place  in  the  world  that 
was  ready  and  waiting  for  Bernard  Mc- 
Nally. He  had  been  making  to  it  for 
days,  like  a  homing  pigeon,  and  he  had 
missed  it  in  the  end.  His  instinct,  that 
had  lain  fallow  for  ten  years,  had  failed 
him ;  he  had  made  a  mistake.  And  he 
had  not  life  in  him  to  afford  to  make 
mistakes ;  this  was  his  last  in  a  world 
of  them,  and  his  body  told  him  so.  His 
mind  refused  to  hear  it. 

He  made  for  a  boulder,  crawled  along 
by  it,  staggered  to  another,  and  hauled 


himself  up  till  he  sprawled  on  top  of  it 
and  had  to  shut  his  eyes  to  steady  the 
rocks  and  trees  that  rushed  past  him. 
He  dared  not  lie  like  that;  even  the 
relief  of  it  told  him  so.  He  sat  up  and 
dragged  his  eyes  open.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  was  sobbing.  His  only 
feeling  was  rage  that  he  had  missed  his 
way.  The  disappointment  of  it  was  the 
worst  pang  of  all  his  life,  sharp  as  the 
sting  of  death  that  must  soon  come  af- 
ter it.  He  stared  before  him  to  see  this 
place  where  he  must  die. 

The  last  light  of  the  November  day 
lay  gray  on  the  yellow-brown  bushes, 
the  gray  rocks,  the  black  trees ;  on  all 
the  inhospitable  ugliness  of  the  place. 
McNally  fell  more  than  scrambled  off 
the  boulder,  and  fled  madly  down  the 
valley  to  the  trees,  between  the  rocks 
and  the  blueberry  bushes.  The  black 
patch  below  him  was  water.  He  had 
made  no  mistake ;  his  long  search  had 
brought  him  out  at  the  Matoun.  What 
matter  that  it  was  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  lake  ?  He  could  skirt  round  it ! 
He  knew  where  he  was !  He  had  only 
to  find  his  refuge,  if  the  light  held  to 
do  it. 

The  way  was  all  rocks  now,  with  tall 
pine  trees  struggling  up  between  them ; 
it  was  slippery  with  pine  droppings, 
riddled  with  crevices  and  porcupine 
holes.  McNally  hurried  and  slipped 
and  fell  and  went  on  again,  racing  with 
the  light  that  can  out- travel  man.  He 
slithered  helplessly  across  a  rock  and 
caught  hold  of  a  low  bough,  just  in 
time ;  his  feet  had  shot  from  under  him, 
and  hung  out  over  the  black  depths  of 
the  freezing  lake.  But  he  hardly  no- 
ticed that  a  little  more  would  have 
drowned  him.  He  had  his  bearings! 
He  was  on  the  north  side  of  the  lake 
now,  the  right  side.  He  could  see  the 
hills  that  locked  the  western  end  of  it, 
the  swamp  on  the  south  shore  opposite ; 
but  he  wasted  no  time  in  looking.  The 
place  he  wanted  must  be  just  back  of 
him,  over  the  rocks  and  the  porcupine 
holes  back  to  the  solid  north  wall  of  hill. 


456 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


He  forgot  he  was  cold,  in  the  deadly 
fear  that  the  dark  might  come  and  make 
him  miss  his  goal.  He  clawed  to  his 
feet,  crashed  through  the  boughs  that 
swept  the  high  rocks,  slipped  twice  his 
own  height  to  the  ground,  and  fell  soft- 
ly in  the  frozen  bushes ;  worked  on,  step 
by  step.  He  stopped,  as  if  he  were 
stunned. 

The  rocky  hill  was  in  front  of  him, 
but  it  was  grown  up  with  young  spruce ; 
the  points  and  landmarks  were  gone! 
It  all  looked  alike.  And  this  time  he 
knew  he  sobbed.  But  he  knew,  too,  that 
he  went  on.  If  he  had  to  feel  that  hill- 
side foot  by  foot  he  would  go  on,  till  his 
body  failed  him.  In  the  growing  dusk 
he  looked  back  at  the  rocks  that  cut  off 
the  lake,  and  tried  to  remember  the 
line ;  but  it  was  all  a  tumble  of  con- 
fusion to  him.  He  crushed  forward 
through  an  endless  stretch  of  bay,  its 
withered  leaves  breast  high,  and  never 
smelt  the  scent  of  it ;  stumbled  to  high- 
er ground,  and  forced  his  way  through 
the  spruce  trees,  to  the  virgin  wall  of 
rock  behind  them.  And  as  he  did  the 
light  failed  palpably,  as  if  some  one  had 
drawn  a  curtain  between  him  and  the 
sky.  In  the  dimness  he  peered  at  the 
rock,  felt  it,  struggled  through  another 
clump  of  spruces  and  felt  again.  He 
found  nothing ;  what  he  sought  was  not 
there.  But  he  kept  on  feeling,  till  the 
rock  under  his  fingers  stopped,  and  he 
knew  that  the  ridge  had  ended,  even 
before  he  had  sense  enough  to  look  up 
and  see  the  sky.  He  went  back  again, 
bent  double,  one  hand  dragging  at  the 
spruces,  the  other  never  off  the  rock  be- 
hind them.  The  light  was  less  with 
every  second,  yet  it  came  on  him  sud- 
denly that  it  was  dark.  In  the  anguish 
of  it  he  sank  to  his  knees  and  fell  for- 
ward; as  he  tried  to  save  himself  his 
hand  slipped  a  foot  lower  on  the  rock, 
and  clawed  at  smooth  stone. 

The  revulsion  that  came  over  him 
was  sickening ;  he  could  not  have  moved 
to  keep  from  dying.  The  words  he  said 
aloud  were  not  appropriate  either,  but 


perhaps  they  served  his  turn  as  well  as 
any.  "Whoa, mare;  whoa, pet!  "  whis- 
pered McNally  weakly;  and  found  he 
could  crawl  forward  on  his  hands  and 
knees. 

He  had  been  a  fool,  for  he  had  for- 
gotten !  He  had  been  feeling  the  rock 
at  his  own  height,  where  he  might  have 
felt  forever.  Now  his  hand  was  on  the 
two  courses  of  dressed  stone ;  now  on  the 
Dutch  arch ;  now  —  his  heart  pumped 
hard  at  his  slow  blood  —  on  the  wood 
of  the  door.  A  corner  at  the  top  had 
decayed  away ;  his  fingers  went  through 
the  hole.  He  found  his  tin  box  of 
matches,  his  candle  end.  (It  goes  hard 
to  make  a  man  who  has  been  a  miner 
lose  the  candle-end  habit.)  The  damp 
wick  sputtered,  then  lit,  a  pale  flame 
between  the  spruces  and  the  rock;  and 
it  showed  a  queer  sight,  for  Lake  Ma- 
toun. 

In  the  rock,  for  a  yard  or  so  on  each 
side  of  where  he  knelt,  were  set  two 
courses  of  dressed  granite ;  above  it,  as 
the  natural  spring  of  a  cave  had  needed 
it,  neat  fillings  of  cut  stone,  jointed  and 
mortared.  The  Swede  had  known  his 
work.  The  door  under  the  Dutch  arch 
was  not  three  feet  high,  but  it  was  broad 
out  of  all  proportion,  broad  enough  to 
pass  the  shoulders  of  a  giant.  Mc- 
Nally put  his  shoulder  to  it  with  the 
strength  of  a  child ;  but  it  gave,  at  the 
hinges.  The  candle  flickered  as  the 
draft  rushed  in  the  crack.  The  man 
put  his  head  in,  and  snuffed  like  an  ani- 
mal ;  he  had  no  mind  to  spend  the  night 
picking  out  porcupine  quills.  He  smelt 
nothing  but  a  cold  closeness,  yet  he  lit 
a  bunch  of  dead  spruce  and  flung  it  in. 
Nothing  stirred.  He  pushed  the  door 
wide,  and  crawled  in  on  hands  and 
knees,  as  he  had  always  done.  The 
smoke  from  the  spruce  made  him  cough ; 
he  threw  the  smouldering  mass  to  one 
side  of  him  casually,  as  of  old  habit. 
It  blazed  up,  and  the  smoke  followed 
the  draft  of  it.  In  the  sudden  light 
McNally  stood  up,  and  saw  his  home. 

Nothing  had  been  here ;  there  were 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


457 


no  tracks  on  the  floor  as  there  was  no 
scent  of  life  in  the  air.  His  spruce 
torch  was  dying  on  the  stone  hearth, 
the  sparks  of  it  flying  up  the  queer  chim- 
ney he  had  so  often  marveled  at.  He ' 
held  up  his  candle  and  looked  around 
him.  It  was  all  exactly  as  it  had  been, 
only  strangely  smaller.  The  clean  vault 
of  the  natural  cave  was  nowhere  more 
than  a  foot  above  his  head.  At  his  left 
it  had  been  let  alone,  to  slope  down  to 
the  corner  where  the  bunk  was ;  and  in 
the  bunk  were  dead  spruce  boughs  still, 
sticks  with  the  spines  dropped  off  them 
long  ago.  At  his  right  the  wall  was 
straight,  built  up  by  the  same  hand  as 
the  outside.  Neat  courses  of  granite 
met  the  roof  above  the  stone  fireplace, 
the  wide  hearth  where  the  burnt  spruce 
was  a  red  mass.  Before  him  there  was 
no  wall.  The  cave  sloped  to  a  sort  of 
tunnel,  and  the  man  went  to  it;  if 
there  were  porcupines  they  would  be 
here.  But  his  candle  showed  him  only 
the  rough  rock  of  the  floor;  then  a 
heap  of  earth  and  small  stones,  the 
cleanings  of  the  cave.  Over  the  heap 
the  tunnel  sloped  abruptly  to  the  ground 
and  stopped.  A  rusty  oil-can  lay  there, 
and  apparently  nothing  else;  but  Mc- 
Nally  knew  better.  He  set  down  his 
candle  and  groped  a  little  till  he  found 
the  woodpile.  It  was  tinder  dry  and 
rotten,  but  it  would  serve  his  turn  for 
the  night.  His  legs  shook  as  he  went 
back  with  a  load  from  it;  when  the 
flame  of  it  leapt  up  the  chimney  he 
stretched  his  hands  to  it  as  a  man  who 
prays.  But  prayer  and  McNally  had 
never  met. 

In  the  heartening  firelight  he  propped 
up  the  door ;  the  stone  slab  the  Swede 
had  used  to  make  it  fast  against  the 
walkers  of  the  night  he  could  not  lift, 
but  he  made  a  shift  of  it.  And  it  was 
not  till  then  that  he  had  the  sense  to 
take  from  his  back  the  few  things  he 
had  had  strength  to  carry  this  last  day 
of  his  weariness.  He  cooked  as  un- 
handily as  he  dried  his  coat ;  there  was 
no  woodcraft  about  him,  any  more  than 


there  was  about  the  strange  hutlike 
cave  he  sat  in.  Any  Indian  would  have 
laughed  at  the  useless  trouble  spent  on 
the  stones  of  the  place,  but  again  no 
Indian  could  have  achieved  the  dryness 
of  it,  the  wonderful  defiance  of  ten  years 
of  time.  McNally  knew  mines  were 
wet;  he  never  wondered  why  a  cave 
should  be  dry.  He  lay  and  nestled  by 
his  fire,  thawing  and  steaming  and  dry- 
ing at  long  last.  When  he  was  bone 
dry,  the  joy  of  it  was  like  no  joy  he 
had  ever  known,  except  the  sleep  that 
weighed  him  down  with  slow  thrills  of 
rapture.  He  had  been  hunted  and  wet 
and  frozen,  had  been  lost  and  despair- 
ing ;  he  was  warm  and  dry  and  at  home. 
Perfect  peace  lapped  him  as  he  lay. 
He  was  at  home.  It  had  been  waiting 
for  him  all  these  years,  just  as  the 
Swede  had  said  it  would  wait ;  he  re- 
membered, as  of  some  stranger,  that  he 
had  sobbed  as  he  fought  his  way  here. 
He  had  just  sense  enough  to  get  more 
wood  and  pile  his  fire  for  the  night  be- 
fore sleep  took  him,  a  man  at  home, 
and  at  peace.  The  candle  end  burned 
out  where  he  had  stuck  it  in  its  own 
grease,  the  fire  flickered  to  its  fall, 
and  under  the  changing  lights  the  sleep 
of  Bernard  McNally,  failure  and  black- 
guard, was  the  sleep  of  a  little  child. 
Outside  the  walkers  of  the  night  went 
their  separate  ways  no  freer,  and  with 
no  more  conscience. 

It  was  a  day  and  another  night  be- 
fore McNally  crawled  out  of  the  low 
door.  He  had  worked  his  body  to  its 
worth,  and  more;  and  that  merciless 
creditor  was  taking  its  arrears.  Food 
and  fire  and  sleep  he  paid  it,  till  it  let 
him  go,  and  he  stood  up  outside  his 
house  without  an  ache  in  him.  A  tall 
man  too,  and  clean  made ;  not  a  man 
to  hunt  with  impunity,  as  he  had  been 
hunted.  But  all  that,  and  the  thought 
of  it,  was  behind  him,  so  that  he  had 
not  a  care  in  the  world.  As  he  passed 
through  the  thicket  of  bay  to  the  lake 
he  picked  a  handful,  liking  the  keen 
scent  of  it ;  he  had  not  known  that  dead 


458 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


bay  was  sweet.  He  stuck  a  sprig  of  it 
in  his  coat  as  he  trod  lightly  over  the 
rocks  that  had  seemed  insurmountable 
two  days  ago.  When  he  came  out  on 
the  barrens  his  feet  struck  by  instinct 
into  the  easy  half-trot  of  the  wood 
walker,  straight-footed,  devouring  the 
way.  He  was  going  on  an  errand,  an 
innocent,  necessary  errand;  there  was 
a  novelty  about  it  that  was  exhilarating ; 
that  it  was  also  a  little  uncertain  did 
not  worry  him.  He  wanted  his  pack, 
that  he  had  nearly  thrown  away  because 
it  weighed  too  much;  he  plumed  him- 
self now  that  he  had  stuck  it  in  a  tree 
instead.  Luck  held,  and  he  found  the 
pack,  but  he  put  it  down  to  genius. 
With  joy  at  the  weight  of  it  he  slung 
it  awkwardly  over  his  shoulder,  but 
there  was  no  awkwardness  about  the 
way  he  retrieved  his  gun;  he  knew 
about  guns.  Then  he  set  back  again, 
light-hearted  and  his  own  man,  for  there 
was  enough  in  his  pack  to  last  him  a 
month,  and  only  yesterday  he  had  en- 
vied common  lumberers  with  a  wongan 
to  dip  into.  But  yesterday  his  cache 
had  seemed  a  day's  journey  away;  he 
knew  now  he  had  only  made  a  scant 
five  miles  the  day  he  had  sobbed ;  he 
had  nearly  seen  his  finish  when  he  lit 
on  the  Swede's  cave. 

Once  back  there,  he  worked.  When 
he  had  new  boughed  the  bunk,  he  cut 
wood  till  the  trees  rang.  There  was 
no  one  to  hear  him ;  the  Swede  had  been 
right  when  he  said  no  man  ever  came 
there.  He  had  added  something,  in  his 
queer  English,  which  McNally  had  not 
understood :  "  And  they  should  fear,  if 
they  should  come,  the  sound  of  the  axe ; 
yes,  the  sound  of  the  axe !  "  He  was  a 
superstitious  man,  the  Swede ;  but  Mc- 
Nally never  thought  of  axes  and  super- 
stition going  together.  Afterwards  he 
was  wiser. 

As  he  swung  at  his  tree  now,  un- 
handily but  effectually,  he  thought  of 
the  Swede,  —  a  silent  gray  giant  of  a 
man,  working  in  the  wet  of  the  lower 
levels  of  the  Wisowsoole  mine,  shovel- 


ing the  low  grade  ore  into  the  ore  carts. 
McNally  had  been  a  boy  then,  sent  to 
learn  his  practical  work ;  some  day  he 
would  be  a  manager.  He  swung  harder 
^,t  his  tree  as  he  thought  of  it.  But 
in  the  meantime  he  learned  from  the 
Swede;  and,  he  never  knew  why,  the 
silent  man  took  to  him.  In  their  six- 
hour  shifts  they  talked ;  after  McNally 
was  sent  into  the  office  they  talked  at 
odd  minutes;  on  Sundays,  when  the 
mine  was  silent  from  noon  till  midnight, 
they  talked  all  day.  As  far  as  either 
had  it  in  him  he  loved  the  other;  the 
difference  between  them  was  that  the 
man  understood  the  boy ;  and  McNally, 
at  twenty,  took  the  Swede  as  he  found 
him.  And  the  Swede  brought  him  to 
Matoun,  with  secrecy,  the  summer  the 
mine  shut  down  for  want  of  water.  Mc- 
Nally stared  round -eyed  at  the  queer 
place  that  was  ready  for  them,  and  the 
Swede  frowned.  "I  am  quarry  man, 
also  mason,"  he  said.  "You  should  be 
my  guest.  I  make  your  shelter  for  you 
with  my  hands. "  And  it  never  dawned 
on  McNally  why  he  should  have  made 
it  so  far  away,  or  so  strong.  He  fished 
there  till  he  learned  to  fish,  shot  till  he 
could  shoot;  he  got  his  growth  and  his 
breadth  there,  and  a  smattering  of  the 
Swede's  strange  woodcraft,  — a  wood- 
craft of  shifts,  not  of  matter  of  course 
cause  and  effect.  Time  and  again  he  saw 
the  Swede's  eyes  on  him  as  if  he  had  in 
his  mind  what  he  would  not  say;  he 
never  did  say  it,  because  it  was  precise- 
ly at  those  times  that  McNally  asked 
questions  and  displeased  him.  He  was 
proving  the  boy,  who  did  not  know  it, 
any  more  than  the  man  who  swung  the 
axe  now  knew  he  had  been  found  want- 
ing, in  everything  but  silence  about  Ma- 
toun. The  autumn  rainfall  was  as  good 
as  a  telegram  to  call  them  back  to  the 
Wisowsoole;  McNally,  then  nor  ever, 
told  where  he  had  been  that  summer, 
and  the  Swede  knew  it.  They  worked 
again  all  that  winter,  the  Swede  in  the 
mine,  McNally  where  fate  and  the  man- 
ager sent  him.  The  day  there  was  the 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


459 


affair  of  the  ladders,  fate  had  Mc- 
Nally in  the  mine.  What  he  did  is 
matter  of  history  in  the  Wisowsoole  to 
this  day,  and  it  was  Lake  Matoun  that 
had  given  him  muscles  to  do  it.  Forty 
men  owed  their  lives  to  him,  and  one 
of  the  forty  was  the  Swede.  But  when 
they  came  triumphant  out  of  the  old 
workings  he  was  leaning  hard  on  the 
boy's  shoulder,  and  McNally  took  him 
home  to  get  away  from  the  shouts  and 
the  cheering.  He  saw  the  Swede  now, 
lowering  himself  into  a  chair  and  shiv- 
ering as  he  did  it. 

"Have  a  drink,"  commanded  Mc- 
Nally ;  he  remembered  his  own  con- 
temptuous voice. 

The  big  man  drank  in  silence ;  after- 
wards he  spoke,  to  the  marvel  of  his 
hearer.  " I  should  be  done  here !  I  go. 
I  will  always  to  die  in  Stockholm,  where 
they  shall  not  call  me  '  the  Swede, '  but 
by  my  name." 

"  Well,  I  call  you  by  your  name !  " 
scoffed  McNally.  "  Brace  up,  Munthe ! 
Nothing  ails  you." 

"You  cannot  call  what  you  should 
not  know.  You  think  me  some  peasant 
fellow  when  you  speak.  And  to-mor- 
row I  go.  I  will  always  to  die  in 
Stockholm." 

"Oh,  hold  your  jaw  about  dying!  " 
The  questions  and  answers  came  to  Mc- 
Nally with  his  axe  as  if  he  were  read- 
ing out  of  a  book.  "What  d'  ye  mean  ?  " 

The  Swede  turned  dull  eyes  on  him. 
"She  has  betrayed  me.  If  she  should 
betray  again,  I  die.  And  I  will  die  in 
Stockholm.  To-morrow  I  go." 

"But  you  haven't  any  money." 

"Oh,"  the  answer  was  absent,  "I 
have  always  that  money!  Plenty  I 
have.  Look !  "  Out  of  an  unlocked 
drawer  in  the  table  he  took  something 
that  made  McNally  open  his  hard  young 
eyes.  For  a  moment  he  thought  the 
man  had  been  robbing  the  mine;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  The  Wisowsoole 
was  a  low  grade  ore ;  this  was  a  differ- 
ent gold  indeed.  They  never  saw  a 
nugget  in  the  Wisowsoole. 


"This  was  mine,"  said  the  Swede, 
while  McNally  handled  the  wonderful 
lumps,  "and  being  so  I  go.  I  have  but 
you  to  leave." 

McNally  remembered  nodding;  he 
had  known  he  could  not  speak,  but  not 
why. 

"  I  have  done  always  the  best  for  you, 
if  I  did  not  die  I  should  do  more  best." 
The  old  man  spoke  out  suddenly.  "You 
will  never  be  manager  of  a  mine.  You 
will  go  —  so !  "  he  pointed  to  the  floor. 
"  What  do  they  call  that  ?  Down.  And 
I  should  not  save  you  being  alive,  much 
less  dead.  But  I  do  what  I  can.  I 
give  you  my  house  at  the  Matoun  wa- 
ter, my  secret  house  that  no  one  but  you 
has  known  of.  You  shall  go  there,  when 
you  go  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  —  down. 
No  one  comes  there,  but  the  sound  of 
the  axe  that  I  love.  One  year,  five 
year,  ten  year  she  waits,  —  my  house 
on  the  Matoun.  But  you  will  be  back 
there,  in  ten  year ;  she  need  not  to  wait 
longer.  All  of  my  house  I  give  you. 
It  was  as  my  son  always!  You  see 
that?  As  my  son.  I  have  not  any 
son,  but  you  should  serve.  For  I  also 
have  gone  down;  I  come  up  now. 
Up !  "  His  voice  rang  out  sudden  and 
joyful  as  his  fist  fell  like  a  hammer  on 
the  quaking  table,  "And  being  up, "  he 
shouted  exultantly,  "I  will  die  in  Stock- 
holm! No  man  can  prevent  me  from 
Stockholm.  But  you,"  the  eyes  were 
another  man's,  "you  shall  die  at  Ma- 
toun. One  year,  fifty,  how  should  I 
know  ?  But  at  Matoun.  For  you  have 
never  seen  Stockholm ;  you  do  not  know 
always  how  good  a  place  it  should  be 
to  die  in."  His  heavy  hand  fell  light 
on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "Life  you  give 
me  to-day,  so  life  I  give  you  some  to- 
morrow. Life  and  Matoun !  You 
laugh,  because  I  am  always  alive  and 
you  can  see  me ;  when  I  am  always  dead 
you  will  not  laugh.  You  should  see 
that,  when  you  go  down. "  He  had  pushed 
McNally  slowly  to  the  door,  without  a 
good-night,  but  the  boy  looking  back  saw 
that  he  blessed  him  with  upheld  hands. 


460 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


He  saw  him  no  more,  for  in  the  morn- 
ing the  Swede  was  gone.  He,  and  his 
nuggets,  and  his  "always  "  to  die  in 
Stockholm. 

And  McNally,  just  ten  years  after, 
stood  and  chopped  trees  at  Matoun.  It 
was  a  queer  coincidence,  but  he  was 
jubilant  with  returned  strength,  and  he 
laughed  aloud  at  the  idea  of  dying  here. 
Yet  to  get  rid  of  the  thought  he  struck 
his  axe  into  a  fallen  tree,  and  looked 
about  him.  He  was  a  leisurely  man, 
with  a  month's  supplies,  and  a  good 
house  to  go  to;  he  looked  at  it  just  to 
make  sure  of  the  fact.  And  then  stared, 
because  there  was  something  the  matter 
with  the  day.  There  was  no  sun ;  it 
had  been  gray  in  the  morning  as  it  was 
gray  now.  What,  then,  brought  out  the 
masses  of  gorgeous  color  everywhere, 
and  banished  the  blackness  that  had 
stood  in  every  tree  and  lain  on  the  new 
ice  of  the  lake  ?  Now  the  pine  trunks 
were  purple  with  warmth,  in  the  green 
of  their  crowns;  warmth,  too,  in  the 
sharper  color  of  the  spruces,  whose 
every  cone  was  wine-red.  Every  yellow 
and  brown  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  shone 
at  him  from  the  withered  bracken ;  the 
pine  droppings  on  top  of  the,  rocks  were 
sudden  astounding  patches  of  dull  scar- 
let ;  the  dead  and  frozen  bay  was  mul- 
berry, just  as  the  blackberry  stalks  and 
the  moosewood  boughs  were  rose-red. 
The  whole  world  was  a  world  he  had 
never  seen ;  a  lovely  intimate  world  that 
smiled,  and  kept  its  mystery  just  a 
little,  as  from  a  friend.  Even  the  dis- 
tance across  the  lake  melted  away  in 
chocolate  and  crimson.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  was  looking  on  the  yearly 
miracle  of  the  deep  woods  that  the  In- 
dians cajl  The  Day  of  Color;  the  car- 
nival that  comes  before  the  snow.  He 
had  learnt  but  one  thing  that  day,  that 
dead  and  frozen  bay  smells  sweet  as 
August  green.  But,  after  all,  that  was 
a  good  deal  to  learn  in  one  day,  for  Mc- 
Nally. He  wheeled  to  go  on  with  his 
chopping,  and  saw  something  that  turned 
his  life  as  on  a  pivot,  though  it  was 


nothing  but  the  wonderful  light  in  a 
rock  at  his  feet.  He  knelt  down  and 
chipped  at  it  with  the  butt  of  his  axe, 
softly,  then  madly.  As  he  broke  small 
pieces  from  it  he  would  not  look  at 
them,  because  he  was  afraid.  It  was 
not  till  he  had  a  little  heap  of  broken 
stones  that  he  trembled ;  not  till  he  had 
passed  them  one  by  one  through  his 
shaking  fingers,  scanned  them  with  fierce 
eyes,  that  he  dared  think.  There  was 
color  in  the  quartz ;  a  trace,  no  more ; 
but  color.  Had  the  Swede  been  mad, 
not  to  know  that  there  was  gold  at  Ma- 
toun ?  Or  had  he  known,  and  the  nug- 
gets— 

McNally  saw  his  future  that  had 
been  dead  and  hopeless  leap  up  alive 
under  his  eyes.  Here  was  gold.  It 
made  everything  so  simple  and  easy 
that  he  laughed ;  he  did  not  see  how  he 
had  ever  despaired.  Here  was  gold. 
Bernard  McNally,  who  had  been  a  fool 
and  taken  Benson's  money  (Benson  be- 
ing dead,  and  not  objecting),  need  be 
a  fugitive  in  the  wood  no  more.  He 
would  mine.  By  and  by  he  would 
make  a  good  strike !  He  would  go  out 
into  the  big  world  carefully,  till  he  got 
to  a  place  where  they  had  never  heard 
of  him  —  or  Benson.  He  would  live. 
He  would  come  up  as  the  Swede  had 
done.  "  Up !  "  he  said  it  aloud  in  his 
triumph.  "Up!"  And  somewhere  in 
the  woods  it  echoed.  It  was  odd,  but 
he  did  not  like  the  sound.  It  cooled 
him  where  he  sat  with  his  bits  of  rock 
in  his  hands.  As  he  looked  at  them  he 
came  to  himself,  and  the  vision  in  his 
eyes  faded. 

They  had  called  the  Wisowsoole  a 
low-grade  ore.  This  was  so  much  lower 
that  he  threw  it  down.  It  would  take 
unknown  tons  of  it  and  a  crusher  to  get 
half  an  ounce  of  gold.  It  was  beyond 
human  labor.  It  wanted  a  mill.  He 
shut  his  eyes,  and  could  hear  the  ninety 
stamps  of  the  Wisowsoole  mill,  which 
was  curious,  for  he  had  not  thought  of  it 
for  years.  He  had  given  up  mining, 
had  McNally,  and  gone  down.  He  saw 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


461 


now  how  far.  Presently  he  stood  up  and 
looked  for  more  rocks,  clear  eyed,  with- 
out the  hope  that  blinds.  He  did  not 
find  one.  By  nightfall  he  was  back  at 
the  first,  dinting  the  head  of  his  axe  on 
it,  when  he  thought  he  heard  something 
and  stopped  to  listen.  There  was  no- 
thing. It  had  been  fancy  that  some  one 
was  chopping  down  a  tree.  He  went 
home  and  slept  before  he  had  eaten. 
His  last  thought  was  that  the  Swede 
never  got  those  nuggets  at  Matoun,  but 
somewhere  in  the  north,  and  that  he 
must  go  north  as  soon  as  it  was  safe  and 
the  hue  and  cry  had  died ;  north,  to  the 
place  where  there  were  nuggets  and  men 
asked  no  questions.  And  while  he  slept 
the  weather  laughed  at  him.  At  mid- 
night a  keen  sweet  dampness  woke  him, 
to  put  yet  another  patch  on  the  corner 
of  his  door  before  he  made  up  his  fire. 
As  the  fresh  logs  kindled  he  heard  the 
sudden  wind  come  down  the  valley.  It 
came  with  a  leap,  a  long  soughing  roar. 
From  somewhere  far  behind  him,  in  the 
very  rocks  of  the  hill,  it  echoed  like  the 
siren  of  a  steamer  in  the  St.  Lawrence 
channel ;  and  the  likeness  made  McNal- 
ly  afraid.  He  had  been  a  failure  all  his 
life,  even  to  going  oft'  with  that  money 
of  Benson's.  He  did  not  call  it  steal- 
ing to  himself ;  the  man  was  dead  when 
he  took  it.  Was  he  going  to  be  a  cow- 
ard too?  He  could  not  get  the  dead 
man  out  of  his  head,  nor  the  siren 
shouting  in  the  fog  while  he  ransacked 
the  cabin  for  the  money.  He  crouched 
from  the  thoughts  in  his  mind  and  could 
not  shrink  far  enough  away  from  them, 
because  the  wind  kept  yelling  for  some- 
body to  show  a  light.  All  night  it 
yelled  and  herded  its  restless  woods; 
if  it  lulled  a  little  it  whickered  like  a 
living  thing  at  McNally 's  patched  door ; 
McNally  keeping  up  his  fire  that  he 
might  not  have  to  listen  to  that  wind 
in  the  dark.  After  all,  he  was  guilt- 
less ;  he  had  no  need  to  shake !  It  was 
true  he  had  taken  the  money,  but  on 
second  thoughts  he  would  have  sent  it 
back ;  if  only  he  had  not  lost  it.  That 


was  where  the  failure  of  him  came  in; 
he  had  lost  it.  He  sat  and  let  the  long 
centuries  of  the  night  go  by,  till  at  last 
it  was  morning  in  his  house  beyond  the 
daylight.  He  crept  out,  and  saw  a  rag- 
ing smother  of  wind  and  drift  and  deep 
snow.  He  was  fast.  There  could  be 
no  getting  away  now  without  snowshoes ; 
but  even  if  he  had  them,  he  dared  not 
leave  a  clear  track  to  the  only  place  he 
knew  to  be  safe.  McNally  crawled  in 
again,  and  shut  his  door.  He  knew  that 
yesterday's  hopes  had  been  a  dream ;  he 
could  neither  find  gold  at  Matoun  nor 
leave  it.  Suddenly  he  longed  beyond 
words  for  a  pane  of  glass ;  he  hungered 
for  the  light  of  day.  If  he  had  a  pane 
of  glass  to  put  in  his  door  he  could  be 
happy.  He  sat  thinking  of  that  in  the 
dark. 

When  the  snow  stopped,  the  crows 
came.  McNally  fed  the  crows.  The 
blue  jays  screamed  for  meat,  and  he 
gave  them  pork.  In  the  clear  sunset 
the  wind  died,  and  he  rejoiced.  He 
stood  at  the  door  of  his  hut  and  looked 
abroad.  Everything  was  snow;  the 
quiet  of  the  place  was  piercing.  He 
would  have  given  worlds  to  see  the  crows 
come  back;  to  hear  a  sound  of  life. 
And  even  as  he  thought  it,  there  came 
one,  plain  and  near,  —  the  sound  of  an 
axe  on  a  tree. 

McNally  dropped  as  flat  on  the  snow 
as  if  it  had  been  an  axe  on  his  own 
head.  Some  one  else  was  at  Matoun; 
lumberers,  men  who  read  the  papers. 
They  would  have  a  box  on  the  nearest 
postroad,  and  once  a  month  they  would 
go  to  it  and  get  the  news ;  the  news  of 
McNally. 

It  sent  him  through  the  snow  for  fifty 
yards  to  listen.  It  was  true ;  some  one 
was  chopping.  He  looked  to  the  red 
west,  and  on  the  hill  against  it  saw  a 
tree  quiver ;  there  were  men  there ;  there 
was  no  harbor  for  him,  even  at  Matoun. 
That  drove  him  on  again,  to  make  sure, 
toiling  through  the  deep  snow  and  round 
the  rocks,  cunningly,  till  he  gained  a 
ridge  where  he  could  lie  down  and  stare 


462 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


at  the  hill.  There  was  not  a  sign  that 
any  living  thing  but  he  was  near  Ma- 
toun;  no  smoke,  no  more  quivering 
trees;  and  the  sound  of  the  axe  was 
still.  He  wormed  round  to  go  home, 
and  the  axe  called  to  him.  Slow  and 
regular  fell  the  blows  of  it,  near  at  his 
hand,  and  not  a  sight  nor  scent  of  man. 
McNally,  without  knowing  why,  turned 
and  fled  back  on  his  own  tracks,  and  as 
he  ran  a  wild  cat  cried.  He  lifted  the 
Swede's  stone  into  place  with  a  thud, 
and  sat  down,  sweating.  The  thing  at 
those  trees  was  not  human !  He  tried 
to  think  it  had  something  to  do  with 
wild  cats,  but  he  could  not  do  it  because 
he  knew  he  was  not  afraid  of  wild  cats, 
and  of  this  he  was  afraid.  As  he  wiped 
his  wet  upper  lip  the  Swede's  words 
came  back  to  him :  — 

"No  one  comes  there  but  the  sound 
of  the  axe  that  I  love." 

Then,  whatever  it  was,  the  Swede 
had  known ;  and  not  cared.  It  heart- 
ened McNally  that  the  Swede  had  not 
cared.  He  rolled  his  blanket  round 
him  and  went  to  sleep. 

Yet  it  shook  him  a  little  when  the 
next  evening  he  heard  it  again.  It  took 
him  by  surprise,  close  to  him,  and  in 
his  surprise  he  gazed.  In  plain  sight 
a  tree  quivered ;  but  in  plain  sight  there 
was  no  one  there.  He  thought  of  the 
giant  woodpecker  (which  was  absurd, 
but  McNally  was  no  woodsman) ;  at 
that  moment  a  wild  cat  cried,  and  the 
hacking  sound  never  stopped.  It  was 
something  real,  because  the  tree  quiv- 
ered. He  remembered,  out  of  dead 
time,  that  he  had  heard  there  was  an 
Indian  superstition  about  an  invisible 
spirit  that  chopped  in  the  woods ;  there 
was  something  about  seeing  a  tree  fall 
without  seeing  what  cut  it  down;  he 
could  not  remember  whether  it  were 
good  or  bad  to  see  the  tree  fall.  Any- 
how he  did  not  believe  in  it.  He  de- 
cided it  had  something  to  do  with  a  wild 
cat.  By  the  end  of  a  week  he  had 
grown  to  look  for  it,  to  feel  it  friendly ; 
he  had  gone  back,  in  his  loneliness,  to 


searching  for  gold,  though  he  knew  it 
was  not  there.  He  scraped  through  the 
snow  all  day  long  for  gold,  and  always 
at  sunset  the  sound  of  the  axe  signaled 
him  to  stop.  It  seemed  to  him  now  to 
chop  out  words ;  to  say  something  that 
quieted  his  soul :  — 

'"Lost  —  Man's  —  Harbor,"  it 
hewed.  "Lost  —  Man's  —  Harbor." 
He  would  stand  and  listen  to  the  kindly 
sound.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  set  a 
wild  cat  whining,  but  he  never  saw  one, 
nor  did  he  hunt  for  it.  Its  cry  and 
the  sound  of  the  axe  were  his  only  com- 
panions. It  was  from  pure  habit  now 
that  he  barred  his  door  at  night,  for  he 
was  no  longer  afraid.  He  was  brother 
to  the  wailing  beast  he  never  saw.  He 
grew  leaner  and  hungrier  every  day,  and 
less  human.  He  had  no  past  now ;  all 
he  cared  for  was  to  look  for  gold;  till 
he  woke  up  one  morning  and  had  no- 
thing to  eat.  That  same  day  he  thought 
he  gave  up  for  good  and  all  the  hope 
of  gold  at  Matoun.  He  went  out  for 
food,  but  he  saw  nothing  but  porcupines, 
and  he  had  no  stomach  for  porcupines. 
There  were  no  hares,  no  partridges ;  he 
looked  for  them  all  day  long,  and  night 
after  night  came  back  as  he  had  gone 
out,  the  sound  of  the  axe  welcoming 
him  as  he  struck  his  own  valley.  And 
the  night  he  came  down  to  caribou  moss 
and  sickening  at  it,  the  world  swam 
round  him  and  the  blows  of  the  axe 
took  a  new  voice.  "Pay !  "  it  chopped. 
"Pay!  Pay!" 

McNally  cried  out  like  an  echo, 
"Pay  ?  "  His  past,  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten, rushed  back  on  him  and  over- 
whelmed him.  Pay?  He  had  never 
thought  of  paying,  only  of  saving  his 
skin.  How  was  it  possible  that  he 
should  pay  ?  And  the  axe  went  on  re- 
lentlessly, mocking  at  him  standing 
hungry  with  his  miserable  hopes  of  gold 
scattered  by  his  woodpile,  "  Pay !  " 

"My  God!  "  muttered  McNally,  and 
it  was  the  first  time  he  had  thought  of 
God,  "if  I  could,  I  'd  pay!  "  It  was 
the  nearest  he  had  ever  come  to  praying 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


463 


in  all  his  life,  and  as  he  spoke  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  woods.  Had  he  been  blind 
not  to  see  that  the  snow  was  nearly 
gone,  that  he  could  come  and  go  to  a 
settlement  without  leaving  a  trace  — 
to  matter  ?  That  he  had  been  starving 
like  a  fool,  when  there  was  only  thirty 
miles  between  him  and  a  shop?  He 
tied  up  the  flapping  soles  of  his  boots 
and  started,  just  as  the  sunset  cry  came 
from  the  hidden  cat  on  the  hill.  He 
stopped  and  called  back. 

"Good-by,"  said  McNally  to  his 
only  friends.  "If  I  can,  I  '11  pay!  " 
He  came  back  a  week  after,  deviously, 
carrying  all  he  could  stagger  under.  No 
one  had  noticed  him,  but  no  one  had 
given  him  a  decent  word  either ;  he  did 
not  know  there  was  that  in  his  face 
which  said  he  was  better  let  alone.  He 
was  so  little  human  now  that  he  was 
sorry  to  get  home  after  dark,  and  too 
late  for  the  thing  that  chopped  on  the 
hill.  He  wanted  to  tell  it  that  he  meant 
to  find  gold  grain  by  grain,  till  he  paid ; 
that  he  had  brought  back  a  pick. 

If  he  had  brought  back  the  mill  from 
the  Wisowsoole  it  would  have  done  him 
no  good.  He  found  no  more  gold,  nor 
the  sign  of  it,  and  every  day  at  sunset 
the  steady  axe  called  to  him  to  "Pay! 
pay !  pay !  " 

By  the  third  time  he  was  frenzied. 
He  stood  up  and  answered  it,  very 
politely;  he  had  been  a  polite  man. 
"How  can  I  pay?  Have  the  goodness 
to  tell  me  that,  or  let  me  alone !  "  He 
looked  at  his  worldly  assets,  one  pick 
and  a  little  food;  he  knew  he  would 
never  have  another  shifting  mood  that 
told  him  he  might  yet  make  his  strike. 
He  stood  and  spoke  again  into  the  sun- 
set. "How  can  I  pay?  " 

And  once  more  the  axe  answered 
him.  It  sounded  now  exactly  like  the 
tap  of  a  pick  in  a  tunnel.  He  had  a 
pick,  he  had  no  tunnel.  Why  should 
old  sounds  come  out  of  the  past  and 
mock  at  him  ?  A  wild  cat  keened  while 
he  thought,  and  it  made  him  shiver. 
He  went  home  and  came  back  with  meat, 


threw  it  down  and  left  it.  If  he  must 
live  and  die  here,  let  him,  for  God's 
sake,  at  least  have  a  wild  cat  to  tame ! 
That  night  he  prayed  to  have  a  beast  to 
tarne. 

In  the  morning  the  pork  was  gone, 
and  a  dull  something  went,  too,  from 
McNally 's  eyes.  He  turned  deliberate- 
ly back  into  his  cave,  to  the  rubbish 
heap  where  the  Swede  had  left  the 
gravel  cleared  from  his  house.  He 
swung  his  pick  and  cut  away  the  earth 
to  the  clean  run  of  the  rock ;  to  —  At 
the  sight  of  the  standing  timber  he  lit 
two  candles  and  dug  with  his  might ;  at 
the  sight  of  the  downward  slope  and  the 
rotten  ladder  he  knew  why  his  cave  was 
dry.  When  the  crack  of  the  axe  came 
at  sundown,  McNally  was  not  where  he 
could  hear  it. 

It  was  two  days  before  he  came  out 
into  the  light  of  day,  and,  though  it  was 
sunset,  it  blinded  him.  He  sat  down 
at  his  door,  heedless  that  he  was  hun- 
gry because  of  what  he  held  in  his 
hands.  He  knew  now  what  the  Swede 
had  meant  when  he  said,  "I  give  you 
my  house  at  Matoun,  all  of  it  I  give 
you."  It  was  a  mine;  a  small,  tun- 
neled, timbered  mine,  running  down 
into  the  hill ;  and  out  of  it  had  come 
those  nuggets  that  were  brothers  to  these 
he  polished  on  his  coat.  He  was  rich. 
He  could  have  thousands.  And,  if  he 
could  have  had  them  when  first  he  came 
to  Matoun,  would  have  had  no  thought 
but  how  best  to  get  away  with  them  and 
find  a  world  he  could  spend  them  in. 
But  not  now.  He  was  not  the  McNal- 
ly who  had  come  to  Matoun  as  a  mere 
temporary  convenience  and  to  save  his 
skin.  Something  had  sucked  the  slack- 
ness out  of  his  blood.  He  remembered 
things,  responsibly.  He  had  stolen  (he 
said  stolen  now  that  he  was  rich).  Into 
his  thoughts  came  the  slow  chopping 
that  never  failed  at  evening,  and  he 
answered  it  aloud. 

"I  'm  going  to  pay,  "he  called  at  the 
top  of  his  shout.  "  Pay !  "  And  the  axe 
ceased  on  the  word,  or  he  thought  so. 


464 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe. 


He  had  long  given  up  wondering  what 
it  was.  He  chose  to  think  of  the  sound 
as  a  personal  signal  to  himself,  be- 
queathed to  him,  like  the  cabin,  by  the 
Swede.  Whatever  it  was,  it  had  made 
him  able  to  pay ;  and  when  he  had  paid 
he  could  be  free.  He  could  go  up,  as 
the  Swede  had  said,  "Up!" 

It  would  be  easy.  He  had  not  been 
in  the  Wisowsoole  for  nothing ;  he  knew 
how  to  get  rid  of  gold  out  of  a  stolen 
claim,  how  it  could  be  paid  at  last  from 
very  far  from  here.  He  must  pack  the 
stuff  out,  little  by  little.  He  could  send 
it  to  Peele,  —  if  he  could  trust  Peele. 
It  came  to  McNally  that  he  would 
make  an  oracle  and  abide  by  it.  If  it 
were  safe  to  trust  Peele  and  pay  back 
that  money,  he  would  be  able  to  tame 
that  wild  cat  he  had  never  seen ;  if  he 
could  not  tame  it,  he  would  know  that 
signaling  he  had  made  out  of  the  blows 
of  a  phantom  axe  was  pure  foolishness 
and  he  could  never  pay.  That  night 
he  laid  out  an  oblation  of  pork  scraps, 
and  waited.  After  twenty  years  or  so 
something  like  a  gray  shadow  went  by 
him  where  he  stood  motionless  in  the 
dark ;  it  pounced  noiselessly  on  the  meat 
and  was  gone.  But  he  had  at  least  seen 
the  beast  that  had  always  kept  hidden, 
and  his  heart  lightened.  It  lightened 
still  more  as  the  days  lengthened  and 
his  heap  of  nuggets  grew  in  his  cave, 
for  his  self-made  oracle  was  working  his 
way ;  or  not  his,  but  that  of  the  unseen 
axe  which  had  told  him  how  to  pay  and 
be  free.  Little  by  little,  night  after 
night,  McNally  was  taming  his  wild  cat. 
By  mid- April  it  ate  close  to  his  feet. 
And  in  mid- April  he  began  to  go  away 
with  his  pack  heavy  and  come  back  with 
it  light.  In  the  intervals  between  those 
weary,  anxious  journeys  his  wild  cat 
would  come  when  he  called  it.  It  let 
him  touch  it  the  day  he  set  off  with  his 
last  payment  for  Peele. 

When  that  was  gone,  and  his  under- 
ground agent's  receipt  for  it  in  his 
hand,  McNally  stood  up  in  a  dirty  lit- 
tle town  another  man.  He  was  free; 


he  had  paid.  He  saw  his  life  stretch- 
ing out  before  him,  he  that  was  to  die 
at  Matoun.  He  was  drunk  with  the 
sight  of  it ;  he  forgot  he  could  not  yet 
dare  to  be  McNally.  He  went  into  the 
barber's  and  was  shaved;  he  bought 
new  clothes,  new  boots ;  he  walked  the 
street  placidly.  That  was  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

When  he  was  stabbed  that  night  in 
the  row  at  "Pat's  Place,"  he  had  just 
sense  enough  left  to  see  that  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  room  stood  a  man  he 
knew.  Of  all  men,  Peele ;  come  in  by 
the  back  door  and  staring  at  him.  Mc- 
Nally saw  him  in  that  fraction  of  a 
minute  when  he  stood  with  his  hand  to 
his  side;  the  next,  he  was  out  of  the 
house  and  gone.  Nobody  knew  him, 
or  cared  where  he  went.  They  did  kick 
the  Italian  miner  with  the  knife,  but 
there  was  no  blood  on  it,  and  it  was  de- 
cided it  had  not  touched  the  other  man. 
If  Peele  knew  or  cared  he  did  not  say 
so.  He  and  an  Indian  were  going  fish- 
ing at  dawn,  and  they  went. 

It  took  them  a  whole  day  to  hit  Mc- 
Nally's  trail,  which  was  why  he  did  not 
know  he  was  followed  by  a  white  man 
and  an  Indian  when  at  last  he  staggered 
into  his  house.  Where  he  lay  down  he 
fainted.  That  was  all  he  knew  when 
he  came  to  himself  and  wanted  water, 
except  that  his  wild  cat  cried  restlessly 
at  his  open  door.  On  a  sudden  it  ran 
for  its  life,  but  being  in  one  of  Mc- 
Nally's  faints  he  did  not  know.  What 
he  did  know  was  that  he  woke  quite 
comfortably  and  saw  Peele  kneeling  by 
him ;  it  all  seemed  perfectly  natural  to 
McNally,  even  to  Sabiel  Paul  looking 
over  Peele 's  shoulder. 

"Hullo!  "  said  he.  He  tried  to  sit 
up  and  did  not  move.  He  looked  his 
visitor  square  in  the  eyes.  "I  've 
paid, "  he  said  hastily,  "  I  suppose  you 
got  it." 

"Good  God,  McNally!"  croaked 
Peele.  He  looked  round  him  at  the 
ghastly  place,  the  dead  ashes  on  the 
hearth,  the  dying  man.  "I  know;  we 


fiussia. 


465 


all  know.  But  we  thought  you  were  in 
Rossland.  No  one  ever  thought  you 
were  so  near."  He  touched  McNally 
with  quick,  knowledgeable  fingers,  and 
marveled  how  he  could  have  crawled 
over  thirty  miles  of  country  with  so 
little  blood  in  him.  "You  needn't 
have  run.  We  'd  have  helped  you ;  we 
all  like  you, "  he  broke  out,  for  there 
was  no  sense  in  keeping  McNally  quiet. 
He  listened  to  a  sound  outside,  even 
while  he  went  on  stripping  him ;  he  had 
not  thought  he  would  be  sick  at  the 
sight  of  his  wound.  He  turned  on  Sa- 
biel  in  the  doorway.  "Get  out  and  get 
those  lumberers!  Even  at  their  camp 
would  be  better  than  here.  I  might 
save  him !  " 

McNally,  who  had  not  been  meant  to 
hear,  laughed ;  an  ugly,  bubbling  laugh. 

"  Stop !  "  said  Peele  fiercely .  "  Shut 
up !  Do  you  want  to  kill  yourself  ?  " 

"I  'm  —  not  —  dying, "  gasped  Mc- 


Nally.     "I've    paid.       I've  —  come 
up." 

"You  fool!  "  said  Peele.  He  tried 
to  put  some  whiskey  in  McNally 's 
mouth,  and  it  ran  out  of  the  corners. 

The  man  who  loved  him  turned  and 
swore  at  the  silent  Indian.  "Who  's 
that  chopping?  Get  them  here." 

Sabiel  never  moved.  "  Kea"skundog- 
wejit,  the  mighty  chopper,"  said  he. 
"No  man  here.  You  hear  chopping, 
you  never  see  axe,  —  but  the  tree  fall ! 
This  man  die  ?  That  chop  coffin.  The 
tree  fall!" 

Peele  shouldered  him  from  the  door 
and  stared  out  into  the  sunset.  On  the 
hilltop  against  the  sky,  a  tree  fell ;  but 
there  was  no  man  there.  On  the  heel 
of  the  fall  of  it  came  the  cry  of  a  wild 
cat,  and  Sabiel  stooping  caught  at 
Peele 's  arm. 

"  Those  his  friends, "  said  he.       "  All 
same  Kedskundogwejit!     They  cry." 
S.  Carleton. 


RUSSIA. 


IN  the  preface  to  the  American  edi- 
tion of  his  admirable  book,  The  Empire 
of  the  Tsars,  M.  Leroy  Beaulieu  says 
with  perfect  truth,  "The  Anglo-Saxon 
who  wishes  to  judge  of  Russian  matters 
must  begin  by  divesting  himself  of 
American  or  British  ideas." 

The  distinguished  author  might  well 
have  added  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  should 
also  divest  himself  of  many  impressions 
that  he  has  received  from  sensational 
travelers'  tales,  melodramas,  and  ro- 
mances, based  upon  fanciful  conditions, 
and  from  the  lucubrations  of  certain 
visionaries  and  political  malcontents 
who  have  endeavored  to  enlist  American 
and  English  sympathy  in  behalf  of  those 
revolutionary  theories  with  which  they 
hope  to  reform  the  Russian  govern- 
mental system.  The  entire  social  fabric 
of  Russia,  the  point  of  view  of  the  Rus- 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  30 


sian  mind  and  its  manner  of  thought, 
differ  widely  from  our  own,  and  are  not 
susceptible  of  estimation  upon  the  same 
basis  of  comparison ;  so  that  in  attempt- 
ing to  give  any  just  impression  of  ex- 
isting conditions  in  Russia  within  the 
limits  of  a  magazine  article,  one  is  at  the 
outset  confronted  by  the  difficulty  of  pre- 
senting the  facts  in  such  a  way  that  their 
bearing  upon  the  general  conditions  of 
Russian  civilization  may  be  comprehen- 
sible to  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind. 

Russia,  as  M.  Leroy  Beaulieu  very 
truly  points  out,  is  neither  European 
nor  Asiatic,  but  if  regarded  from  the 
European  point  of  view  it  should  be 
from  a  standpoint  and  with  a  perspec- 
tive of  three  or  four  centuries  ago. 
During  the  long  period  of  Tartar  rule 
Russia  was  completely  cut  off  from  all 
foreign  intercourse,  and  it  was  not  till 


466 


Russia. 


the  reign  of  Ivan  III.,  who  not  only 
threw  off  the  Tartar  yoke,  but  took  the 
first  great  steps  toward  the  abolition  of 
the  feudal  system,  that  its  intercourse 
with  the  Western  world  commenced,  — 
an  intercourse  which  the  severe  climatic 
conditions  and  vast  intervening  wastes 
of  plains  and  warring  states  greatly  ob- 
structed. Indeed,  except  for  the  trade 
carried  on  by  the  Hanseatic  League 
through  old  Novgorod,  no  commercial 
intercourse  can  be  said  to  have  existed 
between  Russia  and  the  Western  world 
until  the  accidental  arrival  of  Richard 
Chancellor  at  what  is  now  known  as 
Archangel.  England's  trade  with  Rus- 
sia dates  from  this  expedition,  and  from 
it  sprung  those  remarkable  commercial 
relations  that,  existing  so  long  under 
peculiar  and  exceptional  conditions,  have 
left  their  traces  to  this  day  in  the  large 
English  colonies  at  St.  Petersburg  and 
Moscow,  and  in  a  host  of  more  or  less 
Russianized  English  and  Scotch  names 
in  various  provinces. 

While  this  trade  brought  Russia  into 
commercial  contact  with  England,  the 
contact  was  never  a  very  close  one,  for 
the  way  was  long  and  difficult,  being 
overland  from  Moscow  to  Archangel, 
and  thence  by  sea  to  England. 

It  was  not  until  Peter  the  Great  gave 
the  impetus  by  the  force  of  his  tremen- 
dous energy  and  will  that  Russia  com- 
menced any  development  upon  European 
lines.  Starting,  therefore,  some  centu- 
ries behind  the  rest  of  the  civilized  world, 
it  is  not  surprising  that  such  develop- 
ment among  so  vast  and  so  widely  dis- 
persed a  people  should  be  behind  that  of 
the  Western  world,  and  that  the  Oriental 
flavor  it  received  both  from  the  Tartar 
subjection  and  from  its  propinquity  to 
the  Orient  should  be  still  apparent. 

Much  that  has  been  written  with 
regard  to  Russian  institutions  conveys 
conceptions  so  unjust  that  the  writer 
deems  no  apology  necessary  for  the  cor- 
rection of  such  false  impressions.  Thus, 
as  regards  the  penal  system  of  Russia, 
individual  instances  of  the  abuse  of 


power  have  been  cited  as  the  rule,  while 
they  are  in  fact  rare  exceptions. 

There  is  nothing  cruel  either  in  the 
national  character  or  in  that  of  the  aver- 
age Russian  official.  The  latter,  it  is 
true,  has  frequently  received  military 
training,  and  pursues  the  course  of  his 
duty  toward  the  individual  entrusted  to 
his  charge  with  that  rigid  exactitude 
which  pertains  to  the  army  the  world 
over.  As  to  the  reputation  of  the  Rus- 
sian for  ferocity  and  cruelty,  nothing 
could  be  further  from  the  truth.  In  no 
country  in  the  world  is  there  less  exhi- 
bition of  cruelty  to  child  or  beast  on  the 
part  of  prince  or  peasant,  and  under  no 
aristocratic  system  is  there  a  more  gen- 
erous consideration  for  the  inferior  on 
the  part  of  the  great. 

A  spirit  of  paternalism  is  a  natural 
outcome  of  the  autocratic  system,  and, 
as  might  be  expected  under  a  govern- 
ment in  which  every  administrative  act 
receives  the  individual  sanction  of  the 
ruler,  this  paternalism,  pervading  as  it 
does  the  entire  governmental  system, 
takes  an  extremely  individual  form.  It 
is  in  this  paternal  spirit  that  the  penal 
system  is  conceived  and  administered. 
The  purpose  is  not  alone  to  punish  the 
individual  for  his  crime,  but  by  remov- 
ing him  from  evil  influences  to  offer  to 
him  an  opportunity,  upon  his  release,  to 
commence  a  new  life.  This  was  the 
principle  adopted  in  the  penal  coloniza- 
tion of  Siberia,  where,  as  was  the  case 
under  the  similar  system  in  Australia, 
in  not  a  few  instances  it  resulted  in  the 
criminal  becoming  a  man  of  substance 
and  prosperity.  Under  this  system, 
families  were  not  separated  if  the  wife 
and  children  desired  to  follow  the  fa- 
ther into  exile.  Whatever  may  be  said 
against  a  system  of  penal  colonization, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  the  principle 
here  was  humane. 

Accounts  have  greatly  exaggerated 
the  proportion  of  exiles  deported  into 
Siberia  for  political  offenses.  It  is,  how- 
ever, true  that  in  Russia  political  con- 
spiracy is  regarded  as  a*  crime,  and 


Russia. 


467 


immediately  following  the  despicable 
assassination  of  Alexander  II.,  many 
political  arrests  were  made  upon  ad- 
ministrative process  for  the  purpose  of 
breaking  up  the  powerful  nihilistic  or- 
ganization which  that  hideous  crime 
brought  to  light,  with  all  its  intricate 
ramifications.  These  arrests  by  admin- 
istrative process  were  made  under  mili- 
tary law,  such  as  other  states  beside  Rus- 
sia have  found  expedient  under  certain 
conditions. 

It  is  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
Russian  government  was  actuated  by  a 
wanton  spirit  of  cruelty  in  making  these 
arrests.  It  is  possible  that  mistakes 
were  made  in  the  process  of  stamping 
out  the  nihilist  organization,  but  it  is 
probable  that  the  imperial  government 
had  better  evidence  of  individual  com- 
plicity than  has  the  foreigner  who  takes 
the  bare  assertion  of  innocence  of  the 
accused  in  forming  his  judgment  of  the 
Russian  government,  whose  side  of  the 
case  never  has  been  and  probably  never 
will  be  heard. 

As  to  Russian  prisons,  the  writer,  who 
has  carefully  and  critically  inspected 
every  prison  in  St.  Petersburg,  can  bear 
testimony  to  the  general  excellence  of 
the  system,  both  in  principle  and  in 
practice.  The  prisoners  are  well  housed 
and  well  fed,  especial  care  being  taken 
as  to  the  quality  and  preparation  of 
their  food.  Black  bread  is  regarded  as 
an  essential  article  of  diet  among  all 
classes,  and  is  to  be  found  on  the  tables 
of  the  rich  as  of  the  poor.  While  it  may 
be  bought  of  any  baker,  careful  house- 
keepers prefer  to  obtain  it  from  the  bak- 
eries of  the  barracks  or  of  the  prisons. 

Every  prisoner  is  given  some  employ- 
ment suited  to  his  ability  or  training, 
and  from  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  the 
products  of  his  labor  he  receives  from 
ten  to  sixty  per  cent,  depending  upon 
the  nature  and  gravity  of  his  crime. 
From  these  earnings  he  may,  if  he  de- 
sires it,  receive  a  part  with  which  to 
purchase  extra  comforts  or  even  luxu- 
ries ;  but  a  certain  part  must,  and  all 


may,  at  the  prisoner's  option,  be  set 
aside  to  provide  a  fund  delivered  to  him 
upon  his  release  wherewith  to  start  life 
anew. 

The  recent  demonstrations  t)n  the  part 
of  the  students  of  the  universities  of 
Kieff ,  Moscow,  and  St.  Petersburg  should 
not  be  regarded  as  having  any  political 
significance.  The  foreign  newspapers 
have  given  greatly  exaggerated  accounts 
of  these  disturbances.  On  one  occasion 
an  account  of  a  riot  in  St.  Petersburg 
was  published  in  several  of  the  English 
papers,  with  great  particularity  as  to 
loss  of  life  and  the  general  unsafety  of 
the  public  streets,  when  in  fact  no  such 
disturbance  took  place  at  all.  How 
much  fear  was  felt  as  to  any  danger  to 
life  by  being  upon  the  streets  during 
these  riots  may  be  inferred  from  the 
fact  that  upon  the  day  when  the  stu- 
dents had  threatened  a  demonstration 
the  Nevsky  Prospect  was  thronged  to  a 
degree  rarely  witnessed  by  an  expectant 
crowd  of  holiday  makers  who  had  come 
out  to  see  the  fun. 

That  there  is  considerable  dissatis- 
faction among  the  students  of  the  uni- 
versities is  not  to  be  denied,  but  their 
wishes  and  purpose  appear  to  be  vague 
and  inconsequent.  They  appear  to  be 
bitterly  incensed  against  the  police  au- 
thorities on  account  of  the  steps  taken 
by  them  to  repress  their  disorders. 

As  regards  the  University  of  St.  Pe- 
tersburg, the  trouble  seems  to  have 
sprung  out  of  certain  unpopular  internal 
regulations,  in  the  enforcement  of  which 
the  authorities  of  the  university  ap- 
pealed to  the  police  for  assistance,  and 
in  enforcing  authority  against  riotous 
acts  mounted  Cossacks  were  permitted 
to  use  their  riding  whips  to  compel 
order.  The  interference  of  the  police  in 
university  matters  and  the  use  of  whips 
produced  among  the  students  a  deep 
feeling  of  injury,  which  has  ever  since 
been  fermenting  in  their  brains,  and 
under  an  unwonted  system  of  repres- 
sion has  culminated  in  revolt  against  the 
constituted  authorities.  Similar  condi- 


468 


^Russia. 


tions  have  existed  in  the  other  univer- 
sities, and  no  doubt  the  recent  demon- 
strations occurring  simultaneously  in 
St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow  were  pre- 
arranged. There  appears  to  have  been  no 
connection  between  these  disturbances 
and  the  assassination  of  the  late  Min- 
ister of  Public  Instruction,  Mr.  Bogo- 
lepoff,  although  it  is  true  that  the  assas- 
sin was  a  former  student  who  had  been 
sent  out  of  the  empire  on  account  of  his 
connection  with  previous  disorders,  but 
so  far  as  can  be  learned  the  act  was  the 
outcome  of  a  personal  sense  of  grievance. 

During  the  recent  riots  the  students 
had  enlisted  the  sympathies  of  the  un- 
employed factory  workmen  among  whom 
they  had  been  agitating  for  some  time, 
and  the  presence  of  this  new  element 
among  them  as  a  dissatisfied  and  riotous 
class  caused  considerable  uneasiness  at 
first,  chiefly  because  it  was  not  known 
how  far  the  feeling  of  dissatisfaction 
might  extend,  especially  in  view  of  the 
hard  times  and  lack  of  work. 

St.  Petersburg  is  quite  accustomed  to 
student  riots,  and  is  apt  to  view  them 
with  amused  apathy,  but  revolts  of  the 
laboring  classes  are  rare,  and  the  mujik, 
from  which  class  the  factory  operatives 
come,  is  extremely  unmanageable  when 
his  temper  is  aroused.  But  it  soon  be- 
came apparent  that  these  laborers  had 
no  real  sympathy  with  the  students  and 
contemplated  no  general  uprising. 

The  autocratic  power  of  the  Emperor 
is  not  exercised  in  a  spirit  of  despotic 
oppression,  but  with  a  just  regard  to  the 
laws  and  the  rights  of  his  subjects,  in- 
terfering as  supreme  over  the  statutes 
when  they  appear  to  fail  in  meeting  the 
exigencies  of  the  moment  or  the  equities 
of  the  case  in  point.  The  judicial  sys- 
tem administers  the  law  in  a  spirit  of 
equity,  tending  rather  to  study  the  rights 
in  each  case  than  to  apply  a  hard  and 
fast  interpretation  of  legal  phraseology. 
And  the  Russian  subject  is  ever  accus- 
tomed to  look  to  the  sense  of  equity  in 
his  sovereign  and  his  sovereign's  ser- 
vants rather  than  to  the  letter  of  the 


law,  confident  in  the  paternal  regard  for 
the  rights  and  welfare  of  the  subject. 

A  spirit  of  paternalism  pervades  all 
the  relations  of  the  Russian  government 
with  its  subjects.  State  aid  is  applied 
wherever  it  is  believed  that  it  can  ame- 
liorate social  conditions,  promote  pro- 
gress, or  stimulate  or  foster  industry. 
Protection  of  home  industries  by  cus- 
toms duties  to  the  point  of  prohibition 
of  import  is  an  avowed  principle  of  the 
present  Minister  of  Finance.  Where 
a  high  tariff  has  been  found  to  be  inade- 
quate to  enforce  consumption  of  home 
manufactures,  as  in  the  case  of  railway 
supplies  and  equipment,  prohibition  of 
import,  except  by  special  imperial  au- 
thority, has  been  resorted  to  with  the 
result  of  enormously  increasing  the  cost 
of  railway  construction. 

This  system  of  fostering  industrial 
enterprises  and  enforcing  internal  devel- 
opment, not  only  by  protection  against 
foreign  competition  within  the  empire, 
but  by  granting  to  new  manufacturing 
corporations  state  aid  in  the  way  of 
government  contracts  and  concessions, 
has  resulted  in  an  excess  of  capacity  to 
produce  over  that  of  the  country  to  con- 
sume under  the  existing  conditions. 

In  our  own  country,  where  develop- 
ment has  been  a  matter  of  growth  un- 
aided in  any  special  direction  although 
protected  from  foreign  competition,  rail- 
way construction  has  preceded  industrial 
expansion.  It  is  a  maxim  with  us  that 
pig  iron  is  the  index  of  commercial  pros- 
perity. The  reason  of  this  is  that  the 
growth  and  prosperity  of  our  railways, 
the  great  consumers  of  iron  and  steel, 
bring  demand  for  every  sort  of  manu- 
factured article,  as  well  as  the  means 
for  their  distribution  and  of  transpor- 
tation of  raw  material  to  the  factories. 
In  Russia  industrial  enterprise  has  been 
pushed  far  in  advance  of  railway  devel- 
opment, which  is,  as  compared  with  the 
area  and  population  of  the  country,  be- 
low that  of  any  European  state.  Hence 
the  Russian  manufacturer  lacks  the  im- 
portant if  not  essential  factor  of  ade- 


Russia. 


469 


quate   railway  communication   for   his 
well-being. 

The  extent  of  Russia's-  transporta- 
tion facilities  is  inadequate  to  meet  the 
requirements  even  of  her  agricultural 
needs.  To  this  is  due  the  frequent  lo- 
cal famines  that  occur  in  the  country. 
None  of  the  recent  famines  in  Russia 
have  been  universal,  nor  indeed  has  there 
been  for  many  years  at  least  a  shortage 
of  food  supply  in  the  empire  to  meet 
the  needs  of  all  of  its  inhabitants.  The 
difficulty  has  been  to  convey  to  the  suf- 
ferers in  the  famine  districts  the  food 
required  to  relieve  them.  Thus  while 
our  contribution  of  grain  during  the  fa- 
mine of  1892  was  gratefully  welcomed 
as  a  tangible  and  hearty  expression  of 
American  friendship,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
it  was  not  required  as  relief  for  the  suf- 
ferers, nor  indeed  did  it  materially  help 
the  situation,  —  the  difficulty  being  not 
lack  of  food  In  Russia,  but  lack  of  means 
to  convey  food  to  the  famine  districts. 

The  inducements  offered  to  capital  by 
the  government  to  invest  in  industrial 
enterprises  have  developed  excessive  in- 
vestment in  this  direction,  and  the  lack 
of  experience  in  manufacturing  on  the 
part  of  investors  has  led  to  extravagance 
in  original  outlay  and  in  current  ex- 
penditure, with  the  inevitable  result  of 
stringency  of  money  upon  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  bad  times. 

With  the  general  financial  stringency 
now  affecting  all  Europe,  Russia  finds 
herself  in  the  midst  of  a  severe  indus- 
trial and  financial  crisis  which  is  aggra- 
vated by  the  withdrawal  of  the  support 
of  the  government  from  industrial  un- 
dertakings, enforced  by  the  cost  of  mil- 
itary operations  in  China  and  Manchu- 
ria and  the  protection  of  her  enormous 
Asiatic  frontier,  to  which  must  be  added 
a  succession  of  bad  harvests  in  the  agri- 
cultural districts. 

The  withdrawal  of  government  sup- 
port from  industrial  production  left  a 
very  large  class  of  newly  established 
works  without  a  market  for  their  out- 
put, with  the  inevitable  reflex  effect  upon 


all  branches  of  manufacture  and  trade. 
Such  a  condition  of  trade  and  indus- 
try must  of  necessity  have  an  especially 
severe  effect  upon  a  community  where 
not  only  is  transportation  inadequate  to 
cheap  distribution  of  small  manufactures 
and  such  articles  as  the  common  people 
consume,  but  where  the  great  bulk  of 
the  population,  large  though  it  may  be, 
are  small  consumers. 

The  principal  garment  of  the  peasant 
for  nine  months  of  the  year  is  his  sheep- 
skin caftan.  Under  this  he  sometimes, 
but  not  always,  wears  a  colored  cotton 
shirt,  and  a  pair  of  woolen  trousers 
tucked  into  felt  boots  completes  his  win- 
ter costume.  In  summer  he  discards  his 
sheepskin,  wearing  his  red  or  blue  cot- 
ton shirt  outside  of  his  trousers,  his  legs 
below  the  knee  being  covered  with  cotton 
rags  bound  about  with  the  cords  which 
hold  on  his  birch-bark  shoes. 

In  the  construction  of  his  house  he 
does  not  use  manufactured  lumber. 
Such  trees  as  he  requires  for  his  log  izba 
are  plenty  and  near  at  hand,  and  his 
own  axe  suffices  to  hew  and  fashion 
them.  For  the  more  finished  parts  of 
his  structure,  the  village  whipsaw  and  a 
neighbor's  aid  supply  him  with  the  few 
planks  he  requires. 

His  agricultural  implements,  except 
in  those  districts,  happily  growing  in 
number,  where  the  enterprise  of  the  great 
landed  proprietors  and  of  the  zemtsvos 
has  introduced  modern  methods,  are  rude 
and  primitive. 

As  regards  his  food  and  drink,  the 
consumption  of  manufactured  articles  is 
limited  to  flour  and  meal  of  local  mill- 
ing, sugar,  which  is  heavily  taxed,  and 
vodka,  the  manufacture  of  which  is  a 
government  monopoly. 

As  might  be  supposed,  the  cotton  and 
sugar  industries  are  those  that  have  suf- 
fered least  during  the  existing  depres- 
sion. 

There  has  resulted  from  these  condi- 
tions a  general  prostration  of  business 
and  shrinkage  in  values,  augmented 
by  enforced  realizations  to  meet  loans, 


470 


Russia. 


and  by  that  general  distrust  common  to 
financial  crises. 

It  is  an  unfortunate  factor  in  the  case 
that  investors  in  Russia,  especially  for- 
eign, have  become  habituated  to  depend 
upon  government  aid  in  their  invest- 
ments, be  it  either  in  the  direction  of 
railways  or  in  industrial  enterprises. 
Such  aid  is  unnatural,  and  must,  in  the 
long  run,  hinder  development  rather  than 
help  it.  A  guarantee  by  the  govern- 
ment of  the  bonds  of  a  railway  inevi- 
tably gives  to  the  government  the  right 
to  control  its  policy  in  its  expenditures 
and  consequent  development  which  will 
naturally  tend  to  ultra  conservatism. 
Moreover,  this  spirit  hinders  the  exploi- 
tation of  commercial  lines  for  which  the 
government  sees  no  immediate  need  from 
its  point  of  view,  but  which  it  is  not 
unlikely  might  prove  remunerative. 

Whether  the  Russian  has  in  him  the 
qualities  necessary  for  successful  manu- 
facture remains  to  be  seen.  So  far  the 
master  has  not  yet  learned  the  essential 
of  economy,  nor  has  the  operative  ac- 
quired the  needful  skill  and  industry  to 
produce  manufactured  articles  in  com- 
petition with  the  Western  world.  A 
high  if  not  prohibitive  tariff  protects 
the  manufacturer  from  outside  compe- 
tition, and  the  government  is  ever  ready 
to  lend  its  aid  to  new  industries,  by  im- 
posing increased  duties  in  their  support. 
In  the  matter  of  railway  supplies  and 
equipment,  importation  is  forbidden  ex- 
cept by  imperial  permission.  But  it 
is  at  least  extremely  doubtful  whether 
Russia  can  for  a  long  time  to  come  com- 
pete in  foreign  markets  with  the  rest  of 
the  industrial  world. 

A  variety  of  factors,  now  at  least  ex- 
isting, must  for  the  present  materially 
interfere  with,  if  not  prevent,  any  great 
export  of  manufactured  articles  from 
Russia.  Such  is  the  absence  of  any 
industrial  operative  class.  As  yet  the 
factory  workmen  are  peasants,  who  come 
into  the  towns  during  the  winter  season 
of  agricultural  inactivity  to  seek  employ- 
ment, expecting  to  return  to  their  com- 


munes for  tilling  and  harvesting.  It  is 
evident  that  such  labor  can  never  com- 
pete with  the  highly  specialized  skilled 
workmen  engaged  in  manufacturing  in 
the  West.  Of  the  great  number  of  holi- 
days, averaging  nearly  one  a  week  be- 
side Sundays,  and  sometimes  occurring 
several  in  succession,  it  is  unnecessary 
more  than  to  make  mention  as  an  obvi- 
ous hindrance  to  successful  manufacture. 
The  Russian  workman  is  lacking  in  na- 
tive dexterity  with  fine  tools  for  ob- 
taining a  fine  result.  The  peasant  is 
skillful  in  the  use  of  his  axe  and  knife 
in  a  certain  rough  fashioning  of  wood, 
but  the  workman  has  not  that  respect 
for  fine  tools  and  delicacy  of  manipula- 
tion which  is  essential  in  most  branches 
of  modern  manufacture.  But  especially 
the  indolence  and  lack  of  emulation  in 
the  laborer  and  the  want  of  the  commer- 
cial instinct  in  both  master  and  mechanic 
stand  in  the  way  of  Russian  industrial 
development. 

On  the  other  hand,  labor  in  Russia 
is  cheap  and  strikes  rare.  It  is  improb- 
able that  extensive  labor  organizations 
could  exist  in  Russia,  the  entire  policy 
and  system  of  the  government  being  op- 
posed to  anything  of  the  sort. 

Although  the  peasant  has  not  yet  de- 
veloped into  a  highly  skilled  mechanic, 
doubtless  largely  owing  to  the  fact  that 
a  distinct  operative  class  has  still  to  be 
evolved,  he  nevertheless  shows  consid- 
erable adaptability  to  labor  in  the  arts. 
Throughout  the  long  dark  winters  the 
peasants  occupy  themselves  with  the 
manufacture  of  a  variety  of  articles  of 
commerce  and  especially  toys.  Many 
of  these  are  well  made,  comparing  fa- 
vorably with  similar  articles  of  German 
manufacture.  Nor  is  this  home  indus- 
try confined  to  articles  of  wood,  though 
that  is  the  predominant  material  em- 
ployed, but  the  fashioning  of  horn  and 
even  of  metal,  as  well  as  the  cutting  of 
semi-precious  stones,  is  performed  with 
considerable  skill. 

Peasant  life  in  Russia  is  interesting 
and  not  unpicturesque.  The  communal 


Russia. 


471 


system  of  land  tenure,  which  pervades 
the  whole  of  Great  Russia,  and  which 
was  instituted  upon  the  liberation  of  the 
serfs,  gives  to  the  communes  the  hold- 
ings of  land,  each  member  of  the  com- 
mune being  allotted  a  share  for  his  cul- 
tivation, the  redistribution  of  the  allot- 
ments being  periodical,  but  varying  in 
frequency.  Each  individual  is  respon- 
sible to  the  Mir  or  governing  body  of 
the  commune  for  his  share  of  the  taxes, 
the  commune  being  accountable  to  the 
government  for  the  total  tax.  This  tax, 
so  called,  includes  also  the  annual  pay- 
ment for  redemption  of  the  land  given 
to  the  peasants  on  their  liberation.  This 
land  is  the  agricultural  land  of  the  com- 
mune, in  which  there  is  no  individual 
ownership.  It  adjoins  the  village  where 
live  the  peasants,  and  where  only  the 
ownership  is  individual. 

The  periodical  redistribution  of  the 
land  prevents  that  sense  of  ownership 
or  even  of  permanent  occupancy  essen- 
tial to  first-rate  cultivation  and  care  of 
it,  rather  begetting  that  apathy  and 
shif tlessness  everywhere  apparent  in  the 
agricultural  districts. 

In  Siberia,  where  the  tenure  of  land 
is  for  the  most  part  individual  and  per- 
manent, the  peasant  colonist  presents  to- 
tally different  characteristics  from  those 
pertaining  to  him  while  in  European 
Russia.  He  is  there  vastly  more  ener- 
getic, self-reliant,  and  thrifty,  pursuing 
better  methods  of  cultivation,  and  with 
greater  industry. 

It  has  frequently  been  remarked  by 
writers  on  Russia,  and  with  truth,  that 
the  temperament  of  the  peasant  or  mu- 
jik  is  sad.  This  trait  is  partly  climatic 
and  partly  due  to  environment.  No- 
thing more  triste  can  be  imagined  than 
the  bitter  and  enduring  cold  of  the  Rus- 
sian winter,  with  its  illimitable  and  un- 
broken expanse  of  snow  covering  the  face 
of  the  country  for  six  months  of  the 
year,  and  over  which  night  sets  in  early 
in  the  afternoon.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  the  peasant,  if  sad,  is  seldom  de- 
spairing. Suicide  is  extremely  rare,  and 


hardship  and  misfortune  are  accepted 
philosophically  as  the  visitation  of  God. 

It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that  the 
Russian  people  seem  to  have  been  given, 
in  the  Western  world,  a  reputation  for 
cruelty.  Nothing  could  be  further  from 
the  fact.  No  gentler,  kindlier,  more 
courteous  people  exists.  The  mujik 
chats  to  his  horse  as  he  drives  along, 
calling  him  by  endearing  names,  and 
rarely  if  ever  strikes  him  with  the  little 
toy  whip  he  carries,  while  the  love  and 
devotion  of  parents  for  their  children  are 
extremely  touching.  Toward  each  other 
men  and  women  of  all  classes  are  gener- 
ally courteous  and  often  demonstrative- 
ly affectionate,  men  kissing  each  other 
on  meeting  or  parting.  The  noble  per- 
mits and  encourages  a  degree  of  famil- 
iarity from  his  servants  unknown  in  the 
Western  world. 

The  family  relations  of  the  rural 
classes  are  patriarchal,  parents  exercis- 
ing authority  over  their  children  even 
though  the  latter  are  parents  them- 
selves. 

The  village  usually  consists  of  one 
long  street  between  the  two  rows  of  log 
houses,  which  though  rarely  painted  are 
not  without  considerable  external  adorn- 
ment. In  this  street  the  villagers  as- 
semble after  their  labors,  during  the  long 
summer  twilight  or  the  many  fete  days, 
to  sing  or  dance  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  balalika,  a  sort  of  triangular  gui- 
tar, or  to  that  of  the  ever  present  ac- 
cordion. 

The  great  fetes  when  all  Russia  aban- 
dons itself  to  feasting  and  rejoicing  are 
"butter  week,"  the  week  before  Lent, 
and  Easter  week.  During  the  seven 
days  of  the  former  the  orthodox  prepare 
themselves  for  the  long  fast  by  feasting 
and  revelry.  Then  it  is  that  on  every 
table  huge  piles  of  blini  or  griddle  cakes 
are  served  with  melted  butter  and  fresh 
caviar,  which  by  the  way  is  unknown  by 
that  name  in  Russia,  cavior,  the  nearest 
sound,  being  a  carpet,  while  what  we 
call  caviar  is  ikra  in  Russian. 

During  Lent  all  gayety  ceases,  the 


472 


Russia. 


theatres  are  closed,  and  all  are  occupied 
with  their  religious  devotions,  which 
end  only  on  Easter  morning.  The  night 
before,  every  orthodox  church  in  Rus- 
sia is  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity,  rich 
and  poor  rubbing  elbows,  while  crowds 
stand  outside,  many  bearing  loaves  to  be 
blessed  by  the  priests  when  the  rising 
of  Christ  is  proclaimed  by  them.  No- 
thing more  sublime  in  the  way  of  church 
music  can  be  imagined  than  is  that  of 
the  service  in  the  great  cathedrals  dur- 
ing this  ceremony.  The  wonderful  bass 
voices  vibrating  like  the  pipes  of  a  great 
organ,  for  the  music  is  entirely  vocal, 
unaided  by  instrumental  accompani- 
ment. The  climax  of  the  beautiful 
choral  service  is  reached  in  the  joyful 
proclamation  of  the  resurrection,  which 
ends  it  as  the  great  bells  ring  out  the 
birth  of  Easter  morning.  Now  in  every 
h6use  tables  are  spread,  and  the  feasting 
and  merry-making  continue  throughout 
the  week.  The  universal  salutation  is 
"Christ  is  risen,"  accompanied  by  the 
kiss  of  peace.  Everywhere  the  theatres 
reopen,  from  those  of  the  imperial  court 
to  the  balagan  of  the  peasants,  where 
are  enacted  pseudo-historical  dramas  of 
the  most  naive  description. 

The  Russian  opera  is  extremely  in- 
teresting, as  well  from  a  dramatic  as 
from  a  musical  point  of  view.  The 
operas  of  Glinka  and  Tschaikowsky  are 
preeminent,  but  those  of  Rimsky-Korsa- 
koff  and  other  composers  are  full  of  both 
musical  and  dramatic  interest.  The 
Italian  school  is  the  basis  of  musical 
construction  of  most  of  these  operas,  but 
the  music  itself  is  wholly  Russian,  as  is 
the  plot.  Glinka's  beautiful  A  Life  for 
the  Tsar  is  facile  princeps  the  favorite 
with  all  classes,  and  is  mounted  at  the 
Imperial  Marie  Theatre  with  all  the 
sumptuousness  characteristic  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  that  wonderful  playhouse. 

It  is  in  this  opera  that  occurs  the 
most  inspiriting  of  all  mazurkas,  that 
dance  of  which  so  much  has  been  writr 
ten,  but  of  the  grace  of  which  no  writer 
has  succeeded  in  conveying  an  adequate 


impression.  It  permits  of  the  wildest 
abandon,  it  is  true,  but  this  is  by  no 
means  its  chief  charm.  It  is  a  dance 
which  permits  of  every  shade  of  poetic 
expression,  from  the  wild  energy  of  the 
Cossack  camp  to  the  refinement  of  the 
imperial  palace.  The  mazurka,  like  the 
stately  polonaise,  with  which  the  impe- 
rial balls  are  invariably  opened,  is  an 
importation  from  Poland,  but  unlike  the 
polonaise  it  is  elastic  to  poetic  fancy,, 
and  has  thrived  in  the  soil  of  the  essen- 
tially poetic  Russian  temperament,  and 
become,  if  not  indigenous,  thoroughly 
assimilated. 

The  scenes  of  these  operas  are  laid  in 
Russia,  and  all  include  ballets,  intro- 
ducing some  of  the  national  dances,  of 
which  there  are  many,  ranging  from  the 
fantastic  contortional  dances  of  the  peas- 
ants to  those  of  a  more  dignified  and 
graceful  character  belonging  to  the  old 
boyar  class. 

To  the  musical  digestion  trained  to 
endure  nothing  less  than  Wagner,  per- 
haps these  Russian  operas  would  not  re- 
commend themselves ;  but  to  persons  of 
lighter  mind  and  fancy  who  find  occa- 
sional need  of  a  less  substantial  pabu- 
lum they  are  delightfully  refreshing, 
and  their  sweetness  is  not  cloyed  with 
the  hackneyed  inanities  of  the  librettist 
of  the  Italian  school.  In  the  place 
of  such  dish-water  plots,  a  libretto  of 
real  literary  merit  presents  some  story 
of  Russian  history,  or  of  folk-lore,  or  of 
a  tale  of  Pushkin's.  Among  such  are 
Tschaikowsky 's  Pikovoi  Dama  (The 
Queen  of  Spades)  and  Effgene  Onegine. 
Many  minor  operas  also  by  less  known 
composers,  the  plots  of  which  are  found- 
ed upon  national  tales  and  folk-stories, 
are  full  of  both  dramatic  and  musical 
interest. 

Within  the  past  year  has  been  com- 
pleted the  new  People's  Theatre,  the 
gift  of  the  Emperor  to  the  people, 
where  are  given*  at  prices  within  the 
reach  of  the  poor  excellent  dramatic 
and  operatic  works  admirably  mounted 
and  performed.  Here  for  five  cents  an 


Russia. 


473 


evening  of  elevating  amusement  may  be 
enjoyed,  preceded,  if  desired,  by  a  whole- 
some, well-cooked  meal  at  an  equally 
moderate  price.  No  intoxicants  are  sold 
upon  the  premises.  The  seats  in  this 
theatre  are  always  filled,  and  every  inch 
of  standing  room  occupied.  The  build- 
ing is  a  large  and  handsome  fireproof 
structure,  designed  in  excellent  taste, 
and  furnished  with  every  comfort  and 
convenience.  The  good  moral  effect 
upon  the  people  is  already  apparent  in 
a  marked  decrease  in  drunkenness  and 
disorder. 

In  point  of  stage  setting  and  of  cos- 
tume, the  imperial  theatres  have  set  so 
high  a  standard  that  the  public  would 
tolerate  nothing  less  than  excellence. 

Twice  a  week  throughout  the  winter 
season  the  Marie  Theatre  is  given  over 
to  the  production  of  ballet,  usually  na- 
tional, and  always  of  a  very  high  order. 
Here,  while  costume  and  scenic  effect 
have  their  due  place,  they  do  not  consti- 
tute, as  at  the  great  Paris  and  London 
ballet  theatres,  the  chief  entertainment. 
The  music  is  of  the  very  best,  being  that 
of  the  great  Russian  composers,  who 
have  thought  the  theme  well  worthy  of 
their  muse.  The  dancing  itself  is  such 
as  can  be  seen  nowhere  outside  of  Rus- 
sia. Here  it  is  still  regarded  as  a  fine 
art,  and  the  ballet,  which  in  other  capi- 
tals has  degenated  into  a  mere  spectac- 
ular representation,  in  St.  Petersburg 
preserves  the  aesthetic  traditions  of  the 
old  Italian  school.  From  the  premiere 
danseuse  to  the  hindermost  coryphe'e,  all 
are  carefully  trained  in  the  imperial 
school  of  the  ballet  from  earliest  youth, 
receiving  there  a  most  thorough  profes- 
sional education  and  careful  supervi- 
sion. The  result  is  not  alone  great  in- 
dividual excellence  of  performance,  but 
a  grace  and  precision  of  execution  in 
all  concerted  dancing  which  accentuates 
and  explains  the  music. 

The  Russians  are  essentially  a  dan- 
cing people,  and  it  is  doubtless  due  to 
this  national  trait  that  the  ballet  so  te- 
naciously holds  its  place.  The  dances 


of  the  peasants,  often  grotesque  in  their 
abandon,  requiring  an  extraordinary 
agility  in  execution,  are  yet  often  full 
of  grace  and  dignity.  The  beautiful 
mazurka,  still  the  favorite  at  balls  with 
all  young  people,  intricate  and  difficult 
for  foreigners  to  acquire,  is  danced  by 
every  young  officer  with  an  ease  and 
grace  rarely  seen  with  us  even  upon  the 
stage. 

The  recent  production  of  the  trilogy 
of  historical  plays  written  by  Alexis 
Tolstoy,  illustrating  the  rise  to  power  of 
Boris  Godonoff,  was  unquestionably  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  dramatic  events 
in  the  history  of  the  modern  stage.  The 
trilogy  comprises  The  Death  of  Ivan  the 
Terrible,  Feodor  Ivanovitch,  and  Tsar 
Boris  (Godonoff).  Their  public  presen- 
tation was  interdicted  for  twenty-five 
years,  and  it  was  only  in  the  winter  of 
1898  that  they  were  produced  upon  the 
public  stage.  They  form  a  nearly  con- 
tinuous historical  sequence,  throughout 
which  many  of  the  same  characters  ap- 
pear, chief  of  whom  is  Boris  Godonoff, 
who,  commencing  his  career  in  the  first 
act  of  the  first  piece  as  the  modest  jun- 
ior in  the  Council  of  Boyars,  with  grad- 
ually increasing  influence  and  ambition 
becomes  the  favorite  of  Ivan,  who  mar- 
ries his  son  Feodor,  the  weak,  to  Godo- 
noff's  sister.  On  the  death  of  Ivan, 
Boris,  as  brother-in-law  and  chief  coun- 
selor to  the  Tsar,  is  seen  to  be  the  mov- 
ing power  in  the  state,  until  in  the  last 
play  he  is  exhibited  at  the  zenith  of  his 
glory  as  Tsar  of  Russia. 

The  admirable  literary  quality  of 
these  plays,  which  are  written  in  very 
beautiful  blank  verse,  their  essential 
historical  truthfulness,  the  fine  and  no- 
ble delineation  of  character  and  the 
powerful  development  of  a  brilliant  se- 
ries of  dramatic  situations  entitle  them 
to  high  distinction.  It  is  not  therefore 
surprising  that  with  an  excellent  stage 
setting,  carefully  studied  and  richly 
executed  costumes  and  accessories,  and 
above  all  presented  by  a  company  of  ac- 
tors of  very  great  ability,  the  production 


474 


Russia. 


of  these  three  plays  should  have  aroused 
extraordinary  enthusiasm  among  the 
theatre-going  people  throughout  Russia. 

A  dramatic  representation,  witnessed 
only  by  a  favored  few,  was  that  of  the 
translation  of  Hamlet  into  Russian  by 
His  Imperial  Highness  the  Grand  Duke 
Constantine  Constantiiiovitch,  in  which 
His  Imperial  Highness  himself  assumed 
the  title  role.  This  was  given  at  the 
theatre  of  the  Palace  of  the  Hermitage 
during  the  winter  of  1900-01.  The 
translation  itself  possesses  very  high 
literary  merit,  and  shows  a  profound 
acquaintance  with  Shakespeare.  The 
Grand  Duke  has  devoted  many  years  to 
the  study  of  Hamlet,  as  his  interpreta- 
tion of  the  part  gave  evidence,  and  his 
rendering  of  the  role  was  an  extremely 
finished  performance  of  real  artistic 
merit  and  force,  and  remarkably  free 
from  hackneyed  stage  conventionalities, 
while  preserving  the  best  traditions  of 
our  stage.  The  consciousness  on  the 
part  of  the  spectator  that  the  role  of 
Hamlet  was  being  played  by  a  de  facto 
prince  of  the  blood  royal,  consequently 
familiar  with  the  interior  life  of  royal- 
ty, added  a  special  interest  to  the  repre- 
sentation. This  was  further  increased 
by  the  fact  of  the  close  relations  of  the 
imperial  family  of  Russia  with  the  royal 
family  of  Denmark,  which  gave  warrant 
for  the  historical  accuracy  of  the  cos- 
tuming and  accessories. 

Romance  and  fiction  have  attributed 
to  St.  Petersburg  life  an  exaggerated 
picturesqueness  and  brilliancy  which 
hardly  exists,  at  least  at  the  present 
day.  The  radiant  skating  carnivals 
upon  the  Neva  we  read  of  are,  alas,  fig- 
ments of  the  imagination.  The  troika 
rides  are  less  swift  than  imagination 
paints  them.  The  gypsies  who  sing  in 
the  cafe's  upon  the  islands,  although 
captivating  to  the  Russian  fancy,  do 
not  greatly  appeal  to  the  Western  taste, 
which  finds  their  voices  nasal  and  their 
features  unpleasing.  It  must  be  admit- 


ted, however,  that  the  singing  of  the 
gypsies  deeply  interests  a  certain  Rus- 
sian element,  who  linger  late  into  the 
morning  to  listen  to  them. 

Winter  life  in  Russia's  capital,  it  is 
true,  is  gay,  and  the  court  is  probably 
the  most  brilliant  in  the  world.  The 
sledge,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  long-tailed 
black  or  gray  Orloff  trotters,  glides 
rapidly  over  the  smooth  streets  ever 
white  with  freshly  fallen  snow,  —  for 
it  snows  a  little  every  day  in  St.  Pe- 
tersburg, but  rarely  hard,  and  blizzards 
are  unknown.  But  the  sledging  for 
pleasure  is  upon  the  streets  or  on  the 
Quay,  which,  of  a  sunny  afternoon  in 
February,  is  brilliant,  not  upon  the 
frozen  Neva.  Until  Lent  the  pace  is 
fast  with  dinners,  theatre  parties,  balls 
and  routs,  but  it  is  much  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  rest  of  the  world. 

It  is  common  to  speak  of  St.  Peters- 
burg as  a  cosmopolitan  city,  presenting 
nothing  Russian  in  its  appearance,  like 
in  fact  to  any  other  European  capital. 
This  is  hardly  correct.  Cosmopolitan 
it  is,  truly,  but  it  resembles  in  no  par- 
ticular the  typical  of  European  cities. 
Were  it  not  for  the  dress  of  the  ubiqui- 
tous isvorstchik  and  other  peasant  types 
there  would  remain  the  great  dvors  or 
markets,  the  domed  and  minareted 
churches  of  Byzantine  architecture,  the 
wide  wooden  paved  streets  frequently 
crossing  the  many  canals,  which  all  give 
to  the  Russian  capital  an  individuality 
quite  its  own.  True,  it  is  not  constructed 
upon  the  typical  Russian  plan,  the  basis 
of  which  is  the  Kremlin,  best  illustrated 
in  Moscow.  This,  the  ancient  capital, 
for  Kieff  belongs  to  a  time  antedating 
the  history  of  united  Russia,  is  indeed 
more  typically  Russian  than  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  here  life  too  partakes  of  a 
different  and  more  distinctly  national 
character.  It  is  the  centre  of  the  busi- 
ness life,  but  St.  Petersburg  must  ever 
represent  the  thought  and  the  progress 
of  the  empire. 

Herbert  H.  D.  Pierce. 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


475 


MEMORIES   OF  A  HOSPITAL  MATRON. 


IN  TWO  PARTS.      PART  TWO. 


AT  the  beginning  of  the  war  we  had 
no  scarcity  of  provisions,  such  as  they 
were,  and  we  early  became  accustomed 
to  rye  coffee  and  sassafras  tea.  We  had 
always  been  able  to  give  the  "  sweet-'ta- 
ter  pudding  "  to  the  Georgian,  made  af- 
ter his  mother's  fashion,  and  the  biscuit 
demanded  by  the  North  Carolinian, 
"  dark  inside  and  white  outside." 

But  as  the  war  went  on,  only  peas, 
dried  peas,  seemed  plentiful,  and  we  made 
them  up  in  every  variety  of  form  of 
which  dried  peas  are  capable.  In  soup 
they  appeared  one  day ;  the  second  day 
we  had  cold  peas ;  then  they  were  fried 
(when  we  had  the  grease)  ;  baked  peas 
came  on  the  fourth  day ;  and  then  we 
began  again  with  the  soup.  Toward 
the  last  we  lived  on  corn  meal  and  sor- 
ghum, a  very  coarse  molasses,  with  a 
happy  interval  when  a  blockade  runner 
brought  us  dried  vegetables  for  soup 
from  our  sympathetic  English  friends. 
A  pint  of  corn  meal  and  a  gill  of  sorghum 
was  the  daily  ration.  Each  Saturday 
I  managed  to  get  to  the  Libby  Prison 
or  Belle  Isle,  and  many  a  hungry  Con- 
federate gave  me  his  portion  of  more 
delicate  fare,  when  such  was  to  be  had, 
to  give  to  the  prisoners  who  might  be 
sick,  and  were  "  not  used  to  corn  bread." 
If  beans  and  corn  bread  were  not  al- 
ways wholesome,  they  certainly  made  a 
cheerful  diet ;  and  full  of  fun  were  the 
"  tea  parties,"  where  we  drank  an  infu- 
sion of  strawberry  and  raspberry  leaves. 
I  never  heard  any  one  complain  save 
those  greedy  fellows  the  convalescents, 
who  could  each  have  eaten  a  whole  beef. 
I  could  only  sympathize  when  they  clam- 
ored loudly  for  a  change  of  diet ;  for 
what  could  we  do  when  we  had  only 
peas,  corn  bread,  and  sorghum !  At  last 
convalescing  nature  could  stand  it  no 


longer.  I  was  told  that  the  men  had  re- 
fused to  eat  peas,  and  had  thrown  them 
over  the  clean  floor,  and  daubed  them  on 
the  freshly  whitewashed  walls  of  their 
dining  room.  The  unkindest  cut  of  all 
was  that  this  little  rebellion  was  headed 
by  a  one-armed  man  who  had  been  long 
in  the  hospital,  a  great  sufferer,  and  in 
consequence  had  been  pampered  with 
wheaten  bread  and  otherwise  "  spoiled." 
Like  naughty  schoolboys,  I  found  these 
men  throwing  my  boiled  peas  at  one  an- 
other, pewter  plates  and  spoons  flying 
about,  and  the  walls  and  floor  covered 
with  the  fragments  of  the  offensive  vi- 
and. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  I  asked. 
"  Do  you  Southern  men  complain  of  food 
which  we  women  eat  without  repug- 
nance ?  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  be  so 
dainty  ?  I  suppose  you  want  pies  and 
cakes." 

"  They  are  filled  with  worms !  "  a  rude 
voice  cried.  "  I  do  not  believe  you  eat 
the  same." 

"  Let  me  taste  them,"  I  replied,  tak- 
ing a  plate  from  before  a  man  and  eat- 
ing with  his  pewter  spoon.  "This  is 
from  the  same  pea-pot.  Indeed,  we  have 
but  one  pot  for  us  all,  and  I  spent  hours 
this  morning  picking  out  the  worms, 
which  do  not  injure  the  taste  and  are 
perfectly  harmless.  It  is  good,  whole- 
some food." 

"  Mighty  colicky,  anyhow,"  broke  in 
an  old  man. 

The  men  laughed,  but,  taking  no  no- 
tice of  a  fact  which  all  admitted,  I  said : 
"  Peas  are  the  best  fighting  food.  The 
government  gives  it  to  us  on  principle. 
There  were  McClellan's  men,  eating  good 
beef,  canned  fruits  and  vegetables,  try- 
ing for  seven  days  to  get  to  Richmond, 
and  we,  on  dried  peas,  kept  them  back. 


476 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


I  shall  always  believe  that  had  we  eaten 
his  beef,  and  they  our  peas,  the  result 
would  have  been  different." 

This  was  received  with  roars  of  laugh- 
ter. The  men,  now  in  good  humor,  ate 
the  peas  which  remained,  washed  the 
floor  and  cleaned  the  walls.  Such  is  the 
variable  temper  of  the  soldier,  eager  to 
resent  real  or  imaginary  wrongs,  yet 
quick  to  return  to  good  humor  and  fun. 
But  the  spoiled  one  -  armed  man  had 
"  General  Lee's  socks  "  put  on  him,  and 
went  to  his  regiment  the  next  day. 

This  discipline  of  General  Lee's  socks 
was  an  "  institution "  peculiar  to  our 
hospital.  Mrs.  Lee,  it  is  well  known, 
spent  most  of  her  time  in  making  gloves 
and  socks  for  the  soldiers.  She  also 
gave  me,  at  one  time,  several  pairs  of 
General  Lee's  old  socks,  so  darned  that 
we  saw  they  had  been  well  worn  by  our 
hero.  We  kept  these  socks  to  apply  to 
the  feet  of  those  laggard  "  old  soldiers  " 
who  were  suspected  of  preferring  the 
"  luxury  "  of  hospital  life  to  the  activity 
of  the  field.  And  such  was  the  effect 
of  the  application  of  these  warlike  socks 
that  even  a  threat  of  it  had  the  result 
of  sending  a  man  to  his  regiment  who 
had  lingered  months  in  inactivity.  It 
came  to  be  a  standing  joke  in  the  hos- 
pital, infinitely  enjoyed  by  the  men.  If 
a  poor  wretch  was  out  of  his  bed  over  a 
week,  he  would  be  threatened  with  Gen- 
eral Lee's  socks  :  and  through  this  means 
some  most  obstinate  cases  were  cured. 
Four  of  the  most  determined  rheumatic 
patients,  who  had  resisted  scarifying  of 
the  limbs,  and,  what  was  worse,  the 
smallest  and  thinnest  of  diets,  were  sent 
to  their  regiments,  and  did  good  service 
afterwards.  With  these  men  the  socks 
had  to  be  left  on  several  hours,  amidst 
shouts  of  laughter  from  the  "  assistants  ; " 
showing  that  though  men  may  withstand 
pain  and  starvation,  they  succumb  di- 
rectly to  ridicule. 

After  the  "  beans  riot"  came  the 
"  bread  riot."  Every  one  who  has  known 
hospital  life,  in  Confederate  times  es- 


pecially, will  remember  how  the  stew- 
ard, the  man  who  holds  the  provisions, 
is  held  responsible  for  every  shortcom- 
ing, by  both  surgeons  and  matrons  as 
well  as  by  the  men.  Whether  he  has 
money  or  not,  he  must  give  plenty  to  eat ; 
and  there  exists  between  the  steward 
and  the  convalescents,  those  hungry  fel- 
lows long  starved  in  camp,  and  now  re- 
covering from  fever  or  wounds,  a  dead- 
ly antagonism,  constantly  breaking  out 
into  "overt  acts."  The  steward  is  to 
them  a  "  cheat,"  —  the  man  who  with- 
holds from  them  the  rations  given  out 
by  the  government.  He  must  have  the 
meat,  though  the  quartermaster  may  not 
furnish  it,  and  it  is  his  fault  alone  when 
the  bread  rations  are  short.  Our  stew- 
ard, a  meek  little  man,  was  no  exception 
to  this  rule.  Pale  with  fright,  he  came 
one  day  to  say  that  the  convalescents 
had  stormed  the  bakery,  taken  out  the 
half-cooked  bread  and  scattered  it  about 
the  yard,  beaten  the  baker,  and  threat- 
ened to  hang  the  steward.  Always  eager 
to  save  the  men  from  punishment,  yet 
recognizing  that  discipline  must  be  pre- 
served, I  hurried  to  the  scene  of  war, 
to  throw  myself  into  the  breach  before 
the  surgeon  should  arrive  with  the  guard 
to  arrest  the  offenders.  Here  I  found 
the  new  bakery —  a  "  shanty"  made  of 
plank,  which  had  been  secured  at  great 
trouble  —  leveled  to  the  ground,  and  two 
hundred  excited  men  clamoring  for  the 
bread  which  they  declared  the  steward 
withheld  from  them  from  meanness,  or 
stole  from  them  for  his  own  benefit. 

"And  what  do  you  say  of  the  ma- 
tron ?  "  I  asked,  rushing  into  their  midst. 
"  Do  you  think  that  she,  through  whose 
hands  the  bread  must  pass,  is  a  party  to 
the  theft  ?  Do  you  accuse  me,  who  have 
nursed  you  through  months  of  illness, 
making  you  chicken  soup  when  we  had 
not  seen  chicken  for  a  year,  forcing  an 
old  breastbone  to  do  duty  for  months  for 
those  unreasonable  fellows  who  wanted 
to  see  the  chicken,  —  me,  who  gave  you 
a  greater  variety  in  peas  than  was  ever 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


4TT 


known  before,  and  who  latterly  stewed 
your  rats  when  the  cook  refused  to  touch 
them?  And  this  is  your  gratitude!  You 
tear  down  my  bakehouse,  beat  my  baker, 
and  want  to  hang  my  steward  !  Here,' 
guard,  take  four  of  these  men  to  the 
guardhouse.  You  all  know  if  the  head 
surgeon  were  here  forty  of  you  would  go." 
To  my  surprise,  the  angry  men  of  the 
moment  before  laughed  and  cheered,  and 
there  ensued  a  struggle  as  to  who  should 
go  to  the  guardhouse.  A  few  days  after 
there  came  to  me  a  "  committee "  of 
two  sheepish-looking  fellows,  to  ask  my 
acceptance  of  a  ring.  Each  of  the  poor 
men  had  subscribed  something  from 
his  pittance,  and  their  old  enemy  the 
steward  had  been  sent  to  town  to  make 
the  purchase.  Accompanying  the  ring 
was  a  bit  of  dirty  paper,  on  which  was 
written :  — 

FOR  OUR  CHIEF  MATRON 
In  honor  of  her  Brave  Conduct  on  the 

day  of 
THE  BREAD  RIOT 

It  was  the  ugliest  little  ring  ever  seen, 
but  it  was  as  "  pure  gold  "  as  were  the 
hearts  which  sent  it,  and  it  shall  go  down 
to  posterity  in  my  family,  in  memory  of 
the  brave  men  who  led  the  bread  riot, 
and  who  suffered  themselves  to  be  con- 
quered by  a  hospital  matron. 

What  generous  devotion  was  seen  on 
all  sides  !  What  unanimity  of  feeling  ! 
What  noble  sacrifice  !  I  have  known  a 
little  boy  of  six  or  eight  years  walk  three 
miles  to  bring  me  one  lemon  which  had 
come  to  him  through  the  blockade,  or 
one  roll  of  wheat  bread  which  he  knew 
would  be  relished  by  a  sick  soldier.  In 
passing  through  town  to  go  to  meet  ex- 
changed prisoners,  my  ambulance  would 
be  hailed  from  every  door,  and  the  din- 
ners just  served  for  a  hungry  family 
brought  out  to  feed  the  returned  men. 
They  would  all  say,  with  General  Joseph 
Anderson,  when  I  prayed  them  to  retain 
a  part  of  their  dinner,  "  We  can  eat  dry 
bread  to-day."  As  I  recall  those  scenes 


my  heart  breaks  again.  I  must  leave 
my  pen,  and  walk  about  to  compose  my- 
self and  wipe  the  tears  from  my  eyes. 
I  see  the  steamer  arrive,  with  its  load  of 
dirty,  ragged  men,  half  dead  with  illness 
and  starvation.  I  hear  the  feeble  shout 
they  raise,  as  they  reply  to  the  assembled 
crowd  in  waiting.  The  faint  wail  of 
Dixie's  Land  comes  to  my  ears.  Men 
weep,  and  women  stretch  their  arms  to- 
ward the  ship.  A  line  is  formed,  and 
the  tottering  men  come  down  the  gang- 
way to  be  received  in  the  arms  of  family 
and  friends.  Many  kiss  the  ground  as 
they  reach  it,  and  some  kiss  it  and  die  ! 
Food  and  drink  are  given  ;  doctors  are  in 
attendance  ;  the  best  carriages  in  Rich- 
mond await  these  returned  heroes  ;  the 
stretchers  receive  those  who  have  come 
home  to  die.  And  these  soldiers,  in  this 
wretched  plight,  are  returned  to  us  from 
"  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey," 
—  from  those  who  so  lately  were  our 
brothers,  —  a  land  where  there  are  brave 
men  and  tender  women  ! 

I  can  never  forget  a  poor  fellow  from 
whose  feet  and  legs,  covered  with  scurvy 
sores,  I  was  three  weeks  taking  out  with 
pincers  the  bits  of  stocking  which  had 
grown  into  the  flesh  during  eighteen 
months'  imprisonment.  Every  day  I 
would  try  to  dispose  his  heart  to  forgive- 
ness ;  every  morning  ask,  "  Do  you  for- 
give your  enemies  ?  "  —  when  he  would 
turn  his  face  to  the  wall  and  cry,  "  But 
they  did  me  so  bad ! "  Vainly  I  reminded 
him,  "  Our  Lord  was  crucified,  yet  He 
forgave  his  enemies,"  and  that  unless  he 
forgave  he  would  not  be  forgiven.  Only 
the  last  day  of  his  life  did  he  yield,  and 
with  his  last  breath  murmur  :  "  Lord,  I 
forgive  them  !  Lord,  forgive  me!  " 

One  day,  while  at  Camp  Winder,  there 
was  brought  into  the  hospital  a  fine-look* 
ing  young  Irishman,  covered  with  blood, 
and  appearing  to  be  in  a  dying  condition. 
He  was  of  a  Savannah  regiment,  and  the 
comrades  who  were  detailed  to  bring  him 
to  us  stated  that  in  passing  Lynchburg 
they  had  descended  at  the  station,  and 


478 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


hurrying  to  regain  the  train,  this  man 
had  jumped  from  the  ground  to  the  plat- 
form. Almost  instantly  he  began  to 
vomit  blood.  It  was  plain  he  had  rup- 
tured a  blood  vessel,  and  they  had  feared 
he  would  not  live  to  get  to  a  hospital. 
Tenderly  he  was  lifted  from  the  litter, 
and  every  effort  made  to  stanch  the 
bleeding.  We  were  not  allowed  to  wash 
or  dress  him,  speak,  or  make  the  slight- 
est noise  to  disturb  him.  As  I  pressed 
a  handkerchief  upon  his  lips  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  upon  me  with 
an  eagerness  which  showed  me  he  wished 
to  say  something.  By  this  time  we  had 
become  quick  to  interpret  the  looks  and 
motions  of  the  poor  fellows  committed 
to  our  hands.  Dropping  upon  my  knees, 
I  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  I  saw  the 
answer  in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  Catho- 
lic, and  wanted  a  priest  to  prepare  him 
for  death.  Softly  and  distinctly  I  pro- 
mised to  send  for  a  priest,  should  death 
be  imminent,  and  reminded  him  that 
upon  his  obedience  to  the  orders  to  be 
quiet,  and  not  agitate  mind  or  body,  de- 
pended his  life  and  his  hope  of  speaking 
when  the  priest  should  appear.  With 
childlike  submission  he  closed  his  «yes, 
and  lay  so  still  that  we  had  to  touch  his 
pulse  from  time  to  time  to  be  assured 
that  he  lived.  With  the  morning  the 
bleeding  ceased,  and  he  was  able  to  swal- 
low medicine  and  nourishment,  and  in 
another  day  he  was  allowed  to  say  a  few 
words.  Soon  he  asked  for  the  ragged 
jacket  which,  according  to  rule,  had  been 
placed  under  his  pillow,  and  took  from 
the  lining  a  silver  watch,  and  then  a  one- 
hundred-dollar  United  States  bank  note 
greeted  our  eyes.  It  must  have  been 
worth  one  thousand  dollars  in  Confeder- 
ate money,  and  that  a  poor  soldier  should 
own  so  much  at  this  crisis  of  our  fate  was 
indeed  a  marvel. 

I  took  charge  of  his  treasures  till  he 
could  tell  us  his  history  and  say  what 
should  be  done  with  them  when  death, 
which  was  inevitable,  came  to  him.  It 
was  evident  that  he  had  fallen  into  a 


rapid  decline,  though  relieved  from  the 
fear  of  immediate  death.  Fever  and 
cough  and  those  terrible  night  sweats 
soon  reduced  this  stalwart  form  to  ema- 
ciation. Patient  and  uncomplaining,  he 
had  but  one  anxiety,  and  this  was  for  the 
fate  of  the  treasures  he  had  guarded 
through  three  long  years,  in  battle  and  in 
bivouac,  in  hunger  and  thirst  and  naked- 
ness. He  was  with  his  regiment  at  Bull 
Run,  and  after  the  battle,  seeing  a  wound- 
ed Federal  leaning  against  a  tree  and  ap- 
parently dying,  he  went  to  him,  and  found 
he  belonged  to  a  New  York  regiment, 
and  that  he  was  an  Irishman.  Support- 
ing the  dying  man  and  praying  beside 
him,  he  received  his  last  words,  and 
with  them  his  watch  and  a  one-hundred- 
dollar  bank  note  which  he  desired  should 
be  given  to  his  sister.  Our  Irishman 
readily  promised  she  should  have  this 
inheritance  when  the  war  ended,  and 
at  the  earliest  opportunity  sewed  the 
money  in  the  lining  of  his  jacket  and  hid 
away  the  watch,  keeping  them  safely 
through  every  change  and  amidst  every 
temptation  which  beset  the  poor  soldier 
in  those  trying  times.  He  was  sure  that 
he  would  "  some  day  "  get  to  New  York, 
and  be  able  to  restore  these  things  to 
the  rightful  owner.  Even  at  this  late 
day  he  held  the  same  belief,  and  could 
not  be  persuaded  that  the  money  was  a 
"  fortune  of  war ;  "  that  he  had  a  right  to 
spend  it  for  his  own  comfort,  or  to  will 
it  to  whom  he  would ;  that  even  were  the 
war  over,  and  he  in  New  York,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  find  the  owner  with  so 
vague  a  clue  as  he  possessed. 

"  And  did  you  go  barefoot  and  rag- 
ged and  hungry  all  these  three  years," 
asked  the  surgeon,  "  with  this  money  in 
your  pocket?  Why,  you  might  have 
sold  it  and  been  a  rich  man,  and  have 
done  a  world  of  good." 

"  Sure,  doctor,  it  was  not  mine  to 
give,"  was  the  simple  answer  of  the  dy- 
ing man.  "  If  it  please  Almighty  God, 
when  the  war  is  over,  I  thought  to  go  to 
New  York  and  advertise  in  the  papers 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


479 


for  Bridget  O'Reilly,  and  give  it  into  her 
own  hand." 

"  But,"  I  urged,  "  there  must  be  hun- 
dreds of  that  name  in  the  great  city  of 
New  York.  How  would  you  decide 
should  dishonest  ones  come  to  claim  this 
money  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  would  have  it  called  by  the 
priest  out  from  God's  holy  altar,"  he  re- 
plied, after  a  moment's  thought. 

It  was  hard  to  destroy  in  the  honest 
fellow  the  faith  that  was  in  him.  With 
the  priest  who  came  to  see  him  he  ar- 
gued after  the  same  fashion,  and,  as  his 
death  approached,  we  had  to  get  the 
good  bishop  to  settle  this  matter  of  "  con- 
science money."  The  authority  of  so 
high  a  functionary  prevailed,  and  the 
dying  man  was  induced  to  believe  he  had 
a  right  to  dispose  of  this  little  fortune. 
The  watch  he  wished  to  send  to  an 
Irishman  in  Savannah  who  had  been  a 
friend,  a  brother  to  him,  for  he  had  come 
with  him  from  the  "  old  country."  As 
for  the  money,  he  had  heard  that  the 
little  orphans  of  Savannah  had  had  no 
milk  for  two  long  years.  He  would  like 
"  all  that  money  to  be  spent  in  milk  for 
them."  A  lady  who  went  to  Georgia  the 
day  after  we  buried  him  took  the  watch 
and  the  money,  and  promised  to  see  car- 
ried out  the  last  will  and  testament  of 
this  honest  heart. 

But  space  would  fail  me  to  tell  of  all. 
There  were  those  noble  Israelites  of  Sa- 
vannah and  of  Carolina,  who  fought  so 
bravely  and  endured  pain  so  patiently, 
and  were  so  gentle  and  grateful  when 
placed  with  their  own  people,  that  gener- 
ous family  of  Myers,  whose  hearts  and 
purses  were  open  to  us  all.  And  my 
poor,  ugly  smallpox  men  !  How  could 
I  fail  to  mention  you,  in  whose  suffer- 
ings was  no  "  glory,"  —  whose  malady 
was  so  disgusting  and  so  contagious  as 
to  shut  you  out  from  companionship  and 
sympathy  !  We  had  about  twenty  of 
these  patients  in  tents  a  mile  away,  near 
Hollywood  Cemetery,  where  they  could 
well  meditate  amidst  the  tombs.  Often 


in  the  night  I  would  wake,  thinking  I 
heard  their  groans.  Lantern  in  hand, 
and  carrying  a  basket  of  something  nice 
to  eat,  and  a  cooling  salve  for  the  blinded 
eyes  and"  the  sore  and  bleeding  faces,  I 
would  betake  me  to  the  tents,  to  hear  the 
grateful  welcome,  "  We  knew  you  would 
come  to-night !  "  "  Can  I  have  a  drop  of 
milk  or  wine  ?  "  A  few  encouraging 
words  and  a  little  prayer  soon  soothed 
them  to  sleep.  These  were  my  favorites, 
except  some  men  with  old  wounds  that 
never  would  heal,  and  our  "  pet "  whom 
we  rescued  from  the  deadhouse. 

In  war  as  in  life  it  is  not  always  De- 
cember ;  it  is  sometimes  May.  Even  in 
hospitals,  as  I  have  shown,  there  are 
often  droll  scenes  and  cheerful  laughter. 
One  day  a  young  Carolinian  was  brought 
in,  wounded  in  the  tongue.  A  ball  had 
taken  it  half  off,  and  a  bit  of  the  offend- 
ing member  hung  most  inconveniently 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  prevented  his  eat- 
ing and  speaking,  obliging  him  to  be  fed 
through  a  tube.  In  vain  he  made  signs 
to  the  doctor,  and  wrote  on  a  slate  that 
they  must  cut  off  this  piece  of  tongue. 
The  surgeons  refused,  fearing  the  inci- 
sion of  the  small  blood  vessels  would  be 
fatal.  One  day,  when  he  was  left  alone 
with  the  faithful  servant  who  had  been 
with  him  in  every  danger,  he  obliged  this 
man  to  perform  the  operation.  After 
doing  it,  the  poor  negro  was  so  fright- 
ened he  ran  to  us,  exclaiming :  "  I  done 
cut  Marse  Charlie's  tongue  off  !  Come 
quick !  "  Fortunately,  he  had  but  a  very 
dull  pocket  knife,  and  so  the  blood  vessels 
filled  as  he  cut,  and  there  was  little  or  no 
harm  done.  "  Marse  Charlie  "  got  well, 
and  went  to  fight  again.  I  forget  if  he 
could  talk  understandingly. 

In  the  intervals  of  nursing  and  cook- 
ing we  wove  straw  for  our  bonnets,  and 
dyed  it  with  walnut  hulls,  and  made 
gloves  from  brown  linen  and  ratskins. 
From  old  pantaloons  we  got  our  boot 
tops,  which  were  laced  with  twine  and 
soled  by  some  soldier.  Woolens  and 
cottons  were  woven  in  the  country,  and 


480 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


we  cut  the  gowns  with  less  regard  to 
form  than  to  economy.  After  General 
McClellan's  retreat  from  the  peninsula, 
we  had  quantities  of  captured  kitchen 
furniture,  which  was  divided  amongst  the 
hospitals.  I  went  to  town  to  get  my 
share.  A  mirror  hung  in  the  shop,  high 
over  the  door.  Glancing  up,  I  saw  in  it 
a  strange-looking  woman,  in  an  ill-hung 
gown  of  no  particular  color,  a  great  cape 
of  the  same,  and  a  big  blue  apron,  while 
her  head  was  surmounted  by  a  shapeless 
hat  of  brown  straw.  "  Do  I  look  like 
that  ?  "  I  asked,  surprised.  The  much- 
amused  man  replied  that  I  certainly  did. 

As  the  "  lines  "  drew  in  closer  and 
closer,  the  men  nurses  (convalescents) 
were  taken  to  the  field,  and  our  servants, 
many  of  them,  ran  away.  Then  came 
our  daughters  and  the  young  ladies  of  the 
city  to  assist  us.  The  dainty  belles  of 
Richmond,  amongst  them  General  Lee's 
own  daughters,  would  be  seen  staggering 
under  a  tray  of  eatables  for  a  ward  of 
forty  patients,  which  food  they  would  be 
enjoined  to  make  go  as  far  as  possible. 
Miss  Jeannie  Ritchie  had  a  wonderful 
knack  at  making  a  little  go  a  great  way, 
often  satisfying  her  men  and  having 
something  to  spare  to  the  others  who  had 
not  enough  to  go  round.  I  have  seen 
three  or  four  of  these  belles  drag  from 
an  ambulance  a  wounded  man  fresh  from 
the  lines  at  Petersburg,  washing  and 
dressing  him  with  their  dainty  fingers. 

It  is  wonderful  how  we  slept,  those 
last  two  years  in  the  beleaguered  city, 
with  guns  booming  night  as  well  as  day, 
and  the  whistle  from  the  railway  giving 
signal  continually  of  a  load  of  wounded 
from  the  lines. 

Yet  these  guns  seemed  less  near  and 
less  fatal  than  those  at  Charleston,  where 
I  went  during  the  siege  of  that  city,  on 
my  way  to  Georgia  to  beg  for  our  hos- 
pital. We  were  in  need  of  everything, 
—  sheets  for  the  beds,  shirts  for  the  men. 
We  had  not  a  rag  with  which  to  dress 
wounds,  and  even  paper  for  spreading 
poultices  and  plasters  was  difficult  to 


obtain.  I  had  transportation  with  the 
soldiers,  and  traveled  with  them  in  box 
cars,  sleeping  on  the  floor,  covered  with 
a  big  shawl,  with  a  little  carpet  bag  for 
a  pillow.  When  we  stopped  to  change 
cars,  I  lay  down  with  the  men  on  the 
platform  of  the  station,  and  slept  as 
soundly  as  they  did,  always  meeting  with 
kindness  and  offers  of  service.  Some- 
times my  transportation  got  me  a  pro- 
vision train  loaded  with  grain,  where  I 
slept  comfortably  on  the  bags  of  corn, 
and  so  reached  Augusta.  The  Messrs. 
Jackson,  who  had  fine  cotton  mills,  gen- 
erously gave  me  sheetings  and  shirtings 
in  abundance,  with  a  piece  of  fine  shirting 
for  General  Lee,  one  for  General  Cooper, 
and  a  third  for  the  ladies  of  our  hospital. 
Everywhere  were  the  same  generosity 
and  hospitality.  The  dweller  in  the  poor- 
est cottage  would  give  something  "  for 
the  soldiers,"  —  a  package  of  precious 
rags,  a  bunch  of  herbs  for  teas,  —  things 
which  would  be  of  little  value  in  time  of 
peace,  but  were  now  priceless.  At  Ma- 
con  the  priest  and  his  sister  came  to  the 
station  and  took  me  to  their  house  ;  and 
from  kind  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilmartin,  of 
Savannah,  it  was  difficult  to  get  away. 
I  came  home  laden  with  spoils. 

Stopping  in  Charleston,  I  went  to  see 
my  friends  the  Sisters  of  Mercy,  who  had 
now  enough  to  do  in  their  own  city.  One 
of  these,  full  of  courage,  proposed  to  show 
me  the  beautiful  houses  on  the  Battery, 
which  were  fast  being  torn  to  pieces  by 
the  shells  of  the  enemy.  There  had  been 
an  intermission  in  the  firing  that  day, 
and  the  Sister  was  sure  we  would  have 
time  to  see  everything  and  get  back  before 
the  guns  recommenced.  While  we  were 
mourning  over  these  ruined  homes,  the 
seats  of  renowned  hospitality,  and  whose 
roses  were  clinging  to  the  falling  walls, 
we  heard  a  whizzing  above  our  heads,  and 
down  we  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  car- 
riage, and  down  went  the  latter  into  a 
cellar,  to  shelter  us  from  the  danger  to 
which  our  curiosity  had  exposed  us.  On 
my  return  to  Richmond  I  joined  Colonel 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


481 


Tabb's  Virginia  regiment,  and  was  with 
them  when  they  had  a  fight  for  the  pos- 
session of  a  bridge  over  Nottoway  Creek, 
near  Petersburg.  The  charming  young 
colonel  recommended  me  to  leave  the 
train,  and  go  into  one  of  the  houses  near. 
Here  was  a  scene  of  fear  and  dismay. 
Women  were  hurrying  with  their  beds 
and  furniture  to  a  hiding  place  in  the 
woods,  weeping,  and  shouting  to  one  an- 
other, sure  the  Yankees  would  be  upon 
them  immediately  to  burn  and  rifle  their 
houses.  Happily  for  them  and  for  us  all, 
our  people  drove  the  enemy  away,  and 
with  one  wounded  man  and  one  prisoner 
we  reached  Richmond  without  further 
delay. 

Amongst  the  sad  events  of  1864  was 
the  death  of  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart, 
who  was  wounded  mortally  in  one  of  the 
raids  around  Richmond.  We  hurried  to 
town  to  see  once  more  thispreux  cheva- 
lier. President  Davis  knelt  at  his  bed- 
side, and  life  was  flowing  fast  away.  Of 
all  the  military  funerals  I  have  seen,  this 
was  the  most  solemn.  As  we  walked 
behind  the  bier  which  carried  this  hero 
of  the  Song  and  Sword,  who,  like  Korner, 

"  Fought  the  fight  all  day, 
And  sung  its  song  all  night," 

the  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the 

"  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing." 

Every  one  recalled  the  lines :  — 

"  Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory." 

Eleven  months  later  came  "  that  day 
of  woe,  that  awful  day,"  which  saw  the 
evacuation  of  Richmond.  All  day  and 
night  streamed  forth  the  people  who  could 
get  away.  Every  carriage,  wagon,  cart, 
every  horse,  was  in  demand,  and  sad- 
faced  people  on  foot,  with  little  bundles, 
thronged  the  one  outlet  left  open  from 
the  ill-fated  city.  By  night  it  was  de- 
serted :  only  a  few  old  men,  with  women 
and  children,  remained,  and  the  swarm 
of  negroes  awaiting  the  triumphal  entry 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  31 


of  their  Northern  brethren,  whom  we 
knew  to  be  the  advance  of  the  army  of 
occupation.  The  next  morning  dawned 
on  a  scene  truly  demoniacal.  Fire  seemed 
to  blaze  in  every  quarter,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  combat  it.  Our  people  had 
set  fire  to  the  Tredegar  Works  before 
leaving,  in  order  to  deprive  the  enemy  of 
them.  My  brother-in-law  had  gone  with 
the  President,  and  my  sister,  in  her  ter- 
ror, prayed  me  to  come  into  town  to  pro- 
tect her  when  the  enemy  should  enter. 
I  set  out  from  the  hospital  on  foot,  tak- 
ing along  a  big  South  Carolina  soldier 
named  Sandy,  who  was  full  of  fight  and 
strength,  to  pilot  me  through  the  peril- 
ous way.  Between  us  and  the  city  lay 
the  penitentiary  in  flames,  and  from  out 
of  the  building  poured  a  hideous  throng, 
laden  with  booty,  and  adding  to  the  gen- 
eral uproar  by  their  shouts.  We  hid  be- 
hind a  wall  till  they  passed,  when  next 
was  encountered  a  hearse  drawn  by  two 
negroes,  from  out  of  which  streamed 
ends  of  silk  and  calico  and  cotton  stolen 
from  some  shop.  Farther  on  came  an- 
other hearse,  from  behind  which  oozed 
upon  the  ground  tea  and  coffee  and 
sugar,  ill  secured  in  the  hasty  flight  of 
the  thieves.  On  every  side  of  us  were 
falling  walls  and  beams  from  the  burning 
houses,  and  with  every  explosion  from  the 
factories  of  arms  the  earth  would  trem- 
ble, as  it  seemed,  and  the  shock  would 
sometimes  throw  us  to  the  ground.  We 
were  long  making  our  way  to  the  pan- 
demonium which  awaited  us  in  the  town. 
Here  tottered  a  church  steeple ;  there  a 
friend's  house  was  on  fire,  and  women 
and  children  were  trying  to  save  the 
household  goods  which  the  negroes  were 
appropriating  to  themselves.  We  met 
some  women  who  told  us  that  the  rail- 
way station  was  on  fire,  filled  with 
wounded  men  from  Petersburg.  Happi- 
ly, the  men  had  been  withdrawn  by  the 
ever  helpful  women.  But  here  was  a 
sight !  The  street  ran  flames  of  burn- 
ing spirits,  which  had  been  emptied  from 
the  stock  of  the  medical  director  in  or- 


482 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


der  to  prevent  their  being  used  by  the 
incoming  soldiery.  On  the  roof  of  my 
sister's  house  wet  blankets  were  laid  by 
her  servants ;  and  a  few  doors  below 
was  Mrs.  Lee,  infirm,  unable  to  walk, 
yet  in  danger  from  the  falling  of  a  burn- 
ing church  and  the  houses  across  the 
way.  My  cousin  Mrs.  Rhett  and  I  pro- 
posed to  make  our  way  to  the  comman- 
dant and  ask  for  means  to  meet  this  dan- 
ger. The  fire  raged  furiously  between 
us  and  the  Capitol,  the  "  headquarters," 
and  we  made  a  long  detour  through 
Broad  Street  to  reach  it.  Here  we  en- 
countered the  regiment  of  negro  caval- 
ry which  came  in  the  advance.  Along 
the  sidewalk  were  ranged  our  negroes, 
shouting  and  bidding  welcome,  to  which 
the  others  replied,  waving  their  drawn 
sabres,  "We  have  come  to  set  you 
free  !  "  My  little  nephew,  who  held  my 
hand,  trembled,  but  not  with  fear.  He 
kept  repeating,  "  I  must  kill  them,  I  must 
strike  them."  "  Be  still,  or  you  will  be 
killed,"  was  all  I  could  say.  It  was  not 
that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own  people. 
The  Southern  negro  never  forgot  the 
love  and  respect  he  had  for  his  master. 
There  is  not  one  record  against  their  true, 
warm  hearts.  Yet  what  might  we  not 
have  encountered  but  for  the  prompt  and 
kind  care  of  the  officers  in  command ! 
In  a  few  hours  sentinels  were  at  every 
corner;  the  thieves  were  compelled  to 
yield  up  their  ill-gotten  gains,  and  every 
instance  of  insult  to  ladies  was  summa- 
rily punished. 

Coming  into  the  presence  of  General 
Weitzel,  we  hastily  explained  our  er- 
rand. "  Mrs.  Lee  in  danger  !  "  he  cried. 
"  The  mother  of  Fitz  Lee,  —  she  who 
nursed  me  so  tenderly  when  I  was  ill  at 
West  Point  ?  What  can  I  do  for  her  ?  " 
We  explained  that  it  was  as  well  for 
her  as  for  the  other  Mrs.  Lee  that  we 
claimed  his  aid.  In  an  instant  he  wrote 
upon  his  knee  an  order  for  the  ambu- 
lances we  needed  ;  and  at  the  head  of 
five  of  these  conveyances  we  led  the 
way  through  the  fire  and  smoke,  our 


sleeves  singed  and  our  faces  begrimed 
with  soot  and  dirt.  We  posted  an  am- 
bulance at  every  door  where  there  were 
sick  and  infirm,  and  little  children  ;  and 
when  I  reached  my  sister's  with  the  last 
one,  my  driver  had  unaccountably  be- 
come so  drunk  that  I  could  hardly  hold 
him  upon  his  seat.  At  the  door  were 
my  sister's  little  girls,  each  with  her 
bundle  of  most  precious  things  to  be 
saved.  In  vain  would  I  "  back  up  "  to 
the  pavement ;  my  man  would  jerk  the 
horse,  and  off  we  would  go  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street,  where  he  would  hic- 
cough :  "  Come  along,  Virginia  aristocra- 
cy !  I  won't  hurt  you  !  "  An  officer  gal- 
loping by,  seeing  my  dilemma,  stopped, 
seized  the  horse's  head,  backed  him,  and 
gave  the  driver  a  good  whack  with  his 
sheathed  sword,  which  sobered  him  for 
a  moment.  We  loaded  up,  and  moved 
off  to  the  lovely  house  of  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford, which,  with  its  fine  furniture,  lay 
open  and  deserted.  Here  we  took  re- 
fuge, and  leaving  our  driver  without  an 
encircling  arm,  I  am  persuaded  he  went 
under  the  horse's  heels  before  long. 

There  came  in  with  the  first  division 
Dr.  Alexander  Mott,  of  New  York,  as 
chief  of  the  medical  department.  I  had 
known  him  from  his  boyhood,  and  his 
wife  was  our  friend  and  connection.  He 
sought  me  out,  and  begged  me  to  go  in- 
stantly to  our  officers'  hospital,  left  vacant 
by  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  into  which  he 
must  put  his  sick  and  wounded,  and  for 
whom  he  had  no  nurses.  He  could  not 
provide  nurses  until  the  way  was  well 
opened  with  the  North.  I  was  glad  to 
do  this,  especially  as  there  were  many  of 
our  officers  yet  remaining,  who  had  been 
recommended  to  my  care  by  the  Sisters, 
and  the  few  men  who  were  still  at  Camp 
Winder  could  well  be  cared  for  by  others. 

I  had  naturally  many  contretemps  in 
this  my  new  hospital,  though  the  sur- 
geons in  charge  knew  that  I  was  nurs- 
ing their  people  for  sweet  charity's  sake, 
and  not  for  their  "  filthy  lucre."  They 
first  laid  hands  on  the  furniture  of  my 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


483 


room,  which  I  had  removed  from  Camp 
Winder,  and  which  had  been  given  me 
by  friends  to  make  me  comfortable.  I 
assured  them  it  was  private  property, 
yet  they  contended  it  could  be  "  confis- 
cated "  for  their  use.  Fortunately,  Dr. 
Simmons,  a  surgeon  of  the  "  old  army," 
was  now  medical  director,  and,  knowing 
him  to  have  been  a  friend  of  General 
Lee  and  General  Chilton,  I  went  to  him 
with  iny  report  of  the  matter.  He 
roundly  declared  there  should  be  no 
"  stealing  "  in  his  department :  so  next 
day  my  bed  and  wardrobe  came  back, 
with  many  apologies.  We  had  been 
afraid  that  these  surgeons  would  put 
their  "  colored  brethren "  in  the  same 
ward  with  our  officers,  but  the  latter  were 
spared  this  humiliation.  Apropos  of  the 
colored  soldiers,  one  day  the  doctor  in 
charge  of  these  wards  came  to  tell  me 
he  had  great  difficulty  in  managing  some 
of  them.  They  were  homesick,  would 
not  eat  or  be  washed  and  dressed. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  Southern  negroes," 
I  said,  "  and  accustomed  to  the  gentle 
hand  of  a  mistress.  I  will  see." 

And  so  it  proved.  As  I  went  from 
bed  to  bed,  I  asked,  "  Where  did  you 
come  from,  uncle  ?  "  "I  come  out  der 
family  ob  de  great  Baptis'  preacher  Mr. 
Broadus,  in  Kentuck,"  said  one.  "  I 
ain't  used  to  no  nigger  waitin'  on  me 
when  I  'se  sick.  My  ole  missis  always 
'tend  me,  an'  gib  me  de  bes'  ob  brandy 
toddy  wid  white  sugar  an'  nutmeg  in 
it."  When  I  could  say  I  knew  his  il- 
lustrious family,  I  was  admitted  to  the 
privilege  of  washing  his  old  black  face, 
cleaning  his  fevered  mouth,  and  putting 
on  his  clean  shirt,  and  he  drank  eagerly 
the  toddy  made  like  that  of  "  ole  mis'." 
And  so  with  them  all.  They  did  not 
"  want  to  fight "  and  be  killed ;  all  they 
wanted  was  to  be  "  carried  back  to  Ole 
Kentuck." 

These  were  the  days  which  tried  wo- 
men's souls.  Not  one  of  our  friends 
came  to  see  us  whose  pocket  was  not 
examined  by  the  sentinel  at  the  gate,  to 


see  if  I  had  given  her  a  bit  of  bread  or 
a  few  beans  for  the  starving  people  out- 
side. I  had  to  make  a  compact  with 
my  surgeons  to  draw  my  ration  of  meat 
and  give  it  away  if  I  pleased  :  and  it 
was  thus  I  obtained  for  Mrs.  Lee  her 
first  beefsteak.  After  General  Lee  came 
in  from  "  the  surrender,"  he  might  have 
had  the  rations  of  half  the  Northern  sol- 
diers, had  he  been  willing  to  receive  them. 
I  have  seen  an  Irishman  who  had  served 
under  him  in  Mexico  stand  at  his  door 
with  a  cheese  and  a  can  of  preserves, 
praying  him  to  accept  them.  General 
Lee  thanked  him,  and  sent  the  things  to 
the  sick  in  the  hospital.  As  soon  as  pro- 
visions could  be  brought  in,  rations  were 
distributed  to  the  inhabitants.  It  was 
not  infrequent  to  see  a  fine  lady,  in  silk 
and  lace,  receiving  timidly,  at  the  hands 
of  a  dirty  negro,  the  ration  of  fat  pork 
and  meal  or  flour  which  her  necessity 
obliged  her  to  seek.  Fortunately,  many 
people  had  hidden  under  the  cellar  floor 
rice  and  beans,  upon  which  they  lived  till 
the  better  days  came.  These  came  on  the 
first  steamer,  heralded  by  Mr.  Corcoran 
from  Washington,  who,  with  his  pockets 
filled  with  ten  and  five  dollar  notes,  placed 
one  in  every  empty  hand,  and  soothed 
every  proud  heart  with  words  of  sympa- 
thy. There  came  also  Mr.  Garmandier, 
of  Baltimore,  with  wine  and  brandy  and 
whiskey  for  the  old  and  feeble,  distribut- 
ing them  from  house  to  house. 

I  must  not  fail  to  relate  my  visit  to  the 
Libby  Prison  and  its  changed  inmates. 
Upon  what  pretext  these  men  were  crowd- 
ed into  the  Libby  I  cannot  conceive,  since 
they  were  paroled  prisoners,  who  expect- 
ed to  be  sent  to  their  homes  by  the  terms 
of  the  surrender.  Hearing  that  this  pris- 
on was  filled  with  men  to  whom  no  ra- 
tions were  distributed,  I  went  there,  to 
find  the  house  besieged  by  women  seek- 
ing their  missing  friends,  weeping  and 
crying  out :  "  John,  are  you  there  ?  " 
"  Oh,  somebody  tell  me  if  my  husband  is 
in  there !  "  and  again,  "  Let  down  your 
tin  cup,  and  I  '11  send  you  up  something 


484 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


in  it !  "  With  difficulty  I  entered,  and 
with  greater  difficulty  moved  about.  The 
very  staircases  were  crowded  with  men, 
packed  like  herrings  in  a  box ;  they  could 
neither  lie  down  nor  sit  down.  I  was 
able  to  satisfy  the  women  and  send  them 
away.  The  sentinel  at  the  door  was 
very  civil.  He  said  the  men  could  not  be 
fed  without  bread,  none  having  come. 
He  was  sure  they  would  soon  be  released, 
etc.  Alas,  the  cruelties  of  war,  and  its 
abuses  ! 

When  I  applied  to  the  commandant, 
General  Gibbon,  for  a  pass  to  go  to  the 
North,  I  was  asked  if  I  had  taken  "  the 
oath."  "  No,"  I  replied,  "  and  I  never 
will !  Suppose  your  wife  should  swear 
fealty  to  another  man  because  you  had 
lost  everything  ?  You  would  expect  her 
to  be  more  faithful  because  of  your  mis- 
fortunes." "  She  has  you  there,  gener- 
al," said  a  young  aide-de-camp.  "  Let 
me  give  her  the  pass."  And  he  did  so. 

My  first  visit  was  naturally  to  our 
old  home,  near  Alexandria,  and  here  I 
found  several  of  the  neighbors  trying,  like 
myself,  to  trace  the  once  familiar  road. 
Trees  gone,  fences  burned,  houses  torn 
down,  the  face  of  the  whole  country  was 
changed.  From  the  debris  of  the  ruined 
houses  the  freedmen  had  built  them- 
selves huts,  in  which  they  swarmed.  In 
vain  I  tried  to  buy  out  those  who  sought 
refuge  in  our  ruins.  The  offer  to  send 
them  to  Boston  was  received  with  scorn. 
They  had  no  notion  of  leaving  "  Ole 
Virginny."  My  next  visit  was  to  see  the 
man  whom  we  all  delighted  to  honor,  — 
now  more  than  ever,  as  he  was  suffering 
imprisonment  and  wrong  for  our  sakes. 
I  went  to  Old  Point,  made  my  way  into 
his  presence,  and  spent  a  day  in  talking 
with  him  and  Mrs.  Davis  of  the  sad  past, 
the  sadder  present,  and  that  future  which 
looked  saddest  of  all. 

I  could  not  stay  long  in  the  North, 
though  it  contained  the  dearest  object 
of  my  affections,  the  only  child  of  my 
only  brother.  Lost  without  my  accus- 
tomed employment,  I  asked  myself  what 


remained  for  me  to  do  in  the  world. 
The  work  was  at  hand,  as  I  found.  Soon 
I  was  occupied  in  Baltimore,  in  taking 
food  and  clothing  to  the  sufferers  on 
the  Rappahannock.  Mr.  John  S.  Git- 
tings  gaye  me  transportation  on  his 
steamers  to  Fredericksburg  and  back, 
and  every  week  I  had  boxes  and  barrels 
to  distribute  along  the  river,  collected  by 
the  generous  Baltimoreans ;  while  Miss 
Harper,  Major  Mathias,  and  others  made 
me  welcome  to  their  houses  and  to  their 
stores.  From  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
the  hearts  of  the  people  were  open  to  us. 
In  a  grocer's  shop,  one  day,  I  was  tell- 
ing a  lady  I  knew  of  an  Episcopal  clergy- 
man and  his  wife  who  had  been  two  years 
without  flour.  "  I  '11  give  you  a  barrel 
for  them,"  said  the  kind  grocer,  and  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  delivering  it  the  next 
day.  One  Sunday,  in  Fredericksburg,  I 
asked  the  lady  with  whom  I  was  stay- 
ing why  she  did  not  go  to  church.  She 
glanced  down  at  her  feet,  and  I  per- 
ceived she  had  no  shoes,  —  only  bits  of 
black  woolen  made  in  the  shape  of  shoes. 
Next  time  I  brought  a  goofl  load  of 
shoes  for  distribution  amongst  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  living  in  the  ruined  cel- 
lars of  their  once  fine  houses. 

In  the  intervals  between  these  trips, 
and  when  I  paused  with  my  family, 
then  living  in  Tappahannock,  we  com- 
menced to  collect  the  Confederate  poems 
of  the  war,  with  which  to  make  a  vol- 
ume. The  poem^  which  we  had  pre- 
served from  patriotic  feeling  must  now 
be  made  to  bring  aid  to  the  helpless 
orphans  of  the  Confederacy.  Many  of 
the  children  I  had  promised  to  look  after 
when  the  war  should  be  over,  and  some 
of  them  had  been  confided  to  me  by 
dying  parents.  Money  must  be  had  for 
this  purpose.  Murphy,  of  Baltimore, 
agreed  to  publish  this  book,  providing  it 
be  made  ready  and  sold  while  men's 
minds  were  busy  with  our  fate.  Done ! 
The  first  edition  went  off  in  three  months, 
and  a  new  edition  was  called  for.  The 
first  payment,  one  thousand  dollars,  en- 


Memories  of  a  Hospital  Matron. 


485 


abled  me  to  dispose  of  half  of  my  "  daugh- 
ters." Schools  were  kind,  friends  helped 
me  to  clothe  my  girls,  I  had  free  travel 
on  every  Southern  road,  and  Mr.  Robert 
Garrett  gave  transportation  for  ten  to  go 
to  St.  Louis.  These  the  Southern  Re- 
lief Association  took  from  me,  educated 
and  clothed  them,  and  returned  them  to 
their  homes,  —  those  who  had  homes  ! 
Miss  Harper's  house  was  the  rendez- 
vous in  Baltimore.  Friends  far  and  near 
would  adopt  a  girl  for  me.  My  old 
friend  Miss  Chew,  of  New  London,  Con- 
necticut, and  her  niece  Miss  Lewis,  each 
took  a  "  daughter,"  and  many  boxes  of 
clothing  carne  from  these  and  other  char- 
itable persons  at  the  North.  Here  I 
must  relate  that  the  first  money  which  I 
received  for  these  girls  came  from  that 
admirable  and  charming  woman  Mrs. 
Hamilton  Fish,  whom  I  had  known  in 
Washington  when  Governor  Fish  was  in 
Congress.  Hearing  of  my  undertaking, 
she  bade  me  Godspeed  and  sent  me  twen- 
ty dollars.  During  the  war  we  had  had 
a  most  interesting  correspondence.  I 
forget  from  which  of  us  the  proposal 
first  came :  that  she  should  send  to  the 
Federal  sick  and  wounded  prisoners  the 
medicines,  clothing,  and  dainties  which 
we  did  not  have  to  give  them,  while  I 
pledged  myself  to  see  these  things  dis- 
tributed according  to  her  instructions ; 
and  she,  in  turn,  was  to  give  to  our  pris- 
oners what  we  could  spare  from  our  ne- 
cessities. Unreasonably,  as  it  seemed  to 
us,  the  Northern  government  refused  to 
sanction  our  interchange  of  charity,  great- 
ly to  the  distress  of  those  in  whose  hearts 
I  had  raised  hopes  to  be  disappointed. 

Several  firms  sent  me  half-worn  books 
and  music.  I  had  even  a  sewing  ma- 
chine given  me  for  the  use  of  these  chil- 
dren, and  the  Adams  Express  sent  them 
free  to  the  schools  at  which  they  were 
placed.  Another  thousand  dollars  from 
my  kind  publisher  freed  me  from  all  em- 
barrassment, paid  all  my  debts  for  school- 


ing and  clothing,  and  my  friend  Miss 
Harper  inviting  me  to  travel  with  her  in 
Europe,  I  gladly  left  my  responsibilities 
and  my  memories  behind  me,  and  went 
to  another  world  and  another  life. 

After  several  years  of  interesting  so- 
journ in  France,  Germany,  Spain,  and 
Italy,  we  came  home  to  learn  from  the 
pilot  who  met  our  ship  that  General  Lee 
was  no  more.  Full  of  that  love  and  ven- 
eration which  we  all  bore  him,  I  resolved 
to  write  his  life  in  a  popular  form,  with 
Mrs.  Lee's  approval.  Manuscript  in 
hand,  I  went  to  see  this  dear  old  friend, 
this  heroic  wife  of  our  great  hero,  and 
with  her  went  over  my  poor  pages  ;  mod- 
ifying everything  which  she  thought  my 
love  had  exaggerated,  and  changing  in- 
cidents and  anecdotes  which  she  thought 
of  doubtful  authenticity.  When  we  came 
to  a  striking  story  in  which  General 
Lee  rebukes  the  men  who  are  jeering  at 
a  clergyman,  she  paused.  "  Does  that 
sound  like  General  Lee?"  "To  take 
this  away  will  spoil  my  best  chapter,"  I 
pleaded.  "  But  you  would  not  put  into 
this  book  what  is  not  true  ?  "  she  asked. 
So  I  sacrificed  my  story.  What  trials  of 
heart  and  sufferings  of  body  this  noble 
woman  bore  !  Sustained  by  a  faith  I 
have  never  seen  surpassed,  and  by  ac- 
complishments of  mind  which  made  her 
independent  of  discomforts  which  would 
have  crushed  others,  she  lived  serenely 
on  her  own  high  level.  The  sale  of  The 
Popular  Life  of  Lee  canceled  all  the 
liabilities  I  had  incurred  for  the  educa- 
tion of  my  "  daughters."  Of  the  first 
comers,  many  had  remained  at  school 
only  two  years,  and  had  gone  home  to 
teach,  while  others  took  their  places.  And 
I  am  proud  and  happy  to  say  that,  of 
them  all,  I  dp  not  recall  an  instance  of 
one  who  has  not  done  honor  to  her  peo- 
ple, and  who  has  not  profited  by  the  op- 
portunity afforded  her  to  advance  the 
interests  of  her  family  and  make  herself 
a  useful  member  of  society. 

JSmily  V.  Mason, 


(The  end.) 


486 


Limitations  to  the  Production  of  Skyscrapers. 


LIMITATIONS  TO  THE  PRODUCTION   OF    SKYSCRAPERS. 


THE  development  of  the  American 
city,  it  may  safely  be  assumed,  will  be 
governed  by  economic  rather  than  by 
artistic  considerations.  The  few  at- 
tempts to  regulate  or  to  encourage  its 
growth  by  municipal  ordinance  have 
simmered  down  to  an  occasional  and 
unusually  ineffectual  law  regulating  the 
height  of  office  buildings,  and  to  the 
appointment  of  "art  commissions  "  and 
"  supervising  architects  "  whose  powers 
are  chiefly  advisory  and  limited  to  the 
artistic  inspection  of  municipal  public 
works.  Any  such  rigid  supervision  of 
urban  growth,  with  an  eye  to  the  main- 
tenance of  a  general  architectural  co- 
herence, as  is  the  rule  in  several  Euro- 
pean cities,  is  apparently  a  phase  of 
municipal  authority  entirely  foreign  to 
the  genius  of  the  American  system. 
American  utilitarianism,  indeed,  has 
perhaps  reached  its  profoundest  expres- 
sion in  the  wild  and  unkempt  luxuriance 
with  which  our  great  metropolitan  city, 
New  York,  has  been  permitted  to  evolve 
itself  uninterf ered  with  by  the  culturing 
hand  of  the  mere  artist.  The  real  es- 
tate operator  and  the  speculative  build- 
er have  been  its  architectural  mentors ; 
the  necessity  of  deriving  the  maximum 
rental  income  at  the  minimum  expense 
has  been  the  only  inspiration  or  respon- 
sibility they  have  known.  This  is  es- 
pecially the  case  in  the  production  of 
the  modern  American  office  building, 
as  instanced  in  the  recent  large  under- 
takings of  the  kind  in  New  York.  In 
the  skyscraper's  early  days,  there  were 
slight  attempts  made  to  introduce  "art " 
into  its  construction.  This  usually  took 
the  shape  of  more  or  less  patent  attempts 
to  conceal  the  height  by  elongating  the 
windows,  by  the  introduction  of  balco- 
nies and  other  ornamental  designs  at  va- 
rious intervals,  and  by  highly  elaborate 
bases  and  capitals,  the  latter  frequently 
terminating  in  towers,  Mansard  roofs, 


and  the  like.  The  general  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  the  artistic  shortcomings 
of  the  skyscraper  centred  in  the  general 
design  rather  than  in  its  execution,  as 
well  as  the  additional  expense,  have  re- 
sulted in  the  almost  total  abandonment 
of  these  ineffectual  struggles  for  archi- 
tectural effect.  It  was  found,  among 
other  things,  that  highly  carved  balco- 
nies at  the  eighteenth  and  twentieth 
stories  were  not  additional  attractions  to 
tenants ;  and  that  Mansard  roofs  paid 
no  rent.  The  skyscraper,  in  its  latest 
manifestation,  therefore,  consists  of  a 
succession  of  prosaic  stories,  one  upon 
another,  the  whole  rising  sheer  from 
earth  heavenward,  its  monotony  unre- 
lieved by  the  slightest  ornamentation. 
The  largest  office  building  in  the  world, 
the  Broad  Exchange,  at  the  southeast 
corner  of  Broad  Street  and  Exchange 
Place,  New  York,  rising  to  a  height  of 
twenty  stories,  and  occupying  27,000 
square  feet  of  ground  space,  is  the  final 
word  in  what  may  be  called  the  modern 
economic  system  of  office  construction. 
The  building  was  erected  by  a  syndicate 
of  operators  as  a  speculative  enterprise, 
and  represents  invested  capital  of  not 
far  from  $7,500,000.  Of  that  $7,- 
500,000  hardly  a  dollar  has  been  spent 
in  non-productive  ornamentation;  the 
whole  operation  has  been  conducted  with 
an  eye  single  to  rental  income. 

All  these,  of  course,  are  lamentable 
facts.  The  situation  is  especially  un- 
fortunate in  that  the  largest  of  our 
American  cities  are  still,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, virgin  soil;  that  is  to  say,  they 
are  undergoing  a  process  of  rebuilding, 
are  shaking  off  the  old  wornout  crust 
and  taking  upon  themselves  a  new  garb. 
The  invention  of  the  modern  elevator 
and  the  development  of  the  modern  sys- 
tem of  steel  construction  have  worked 
such  a  revolution  in  land  values  that  the 
re-improvement  of  the  property  becomes 


Limitations  to  the  Production  of  /Skyscrapers. 


487 


an  economic  necessity.  New  York  city, 
for  example,  even  in  its  most  thickly 
settled  parts,  is  practically  vacant  land ; 
its  old  office  buildings  are  demolished 
to  make  room  for  large  structures  upon 
which  a  living  income  can  be  figured 
out,  its  old  private  houses  are  removed 
and  replaced  with  six  story  flats,  its 
flats  in  their  turn  are  razed  to  furnish 
building  sites  for  modern  apartment 
houses  and  hotels.  It  thus  happens 
that  the  building  and  architectural  fu- 
ture of  New  York  is  all  before  it;  and 
the  question  therefore  rises  concerning 
the  use  which  this  and  other  American 
cities  with  similar  conditions  are  to 
make  of  their  opportunities;  whether, 
especially  in  their  business  sections, 
they  are  to  become  architectural  blots, 
or  whether  there  is  any  chance  of  their 
development  along  more  pleasing  lines. 
The  public  is  so  frequently  entertained 
with  forecasts  of  our  great  American 
cities  twenty-five  and  fifty  years  hence, 
reconstructed  with  rows  of  twenty-five 
and  thirty  story  buildings,  with  yawn- 
ing apertures  between  that  do  service 
as  streets,  that  it  now  almost  regards 
some  such  outcome  as  inevitable,  and, 
indeed,  has  become  quite  reconciled  to 
the  fact.  The  critical  mind,  disposed 
to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  situation,  has 
even  detected  in  the  skyscraper  virtues 
unseen  before;  if  it  did  not  suggest 
beauty,  it  at  least  suggested  strength 
and  massiveness ;  it  was  something  new, 
American,  a  physical  expression  of  the 
modern  spirit.  That  the  tall  office  build- 
ing is  a  permanent  feature  of  modern 
urban  development  is  evident  enough; 
but  the  point  absolutely  overlooked  is 
that  this  development  has  its  great  lim- 
itations, that  these  limitations,  at  least 
in  New  York  city,  have  been  nearly 
reached  already,  and  that  the  number 
of  new  enterprises  of  the  kind,  instead 
of  constantly  increasing,  is  almost  cer- 
tain to  decrease.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
assume  hastily  that  the  whole  of  New 
York  city  is  to  be  built  up  in  this  way ; 
that  the  length  of  Broadway,  for  exam- 


ple, is  to  be  lined  with  twenty-five  story 
buildings;  that  smaller  structures  of 
more  ornate  design  are  forever  barred. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  our  huge  modern 
buildings  have  made  absolutely  essential 
the  construction  of  smaller  structures; 
it  is  the  gaunt  skyscraper  itself  which 
makes  inevitable  the  dedication  of  a  con- 
siderable part  of  the  city  to  a  radically 
different  growth. 

The  revolution  in  land  values  caused 
by  the  introduction  of  modern  methods 
of  construction  has  already  been  referred 
to.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  change 
has  introduced  elements  into  the  deter- 
mination of  values  to  which  the  econo- 
mists have  hardly  given  a  thought.  One 
of  these  might  appropriately  be  called 
the  capitalization  of  the  air.  It  was  not 
until  the  advent  of  the  skyscraper  that 
light  and  air  had  a  distinct  market 
value ;  that  land  unbuilt  upon,  and  that 
in  the  nature  of  the  case  could  not  be 
built  upon,  became  as  valuable  as  land 
available  for  improvement.  In  a  word, 
the  production  of  tall  mercantile  and 
residential  buildings  has  brought  for- 
ward the  great  problem  of  light  and 
air;  and  it  is  this  consideration  which 
is  chiefly  to  work  notable  modifications 
in  the  development  of  our  modern  cities. 
When  office  and  commercial  buildings 
reached  a  height  of  four  and  five  stories 
the  question  of  supplying  them  with 
adequate  light  and  ventilation  was  not 
a  pressing  one ;  there  was,  indeed,  plenty 
of  both  of  these  foremost  gifts  of  nature. 
When  the  height  of  the  same  buildings 
is  doubled  and  quadrupled,  however, 
the  situation  is  materially  changed .  The 
public  is  fairly  familiar  with  the  deplor- 
able tenement  conditions  of  our  lead- 
ing American  cities,  especially  of  New 
York,  —  conditions  produced  by  the 
rapid  increase  of  the  foreign  population, 
combined  with  its  gregarious  instincts, 
which  has  caused  a  remarkable  rise  in 
land  values,  and  thus  necessitated  the 
maximum  use  of  building  space  and  the 
maximum  height  of  buildings.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  we  have  thousands 


488 


Limitations  to  the  Production  of  Skyscrapers. 


of  tenement  houses  in  New  York  built 
upon  ninety  per  cent  of  the  lot  and  reach- 
ing a  height  of  six  and  frequently  seven 
stories.  The  tenement  problem  is  thus 
largely  a  matter  of  inadequate  light 
and  ventilation ;  a  difficulty  equally  pre- 
sent in  the  construction  of  tall  build- 
ings, though  in  a  much  greater  degree. 
Twenty-five  and  thirty  years  ago  office 
buildings  were  usually  constructed  four 
and  five  stories  high  upon  about  seventy- 
five  per  cent  of  the  lot,  which  meant 
that,  practically  throughout  the  whole 
day,  the  rays  of  the  sun  would  strike 
all  the  windows  at  a  sufficient  angle  to 
assure  an  uninterrupted  flow  of  light. 
But  imagine,  for  a  moment,  a  row  of 
such  buildings  replaced  by  an  aggrega- 
tion after  the  modern  manner,  rising 
twelve,  fifteen,  and  twenty  stories  high, 
in  their  utilization  of  the  available 
ground  space,  reaching  the  full  legal 
limit.  It  is  evident  that  the  period  of 
day  during  which  the  offices  would  be 
supplied  with  anything  like  direct  light 
would  be  materially  reduced.  And,  in 
general,  it  needs  no  elaborate  demon- 
stration to  prove  the  general  rule  that, 
the  higher  such  a  row  of  buildings  is 
built,  the  shorter  the  period  of  day  dur- 
ing which  a  fair  supply  of  light  will  be 
available.  With  the  exception  of  an 
hour  perhaps  at  noon,  when  the  sun  is 
directly  overhead,  the  offices  in  such  an 
imaginary  row  of  buildings  would  be  al- 
most totally  dark.  Such  a  row,  natural- 
ly, has  never  been  built ;  but  the  closely 
packed  conditions  in  the  upper  part  of 
Nassau  Street,  New  York,  give  a  faint 
idea  of  what  it  would  be  like.  Here  the 
majority  of  the  offices  are  artificially 
lighted  the  larger  part  of  the  day ;  and 
here,  as  a  consequence,  rents  are  low, 
and  office  buildings  have  achieved  a 
minimum  of  success.  Legislative  at- 
tempts to  improve  the  conditions  of  the 
tenement  houses  have  chiefly  been  in  the 
way  of  increasing  the  width  of  air  courts, 
which,  at  the  best,  are  only  a  makeshift 
for  securing  light  and  air;  but,  in  a 
twenty  story  office  building,  a  shaft  sim- 


ply supplies  insufficient  light  and  air  for 
the  top  floors.  The  one  demand  of  the 
business  world,  however,  such  as  fur- 
nishes the  tenants  for  the  great  office 
buildings,  is  a  plentiful  amount  of  light 
and  air ;  it  will  not  do  without  it  and  it 
is  willing  to  pay  liberally  for  it.  The 
building  that  does  not  adequately  pro- 
vide for  these  two  essentials  is  quickly 
depopulated ;  the  one  that  is  the  great- 
est financial  success  is  the  one  that  takes 
the  greatest  pains  to  satisfy  its  patrons 
in  these  important  points. 

It  is  thus  seen  at  a  glance  that  the 
rebuilding  of  the  office  districts  of  our 
great  cities  exclusively  with  immense 
skyscrapers  is  practically  unfeasible. 
We  shall  also  find  that  the  development 
of  the  business  sections  has  been  large- 
ly influenced  by  this  consideration ;  and 
that  the  many  constructional  errors  now 
apparent  have  been  made  largely  be- 
cause this  principle  has  been  ignored. 
It  should  be  remembered,  moreover, 
that  the  principles  underlying  these 
great  enterprises  are  only  beginning  to 
be  understood ;  that  the  builders  and  the 
engineers  have  been  working  more  or 
less  in  the  dark;  that  there  have  con- 
sequently resulted  many  failures,  both 
from  an  engineering  and  a  financial 
standpoint.  The  writer's  personal  ob- 
servations have  been  chiefly  confined  to 
New  York,  and  his  illustrations  must 
necessarily  be  drawn  from  that  city; 
but  the  same  conditions  evidently  pre- 
vail elsewhere.  In  New  York,  the  im- 
portance of  the  light  and  air  question  is 
now  pretty  well  understood,  though  it 
has  been  strangely  overlooked  in  sev- 
eral instances;  and  the  result  is  that 
large  office  buildings  are  attempted  only 
on  especially  favorable  sites,  the  ma- 
jority of  which  have  already  been  taken 
up.  The  influence  of  the  Trinity  church- 
yard, in  affecting  realty  valuations, 
is  an  interesting  case  in  point.  Here 
is  an  open  green  square  in  the  heart  of 
the  financial  centre,  which  sentiment 
and  tradition  have  made  consecrated 
ground;  which  the  very  wealthy  pro- 


Limitations  to  the  Production  of  Skyscrapers. 


489 


prietary  corporation  refuses  to  sell  at 
any  price ;  and  which,  as  far  as  can  now 
be  seen,  will  always  remain  in  its  pre- 
sent state.  Consequently  the  office  build- 
ings erected  on  abutting  property  are 
assured  of  a  splendid  supply  of  light 
and  air  for  an  indefinite  period.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  the  Empire  Build- 
ing, on  the  south  side  of  Rector  Street, 
is  one  of  the  most  successful  enterprises 
in  the  metropolis ;  and  it  is  for  this  rea- 
son that  the  old  Trinity  Building,  at 
111  Broadway,  is  regarded  as  probably 
the  most  available  building  site  in  the 
lower  business  district.  The  building 
activity  now  centring  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Pine  and  Nassau  streets  is  an- 
other interesting  evidence  of  the  com- 
mercial value  of  sunlight.  At  the  south- 
east corner  of  Pine  and  Nassau  streets 
is  the  sub-Treasury ;  immediately  next 
to  this  the  Assay  office ;  low  structures, 
each  some  three  stories  high,  which  are 
evidently  there  to  stay,  and  which,  as 
long  as  they  remain,  assure  a  plentiful 
supply  of  light  to  surrounding  buildings. 
The  influence  of  these  government  pro- 
perties in  affecting  valuations  in  the 
neighborhood  would  form  an  interesting 
study  in  itself.  Many  office  buildings, 
however,  have  been  erected  upon  sites 
that  are  not  protected  in  this  way,  and 
the  efforts  made  in  numerous  cases  to 
forestall  their  ruination  have  been  pic- 
turesque and  instructive.  Many,  in  a 
word,  have  been  rushed  up  with  the  calm 
disregard  of  that  fundamental  principle 
of  American  law  which  provides  that  a 
man's  light  and  air  are  his  own,  and 
that  his  adjoining  neighbor  has  no  right 
to  appropriate  them.  That  is  to  say, 
the  theory  of  American  law  is  that  the 
fee  to  a  given  plot  of  soil  extends  in- 
definitely into  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and,  likewise,  indefinitely  into  the  up- 
per ether.  Thus  New  York  city,  when- 
ever it  builds  a  bridge,  is  obliged  to 
spend  millions  of  dollars  for  the  ap- 
proach, simply  because  it  has  no  right 
to  build  its  span  above  property  that 
it  does  not  own.  Likewise  no  man 


building  upon  the  lot  line  is  entitled 
to  obtain  light  and  air  by  cutting  win- 
dows overlooking  property  that  he  does 
not  own ;  and  likewise  no  owner  of  an 
office  building  can  legally  make  sim- 
ilar provision  for  his  offices  by  encroach- 
ing upon  neighboring  property.  This 
is  well  known  and  thoroughly  adjudi- 
cated law,  but  it  is  law  that  has  been 
curiously  neglected  in  recent  rebuilding 
operations  in  New  York.  Thus  many 
buildings,  occupying  the  whole  of  the 
lot,  have  been  calmly  constructed  to  a 
height  of  eighteen  and  twenty  stories, 
the  majority  of  the  offices  securing  their 
light  from  windows  cut  over  adjoining 
property.  As  long  as  the  adjoining 
owner  does  not  object  this  is  well  enough, 
but  what  the  consequences  would  be 
should  he  erect  a  tall  building  upon  his 
own  lot  can  be  easily  imagined.  Such 
a  building,  of  course,  would  leave  most 
of  the  offices  next  door  in  darkness,  and 
spell  little  less  than  ruin  to  property 
interests.  The  inevitable  result  has 
been  that  the  owners  of  large  office 
buildings,  unless  the  location  is  an  ex- 
ceptional one,  are  obliged  to  control  a 
considerable  area  of  adjoining  property, 
in  order  to  forestall  improvements  that 
would  prove  ruinous  to  their  own.  The 
American  Surety  Company,  for  exam- 
ple, had  erected  a  twenty  story  building 
at  the  southeast  corner  of  Pine  Street 
and  Broadway,  splendidly  lighted  on 
all  four  sides,  before  it  occurred  to  the 
directors  that  their  light  on  the  south 
and  east  might  be  cut  off  at  any  time 
by  the  erection  of  another  large  sky- 
scraper. The  result  is  that  they  have 
been  obliged  to  lease  this  property  them- 
selves for  a  long  period  in  order  to  con- 
trol its  development.  When  the  Atlan- 
tic Insurance  Company  built  its  twenty 
story  structure  at  the  southwest  cor- 
ner of  Wall  and  William  streets,  it  was 
suggested  that  the  Bank  of  the  State 
of  New  York  property,  at  the  northeast 
corner  of  William  and  Exchange  Place, 
be  included  in  the  site.  The  latter 
property  indeed  was  offered  for  $600,- 


490 


Limitations  to  the.  Production  of  Skyscrapers. 


000,  but  the  offer  was  rejected.  The 
Atlantic  Building  was  hardly  up,  how- 
ever, when  the  Bank  of  the  State  of 
New  York  filed  plans  for  an  immense 
structure  of  its  own,  the  site  of  which 
included  the  plot  rejected  by  the  insur- 
ance company.  The  erection  of  this 
skyscraper  would  have  cut  off  the  south- 
erly light  of  the  Atlantic  Building,  and 
the  company  was  therefore  only  too  glad 
to  purchase  the  property,  paying,  how- 
ever, $1,000,000  for  it,  or  $400,000 
more  than  the  offer  of  a  year  before. 
This  $400, 000  represented  the  penalty 
paid  for  its  failure  to  exercise  ordinary 
foresight  in  protecting  its  building. 
There  have  been  plenty  of  similar  in- 
stances in  the  last  twelve  months,  de- 
tails of  which  need  not  be  given  here. 
The  important  point  is  that  now  one  of 
the  ordinary  precautions  of  skyscraper 
construction  is  the  acquisition  of  prop- 
erty adjoining  the  site  whose  immediate 
improvement  is  aimed  at,  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  possessing  the  precious 
sunlight  which  the  courts  have  decided 
is  unalienably  its  own. 

The  bearing  of  all  this  upon  develop- 
ment of  the  modern  city  is  plain.  It 
means,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  sites 
available  for  large  office  buildings  are 
limited  in  number;  and,  in  the  second, 
that  their  erection  necessarily  implies 
that  a  considerable  amount  of  adjoining 
property  cannot  be  extensively  built 
upon.  Whenever  one  sees  a  skyscraper, 
that  is  to  say,  he  may  usually  be  satis- 
fied that  the  surrounding  property  is 
forever  barred  from  development  in 
a  similar  way.  This  property,  in  the 
main,  consists  of  three  and  four  story 
old  buildings,  the  rents  of  which  are  low, 
and,  at  the  prices  paid,  barely  meet  the 
ordinary  carrying  expenses.  In  other 
words,  they  are,  unless  some  means  can  be 
found  to  improve  them  not  antagonistic 
to  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  ac- 
quired, unproductive  property.  In  their 
present  condition  they  yield  no  income ; 
the  problem  is  to  discover  some  means 
of  developing  them  that  will  pay  at  least 


some  small  return  upon  the  capital  thus 
tied  up.  There  are  several  indications 
that  the  inevitable  improvement  will  be 
the  erection  of  modern  three  and  four 
story  buildings,  for  lease  to  important 
business  concerns,  such  as  banks,  insur- 
ance companies,  and  the  like.  There 
have  been  several  recent  instances  of 
this  in  the  last  year.  A  few  months  ago, 
for  example,  a  valuable  plot  on  the  north 
side  of  Pine  Street  was  purchased  by  a 
speculative  realty  company  and  resold 
in  two  parcels.  It  was  practically  im- 
possible to  sell  them  for  improvement 
with  tall  buildings,  owing  to  the  inevi- 
table light  problem.  A  large  banking 
house  purchased  half  the  block  for  a 
twelve  story  office  building,  on  the  con- 
dition that  the  adjoining  plot  should  not 
be  utilized  in  the  same  way.  The  out- 
come was  that  one  of  the  best  known 
banking  houses  in  America  purchased 
the  second  parcel,  and  is  now  erecting 
a  four  story  marble  building,  the  whole 
of  which  it  will  occupy  itself.  The  ef- 
fect of  this  low  building  upon  the  value 
of  adjoining  property,  it  may  be  re- 
marked in  passing,  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  the  first  parcel  brought  $75,000 
more  than  the  second,  although  in  size 
and  ordinary  advantages,  except  this 
important  one  of  light,  the  two  were 
identical.  Similarly  the  Washington 
Life  Insurance  Company  was  obliged  to 
purchase,  as  a  protective  measure,  an 
old-fashioned  building  adjoining  its  own 
at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Liberty 
Street.  This  building,  in  its  present 
shape,  is  barely  a  "  tax  payer, "  and  the 
Insurance  Company  has  decided  to  de- 
molish it  and  erect  a  three  story  struc- 
ture, which,  when  rented  to  a  well-known 
banking  house,  will  yield  at  least  three 
per  cent  upon  the  investment.  In  the 
same  way  the  Park  National  Bank  has 
decided  to  erect,  for  similar  reasons,  a 
four  or  five  story  building,  in  arcade 
style,  chiefly  for  its  own  occupancy,  in 
the  form  of  an  addition  to  its  present 
structure  on  Broadway.  The  reason  for 
this  is  that  the  bank  has  been  unable  to 


Limitations  to  the  Production  of  /Skyscrapers. 


491 


purchase,  except  at  an  exorbitant  price, 
the  property  at  the  northeast  corner  of 
Fulton  Street  and  Broadway,  without 
which  light  protection  for  a  large  office 
building  would  not  be  assured.  This 
case  is  particularly  interesting  in  that 
the  bank  had  plans  drawn  for  an  eighteen 
story  building,  and  was  obliged  to  make 
this  radical  change  simply  because  it 
could  not  come  to  terms  with  the  owner 
to  this  indispensable  corner  property. 
An  evidence  of  the  same  thing  upon  a 
greater  scale  is  furnished  by  the  proba- 
ble development  of  the  large  properties 
acquired  by  the  Mutual  Life  Insurance 
Company  for  the  protection  of  its  build- 
ing on  the  block  bounded  by  Nassau, 
Cedar,  William,  and  Liberty  streets. 
In  the  last  two  years  the  company  has 
made  extensive  purchases  on  the  south 
side  of  Cedar,  the  north  side  of  Liberty, 
and  even  upon  Maiden  Lane,  simply  for 
the  purpose  of  forestalling  any  improve- 
ments that  would  be  injurious  to  its  own 
property.  Only  the  other  day  it  entered 
into  an  agreement  with  another  insur- 
ance company  to  erect  for  it  and  lease 
to  it  a  six  story  building  upon  one  of 
these  plots.  That  all  of  them  will  ul- 
timately be  improved  in  the  same  way 
seems  certain. 

We  thus  see  that  the  skyscraper,  as 
the  exclusive  form  of  urban  develop- 
ment, far  from  being  an  economic  ne- 
cessity, is  quite  the  reverse.  Economic 
considerations  may  still  require  the  de- 
velopment of  unusually  advantageous 
sites  in  this  way,  but  such  sites  are  very 
few,  and,  at  least  in  New  York  city, 
the  best  of  them  are  taken  up  already. 
There  is  thus  the  opportunity  for  devel- 
opment in  a  very  different  direction; 
and  there  are  already  indications  that 
it  will  be  availed  of.  Coincidently 
with  the  realization  of  the  limitations 
of  the  popular  style  of  construction  there 
is  a  growing  conviction  that,  after  all, 
the  skyscraper  is  not  the  embodiment  of 
all  that  is  fine  and  modern  in  the  Amer- 
ican spirit ;  that  it  is,  indeed,  an  archi- 
tectural development  that  is  to  be  avoid- 


ed whenever  possible,  instead  of  persis- 
tently sought  for.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
the  recent  production  of  office  buildings 
has  not  been  strictly  upon  an  economic 
basis;  tii3y  have  been  largely  a  craze, 
the  outcome  of  the  prevailing  passion 
for  what  is  new  and  strange.  The  ma- 
jority of  them,  after  all,  have  not  been 
erected  strictly  as  investments,  but  as 
advertisements.  This  is  the  case  with 
the  great  insurance  companies,  the 
banks,  and  similar  corporations,  which 
have  appreciated  the  value,  purely  from 
an  advertising  standpoint,  of  having 
their  headquarters  in  the  largest  build- 
ings on  earth.  That  the  buildings  erect- 
ed by  corporate  institutions  are  not 
valuable  as  investments  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that  several  of  them  have  been  ig- 
nominious failures,  and  that  the  average 
returns  are  probably  not  much  more 
than  two  per  cent.  Indications  of  a 
change  in  public  taste  are  shown  in  such 
semi-public  undertakings  as  the  new 
Clearing  House,  the  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce, and  the  Stock  Exchange.  Had 
the  Chamber  of  Commerce  been  erected 
three  or  four  years  ago  it  is  likely  that 
this  venerable  institution  would  have 
built  a  large  office  building,  reserving  a 
few  offices  for  its  own  use,  instead,  as 
is  now  the  case,  of  building  a  beautiful 
low  Renaissance  structure  of  marble,  the 
whole  of  which  it  will  occupy  itself. 
Had  the  new  Stock  Exchange  been  pro- 
jected in  the  final  decade  of  the  last 
century,  the  association,  following  the 
example  of  the  Produce,  the  Coffee,  and 
the  Cotton  exchanges,  in  all  likelihood 
would  have  planned  a  commodious  office 
building,  confining  its  own  quarters  to 
a  floor  or  two.  Instead  the  financial 
district  is  now  being  embellished  with 
a  massive  marble  structure,  which, 
among  other  things,  will  furnish  a  back- 
ground of  art  to  the  somewhat  unim- 
aginative occupations  of  Wall  Street. 
An  evidence  of  a  reaction  from  the  sky- 
scraper  in  a  purely  business  enterprise 
is  the  Singer  building,  at  the  north- 
west corner  of  Liberty  Street  and  Broad- 


492 


A  Denunciation. 


way.  In  this  structure,  which  is  much 
admired  by  architects,  the  system  of 
steel  construction  is  ignored.  It  was 
built  in  1898,  about  ten  years  after  the 
introduction  of  the  new  method,  but 
the  Singer  corporation  and  the  archi- 
tect, Mr.  Ernest  Flagg,  were  by  no 
means  convinced  that  the  skeleton  sys- 
tem was  the  final  word  in  building  con- 
struction. This  structure,  therefore,  is 
only  eleven  stories  high,  and  so  clever- 
ly designed  that  even  this  height  is  not 
offensively  apparent.  The  entire  bur- 
den is  borne  by  thick  masonry  walls,  as 
of  old.  Only  one  wing  has  yet  been 
finished;  it  is  the  purpose  of  the  cor- 
poration ultimately  to  extend  its  build- 
ing over  the  whole  block  front,  between 
Liberty  and  Cortlandt  streets.  One 


conspicuous  Broadway  front,  therefore, 
is  reduced  from  perpetual  disfigurement. 
The  conclusion  of  all  of  which  is,  that 
while  the  exigencies  of  our  practical 
American  life  will  still  demand  the  erec- 
tion of  large  office  buildings,  the  rate 
of  production  is  likely  to  decrease  rather 
than  increase ;  that  the  mania  for  mere 
bigness  is  subsiding,  and  is  bound  to 
give  place  to  a  better  conception  of  cor- 
porate eminence ;  and  that  the  produc- 
tion of  the  skyscraper  itself  inevitably 
necessitates  the  development  of  a  large 
amount  of  urban  property  along  more 
modest  lines.  That  is  to  say,  the  mere 
architect,  in  distinction  from  the  con- 
struction engineer,  will  yet  find  in  our 
great  cities  an  opportunity  to  exercise 
his  trade. 

Burton  J.  Hendrick. 


A  RENUNCIATION. 

LIKE  noon's  fierce  sunlight  doth  the  thought  of  thee 

Flood  the  dim  courts  and  chambers  of  my  heart; 

It  penetrates  the  very  inmost  part 

Of  the  poor  house  where  I  hold  tenancy. 

Alas !  the  dwelling  once  was  fair  to  see, 

A  goodly  bower,  adorn'd  with  love's  dear  art, 

But  now  the  desolate  walls  asunder  start 

And  rain  sobs  round  the  ruin  piteously. 

It  is  no  home  for  thee  —  this  spoil'd,  dark  place 

Holds  no  fit  shelter  for  a  soul  like  thine: 

I  have  a  house-mate,  too,  whose  very  face 

Would  sadden  all  thy  days  with  horrid  fear: 

Pass  on,  my  friend,  and  take  thy  thoughts  from  mine  — 

For  Death  and  I  keep  house  together  here. 

Ethel  Alley ne  Ireland. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


493 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES. 


VII. 

LEDUC'S  foot  was  better  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  still  too  painful  to  step  on,  and 
Saxe  walked  over  to  the  hotel  to  tell  the 
Countess,  and  bring  her  and  Annette 
back  for  the  day,  as  they  had  taken  for 
granted  was  to  be  done.  Halfway  down 
the  road,  however,  he  met  young  Cobb, 
alone,  and  learned  that  the  Countess  had 
a  bad  headache  and  could  not  come.  He 
gave  the  boy  a  quarter,  and  went  back 
alone,  his  face  set  into  an  expression  of 
immobility  habitual  to  him  in  moments 
of  strong  feeling.  It  was  a  day  wasted, 
and  a  day  with  her  had  come  to  mean  to 
him  a  decade.  A  boy  of  twenty  could 
not  have  been  more  bitterly  disappoint- 
ed, and  more  savage  in  his  disappoint- 
ment. Leduc,  however,  saw  nothing  of 
this,  and,  when  Saxe  bandaged  his  foot 
again  in  the  afternoon,  and  pronounced 
it  decidedly  better,  the  old  man  burst 
into  a  naive  expression  of  surprise. 

"  It  is  that  to  be  an  American  !  The 
sooner  I  am  able  to  go,  the  sooner 
M'sieu  loses  Mademoiselle,  and  yet  he 
urges  me  to  go !  He  says  my  foot  is 
better.  A  Frenchman  would  swear  I 
have  blood-poisoning." 

"  Not  every  Frenchman,  mon  vieux. 
There  are  a  few  decent  ones  among 
them,  you  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing." Then  he  told  Leduc  that  on  the 
third  day  following  he  was  to  take  his 
wife  and  go  to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche. 
Ledac,  serious  as  he  always  became  at  any 
mention  of  Le  Mioche,  protested  feebly. 

"  But  Annette  has  a  right  to  go  to  it," 
insisted  Saxe. 

"  She  has  no  right.     She  left  me." 

"  Because  you  ill-treated  her." 

"  I  struck  her  now  and  then  when 
I  'd  been  drinking  whiskey,  —  I  was  n't 
used  to  whiskey,  —  and  I  knew  a  pretty 
face  when  I  saw  it." 


"  Nonsense,  Leduc.  She  was  a  good 
woman,  and  she  could  n't  stand  your  — 
general  slackness.  You  are  to  take  her 
to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche  on  Monday  ; 
do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  It 's  very  far,  M'sieu,  and  she  is  an 
old  woman." 

"  Monday  you  are  to  take  her,  or  — 
no  dog,  and  no  present." 

Then  savagely  satisfied  at  having  has- 
tened a  day  he  might  well  have  put  off, 
Saxe  went  for  a  long  tramp,  reaching 
home  after  sundown,  tired  and  hungry. 
Leduc,  unable  to  sulk,  was  as  gay  as 
a  lark,  singing  snatches  of  "  La  vie  est 
vaine  "  to  himself,  and  expressing  his  con- 
victions that  after  all  it  would  be  best  to 
take  Annette  to  the  grave  Monday  and 
have  it  over  with.  He  could  n't  tell  how 
long  it  would  take.  "  Cela  depend  de 
mes  jambes,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle.  It 
was  n't  so  near,  but  then  it  was  n't  so  far. 

The  forest  was  like  fairyland  that 
night  in  the  moonlight.  Saxe,  tired  as 
he  was,  could  not  sit  still.  Half  an  hour 
after  supper  he  rose  and  started  off  rest- 
lessly through  the  wood.  He  had  a  good 
voice,  uncultivated  but  sweet,  and  sang 
as  he  tramped  through  the  lacy  shadows 
of  the  beeches.  It  seemed  as  though 
she  must  be  near,  as  though  he  caught 
glimpses  of  a  light  gown  here  and  there 
among  the  mossy  trunks.  "  Ich  gehe 
nicht  schnell,  ich  eile  nicht."  He  stum- 
bled on  a  root  and  saved  himself  with 
difficulty  from  a  fall. 

"Ich  gehe  hin  zu  der  schoensten 
Frau  "  — 

And  there  she  was,  as  if  in  answer  to 
his  thoughts,  as  happens  to  most  people 
once  in  their  lifetime.  She  stood  quite 
still,  holding  under  her  chin  the  light 
scarf  that  hid  her  hair. 

"  '  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches  ! ' " 

Saxe  took  her  hands,  kissed  them  both, 
and  then  stood  with  them  in  his. 


494 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


"  You  are  here  —  alone  ?  " 

"Yes.  It  is  not  five  minutes  from 
the  hotel." 

"  Then  I  have  gone  around  the  village, 
and  come  up  beyond  the  highroad  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  love  you." 

"  Hush ! " 

"  You  know  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  not  angry  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Look  at  me." 

Gathering  her  hands  into  one  of  his, 
with  the  other  he  tilted  back  her  chin, 
forcing  her  to  look  into  his  eyes.  "  I 
love  you  this  way,  —  and  you  have  not 
a  scrap  of  feeling  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  she  answered 
quietly,  not  moving. 

"  You  like  me  very  much.  Then,  let 
me  kiss  you  —  once." 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  wish  to  "  — 

Her  eyes,  unwavering,  were  fixed  on 
his  ;  the  lace  scarf  slipped  back,  but  she 
did  not  move.  Slowly  he  let  her  go, 
and  stood  looking  at  her,  while  she  re- 
arranged her  scarf,  and  once  more  gath- 
ered it  under  her  chin. 

"  You  are  a  very  daring  woman,"  he 
said  after  a  pause. 

"Why?" 

"  Ah,  why  !  "  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  laughed.  "  Come,  it  is  getting 
late,  let  me  take  you  back  to  the  hotel. 
How  is  your  headache  ?  " 

"  Better,  thank  you,  but  you  must  n't 
take  me  baqk  to  the  hotel ;  it  would  scan- 
dalize the  good  people  there,  and  I  know 
the  way." 

He  took  out  his  watch.  "  After  all, 
it  is  early,  —  a  little  after  nine.  Sit  down 
here  and  talk  to  me.  You  need  n't  be 
afraid ;  I  shan't  make  an  ass  of  myself 
again." 

She  sat  down  on  a  log.  "  I  am  not 
afraid." 


"  I  know  you  're  not,  and  —  I  wonder 
why?" 

"  There  are  two  reasons.  One  is  that 
you  are  a  gentleman,  —  in  the  real  sense 
of  the  word  ;  the  other  that  —  that "  — 

"  That  you  are  in  no  danger  of  losing 
your  head."  He  laughed. 

"  Of  course  I  am  in  no  danger,  but  I 
did  n't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  a  wo- 
man can  always  control  a  man,  —  if  she 
wishes  to." 

He  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  how  young 
you  are,  how  young  !  " 

"  Am  I  so  young  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  her  face 
worn  and  pale  in  the  moonlight.  "  I  am 
old,"  she  went  on  slowly,  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  "  and  you  are  young.  I  am  cold, 
and  calculating,  and  slow,  and  you  are 
impetuous  and  hot-headed  "  — 

Saxe  sighed.  "  That  is  what  love 
does  to  a  man.  Not  that  I  did  lose  my 
head,  dear  child.  If  I  had  !  You  were 
almost  in  my  arms.  I  could  have  kissed 
you"  — 

"  But  you  did  n't." 

"  No,  because  I  knew  you  did  n't  want 
me  to.  If  you  had  wanted  me  to,  with 
your  heart,  however  much  you  might 
have  protested  with  your  lips  "  — 

She  laughed  outright.  "  Baby !  As 
if  you  would  have  known." 

Saxe  watched  her  gravely.  "Ah, 
yes,  I  should  have  known.  And  if  you 
had  —  well  —  after  all,  one  has  only  one 
life  to  live,  empty  and  dry  enough  at 
best,  as  a  rule  "  — 

"  Ta,  ta,  ta,  —  the  morals  of  a  mate- 
rialist !  Now  I  am  going.  Good-night." 

"  And  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  we  are  coming  to  dinner, 
if  you  will  have  us." 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  little 
gracious  shake  of  the  head.  "  No.  It 
was  my  own  fault." 

"  Your  own  fault !  "  repeated  Saxe, 
taking  off  his  glasses  in  his  bewilderment. 

"Yes.  Such  things  are  always  the 
fault  of  the  woman." 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


495 


"  It  was  n't  your  fault,  dear  child,  and 
your  theory  is  wrong." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  answered: 
"  No,  my  theory  is  right.  I  am  much 
younger  than  you,  but  I  live  in  the  world, 
and  I  know  it.  A  man  loses  his  head, 
possibly,  quite  against  the  woman's  will, 
but  —  she  should  not  have  let  him  get 
to  that  point." 

"  And  you  mean  that  you  will  never 
let  me  get  there  "  — 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

She  sped  away  into  the  denser  shadow, 
leaving  him  looking  after  her. 


VIII. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  Countess 
arrived  at  the  camp,  Saxe  met  her,  with 
a  tin  of  worms  in  one  hand,  and  two 
bamboo  fishing-rods  over  his  shoulder. 

"  You  will  have  to  earn  your  dinner 
to-day,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  her. 
"Nothing  but  salt  pork  in  camp,  and 
Leduc  insists  on  fried  fish." 

"  Oh,  how  nice  !  It  is  cloudy,  too  ;  so 
much  the  better  for  '  bites,'  is  n't  it  ?  " 

She  hurried  on  to  say  good-morning 
to  the  invalid,  who  was  paring  potatoes 
with  a  languid  air,  and  then,  leaving  An- 
nette to  prepare  the  meal,  joined  Saxe 
at  the  water's  edge. 

He  had  been  prepared  for  her  frank 
air  of  bon  cameraderie,  and  had  sum- 
moned up  as  near  its  counterpart  as  in 
man  lies,  so  the  morning  passed  busily 
and  gayly,  without  allusions  or  awk- 
wardness. The  sport  was  good,  the 
light  breeze  agreeable,  and  they  went 
back  to  camp,  tired  and  hungry,  with  a 
big  string  of  fish,  to  find  Annette  about 
to  try  her  hand  at  that  test  of  skill,  an 
omelette. 

While  Leduc  cleaned  the  fish,  the 
Countess  and  Saxe  made  coffee,  and  an 
hour  later,  Leduc  was  once  more  asleep, 
Annette  busy  washing  dishes  in  the  cab- 
in, and  the  other  two  practically  alone. 


They  sat  in  silence,  she  building  a 
little  pyre  of  pine-cones,  he  idly  watch- 
ing her  hands.  Suddenly  she  looked  up 
and  their  eyes  met.  A  sudden  trouble 
filled  hers,  and  they  darkened  for  the 
first  time  with  embarrassment,  and  he 
felt  the  blood  sing  in  his  ears. 

"  You  are  not  angry  ?  "  he  said,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  warning 
glance  at  Leduc,  that  nearly  brought  a 
cry  of  delight  to  Saxe's  lips. 

He  rose.  "  Come,"  and  she  followed 
him  without  a  word. 

"  That  old  wretch  is  playing  possum," 
he  said,  with  an  unsteady  laugh.  "I 
will  row  you  over  to  the  water-lilies." 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  boat,  and 
then,  as  the  sun  fell  on  her,  put  up  her 
hand  to  her  head.  "  My  hat !  " 

"  Take  mine."  He  handed  her  his, 
and  she  crushed  it  down  on  her  fore- 
head and  smiled  at  him. 

He  rowed  with  quite  unnecessary 
vigor,  telling  her  of  Leduc's  consent  to 
start  Monday  morning. 

"  You  told  me  that  before." 

He  laughed.  "  Did  I  ?  I  'm  sorry. 
Now,  then  "  — 

They  had  reached  the  patch  of  pond- 
lilies,  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  worked 
in  silence,  cutting  the  languid  white  blos- 
soms for  her,  and  wiping  their  stems  in 
his  handkerchief. 

As  he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  re- 
marked, laughing,  "  Oh,  what  a  good  boy 
am  I !  " 

"  You  are,  indeed,"  she  returned,  tak- 
ing the  lilies  he  had  held. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  And  you  think  all  the  credit  is  due 
to  you  ?  "  He  smiled  at  her  quizzically. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  not  at  all." 

"  Why  not,  if  the  blame  was  yours  — 
last  night?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It  is  n't  fair  to 
laugh  at  me.  I  only  try  to  be  i  square.'  " 

"  And  you  are  square,  Winifred.  No 
woman  ever  was  more  square.  Only  — 


496 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


there  are  circumstances  when  it  is  very 
easy  to  be  square." 

"  That,  of  course,  is  true,"  she  an- 
swered lightly.  "  Good  heavens  !  what 
time  is  it  ?  Annette  is  lighting  the 
fire  !  We  eat  as  much  as  people  in  a 
German  novel,  but  even  we  can't  be 
going  to  eat  again  already." 

"  No,  it  is  only  five.  Now,  how  am  I 
going  to  amuse  your  ladyship  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  ?  " 

She  considered.  "  I  don't  know. 
Read  aloud  to  me." 

"  Nothing  to  read." 

"  Not  even  a  Greek  Testament,  or  a 
Horace  ?  " 

"  Not  even  those  general  favorites." 

"  Have  you  literally  not  a  book  with 
you  ?  "  she  asked  curiously. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  two  of  my  own 
great  works  that  I  am  supposed  to  be 
revising,  and  Uncle  Remus,  and — Brown- 
ing's Shorter  Poems." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Remus,  by  all  means. 
Read  me  the  Tar  Baby." 

"  Rather  than  Cristina,  —  or  The  Last 
Ride  Together  ?  " 

"  Much  rather,"  she  answered  prompt- 
ly, sitting  down  and  demolishing  her 
pyre  of  cones  at  a  blow. 

Saxe  laughed.  "  Oh,  you  baby  !  You 
are  afraid  to  face  the  music." 

She  looked  up  serenely.  "  What 
music  ?  " 

Saxe  fetched  the  book  and  read  to  her 
for  over  an  hour.  She  was  too  tired  to 
go  to  see  the  sunset,  and  busied  herself 
helping  Leduc  make  Johnny-cake,  great- 
ly to  his  delight. 

After  supper  young  Cobb  appeared  to 
ask  whether  Leduc  or  Saxe  would  mind 
driving  the  two  ladies  home,  as  he  was 
on  his  way  to  a  party  and  would  be  un- 
able to  come  until  late.  He  was  very 
splendid  in  a  red  cravat,  his  hair  glisten- 
ing and  fragrant  with  pomade.  The 
horse  was  hitched  to  a  tree,  and  knew 
the  way  back,  even  if  they  did  n't. 

"  What  time  will  the  party  be  over  ?  " 
asked  Saxe. 


"  'Bout  half-past  ten." 

It  was  decided  that  young  Cobb  should 
come  back  by  the  camp  and  drive  him- 
self, Leduc  being  lame,  and  Saxe  ap- 
parently afraid  of  horses. 

"  He  ain't  got  no  bad  habits,  except 
biting,"  the  boy  protested,  half  hurt. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  bitten,"  Saxe 
explained  gravely,  and  Cobb  went  his 
way  muttering  some  sarcasm  about  Bill's 
not  biting  with  his  hind-legs. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  compatible 
with  '  squareness '  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
moonlight  ?  "  Saxe  asked. 

"  Perfectly.  Nothing  could  be  more 
unconventional  in  every  way  than  my 
stay  up  here,  —  a  walk  or  two  in  the 
moonlight  can  make  no  difference." 

Leduc  and  Annette  were  in  the  cabin. 

"  But  —  the  squareness  ?  "  persisted 
Saxe  teasingly.  "  Don't  you  think  walks 
in  the  moonlight  with  you  may  be  rather 
hard  on  me  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "  That  is  your  lookout. 
If  you  choose  to  risk  it,  I  am  ready." 

Saxe  laughed  too.  "  Oh,  I  will  risk 
it.  I  am,  you  know,  as  irresponsible  as 
a  baby ;  if  I  should  chance  to  misbehave 
it  would  be  entirely  your  fault." 

"Yes.  But  —  you  will  not  *  chance 
to  misbehave.'  " 

They  struck  off  through  the  pines,  and 
soon  came  out  on  another  part  of  the 
old  logging-camp  road,  Saxe  whistling 
Boiisoir  under  his  breath.  This  part 
of  the  road  was  sandy  and  easier  walk- 
ing. They  went  on  quickly  through 
the  mottled  shadows.  Suddenly  Saxe 
exclaimed :  — 

"  Age  tells  on  different  people  in  such 
different  ways !  I  hardly  realized  how 
old  I  am,  until  I  saw  how  hopelessly 
you  bowled  me  over." 

"  Is  that  a  sign  of  age  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  but  there  was  unde- 
niably something  of  —  senility  in  my  go- 
ing to  bits  and  making  such  an  ass  of 
myself.  Still  —  it  was  rather  pleasant, 
so  long  as  it  was  n't  my  fault.  You  are 
right  about  that,  by  the  way,  though  you 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches* 


497 


are  young  to  have  learned  it.  A  man 
never  goes  any  farther  than  a  woman 
lets  him  —  except,  possibly,  in  what  the 
poets  call  a  great  passion.  A  great  pas- 
sion is  a  rare  bird  nowadays,  however, 
I  imagine.  Our  lives  are  little,  our  aims 
are  little,  and  our  loves  are  little." 

He  paused,  and  then,  she  not  answer- 
ing, went  on  reflectively  :  "  Or  rather, 
not  little,  but  fleeting.  Confoundedly 
fleeting." 

"  That  is  certainly  true,"  she  agreed, 
as  they  left  the  road  and  went  down  a 
steep  incline  toward  the  little  river  she 
had  seen  from  Sunset  Ledge. 

"True,  and — fortunate.  i  We  for- 
get, not  because  we  will,  but  because  we 
must,'  —  Arnold,  is  n't  it  ?  Humiliating, 
but  a  tremendous  comfort.  If  I  had  n't 
believed  it,  I  should  have  been  pretty 
desperate  last  night." 

"  I  knew  it,  and  that  is  why  I  have 
been  able  to  take  it  all  so  calmly,  and  — 
to  go  about  with  you  this  way." 

"  Ah,  you  knew  it.  Women  are  quick- 
witted. I  wonder  if  you  knew  how  much 
I  did  care,  —  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  did." 

He  looked  at  her  profile  sharply  as 
they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  ravine. 

"I  care  now,  too,  you  know;  even 
nowadays  it  does  n't  go  quite  as  quickly 
as  that "  — 

"  I  know.  You  care  a  little  less  than 
yesterday,  to-morrow  you  will  care  a 
little  less  than  to-day  "  — 

"  Yes.  Though  I  like  you  more  than 
any  woman  I  ever  knew,  and  think  that 
we  could  be  the  best  of  friends.  Take 
care!"  he  broke  off.  "thpse  stones  are 
very  slippery." 

Before  them  lay  the  plantation  of 
birch  trees,  beautiful  beyond  description 
in  the  moonlight. 

"  Could  we  get  just  within  the  for- 
est ?  "  she  asked ;  "  we  can't  half  see 
them  here.  One  must  look  up  at  the 
light  through  them  ;  it  is  the  only  way 
to  see  birches." 

They  crossed  the  little  river  on  a  row 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  32 


of  stepping-stones,  climbed  the  bank,  and 
reached  the  trees.  She  walked  slowly, 
her  head  bent  back,  stopping  now  and 
then. 

"  Hush !  One  can  hear  the  wind.  In 
the  pine-wood  I  did  n't  know  there  was 
any  wind." 

He  listened.  "  Yes.  It  is  very  pretty. 
So  are  you  very  pretty,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so." 

She  laughed.  "  Certainly  I  don't 
mind,  if  you  really  think  so." 

"  I  do,  and  just  as  an  observation  un- 
backed by  any  intention,  I  may  add  that 
I  'd  like  to  kiss  you,  under  your  chin  !  " 

There  was  a  kind  of  labored  imper- 
tinence in  his  tone  that  she  turned  at, 
her  eyebrows  lifted. 

Then,  as  he  drew  aside  the  sweeping 
branches  of  a  young  birch,  and  she  passed 
him,  she  stopped  short  with  a  little  cry. 

"  A  grave  !  " 

"  The  grave  of  Le  Mioche !  " 


IX. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  she  turned, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  See  the  poor  white  stones  !  " 

Saxe  nodded. 

The  moonlight,  circled  by  the  shadows 
of  four  large  birches,  fell  full  on  the 
little  mound.  There  was  no  headstone, 
nothing  but  the  smooth  white  stones  that 
surrounded  it,  nearly  all  of  them  half 
hidden  in  the  long  grass. 

The  Countess  knelt  down  and  looked 
at  it  closely. 

"  Oh,  how  pitiful  I  Think  of  his  com- 
ing every  year  with  one  of  these  poor, 
ridiculous  stones.  Poor  old  man  !  " 

"It  is  the  more  pitiful  when  you  con- 
sider that  he  was  n't  old  at  all  when  he 
began,  —  that  he  was  living  a  bad  life 
among  bad  men."  He  sat  down  by  her, 
and  took  off  his  hat.  "  And  every  year 
he  had  at  least  his  one  good  day." 

Her  shoulder  touched  his,  and  she 
leaned  against  it,  unnoticing. 


498 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


"  It  has  been  his  religion.  —  and  who 
knows  that  it  has  not  been  a  good  one. 
He  has  prayed  here.  No  Catholic  ever 
quite  forgets  to  pray." 

"No.  But  why  wouldn't  he  tell?" 
she  asked,  stroking  the  grass  gently. 

Saxe  hesitated,  and  then,  closing  his 
hand  over  hers,  answered  in  a  low  voice, 
"  I  suppose  because  it  has  been  his  most 
precious  secret  for  so  many  years ;  one 
hates  to  give  one's  most  precious  secret 
to  —  some  one  one  does  n't  love." 

"  Yes."  She  did  not  move,  her  hand 
rested  quietly  under  his. 

"And  then,"  he  went  on,  "I  think 
he  is  ashamed,  —  ashamed  of  his  real 
feeling  about  the  little  dead  child,  — 
ashamed  of  his  sentimentality ;  men  are 
fools." 

She  did  not  answer.  The  trees  rus- 
tled softly ;  a  cloud  hid  the  moon  for 
a  few  seconds,  then  floated  off  again  ; 
and  Le  Mioche  lay  under  his  thirty-one 
stones. 

"  Dear,"  said  Saxe  suddenly,  "  I  lied 
to  you  on  our  way  here.  It  was  all  false, 
every  word  of  it." 

"  I  know." 

"  I  love  you  once  and  for  all  —  shall 
always  love  you.  I  've  no  right  to,  but 
I  can't  help  it,  and  it  is  in  a  way  the  best 
of  me.  I  was  ashamed  of  it,  like  a 
fool." 

"  Like  Leduc." 

"  Like  Leduc.  It  —  hurt  me  to  know 
that  I  could  care  so  without  you  caring 
a  —  hang." 

"  My  caring  would  only  make  matters 
worse,"  she  said  dreamily. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  would  only  make 
matters  worse,  in  one  way,  and  I  think  I 
can  honestly  say  I  am  glad  that  you  do 
not  care." 

"  If  you  can  say  that,  you  are  a  very 
good  man." 

Her  hand  tightened  a  little  on  his. 
Putting  his  arm  around  her  he  drew  her 
close  to  him. 

"I  am  not  a  very  good  man.  It  is 
one  side  of  me  that  can  say  that,  dear. 


The  other  side  says  —  My  God,  I  would 
give  my  right  hand  to  have  you  care  !  " 

"  That  is  the  worst  side." 

"  As  you  like.  You  are  a  strange 
woman." 

"  Am.  I  ?     In  what  way  ?  " 

Le  Mioche  was  forgotten. 

"  You  know  what  I  am  feeling  at  this 
minute,  and  you  sit  here  in  my  arms  as 
calmly  as  though  I  were  your  grand- 
father !  " 

"  That  is  because  I  do  not  care,  I 
suppose." 

"  Yes.     Tell  me,  are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  Sorry  —  that  you  care  for  me,  or 
that  I  do  not  care  for  you  ?  " 

"  Sorry  for  me.  Have  you  a  heart  in 
your  body  ?  " 

He  had  not  tightened  his  hold  of  her 
by  a  hair's  breadth,  but  his  voice  had 
changed. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry,  if  you  are  unhappy. 
I  have  a  heart,"  she  answered  matter- 
of-factedly. 

He  released  her,  and  jumping  up  sud- 
denly, walked  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
little  inclosure,  leaning  his  head  against 
one  of  the  birches. 

She  sat  still  for  several  seconds,  and 
then  rose  and  followed  him.  He  did 
not  move,  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  Don't !  " 

He  turned,  half  laughing.  "  I  'm  not 
crying,  if  that 's  what  you  mean." 

With  a  sudden  movement,  she  took 
off  his  glasses  and  turned  his  face  to 
hers.  "  Why  do  you  feel  so  badly  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  am  a  man  and  I 
love  you  ;  and  I  want  you,  and  I  can't 
have  you.  Incidentally,  I  can't  see  you 
without  my  glasses." 

"  I  know  ;  never  mind.  Listen.  Is 
it  only  that,  or  because  I  do  not  love 
you  ?  " 

He  bent  toward  her,  half  closing  his 
near-sighted  eyes  as  he  tried  to  get  her 
face  within  focus. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  talking  about  it  ?  " 
he  retorted  impatiently.  "It  may  be 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


499 


fun  for  you  to  vivisect  my  feelings,  but 
it  is  not  fun  for  me.  You  don't  love 
me,  and  when  I  'm  sane  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
But  you  torment  me  beyond  endurance. 
What  do  you  think  I  am  made  of  ?  " 

He  reached  for  his  eye-glasses,  but  she 
held  them  tight. 

"  No,  wait.  What  do  you  think  I'm 
made  of  ?  " 

Saxe  laughed.  "  You  !  Ice  and  im- 
peccability." 

"  Then  it  has  n't  occurred  to  you  that 
.1  might  care  too." 

He  stared  at  her  stupidly.  "You 
care  too  !  You  never  said  so." 

"  No,  I  never  said  so." 

"  And  you  certainly  have  not  done 
anything  to  make  me  think  you  cared." 

Vaguely,  as  in  a  mist,  he  saw  her  face. 
Without  speaking  he  opened  her  hand 
and  put  on  the  eye-glasses  that  dispelled 
the  mist. 

"  Then,  — you  do  care." 

"  Yes." 

She  bent  her  face  to  his  arm  and  stood 
there  motionless.  When  she  looked  up 
she  was  very  pale. 

Saxe  took  her  hands,  as  he  had  done 
the  night  before,  and  kissed  them.  He 
was  utterly  bewildered,  and  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  about.  The  feeling  that 
had  made  him  tremble  a  few  minutes 
before  had  gone. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  It  is  late." 

"  Yes  ?   Oh,  Le  Mioche,  Le  Mioche !  " 

With  an  abandon  that  half  frightened 
him,  she  flung  herself  on  the  ground  and 
spread  her  arms  out  over  the  narrow 
grave.  There  was,  in  its  perfect  spon- 
taneity, nothing  theatrical  in  the  act ;  it 
expressed  her  loneliness,  hopelessness, 
her  longing  to  take  something  to  her 
aching  heart.  Saxe  knew  all  this  as  he 
watched  her,  immovable.  Le  Mioche 
had  been  dead  for  more  years  than  she 
had  lived,  yet  at  that  minute  he  was  a 
child,  an  armful,  to  her.  The  man  knelt 
and  raised  her,  holding  her  gently,  her 
head  thrown  back  against  his  shoulder. 


"  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  using  the  quaint 
phrase  gravely,  as  though  he  originated 
it.  Then  he  kissed  her.  She  lay  quite 
passive  for  a  minute,  and  then  drawing 
herself  away,  rose,  and  stood  unconscious- 
ly smoothing  her  ruffled  hair. 

"  We  must  go." 

"  Yes." 

They  walked  slowly  away,  over  the 
stepping-stones,  up  the  hill,  his  arm 
about  her  shoulders.  As  they  went  down 
the  next  slope  it  grew  darker,  the  moon 
having  slipped  below  a  bright  cloud. 
Once  she  stumbled,  and  as  she  clung  to 
him  to  regain  her  balance  he  caught  her 
suddenly  to  him,  bending  his  head. 

Instead  of  her  face,  her  hands  met 
his  cheeks  in  the  darkness  and  pushed 
him  gently  away. 

"  No,  dear." 

"  Just  once !  " 

"  No.  Never.  I  told  you  because  it 
seemed  squarer,  but  you  must  not  kiss 
me  again." 

Saxe  essayed  a  laugh.  "  Then  you 
kiss  me." 

She  paused,  then  taking  his  head  in 
her  hands,  kissed  him  gravely,  full  on 
the  mouth.  The  next  instant  the  camp- 
fire  glowed  through  the  dark  pine-trunks. 


X. 


Saxe  slept  little  that  night.  At  length, 
toward  morning,  tired  of  his  hard  cot, 
he  dressed  and  threw  himself  down  on  a 
blanket  under  the  beech  tree.  Through 
the  branches  the  sky  gleamed  coldly,  no 
color  had  as  yet  come  to  it ;  the  birds 
were  still  asleep ;  it  was  the  quietest 
hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Leduc  would 
sleep  for  hours  yet,  his  cabin  hermetically 
sealed.  Saxe  rolled  over  on  his  back 
and  something  hard  hurt  his  head.  He 
turned  down  the  blanket  and  found  the 
little  heap  of  pine-cones  with  which 
Winifred  had  played  the  day  before. 
She  loved  him.  The  tumult  in  his  brain 
was  such  that  he  did  not  know  whether 


500 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


he  was  happy  or  in  despair.  She  was 
going  away,  but  she  loved  him.  He  had 
held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
Probably  no  woman  knows  what  that 
first  surrender  means  to  a  man  who  has 
loved  hopelessly.  A  bird  chirped  in 
the  tree  above  him.  The  light  in  the 
cabin  went  out,  exhausted.  Saxe  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  what  the  atmos- 
phere in  the  little  room  must  be.  Sud- 
denly he  realized  that  all  the  birds  in 
the  world  were  singing.  It  annoyed 
him.  Then  he  found  that  he  had  been 
asleep,  and  that  the  sun  was  up. 

Tired  and  aching  all  over  he  fetched 
a  towel  and  went  for  a  swim,  after  which 
a  stiff  drink  of  whiskey  sent  him  into  a 
profound  sleep  that  lasted  until  Leduc 
awoke  him  by  hobbling  into  the  tent  and 
calling  him.  It  was  eight  o'clock,  and 
Leduc  had  been  afraid  M'sieu  might 
have  died  in  his  sleep.  That  sometimes 
happens.  Breakfast  was  ready,  and 
Leduc's  foot  was  better.  After  break- 
fast, Leduc  would  have  something  to  tell 
M'sieu. 

Before  they  had  finished  breakfast, 
however,  young  Cobb  came  in  with  a 
note.  Saxe  opened  it. 

DEAR  DR.  SAXE,  —  I  am  going 
away  to-day.  Annette  will  stay  as  long 
as  she  likes,  and  then  join  me  in  New 
York.  You  will  understand,  and  for- 
give me.  Good-by,  —  and  God  bless 
you. 

"  There 's  an  answer,  she  said,"  an- 
nounced Cobb,  eating  a  piece  of  Leduc's 
fried  pork.  "  I  c'n  wait." 

Saxe  went  into  his  tent  and  let  down 
the  flap.  The  note  he  sent  back  was 
shorter  than  hers. 

DEAR  COUNTESS,  —  You  know  best. 
I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  much  to  bless 
you  for.  B.  S. 

It  was  over  then,  he  thought,  reso- 
lutely finishing  his  breakfast.  It  had  to 


come  to  this  end,  and  after  a  bit  the 
relief  would  follow.  He  lit  a  pipe  and 
stretched  himself  out  under  a  tree,  as 
he  had  done  every  day  since  he  had  been 
there. 

Leduc  fussed  about,  grumbling  over 
his  foot,  singing,  whistling,  carrying 
things  to  and  from  the  cabin.  Every- 
thing was  just  as  usual,  apparently. 
When  Saxe  was  halfway  through  his 
second  pipe,  the  old  man  came  and  sat 
down  by  him. 

"  Will  M'sieu  be  so  good  and  look  at 
my  foot  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  grunted  Saxe. 

Leduc  pulled  off  the  slit  boot,  and  dis- 
played a  yellow  woolen  stocking  with 
neither  heel  nor  toe. 

"  Did  she  find  the  socks  ? "  asked 
Saxe. 

"  No,  M'sieu.     She  gave  me  up." 

Saxe  pulled  off  the  sock,  and  pro- 
nounced the  foot  well  enough  for  mod- 
erate use.  Suddenly  he  remembered. 
"  Quite  well  enough  for  you  to  walk 
to  the  grave  of  Le  Mioche,"  he  added, 
sharply. 

Leduc  started.  "  It  is  not  so  far,  but 
it  is  not  so  near,"  he  stammered  in 
French. 

"  Oh,  damn  !  I  tell  you  I  know  all 
about  it,  Leduc.  I  've  seen  it.  I  know 
just  where  it  is." 

The  old  man  flushed,  a  slow  red  that 
burned  painfully  through  his  brown 
skin.  "M'sieu  knows,  —  M'sieu  has 
seen  "  — 

"Yes.  The  white  stones  are  very 
pretty,  mon  vieux." 

Leduc  sat  without  moving,  the  ragged 
sock  loose  in  his  hands.  "  The  white 
stones,  —  M'sieu  likes  them  ?  M'sieu 
did  not  laugh  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  laugh,  Leduc  ?  " 

"  Thirty-one  years  is  a  long  time.  I 
was  young  then,  I  am  old  now,"  the  old 
man  answered  in  French,  as  he  drew  on 
the  sock.  "  No  one  here  knows  ;  I  have 
never  told  ;  they  would  have  mocked  me. 
Pauv'  Mioche !  " 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


501 


His  brilliant  blue  eyes  were  dimmed 
with  tears  that  did  not  fall ;  Saxe  had 
seen  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  but 
these  were  different.  After  a  pause  the 
younger  man  said  gently  :  — 

"  Why  would  n't  you  show  Annette  ? 
Arid  why  did  you  pretend  it  was  so 
far?" 

Leduc  laughed  aloud.  " '  Not  so 
near,  but  not  so  far !  '  She  would  have 
found  it  not  so  near,  if  I  had  taken 
her,  for  I  meant  to  go  to  it  by  way  of 
Everett." 

"  But  Everett  is  sixty  miles  from 
here." 

"Yes.  I  would  have  taken  her  by 
train  to  West  Garfield,  then  to  Everett, 
and  back  by  train  as  far  as  Clinton. 
Then  we  'd  have  hired  a  wagon  "  —  He 
broke  off,  smiling  in  delight  at  his  clever 
scheme. 

"You  had  no  right  to  do  such  a 
thing,  and  I  won't  have  it ;  do  you  hear 
me?" 

Leduc  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
rose  slowly.  "  Eh,  mon  Dieu,  I  had 
given  it  up.  She  would  have  spoiled  it 
all.  She  'd  have  cut  the  grass  and  put 
up  a  gravestone,  and  cried  over  the 
mound.  Ifc  is  my  grave,  I  tell  you  !  I 
tended  it  for  years  while  she  was  in 
France,  /never  forgot  it.  Wherever 
I  was  I  came  back  every  year  to  put  a 
stone  on  it.  It  is  n't  hers,  and  she  shan't 
go  to  it." 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  his 
selfishness  that  appealed  to  Saxe. 

"  You  will  have  to  take  her,  though," 
he  said  sympathetically. 

Leduc  straightened  up  to  his  full  height 
and  looked  down  at  the  man  in  whose 
hands  were,  so  to  say,  dogs  and  presents 
of  money. 

"  No,  M'sieu,"  he  said,  relapsing  into 
his  half-breed  dialect.  "  Leduc  not  have 
to.  Leduc  going  away." 

"  Going  away  !  " 

"  Oui,  M'sieu.  Leduc  has  been  think- 
ing, and  he  is  going  away  north." 

"  But  that  is  nonsense.     In  the  first 


place,  I  could  take  Annette  to  the  grave 
if  I  chose.  Your  going  can't  change 
that." 

The  old  man's  face  twitched  sudden- 
ly. "  M'sieu  will  not  do  that.  Surely 
M'sieu  will  not  do  that !  It  is  all  I 
have." 

Saxe  hesitated,  and  then,  rising  sud- 
denly, held  out  his  hand.  "  Look  here, 
Leduc.  I  promise  not  to  tell  if  you 
promise  not  to  go." 

"Not  tell?" 

"  No.  I  '11  not  tell  if  you  '11  stay  until 
to-morrow." 

After  an  instant's  deliberation  Leduc 
promised,  and  Saxe  went  off  on  his  sud- 
denly conceived  errand. 

He  found  Annette  at  the  hotel,  and 
learned  that  her  mistress  was  to  go  by 
the  afternoon  train,  and  was  now  in  the 
wood  across  the  road,  taking  a  walk. 
Saxe  found  her  where  he  had  known  she 
would  be,  seated  on  the  log  where  he  and 
she  had  sat  a  few  nights  before. 

She  was  very  pale  and  looked  worn, 
as  if  with  a  sleepless  night. 

"  t)o  not  scold  me  for  coming,"  he 
began  at  once.  "  I  am  not  here  on  my 
account.  You  must  not  go  until  to-mor- 
row." 

XI. 

"I  remember,"  began  the  Countess, 
gazing  dreamily  into  the  glowing  ashes, 
<l  a  story  that  Annette  — '  Nana '  I  called 
her  then  —  used  to  tell  me  when  I  was 
very  little." 

No  one  spoke  ;  no  one  had  spoken  for 
some  time.  Something,  possibly  the 
blending  of  the  moonlight  with  the  fire- 
light had  quieted  them  all,  and  then  the 
pines,  stirred  by  a  soft  overhead  wind, 
were  more  than  usually  articulate. 

"  It  was  the  story  of  a  little  boy,"  she, 
went  on  after  a  pause,  her  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees.  "  She  never  told  me 
his  name.  One  day  when  I  was  ill,  she 
showed  me  a  curl  of  his  hair  in  a  locket, 
—  such  yellow  hair,  and  so  silky." 


502 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


Leduc  looked  up  from  his  whittling, 
his  eyes  glinting  under  the  heavy  brows. 

"  He  must  have  been  a  dear  little 
boy,"  the  Countess  continued,  looking  ab- 
sently at  him. 

"  He  was  lame.  One  poor  little  leg 
was  shorter  than  the  other,  and  his  back 
was  not  quite  straight,  but  only  his  fa- 
ther and  mother  cared ;  he  did  n't  be- 
cause they  were  so  good  to  him,  and  he 
was  so  happy." 

Saxe  watched  her,  hardly  hearing  her 
words  as  the  pine-cones  he  tossed  into 
the  dying  fire  blazed  up  and  threw  a 
vivid  light  over  her. 

He  had  walked  all  the  afternoon, 
tramping  doggedly  over  the  roughest 
ground  he  could  find,  and  he  was  tired, 
both  mentally  and  physically  ;  his  feel- 
ings were  deadened,  in  a  comfortable 
way,  so  that  he  was  almost  happy. 

"  The  father,  a  big,  strong  man,  used 
to  knot  an  old  shawl  —  a  blue  and  green 
plaid  shawl  it  was,  I  remember  —  about 
his  neck  as  Indian  women  do,  and  the 
little  boy  would  sit  in  the  shawl  with 
his  hands  clasped  just  under  his  father's 
chin,  —  and  away  they  would  gallop 
through  the  woods  !  The  little  boy  used 
to  pretend  that  his  father  was  a  horse,  — 
named  " —  She  broke  off.  "  I  have  for- 
gotten the  name !  " 

"  <  Buce'phale.'  " 

It  was  Leduc  who  spoke,  his  voice 
harsh.  Saxe  turned  to  him.  The  old 
man  had  dropped  his  whittling  and 
drawn  back  out  of  the  firelight,  only  his 
big  knotted  hands,  lying  helplessly  open, 
palm  uppermost,  with  loose-curled  fin- 
gers, being  distinctly  visible.  There  was 
something  very  pathetic  about  those 
hands. 

The  Countess's  eyes  met  Saxe's,  and 
held  them  for  a  minute,  until  the  chan- 
ging expression  of  his  startled  her,  and 
she  turned  away  with  a  slight  shake  of 
the  head. 

"  The  little  boy  was  very  fond  of  his 
mother,  but  he  loved  his  father  even 
more,  and  when  he  was  ill,  as  he  was 


very  often,  he  used  to  rest  best  when  his 
father  lay  him  on  a  pillow  and  carried 
him  up  and  down  before  the  cottage 
where  they  lived.  He  used  to  kiss  his 
father's  hair,  and  pat  it  with  his  hot 
hands.  I  have  often  thought,"  went  on 
the  Countess,  in  another  voice,  speaking 
very  meditatively,  "  that  it  must  have 
made  the  poor  mother  unhappy  to  have 
the  little  boy  love  his  father  so  much 
more  than  he  loved  her." 

"I  loved  him  more  than  she  loved 
him,  always  !  "  exclaimed  Leduc  fiercely, 
rising  with  clenched  hands.  "  She  hated 
his  being  lame  —  She  was  proud,  ma 
femme,  and  resented  his  crooked  leg. 
All  her  people  were  tall  and  straight, 
and  —  she  blamed  me  —  I  always  loved 
him  the  more,  —  I  was  a  scamp,  and  a 
lame  child  was  good  enough  for  me." 

Annette  sat  with  a  white  face  and 
tight-clasped  hands,  looking  at  him,  but 
he  was  not  talking  to  her. 

"  I  know,"  he  went  on,  still  in  French  ; 
"  you  want  me  to  take  her  to  his  grave ; 
you  are  trying  to  work  on  my  feelings. 
You  have  done  it,  I  —  you  have  hurt 
me.  But  she  shall  not  see  it.  It  is 
mine,  and  she  shall  not  spoil  it." 

"  Lucien,  —  I  would  not  spoil  it,  I 
only  want  to  see  it,"  pleaded  the  old  wo- 
man, rising  too,  and  going  to  him.  The 
others  were  forgotten.  "  Why  do  you 
hate  me  so  ?  I  did  love  him.  God 
knows  I  loved  him.  I  never  tried  to 
make  him  love  me  more  than  you.  It 
hurt,  but  —  I  was  glad.  I  thought  it 
might  help  you." 

Leduc  looked  down  at  her  with  a  curi- 
ous dignity.  "  If  you  loved  him,  why 
did  you  leave  him  all  alone  ?  " 

"  Lucien  !  "  Her  voice  rose  to  a  trem- 
bling cry.  "  I  never  left  him,  never  a 
minute,  except  when  you  had  him,  and 
I  knew  —  he  did  n't  want  me." 

It  was  perhaps  the  most  heart-break- 
ing avowal  a  woman  could  make,  and 
Saxe  started  up,  his  face  hot. 

"  Leduc  !  "  he  began,  but  Winifred 
stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  He  caught 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


503 


her  hand  and  they  stood  there,  reveren- 
tial, unnoticed  observers  of  the  strange 
scene. 

The  pile  of  shavings  and  the  stick  for- 
gotten by  the  old  man  caught  fire  from 
a  spark,  and  threw  flitting  flames  upon 
the  figures  of  the  two  speakers. 

"  I  meant,  —  why  did  you  leave  him 
after  he  was  dead  ?  He  was  afraid  of 
the  dark,  he  was  afraid  of  the  trees  when 
the  wind  blew,  —  he  was  afraid  of  the 
black  shadows  rushing  over  the  ground. 
He  thought  they  were  beasts.  And  you 
left  him  alone,  —  alone  with  all  these 
things  !  " 

Annette  laid  her  hands  on  his  arm. 
"  But,  —  he  was  dead,  he  did  n't  know, 
he  was  n't  there,  he  was  with  the  Bless- 
ed Virgin  and  the  saints." 

Leduc  shook  her  off. 

"  Contes  que  tout  cela !  He  was  there, 
—  there  in  the  black  earth  under  the 
shadows.  He  is  there  still.  And  you 
left  him  alone." 

Winifred's  hand  closed  more  tightly 
over  Saxe's.  Leduc's  obstinacy  seemed 
invincible. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  the 
old  woman,  her  face  hidden  by  her  hands, 
rocked  to  and  fro  without  speaking. 

Then,  leaving  Saxe,  Winifred  ap- 
proached the  old  man. 

"  Leduc,"  she  said,  gently  using  Saxe's 
name  for  him,  "don't  you  believe  in 
Heaven  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  ?  " 

"  Do  you,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  flushed.  "  Yes,  I  do.  I  believe 
that  Le  Mioche  has  been  there  with  her 
all  these  years." 

11  Then  you  don't  believe  in  Purga- 
tory ?  "  he  broke  in. 

"  No.  I  don't  know,  —  but  I  believe 
in  God,  —  and  I  know  that  God  would  n't 
leave  le  pauvre  Mioche  all  alone  there 
all  these  years.  Annette  is  a  good  Catho- 
lic ;  she  has  not  forgotten  him,  but  she 
has  not  thought  of  him  there ;  she  has 
thought  of  him  as  being  in  Heaven.  Do 
you  see  ?  " 

"  I   did  n't  leave  him   all  alone.     I 


loved  him,"  he  muttered,  a  little  irreso- 
lutely, and  then,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
she  went  on  :  — 

"  Annette,  Leduc  —  I  mean  Lucien  — 
has  gone  every  year  to  the  grave,  —  every 
year,  no  matter  where  he  was,  and  laid 
on  it  a  white  stone  in  memory  of  his 
visit.  The  grave  has  been  taken  care 
of  by  him.  You  have  prayed  for  Le 
Mioche,  you  have  not  forgotten  him,  but 
—  you  did  forget  his  grave." 

Annette  uncovered  her  face.  "  Yes, 
I  did.  Lucien,  —  will  you  forgive  me, 
my  man,  and  let  me  see  it  ?  It  is  yours  ; 
I  will  not  touch  it.  But  —  oh,  Le 
Mioche,  Le  Mioche  !  " 

She  burst  into  hard,  painful  sobs,  and 
went  up  to  him.  Winifred  drew  back 
quietly  and  waited. 

"  Annette,  ma  vieille,  don't  cry. 
Come,  I  will  show  you.  You  are  not  to 
cut  the  grass,  —  you  are  to  remember 
that  it  is  mine,  but  —  I  will  let  you  see 
it.  Come." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  head. 
"  To-night  ?  "  she  asked  in  amazement. 

Leduc  put  his  arm  about  her  shoul- 
ders. His  eyes  were  wet  with  tears  that 
do  not  fall,  but  there  was  condescension 
in  every  movement  as  he  led  her  away. 

"  To-night.  It  is  n't  so  near,"  he 
added,  with  an  unsteady  laugh,  u  but 
then,  it  is  n't  so  far." 


XII. 

The  other  two,  left  alone,  sat  down 
again,  and  Saxe  mechanically  threw  some 
cones  and  sticks  on  the  fire. 

"  A  very  curious  scene,  was  n't  it  ?  " 
Winifred  said,  smiling  thoughtfully.  "  I 
wonder  how  far  it  is  possible  to  love,  after 
thirty  years,  a  child  who  died  at  the  age 
of  four." 

"  It  was  n't  only  the  child,"  returned 
Saxe  in  the  same  reflective  tone,  "  it  was 
their  youth,  their  old  love  and  old  dislike 
for  each  other,  —  their  vanity,  their  ob- 
stinacy, —  all  of  it  together." 


504 


Our  Lady  of  the,  Beeches. 


"  He  was  offended  at  the  thought  of 
her  having  left  him,  quite  as  much  as 
by  her  having  left  Le  Mioche,  —  and 
she  was  irritated,  in  a  way,  by  his  faith- 
fulness to  the  grave." 

Saxe  watched  her  absently.  "  Yes. 
Oh  yes,"  he  answered. 

"  The  beginning  of  the  trouble,"  she 
went  on,  "was  that  Lucien  threw  her 
down,  once,  when  he  was  drunk.  Le 
Mioche  was  born  a  few  months  after,  — 
lame.  She  blamed  her  husband,  and  said 
cruel  things  to  him,  poor  woman  ;  it  was 
hard  for  her,  and  then,  from  the  first, 
the  little  fellow  preferred  his  father." 

Saxe  did  not  speak,  and  for  a  time 
she  too  was  silent ;  then,  a  little  hastily  : 
"  I  am  glad  I  stayed.  Ifc  will  be  a  com- 
fort to  her,  poor  thing,  as  long  as  she 
lives,  that  she  saw  the  grave,  and  that  at 
the  end  they  were  — kind  to  each  other." 

Saxe  laughed.  "  Yes.  Only,  —  you 
must  go  by  the  early  train.  Leduc's 
emotionality  will  not  last." 

"  I  know.  Yes,  we  will  take  the  early 
train.  Tell  me,  Dr.  Saxe,  what  is  the 
best  hotel  in  Boston  ?  We  shall  stop 
over  night  there." 

"  The  Touraine,  I  should  say." 

"  Thanks.  It  would  be  easy  to  go  di- 
rect to  New  York,  I  suppose,  but  I  like 
to  be  comfortable,  and  I  confess  I  don't 
find  your  much  lauded  dining-room  cars 
up  to  their  reputation !  " 

"  I  never  lauded  them." 

"  I  don't  mean  you  personally,  of 
course.  I  mean  all  Americans  in  Eu- 
rope. Americans  are  so  tremendously 
patriotic  in  Europe." 

Saxe  frowned  impatiently. 

"  Hang  Americans  in  Europe !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, throwing  a  branch  into  the  fire 
with  a  force  that  sent  a  shower  of  ashes 
and  sparks  out  into  the  darkness.  An 
owl  hooted. 

She  laughed  softly.  "  How  very  rude 
you  are ! " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  again  they 
were  silent,  neither  looking  at  the  other. 
The  moonlight  no  longer  reached  them, 


and  the  night  was  dark  but  for  the  red 
firelight ;  the  wind-had  gone  down,  and 
silence  brooded  on  the  quiet  trees. 

At  last,  without  moving,  Saxe  spoke. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "  why 
women  have  their  feelings  so  much  bet- 
ter under  control  than  men.  It  is  either 
that  they  have  better  disciplined  wills,  or 
—  less  strength  of  feeling." 

"  The  latter,  I  should  say,"  she  an- 
swered. "  Women  are  weaker  physi- 
cally and  mentally  than  men,  —  why  not 
emotionally  ?  " 

"  You  must  be  right.  Probably  if  you 
were  at  this  moment  feeling  one  tenth  of 
what  I  feel,  you  would  cry  out." 

"  Probably.  So  it  is  just  as  well  that 
matters  are  as  they  are." 

Saxe  watched  her  as  she  spoke.  "  Yes. 
It  may  interest  you  to  know,"  he  went 
on  in  the  same  even  voice,  "that  if  I 
were  not  convinced  of  the  cowardice  of 
such  an  act,  I  should  shoot  myself  to- 
night." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  convinced  of 
the  cowardice  of  such  an  act.  You  are 
also  probably  convinced,  as  I  am,  of  the 
fleeting  nature  of  most  emotions.  What 
is  the  song  Leduc  sings  :  '  Un  peu 
d'amour,  un  peu  de  haine,  et  puis '  "  — 

"  Et  puis,  bonsoir !     Yes." 

"  To-night  you  are  —  sorry  I  am  go- 
ing, —  but  in  a  month  you  will  be  glad  I 
did  go,  and  in  giving  you  a  month  I  am 
unnecessarily  generous." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to-rnorrow,  as  far  as 
that  is  concerned,  but  —  it  will  all  hurt 
none  the  less." 

"  It  hurts  me,  too,"  she  said,  relenting 
a  little,  and  then  sorry,  as  he  laughed. 

"  My  dear  child  !  Thank  you  ;  you 
are  kind.  It  may  hurt  you  a  little  ;  I 
believe  that  it  will,  —  but  you  are  young, 
and  this  is  the  last  of  my  youth." 

"  Nonsense  !     You  are  forty-two  !  " 

"  Yes.  But  this  is  the  last,  as  it  was 
almost  the  first  of  my  youth.  You  are 
young,  and  I  am  old.  That  is  the  dif- 
ference." 

She  started  as  if  to  speak,  and  then 


Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches. 


505 


was  silent,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  the 
fingers  edged  with  flame  in  the  firelight. 

At  length  she  turned,  looking  full  at 
him  for  the  first  time. 

"  When  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you, 
what  did  you  think  I  meant  ?  " 

"  I  knew.     I  knew  "  — 

"  But  you  think  that  I,  a  woman  of 
nearly  thirty,  a  woman  who  has  been  eat- 
ing her  heart  out  in  a  horrible  loneliness 
for  years,  did  not  know  what  I  was  say- 
ing. That  I  loved  you  for  a  week,  for 
a  month.  That  —  all  this  —  has  been  a 
pleasant  little  romantic  episode  on  which 
I  should  look  back  with  a  smile,  — 
you  thought  all  these  things,  because  I 
can  talk  and  laugh,  and  —  ask  you  about 
—  hotels  ?  In  a  word,  because  I  do  not 
mourn  and  sentimentalize,  as  you  would 
like  to  have  me." 

"  Stop !  I  never  wanted  you  to  mourn 
and  "  — 

"  Wait.  Now,  just  before  I  go  away,  — 
and  it  is  to  be  Bonsoir,  —  I  must  tell 
you,  in  a  way  that  you  will  remember, 
that  I  love  you  with  every  bit  of  me,  and 
that  as  long  as  I  live  I  will  love  you." 

She  leaned  over,  laying  one  hand  on 
his  arm.  With  a  sort  of  groan  he  shook 
her  off. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  he  said  breath- 
lessly. 

He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  for 
a  few  seconds,  without  speaking. 

"  God  bless  you  for  saying  that,"  he 
went  on,  as  she  rose,  facing  him.  "  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  it  hurts  you.  I  wish 
I  could  have  it  all." 

She  smiled.  "  No,  dearest,  I  would  not 
give  up  my  share.  It  is  a  sorrow  sweeter 
than  all  the  happiness  in  the  world.  It 
is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  "  — 

Suddenly  she  reached  out  and  took  off 
his  glasses,  as  she  had  done  at  the  grave 
of  Le  Mioche.  His  eyes  were  wet. 

They  were  hard,  brilliant  eyes,  of  a 
kind  to  which  such  moisture  looks  almost 
impossible. 

With  a  little  cry  she  hid  her  face  on 
his  arm  and  held  it  there  until,  breath- 


ing hard,  he  turned  her  head  and  kissed 
her. 

"  Ah,  it  is  hard,  it  is  hard,"  she  critd, 
holding  him  tight.  "  I  cannot  say  Bon- 
soir—  I  cannot." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  hair.  "  Dear, 
—  we  must.  It  is  no  good,  we  must." 

Her  little  outburst  of  passion  was  spent.' 
"  Yes.  Of  course  we  must.  Hush,  — 
there  they  come.  We  must  take  the  first 
train,  —  for  it  is  n't  only  Leduc,  whose 
mood  will  not  last  "  — 

Leduc  was  singing  as  they  came,  a 
song  they  both  knew.  "  Ah,  vous  dirais- 
je  Maman,"  — 

"  Le  Mioche  loved  it,"  whispered 
Winifred.  "  Richard,  —  promise  me  on 
your  word  of  honor  never  to  write  to 
me." 

"  I  promise  on  my  word  of  honor." 

"  Even  if  I  —  should  write  —  you." 

"  Even  if  —     I  cannot !  " 

"  You  must." 

"  Even  if  you  should  write  to  me." 

In  the  darkness  they  waited. 

"  Papa  veut  que  je  raisonne "  — 
Annette  was  singing  with  him. 

«  Good-by." 

«  Good-by." 

"  Bonsoir,"  added  Winifred. 

"  Bonsoir  !  " 

"  Here 's  the  lantern,  Leduc ;  light  it, 
it  is  late." 

"  Oui,  M'sieu." 

"  So  you  saw  the  grave,  Annette  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mad'moiselle.  The  trees  have 
grown  big,  but  they  are  the  same  trees. 
And  we  are  grown  old,  but  we  are  the 
same  people." 

"  We  must  go  to-morrow  morning,  you 
know." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,"  returned  the  old 
woman  composedly.  "It  is  best.  To- 
night we  have  been  very  happy,  but  we 
are  the  same  people  we  used  to  be,  — 
to-morrow  we  should  quarrel.  We  are 
old,  and  I  suppose  we  will  never  meet 
again.  It  is  better  so,  —  but  this  night 
will  always  be  a  happy  memory." 

Winifred  turned  as  they  left  the  camp, 


506 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


and  looked  back  at  the  now  lonely  fire. 
For  a  second  she  stood  quite  still,  and 
tl^n  followed  Leduc  and  Annette  who 
carried  the  lantern. 

"  Hotel  Touraine,  you  said,"  she  re- 
marked, as  they  reached  the  wagon,  and 
Leduc  waked  young  Cobb. 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  very  good  one.  I  hope 
you  will  have  a  pleasant  summer." 

"  Thanks.  All  good  wishes  for  your 
books,  and  —  the  laboratory." 

Leduc  embraced  his  wife  with  a  kind 
of  tender  gallantry  not  unmixed  with 
relief,  and  the  two  women  got  into  the 
wagon. 

"  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

Cobb  flapped  the  reins  on  the  back  of 
his  horse,  and  the  wagon  started  with  a 
jerk. 

When  it  was  almost  out  of  sight, 
Winifred  called  softly,  — 

(The 


"  Bonsoir." 

"  Bonsoir." 

Leduc  sighed  ostentatiously.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu.  Bonsoir  reminds  me 
of  the  song." 

As  they  went  back,  following  the 
dancing  light  of  the  lantern  the  old  man 
raised  his  voice  and  sang  cheerfully  :  — 

"  '  La  vie  est  vaine, 
Un  peu  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  reve, 
Et  puis  —  bonsoir !  ' 

That  is  very  true,  M'sieu.  Leduc  has 
found  it  very  true,  and  Leduc  is  old,  and 
knows." 

Saxe  laughed. 

"  Leduc  is  a  very  wise  man.  Does 
he  know,  among  other  things,  where  the 
whiskey  is  ?  " 

As  he  poured  out  a  glass  by  the  lan- 
tern's light,  Saxe  laughed  again. 

"  Et  puis  —  bonsoir  !  " 

Bettina  von  Hutten. 
end.) 


A  KNIGHTLY  PEN. 


DURING  the  exceptionally  rude  wea- 
ther of  last  February  my  friend  and  I 
took  much  fireside  pleasure  in  re-read- 
ing together,  with  frequent  pauses  for 
elucidation,  quotation,  reflection,  ap- 
proval, or  dissent,  George  Meredith's 
great  trilogy.  We  two  have  long  been, 
in  our  way,  disciples  of  Meredith,  though 
secretly,  —  as  one  may  say,  —  for  fear 
of  the  Jews.  There  are  so  many  organ- 
ized bands  of  marauders,  of  both  sexes, 
abroad,  who  continually  order  you  to 
stand  and  deliver  your  most  cherished 
opinions,  that  you  instinctively  put  these 
possessions  away  in  what  you  fondly  hope 
will  prove  a  secret  pocket,  before  ven- 
turing into  "the  wide  world  at  all.  For 
to  be  met,  in  a  lonely  place,  on  a  dark 
night,  by  a  member  of  some  Browning 


or  Meredith  Society  with  the  awful  chal- 
lenge "  A  paper,  or  your  life !  "  is  an 
experience  fraught  with  paralyzing  ter- 
ror to  some.  Why  it  should  seem  so 
different  a  thing  voluntarily  to  offer  a 
humble  contribution  toward  the  exegesis 
of  a  masterly  but  eccentric  writer,  in 
whom  a  tardy  and  in  some  sort  artificial 
popularity  seems  but  to  have  increased 
a  certain  inborn  relish  for  mystifying 
the  vulgar,  I  cannot  exactly  say.  The 
public,  at  all  events,  can  always  take 
your  two  mites  or  leave  them. 

At  this  point  I  seem  to  hear  the 
pleasantly  patronizing  voice  of  some 
accredited  Meredithian  inquiring  what 
I  mean  by  George  Meredith's  "great 
trilogy ;  "  and  let  us  hope  that  my  an- 
swer may  surprise  him  a  little,  for 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


507 


otherwise  I  should  have  small  excuse 
for  saying  anything  at  all. 

Nobody,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  yet 
been  at  the  pains  to  point  out  the  con- 
tinuous and  cumulative  interest  and 
close  logical  sequence  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
three  latest,  and,  upon  the  whole,  least 
popular  and  admired  romances  :  One 
of  our  Conquerors,  Lord  Ormont  and 
his  Aminta,  and  The  Amazing  Mar- 
riage. Yet,  taken  collectively,  they 
comprise  the  searching  discussion  of  a 
very  serious  theme,  which  would  seem 
to  have  haunted  the  novelist  at  inter- 
vals, from  his  youth  up;  and  the  long 
subsequent  silence  of  the  aging  author 
makes  it  look  a  little  as  though  he  felt 
himself,  and  wished  the  world  to  un- 
derstand, that  he  has  now  said  his  last 
word  concerning  it.  I  propose,  then, 
to  consider  Mr.  Meredith  as  he  reveals 
himself  unmistakably  in  these  three 
books ;  in  the  character,  namely,  of  a 
gallant  champion  of  what  are,  to  him, 
the  sacred  and  inviolable  Rights  of 
Woman. 

To  begin  with  One  of  our  Conquer- 
ors. Rarely,  I  think,  has  there  been 
an  overture  to  a  great  piece  better  con- 
ceived than  that  buoyant  promenade  and 
ignominious  tumble  of  Victor  Radnor 
upon  London  Bridge,  with  which  the 
story  opens.  The  main  theme  of  a  tre- 
mendous "Morality  "  is  here  given,  in 
one  bar  of  ringing  notes.  Victor  Rad- 
nor is  a  perfect  type  of  the  supremely 
successful  man  of  the  present  day.  A 
great  London  merchant  with  political 
aspirations  on  the  eve  of  fulfillment,  he 
had  started  on  his  career  with  such  ad- 
vantages in  the  way  of  family  connec- 
tion and  inherited  fortune  as  fairly  to 
have  acquired  in  early  middle  life  that 
practically  unlimited  wealth  which  is 
just  now  the  indispensable  condition  of 
any  considerable  social  influence.  He 
is  a  great  lover  and  patron  of  the  fine 
arts,  and  for  music,  a  positive  enthusi- 
ast. He  is  also  a  man  formed  by  na- 
ture to  inspire  strong  personal  attach- 
ment ;  a  bounteous  giver,  a  noble  enter- 


tainer, with  an  ample  and  sunny  genius, 
not  only  for  the  sweetest  amenities  of 
domestic  life,  but  for  manly  friendship 
and  a  splendid  munificence.  His  one 
child,  a  daughter,  just  developing  into 
womanhood,  is  a  beautiful,  ardent, 
highly  gifted  creature ;  one  of  the  most 
attractive  pictures  ever  drawn  of  a  hap- 
py and  lavishly  endowed  girlhood.  The 
half-dozen  variously  clever  and,  in  the 
main,  highly  honorable  men  who  con- 
stitute Victor  Radnor's  most  intimate 
circle,  and  are  made  free  of  his  great 
houses  in  town  and  country,  are  all,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  more  or  less  in  love 
with  the  brilliant  Nesta ;  but  their  feel- 
ing for  Nathaly,  the  girl's  mother,  a 
woman  herself  still  young  and  beautiful, 
is  of  another  order.  Toward  her,  their 
loyalty  is  dogged  and  resolute,  their 
admiration  wistful;  the  respect  which 
the  gentle  dignity  of  her  bearing  makes 
it  impossible  for  them  to  withhold  is 
tinged  both  with  indignation  and  regret. 
For  here  is  the  sun-spot,  the  fruit- 
speck,  the  flaw  in  the  foundations  of 
the  stately  fabric  which  these  tolerant 
men  of  the  world  delight  to  haunt. 
Their  gracious  hostess,  the  mother  of 
the  peerless  Nesta,  is  not  Victor's  wife, 
and  technically  good  women  decline  to 
visit  her.  He  has,  in  fact,  another  wife 
living ;  and  yet  the  circumstances  "  ex- 
tenuate." 

Attacked  when  he  was  little  more 
than  a  lad  upon  what  was  at  once  his 
most  chivalrous  and  his  weakest  side, 
captured  and  "  married  and  a'  "  by  a 
sickly  and  fanatical  heiress  much  older 
than  himself,  who  both  delighted  in 
his  personal  beauty  and  desired  the 
salvation  of  his  soul  by  the  non-con- 
formist formula,  he  had  borne  the 
spiritual  tyranny  under  which  he  fell 
sweetly  enough  upon  his  own  account; 
but  he  could  not  bear  seeing  it  exercised 
over  the  rare  young  creature  whom  ca- 
lamity had  precipitated  from  a  higher 
social  rank  than  that  of  his  wife,  and 
forced  to  earn  her  living  as  that  wife's 
companion.  The  elopement  which  fol- 


508 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


lowed  placed  the  woman,  of  course,  un- 
der the  ban  of  society,  but  not  the  man. 
If  personal  genius,  added  to  unswerving 
personal  devotion,  could  have  redeemed 
the  situation,  Victor's  would  have  done 
so ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  believes 
that  he  has  all  but  won  his  battle  with 
society  at  the  moment  when  the  story 
opens.  The  old  wife,  from  whom,  under 
English  law,  there  was  no  possibility  of 
obtaining  legal  divorce,  lies  at  the  point 
of  death  from  a  lingering  but  absolutely 
incurable  disease,  while  the  man  of  many 
millions  has  just  completed  an  excep- 
tionally stately  pleasure  house,  a  little 
way  out  of  London,  to  which  all  the 
great  world  both  of  art  and  fashion 
seems  ready  to  flock,  asking  no  ques- 
tions. Then  comes  that  buoyant  walk 
over  the  bridge,  upon  a  bright  spring 
morning,  the  wanton  spite  of  a  street 
rough,  excited  by  the  too  obvious  com- 
placency of  the  conquering  hero,  the 
staggering  impact  of  a  gutter-missile  on 
an  immaculate  expanse  of  shirt-front, 
the  fall  backward,  and  a  confused  feel- 
ing ever  after,  upon  the  hero's  part, 
that  he  had  heard  through  the  subse- 
quent ringing  in  his  ears  the  forewarn- 
ing of  Nemesis,  —  the  first,  faint,  far- 
off,  almost  melodious  bay  of  the  hounds 
of  retribution. 

Retribution  is  indeed  wrought  upon 
the  genial  sinner  with  Greek  punctuality 
(and  completeness.  His  Nathaly's  heart 
had  been  broken,  figuratively,  long  be- 
fore, by  remorse,  by  the  deep  mortifica- 
tion bred  of  social  contumely,  by  her 
anguish  over  the  uncertain  position  and 
future  of  the  bright  maiden  who  has 
never  suspected  her  dire  disadvantage; 
and  the  mother  who  was  not  a  wife  had 
bravely  concealed  her  own  spiritual  suf- 
ferings for  the  sake  of  the  man  and  the 
child  whom  she  adored.  Now  the  phy- 
sical organ  of  the  martyr  is  attacked, 
and  this  too  she  succeeds  in  hiding,  so 
that  Victor,  manlike,  never  dreams  in 
the  absorption  of  his  manifold  pur- 
poses that  it  has  become  a  breathless 
race  for  death  between  the  two  women 


whom  he  has  equally  wronged.  The 
legal  wife  wins  by  a  few  hours,  and  the 
shock  to  our  conqueror  is  so  great  that 
he  falls  fatally  stricken  in  body  and 
brain,  and  unable  even  to  dictate  the 
testament  which  would  have  secured  her 
vast  inheritance  to  his  idolized  child. 

"Here  's  a  sermon,  Harry!  "  as  the 
old  Baroness  Bernstein  said  to  her  Vir- 
ginian kinsman,  when  he  failed  to  re- 
cognize her  own  resplendent  portrait  as 
a  girl.  But  there  are  subsidiary  themes 
and  incidental  homilies  in  this  extreme- 
ly serious  book  which  are  hardly  less 
impressive.  There  is  the  flaw,  detected 
and  exposed,  of  lurking  vulgarity  in  the 
ideal  of  life  accepted  by  every  man  who 
will  be  first  and  foremost  a  money 
king.  There  is  the  quaint  idyl  of  Vic- 
tor Radnor's  confidential  clerk,  the  con- 
verted pugilist,  who  consecrates  his  for- 
midable fist  to  God  and  the  intrepid 
Salvation  lass  whom  he  had  rescued  from 
the  violence  of  a  drunken  brute.  Above 
all,  there  is  the  effect  of  the  long  trag- 
edy, they  have  seen  so  near,  upon  those 
fair-minded  men  of  the  world  who  have 
the  run  of  Victor's  house.  Theoretical- 
ly, of  course,  and  in  the  face  of  that 
world,  they  stand  by  their  own  order 
and  its  Mohammedan  traditions.  But 
the  "pity  and  terror"  of  it  all  purify 
their  feeling  both  for  mother  and  daugh- 
ter in  degrees  that  vary  exactly  with 
the  native  nobility  of  each  man's  mind. 
The  titled  fiance',  so  needful  to  the  suc- 
cess of  Victor's  political  plans,  whom 
Nesta  had  dutifully  accepted  at  her 
father's  eager  instance,  but  to  her  mo- 
ther's unspoken  distress,  draws  back 
naturally  enough  from  the  revelation 
that  the  mother  is  impelled  to  make, 
and  half  accepts  the  release  which  the 
girl  instantly  offers  him  when  she  her- 
self is  told  the  truth.  Afterward  he 
repents,  and  would  risk  and  condone  all, 
but  it  is  too  late.  In  the  forcing  fire 
of  that  sharp  crisis,  the  virginal  soul  of 
his  bride  that  might  have  been  has  risen 
above  and  passed  far  away  from  him. 
If  ever  young  woman  "grew  upon  the 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


509 


sunny  side  of  the  wall, "  it  was  Nesta 
up  to  the  time  when  she  learned  the 
truth  ahout  her  parentage.  And  yet 
— paratum  est  cor  suum  —  the  divine 
preparation  of  the  heart  had  been  surely 
going  on.  And  when  the  maiden  of 
nineteen  springs  to  moral  maturity  in 
one  fierce  hour,  we  know  not  which  to 
admire  more,  —  her  arrowy  rectitude, 
or  her  ample  charity.  Love  answereth 
all  things.  She  loves,  encourages,  and 
supports  her  mother.  She  loves,  com- 
passionates, and  nerves  her  father.  She 
never  judges  either.  She  seems  not  even 
to  know  how  firmly  she  holds  in  her 
slender  hand  the  balance  between  these 
two  beloved  beings  of  whose  error  she 
was  born.  In  her  large,  fresh,  and 
thoroughly  illuminated  inner  being  there 
is  no  room  even  for  righteous  scorn. 
And  no  more  is  there  any  room  for  hes- 
itation or  fear.  Henceforth  hers  is  a 
steady  and  undaunted  championship  of 
all  women  under  a  social  cloud :  both 
the  actually  "  fallen  "  and  those  like  to 
fall;  a  championship  whose  Christlike 
frankness  comes  near  to  appalling,  at 
times,  even  the  most  generous  of  her 
own  devoted  followers  among  men. 
The  author's  divination  of  the  probable 
workings  of  a  brave,  blameless,  and 
clairvoyant  woman's  heart  seems  at  this 
point  little  less  than  daemonic.  He  has 
painted,  and  painted  con  amore,  a  whole 
gallery  of  splendid  and  spotless  girl-por- 
traits: Lucy  Desmond,  Clara  Middle- 
ton,  Rhoda  Fleming,  the  artless  and 
heroic  creature  whom  he  saddles  with 
the  absurd  name  of  Carinthia  Jane, 
Diana  Merrion,  — but  no,  Diana  does 
not  quite  belong  with  the  others,  nor 
does  Aminta.  But  Nesta  is  the  flower 
of  them  all ;  and  it  is  with  a  sigh  of 
heartfelt  content  that  we  give  her,  in 
the  end,  to  be  married  to  the  most  mag- 
nanimous of  her  many  suitors,  who  had 
stood  modestly  aside  in  the  days  of  her 
high  prosperity,  but  with  whom  we  know 
that  she  will  lead,  in  comparative  pov- 
erty and  retreat,  a  life  both  blessed  and 
blessing. 


How  explain  the  comparative  neglect, 
even  among  titled  officers  of  the  Propa- 
ganda Fide,  into  which  this  noble  ro- 
mance has  fallen  in  ten  years  ?  I  have 
heard  one  of  the  most  earnest  of  the 
"master's"  enrolled  followers  confess, 
almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  One 
of  our  Conquerors  was,  in  every  sense 
of  the  phrase,  more  strong  than  he ;  and 
that  he  had  started  a  score  of  times  to 
accompany  the  hero  over  London  Bridge, 
only  to  turn  back  baffled  and  disconcert- 
ed before  he  had  gained  the  middle 
stream.  Such  a  defection  as  this  is 
clearly  the  author's  own  fault.  Let  the 
truth  be  spoken  plainly,  then,  about  the 
positively  unpardonable  manner  in  which 
this  beautiful  story  is  told.  Mr.  Mere- 
dith is  never,  as  we  all  know,  too  easy 
to  read ;  but  nowhere  else,  in  the  entire 
range  of  his  works,  early  and  late,  in 
prose  or  in  verse,  is  he  so  resolutely, 
rudely,  disdainfully,  I  may  say,  inso- 
lently enigmatical  as  in  all  but  the  con- 
cluding passages  of  One  of  our  Con- 
querors. A  man  with  so  grave  a  mes- 
sage to  deliver  has  no  moral  right  to 
cast  it  in  crabbed  conundrums,  and 
swaddle  it  in  reams  of  allusive,  illusive, 
and  irrelevant  verbiage!  One  might 
suspect  Mr.  Meredith  of  being  ashamed 
and  almost  afraid  of  the  intensity  of  his 
own  feeling,  were  it  not  that,  as  a  dra- 
matic poet,  both  by  temperament  and 
title,  he  is  the  last  man  in  the  world 
whom  one  would  expect  to  succumb  to 
any  such  chilly  and  pitiful  form  of  in- 
tellectual mauvaise  honte.  Moreover, 
at  the  very  end  of  the  book,  as  I  have 
said,  the  author  does  forget  himself  and 
the  tantalizing  humors  of  his  inverted 
phraseology.  His  diction  then  becomes 
quite  simple  and  even  terribly  clear, 
and  the  long  gathering  agony  of  the 
situation  he  has  conceived  presses  to  its 
fall  with  a  "  polished  velocity  "  that  re- 
calls Ruskin's  renowned  description  of 
the  Cataract  of  Schaffhausen. 

So  much  for  the  first  member  of  our 
trilogy.  The  story  of  Lord  Ormont  and 
his  Aminta  is  briefer,  and  much  more 


510 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


plainly,  not  to  say  bluntly  told.  En- 
ter a  schoolboy  and  a  schoolgirl  —  the 
pride  of  their  respective  establishments, 
both  beautiful,  ambitious,  romantic  — 
ogling  each  other  with  rapture  through 
a  mist  of  morning  dreams  across  the 
artificial  barriers  which  are  necessarily 
maintained  between  them.  Silly  crea- 
tures !  —  Matthew  and  Aminta,  —  yet 
how  sympathetically,  how  wistfully, 
how  reverentially,  even,  is  the  fine  fa- 
tuity of  their  awkward  age  depicted! 
The  curtain  drops  abruptly  upon  the 
lean,  sweet  figures  in  this  charming  pic- 
ture, to  rise  again  seven  years  later  and 
show  Aminta  married,  through  the  suc- 
cessful mano3uvring  of  a  vulgar  aunt, 
to  a  great  nobleman  and  a  great  gener- 
al, old  enough  to  be  her  father,  to  wit, 
Lord  Ormont,  whose  brilliant  military 
services  to  his  country  in  foreign  war 
have  never  been  fairly  appreciated  in 
England.  He  had  been  sulking  sternly 
upon  the  Continent  when  himself  cap- 
tured as  aforesaid,  and  he  had  stalked 
into  the  snare  so  palpably  laid  for  him 
half  in  homage  to  Aminta' s  fresh  young 
loveliness,  and  half  to  spite  his  own  un- 
grateful order  at  home,  and  disappoint, 
once  for  all,  the  very  natural  matrimo- 
nial expectations  of  its  daughters.  Lord 
Ormont  marries  his  Aminta  honorably 
at  the  English  Consulate ;  but,  alas,  he 
is  ashamed  of  having  done  so.  When 
the  time  comes  for  taking  her  to  Eng- 
land, the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights  has 
not  the  courage  unequivocally  to  ac- 
knowledge his  bride.  He  neither  in- 
stalls her  in  one  of  his  historic  houses, 
nor  introduces  her  to  his  proper  world ; 
and  that  world,  headed  by  his  own  fine, 
overbearing  sister,  Lady  Charlotte,  jeal- 
ous to  fanaticism  for  his  fame,  eagerly 
assumes  Aminta' s  position  to  be  irregu- 
lar, and  treats  the  lady  accordingly.  All 
that  Nathaly  suffered  righteously  Amin- 
ta has  to  suffer  without  cause,  and  she 
endures  for  a  time  with  a  dignified  pa- 
tience wonderful  in  one  so  young  and 
proud.  That  which  wakes  the  insulted 
countess,  not  so  much  to  wrath  with  her 


ungenerous  lord  as  to  scorn  of  herself 
for  having  accepted  him  at  her  aunt's 
bidding  from  motives  of  gratified  van- 
ity and  mere  worldly  ambition,  is  the 
arrival  on  the  scene,  as  secretary  to  the 
earl,  of  her  boy  lover  Matthew.  The 
latter  had  welcomed  as  a  special  boon 
of  Providence  an  engagement  to  compile 
and  edit  the  famous  memoirs  which  are 
to  constitute  Lord  Ormont 's  Apologia. 
The  great  unrewarded  commander  had 
long  been  the  idol  of  Matthew's  chival- 
rous imagination  as  the  unforgotten 
Aminta  had  been  the  angel  of  his  one 
amorous  dream.  When  fate  brings  him 
to  dwell  in  the  house  of  those  two,  and 
he  finds  her  so  wantonly  discredited 
there,  gallant  struggles  ensue,  de  part 
et  d'autre,  and  prayers  and  dreams  of 
a  superhuman  renunciation,  but  —  it  is 
perhaps  not  necessary  to  say  what  not 
long  after  happened. 

Upon  the  rebels,  in  this  instance, 
Mr.  Meredith  pronounces  no  formal 
sentence.  By  implication  he  may  al- 
most be  regarded  as  justifying  them, 
for  it  is  Lord  Ormont  and  his  kind 
against  whom  he  trains  the  tremendous 
artillery  of  his  moral.  That  valiant 
old  soldier  had,  after  all,  so  sound  a 
heart,  and  so  keen  a  faculty  of  discern- 
ment, except  when  swayed  by  petty 
personal  spite !  He  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated, nay,  doted  on  the  infinite  pos- 
sibilities of  the  rare  young  creature 
whom,  still,  the  selfish  custom  of  his 
sex  and  the  indurated  cruelty  of  his 
caste  permitted  him  to  abuse,  as  toy 
or  instrument,  until  he  had  fairly  driven 
her  to  insurrection  and  constructive 
crime.  He  had  intended  to  right  her 
so  magnificently  when  it  should  be  his 
own  good  time  and  royal  pleasure  to  do 
so !  He  would  deck  her  with  the  world- 
renowned  family  diamonds,  and  trample 
upon  the  whole  impudent  and  ungrateful 
peerage  in  drawing  her  to  his  side.  But 
when  he  finally  turned  and  signified  his 
gracious  willingness  to  adjust  her  coro- 
net the  youthful  countess  was  gone. 

It  is  this  escape  of  his  outraged  bride 


A  ITnightly  Pen. 


511 


from  the  house  that  should  have  protect- 
ed her  which  gives  a  mortal  stab  to  the 
old  patrician's  towering  pride  and  fills 
him  with  a  noble  remorse.  If  the  aris- 
tocratic vices  have,  up  to  this  point, 
been  allowed  their  most  ruthless  play 
in  the  persons  both  of  the  earl  and  Lady 
Charlotte,  the  aristocratic  virtues  too 
shine  brightly  in  the  composed  and  mag- 
nanimous conduct  of  the  brother  and 
sister  after  the  catastrophe.  With  the 
everlasting  exception  of  Shakespeare,  I 
doubt  if  the  other  dramatist  ever  lived 
who  could  have  portrayed  so  to  the  in- 
most palpitating  life  the  rude,  impe- 
rious, and  at  the  same  time  intensely 
human  and  convincing  character  of  Lady 
Charlotte  Eglett.  The  final  word  of 
this  strange,  eventful,  and  more  or  less 
risque  history  remains  with  her,  and 
very  simply  and  grandly  is  it  spoken. 

Still,  there  will  always  be  good  folk 
—  and  folk  wise  with  the  wisdom  of 
both  worlds,  too  —  who  will  shake 
their  heads  over  the  ostensible  teach- 
ing of  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 
Was  it  for  this  reason,  or  only  for  the 
sake  of  emphasizing  his  deeper  mean- 
ing, that  Mr.  Meredith  chose  to  retell 
the  tale  with  altered  characters  and  con- 
ditions, and  so  to  relate  it  the  second 
time  as  to  vindicate  his  injured  heroine 
absolutely  and  conclusively?  To  say 
that  The  Amazing  Marriage  is  only  an- 
other version  of  the  story  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Ormont  is  not,  however,  to  sug- 
gest, for  one  moment,  that  the  author 
repeats  himself.  Quite  otherwise.  He 
is  indeed  so  affluent  a  creator  of  human 
types  and  combinations  that  the  iden- 
tity of  the  twice-told  parable  is  not  im- 
mediately apparent  to  the  reader.  Lord 
Fleetwood,  the  morbid  and  previously 
disappointed  wooer  of  the  mountain 
maid  Carinthia  Jane,  seems  at  first 
sight  to  have  little  in  common  with  a 
virile  hero  like  Lord  Ormont,  except 
his  eminent  social  rank.  He  is,  how- 
ever, like  the  elder  nobleman,  a  despot 
by  circumstance,  —  a  nature  not  wholly 
ignoble,  but  spoiled  by  the  possession 


and  misuse  of  practically  unlimited 
power;  while  the  nature  of  the  lesser 
and  more  modern  man  is  badly  cor- 
roded by  the  action  of  hungry  para- 
sites. A  curiously  keen  perception  of 
historic  truth  is  shown  in  the  change 
of  type  from  the  high-bred  warrior  of 
the  Napoleonic  era,  whose  pride  is  pure- 
ly personal  and  racial,  to  the  cynical 
Croasus  of  a  more  material  generation, 
who  relies  chiefly  on  his  enormous 
wealth  to  save  him  from  the  conse- 
quences of  his  deeds.  In  the  headlong 
pursuit  of  his  unholy  purpose  Lord 
Fleetwood  offers  bribes,  and  stoops  to 
meannesses  for  so  much  as  suggesting 
which  in  his  presence  the  elder  tyrant 
would  have  slain  a  minion  with  his  hands. 
And  yet  —  startling  anomaly !  —  Lord 
Fleetwood  is,  in  some  respects,  the 
more  developed  moral  being  of  the  two. 
He  can  perceive  that  his  inferiors  in 
station  and  fortune  have  rights,  though 
he  will  take  his  own  fill  of  outraging 
the  same.  Lord  Ormont,  the  incorrup- 
tible, is  unvisited  by  any  such  suspi- 
cion. Lord  Fleetwood  is,  in  fact,  quite 
a  bit  of  a  social  philanthropist,  and  con- 
siderably interested  in  the  welfare  of 
mankind  when  at  leisure  from  his  own 
lust.  Lord  Ormont  has  no  such  theo- 
retic weakness  or  imaginary  detachment. 
Money,  he  disdains.  He  regards  it  as 
an  insignificant  and  rather  sordid  acci- 
dent, inseparable  merely  from  a  position 
like  his  own.  Lord  Fleetwood  and  Vic- 
tor Radnor,  on  the  other  hand,  both 
gloat,  in  their  several  fashions,  over  their 
shekels,  and  the  man  who  has  inherited 
even  more  than  the  man  who  has  amassed 
them.  Yet  they  do  it  in  no  miserly 
spirit,  but  rather  through  a  sublime 
confidence  in  the  power  of  wealth  to 
purchase  —  indulgence.  When  the 
pampered  Lord  Fleetwood  finds,  to  his 
amazement,  that  the  fair  woman  upon 
whom  he  had  first  fixed  his  choice  for  a 
bride  has  already  given  her  heart  to  an 
impecunious  army  officer,  it  is  in  a  trans- 
port of  childish  fury  that  he  flings  his 
own  title  and  fortune  at  the  feet  of  the 


512 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


woodland  Cinderella,  who  chances  to  be 
the  sister  of  his  rival.  She,  poor  child, 
receiving  his  heartless  offer  upon  the 
night  of  her  first  ball,  accepts  it  hum- 
bly, in  her  utter  innocence  of  the  world 
and  of  men,  grateful  to  Heaven  and  the 
kind  magnate  who  has  saved  her  from 
the  deeply  dreaded  fate  of  being  a  bur- 
den on  her  beloved  brother  and  so  hin- 
dering the  consummation  of  his  happi- 
ness. Lord  Ormont  had  been  a  coward 
concerning  his  marriage,  but  a  preux 
chevalier  always  in  his  private  relations 
with  his  wife,  as  Victor  Radnor  had  also 
been  toward  the  woman  who  was  not  his 
wife.  The  more  ingrain  and  brutal  self- 
ishness of  Lord  Fleetwood  leads  him  to 
flaunt  his  mesalliance,  and  to  make  a  ver- 
itable Roman  holiday  for  his  sycophan- 
tic following  out  of  the  indignities  which 
he  heaps  upon  the  helpless  head  of  his 
bride. 

Helpless  except  through  the  resources 
of  her  own  upright  and  intrepid  soul. 
Slowly,  surely,  the  child  who  had  been 
so  shamefully  joue  rises  to  the  full 
height  of  her  inviolate  womanhood. 
She  learns  first  to  comprehend,  then  to 
endure,  and  eventually  to  command  the 
abnormal  situation.  The  meekness  of 
her  first  surrender  is  only  equaled  by 
the  majestic  assurance  of  her  ultimate 
ascendency.  Neither  Nathaly  nor 
Aminta  had,  alas,  been  blameless.  Ca- 
rinthia,  by  all  the  sanctions  of  human 
law,  remains  transparently  and  trium- 
phantly so.  For  her  own  sake  and  that 
of  the  heir  of  Fleetwood  she  will  main- 
tain her  full  right  and  title.  The  wealth 
which  is  her  due  she  will  take  that  she 
may  distribute  it  in  a  considered  char- 
ity. Her  experience  of  ignominy  in  her 
own  sinless  person,  like  Nesta's  in  that 
of  her  unhappy  mother,  makes  her  the 
tender  sister  and  the  tireless  helper  of 
all  the  despised  and  shamed.  Only  one 
reprobate  is  beyond  the  pale  of  her 
mercy,  and  that  reprobate  is  her  hus- 
band. To  him  as  a  wife  she  will  on  no 
condition  return.  For  that  spiritual 
fop,  sick  at  last  of  self-indulgence,  and 


shivering  under  a  terrific  moral  arrest, 
there  can  be  no  place  of  repentance  with 
her.  So  pitifully  does  the  spoiled  child 
of  fortune  plead  with  her  before  his 
desperate  end  that  the  weak  reader  is 
all  but  won  over  to  his  part,  but  Astrsea 
is  implacable.  Thus  much  of  hardness 
remains  in  that  big  heart  as  the  result 
of  a  scathing  early  experience.  The 
wound  has  healed,  but  the  pale  cicatrix 
is  always  there :  — 

"  Show  us  Michael  with  the  sword 
Bather  than  such  angels,  Lord !  " 

Nothing,  observe,  can  be  imagined 
less  namby-pamby,  less  meek  and  mild, 
conventionally  supple  and  clinging,  than 
the  feminine  ideal  which  commands  Mr. 
Meredith's  allegiance,  and  which  he 
holds  up  for  admiration  in  these  latter 
tales  of  his,  or  indeed  in  his  romances 
generally.  The  woman  whom  he  delights 
to  honor,  whom  he  compassionates,  for 
whom  he  pleads,  against  whose  gravest 
lapses  he  will  sternly  offset  an  age-long 
accumulation  of  arbitrary  injustice,  must 
herself  possess  a  goodly  share  of  the  so- 
called  virile  virtues.  Before  everything 
she  must  have  the  primal  —  how  fre- 
quently one  is  moved  to  add,  the  sole 
and  final  —  virtue  of  courage.  "  She 
was  brave  "  is  the  laconic  tribute  of  the 
heart- stricken  old  earl  to  his  lost  Amin- 
ta as  he  dreams,  in  his  fading  days,  of 
the  perils  they  had  relished  and  confront- 
ed side  by  side.  And  again,  of  the  same : 
"  She  was  among  the  bravest  of  women. 
She  had  a  full  ounce  of  lead  in  her 
breast  when  she  sat  with  the  boys  at 
their  midday  meal,  showing  them  her 
familiar,  pleasant  face."  The  scene  in 
The  Amazing  Marriage  where  Carin- 
thia,  in  the  presence  of  her  horrified  and 
half-paralyzed  lord,  defends  the  village 
children  from  the  onset  of  a  rabid  dog 
is  one  of  the  most  thrilling  in  fiction; 
and  after  saying  upon  the  burning  last 
page  of  One  of  our  Conquerors  that 
Nesta  brought  her  husband  the  "dower 
of  an  equal  valiancy, "  he  proceeds  to 
a  more  subtle  development  of  his  fa- 
vorite theory:  "You  are  aware  of  the 


A  Knightly  Pen. 


513 


reasons,  the  many,  why  a  courageous 
young  woman  requires  of  high  heaven, 
far  more  than  the  commendably  timid,  a 
doughty  husband.  She  had  him ;  oth- 
erwise would  that  puzzled  old  world 
which  beheld  her  step  out  of  the  ranks 
to  challenge  it,  and  could  not  blast  her 
personal  reputation,  have  commissioned 
a  paw  to  maul  her  character,  perhaps 
instructing  the  gossips  to  murmur  of  her 
parentage.  Nesta  Victoria  Fenallan  had 
the  husband  who  would  have  the  world 
respectful  to  any  brave  woman.  This 
one  was  his  wife."  The  mailed  maiden 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  generous  dream  is 
magnanimous,  but  she  tolerates  no  base 
affront,  and  there  is,  as  we  have  seen,  a 
limit  to  her  mercy.  His  Carinthia  he 
credits  with  a  sense  of  honor  so  refined 
that  it  puts  the  traditional  albeit  some- 
what ragged  code  of  the  "gentleman" 
conspicuously  to  shame.  Where,  as  with 
Diana  of  the  Crossways,  this  keen  punc- 
tilio fails,  even  her  creator's  own  marked 
partiality  barely  avails  to  save  from  last- 
ing disgrace  the  most  seductive  daugh- 
ter of  his  imagination.  For  the  woman 
who  is  unable  to  defend  herself  he  has 
infinite  pity,  but  —  he  leaves  her  to  her 
fate.  Nathaly  dies  without  rehabilita- 
tion and  redress:  Letitia,  open-eyed, 
disenchanted,  and  yet  clasping  her  chain, 
is  handed  over  to  the  baffled  and  humil- 
iated Egoist. 

But  the  oddest  feature  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's crusade  is  this:  the  emancipa- 
tion which  he  invokes  for  the  suffering 
fair  is  in  no  sense  an  intellectual  one. 
It  is  anything  and  everything  rather 
than  an  affair  of  sciences,  languages, 
courses,  and  careers.  And  still  less  is 
it  what  is  quaintly  called  by  a  certain 
class  of  agitators  "economic."  It  is 
purely  moral,  and  can  be  achieved  only 
through  the  moral  regeneration  of  the 
woman's  natural  master.  A  champion 
of  Woman's  Rights  —  even  with  capi- 
tals —  Mr.  Meredith  stands  confessed ; 
yet  with  the  clearly  defined  proviso  that 
a  woman  has  no  rights,  under  the  present 
dispensation,  save  such  as  may  accrue 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  33 


to  her  through  the  righteousness  of  man. 
No  other  author  ever  gauged  so  accu- 
rately all  that  a  high-spirited  woman 
feels,  as  none,  surely,  ever  exposed  so 
relentlessly  the  dastard  quality  that  may 
shelter  itself  within  the  clanging  armor 
of  your  imposing  masculine  bravo.  Nev- 
ertheless Mr.  Meredith  takes  his  text 
quite  frankly  from  Paradise  Lost,  "  He 
for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him." 
The  first  and  by  far  the  most  difficult 
part  of  this  antiquated  ideal  once  real- 
ized, the  second  would  be  found  to  com- 
prehend the  way  of  all  blessing  for  man 
and  woman  alike.  The  woman's  office 
in  creation  is  to  be  magnified,  her  ways, 
in  so  far  as  she  has  been  made  "sub- 
ject to  vanity,  not  willingly, "  are  to 
be  justified,  her  more  than  Augustinian 
"  love  of  love  "  is  to  be  satisfied ;  but 
all  and  strictly  within  the  adamantine 
limits  established,  from  the  beginning, 
in  the  order  of  nature,  by  the  Author 
of  Life. 

Yet  when  I  say  that  Mr.  Meredith 
wants  no  intellectual  emancipation  for 
his  clients  I  am  conscious  of  using  a 
hackneyed,  clumsy,  and  inexact  phrase. 
His  loftier  claim  appears  to  be  that  the 
very  best  order  of  feminine  capacity  is 
something  far  too  good  for  the  service 
of  the  study.  Relatively  to  this  sublime 
endowment,  mere  cleverness  is  but  a 
vulgar  knack,  —  and  verbal  wit,  con- 
temptible. One  may  even  say  that  he 
does  his  best  to  make  it  appear  so,  in 
the  list  he  is  at  the  pains  to  compile  for 
us,  of  Diana  Merrion's  renowned  epi- 
grams. They  are  solemnly  recondite 
and  elaborately  dull.  Only  one  of  them 
has  even  the  torpedo-snap  of  genuine 
repartee,  and  sticks  in  the  memory  be- 
cause of  the  flash  light  that  it  flings 
backward  on  Mr.  Meredith's  own  for- 
tified position.  "Man  has  passed  Se- 
raglio Point,  but  he  has  not  yet  rounded 
Cape  Turk." 

The  paradox  which  our  author  so  ve- 
hemently sustains  is  not  absolutely  new. 
Neither  is  it,  historically  speaking,  very 
old.  Its  first  distinct  enunciation  is 


514 


Domremy  and  Rouen. 


probably  to  be  found  in  the  Magnificat : 
"Respexit  humilitatem  ancillae  suae. 
.  .  .  Deposuit  potentes  ex  sede,  et 
exaltavit  humiles."  It  is  a  mystical 
doctrine  doubtless,  and  during  not  a 
few  of  the  so-called  Christian  centuries 
it  figured  as  an  explicit  article  in  the 
religious  creed  of  a  pious  and  valiant  if 
somewhat  destructive  order  of  men. 
Life  in  this  world,  according  to  the 
scheme  of  things  in  question,  is  contin- 
uous warfare  wherein  offensive  opera- 
tions are  committed  to  the  man,  and 
those  of  defense  to  the  woman.  He 
trains  the  bands,  organizes  the  sorties, 
endures  the  bleak  bivouac,  leads  the 
forlorn  hope  to  desperate  assault.  She 
heartens  and  provisions  the  garrison, 
being  quite  ready  herself  to  stand  to  the 
guns  in  time  of  stress,  no  less  than  to 
dress  the  wounds  of  the  stricken  and 
pray  for  the  souls  of  those  who  fall. 


Such  intervals  of  leisure  as  may  occur 
in  her  strenuous  life  may  well  enough 
be  occupied  in  the  conning  of  missals 
and  the  working  of  tapestry  to  veil  the 
brutal  roughness  of  the  fortress'  inner 
wall.  These  things  are  a  parable;  but 
really,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it, 
they  symbolize  no  such  very  unfair  di- 
vision either  of  labor  or  of  honor ;  nor 
is  it  easy  to  imagine  a  re- assignment  of 
parts  which  would  not  upon  the  whole 
increase  the  chances  of  fatal  confusion 
and  final  defeat.  In  short,  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's ideal  is  that  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  rescued  from  disrepute  and  rid- 
icule, and  shaped,  so  far  as  may  be,  to 
the  uses  of  the  third  millennium.  And 
thus  it  was  that  my  friend  and  I  came 
to  decide,  between  ourselves,  beside  our 
fallen  fire,  that  his  is,  essentially,  and 
above  all  others  now  current,  a  knightly 
pen. 

Harriet  Waters  Preston. 


DOMREMY    AND   ROUEN. 


DOMREMY. 

THE  sheep  are  folded.      I  may  sit  awhile 
Here  in  the  dusk,    and  think  my  thoughts  alone. 
Not  long:   even  now  the  shadows  that  lay  slant 
And  sharp  across  the  orchard  are  quite  gone; 
I  shall  be  looked  for  soon. 

Fifteen  years  old! 

And  I  am  strong  and  well  as  ever  I  was 
When  I  was  young:  the  saints  are  very  good 
And  very  close.      Sometimes  I  seem  to  hear 
Their  quiet  •  voices,    saying  kind,    kind  things 
Only  because  they  love  me.      And  sometimes   .    .    . 
Sometimes  ...   I  know  not  how,    they  are  calling,    calling, 
And  something  I  must  do,    and  something  be, 
I  know  not  what.      I  lean  to  hear  the  word, 
And  strange  tears  brush  my  cheek,    and  dim  eyes  look 
From  far,    far  spaces  into  mine,    and  then   .    .    . 
Once  more  the  quiet  voices,    and  the  breath 
Of  dear  companionship. 

Fifteen  years  old   .    .    . 
Who  knows?     I  may  be  married  in  a  year, 


Domremy  and  Rouen.  515 

Now  I  am  quite  a  woman,    and  then  —  then  .   .   . 

Ah,    little  smiling,    weeping,    roseleaf  things! 

If  one  could  bear  them  as  Our  Lady  bore 

The  little  Lord!     No  one,   the  women  say, 

No  one  but  she  was  ever  mother  so, 

And  I  must  be  content  without  my  blessing 

Till  I  may  win  a  good  man's  love   .    .    .   But  me! 

What  good  man  will  think  ever  to  love  me? 

A  very  foolish  good  man!    .    .    . 

Sometimes,   too, 

I  hear  far-off  in  some  faint  other-world 
A  deeper  voice:    "Nay,    little  one,    not  thou, 
Not  thou  —  far  other  blessedness  for  thee." 
Till  I  wake  weeping,    clutching  at  my  breast 
To  still  the  hungry  ache  of  motherhood. 
If  it  were  so,    why  should  I  weep?     Perhaps 
Some  life  of  holy  quiet  shall  be  mine, 
Far  from  the  world,    in  time  to  grow  and  grow 
A  very  little  saint.      One  would  be  glad 
To  be  as  good  as  that,    and  yet   .    .    . 

Last  night, 

The  very  last  night  of  my  fourteen  years, 
I  had  a  dream.      By  a  bright  hearth  I  sat, 
Distaff  in  hand,    and  all  about  my  knees 
Tumbled  and  clung  a  troop  of  little  ones, 
All  mine,    all  mine.      And  as  I  shook  for  joy, 
And  would  have  stooped  to  kiss  them,    all  at  once 
My  stool  grew  — -  think !  —  a  horse,   and  my  sweet  babes 
A  throng  of  armed  men,    still  at  my  knee, 
Still  looking  in  my  face  for  comfort:   so  — 
Why,    so  I  gave  them  comfort   .    .    . 

What  a  dream! 

ROUEN. 

This  is  the  hour  they  told  me  of.      I  thought 

There  would  be  fear,    which  I  might  chance  to  hide, 

And  numb  at  last  with  prayer,    as  I  have  done 

Often  upon  the  hanging  wave  of  battle 

Before  it  broke   and  gave  me  calm.      Then  —  then  — 

Perhaps  some  quick  and  upward  witnessing 

Of  heart  and  voice,    and  then  a  pang  .    .    .   and  then 

I  should  be  dead.      How  strange  one  should  have  made 

So  much  of  it!      I  think  in  all  this  mass 

Of  breathers,    mine  's  the  only  quiet  heart. 

Ah,   zest  of  anxious  service,    eager  task 

Of  life,    how  wonderful  you  were;   and  now 

A  little  troubled  thing  for  memory 

To  deal  with  for  a  moment,    and  let  slip 

Into  the  dark   .    .    . 


516  Domremy  and  Rouen. 

It  was  a  glory,   yes, 

But  not  mine  own;  I  may  forget  it  now. 
The  calling  voices  are  all  still' d  at  last, 
They  have  no  more  to  ask;  I  may  forget  .    .   . 

Shadowy  days  in  far  green  Domremy, 
So  little  while  ago,    and  yet  so  long, 
You  only,    grow  and  grow  out  of  the  dusk 
Endearingly  upon  the  woman's  heart 
With  visions  of  the  simple  maid  she  was   .    .    . 
And  yet  I  know  not  what  slow  bitterness 
Wells  upward  from   some  long-neglected  spring 
Deep  in  the  heart,    for  looking  in  this  face 
Once  mine  and  lost:   the  wonder  if  perhaps 
The  service  and  the  glory  might  have  fallen 
To  one  who,    worthier  for  that,    had  been 
Less  fit  for  simpler  uses. 

"This  young  maid," 

So  will  the  women  say,  "this  gentle  maid 
Became  the  champion  of  France  and  God: 
She  might  have  been  a  mother  and  a  wife !  " 

Not  wasted,    and  not  grudged,    the  thing  I  gave, 

Only  I  know  not  how  to  turn  me  from 

This  world  unloved,    unprattled-for   .    .    .    Wert  thou 

Minded  to  yield  some  little  token  to 

A  foolish  woman  who  has  served  thee,    God, 

It  should  not  be  a  crown  of  gold,    the  praise 

Of  saintly  throngs,    a  seat  at  the  right  hand,  — 

But  only  this   .    .    .   One  hour  to  feel  myself 

At  last  fulfilled  of  womanhood;  to  weep 

And  smile  as  other  women  do,   with  here 

A  broad  breast  for  my  comfort  human-wise, 

And  there  a  little  babble  of  soft  lips, 

And  tender  palms  uplifted  just  to  me   .    .    . 

That  were  a  glory!   .    .    . 

That  were  quite  too  much, 
No  doubt.      I  will  not  ask  for  it,    nor  ask 
For  anything  but  rest:   I  am  too  tired 
For  anything  but  rest   .    .    . 

Sirs,    I  am  ready. 

Henry  Walcott  Boynton. 


Commercialism. 


517 


COMMERCIALISM. 


IT  is  the  habit  of  the  politician  who  de- 
sires to  put  on  an  appearance  of  patriot- 
ism to  denounce  greed  and  commercial- 
ism as  if  they  were  synonymous  terms, 
and  to  hold  up  for  emulation  the  career 
of  the  soldier  as  one  of  highest  merit  and 
renown.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  preacher 
who  has  little  knowledge  of  affairs  to 
denounce  commercialism  as  of  "the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil, "  and  to 
hold  up  the  man  who  gives  away  all  that 
he  gets  in  charity,  as  if  that  were  the  best 
use  of  wealth,  —  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil  being  held  by  the  preacher 
to  be  alike  evil.  The  man  who  devotes 
himself  to  trade  is  called  upon  to  sepa- 
rate religion  and  life  by  giving  his  Sun- 
days to  devout  purposes  so  as  to  atone 
for  the  pursuit  of  gain  during  the  week 
days.  He  is  asked  to  prepare  for  a  fu- 
ture life  in  the  next  world,  in  which  it 
is  assumed  that  there  will  be  no  work 
to  do,  by  discrediting  his  work  in  this 
world.  The  emblem  of  perfection  put 
before  him  is  the  cherub,  with  head  and 
wings,  but  without»any  organs  of  diges- 
tion, and  without  any  conceivable  way 
of  sitting  down  for  a  quiet  rest,  therefore 
possessing  no  material  wants  to  be  sup- 
plied by  trade. 

What  is  this  commercialism  which  is 
so  often  held  up  to  present  scorn  as  if 
the  pursuit  of  wealth  had  not  been  the 
motive  of  action  in  former  days  ?  The 
effort  of  autocrats,  the  motive  of  feu- 
dalism and  of  militarism,  the  motive  of 
the  modern  jingo  and  of  the  warfare 
which  he  promotes  upon  feeble  states  by 
strong  and  aggressive  nations,  is  the  pur- 
suit of  gain  by  force  or  fraud.  Com- 
mercialism is  the  pursuit  of  gain  by  ser- 
vice and  fair  methods  in  the  conduct  of 
commerce.  What  is  commerce?  Is  it 
not  the  method  by  which  human  wants 
are  supplied?  What  are  these  wants? 
Are  they  not  a  supply  of  food,  clothing, 
shelter,  light,  heat,  and,  in  another  field, 


music,  pictures,  gardens,  flowers,  and 
all  that  makes  for  beauty  in  the  world 
as  we  know  it  ?  This  world  is  the  only 
one  that  we  can  know.  If  the  power 
that  makes  for  righteousness  has  placed 
man  in  this  world  for  maleficent  pur- 
poses, then  mankind  may  only  consent  to 
be  damned  under  protest,  if  he  has  not 
instinct  or  reason  enough  to  condemn 
such  a  conception  of  a  dishonest  God  as 
the  meanest  work  of  man.  But  if  the 
purpose  of  life  in  this  world  is  to  make 
the  most  of  a  world  that  is  filled  with 
the  means  of  human  welfare,  of  beauty 
and  of  happiness,  then  man  may  work 
out  his  own  salvation  from  poverty  and 
want,  and  may  develop  his  mental  and 
spiritual  capacity  in  so  doing. 

Now,  since  the  mental  endowments 
of  men  vary  and  are  unequal,  it  follows, 
as  President  George  Harris  has  so  clear- 
ly proved,  that  inequality  and  progress 
must  be  reconciled,  as  they  are  by  the 
facts  of  life.  Mental  energy  is  the 
prime  factor  in  all  material  progress. 
It  gives  the  power  of  directing  the  forces 
of  nature  to  the  increasing  welfare  of 
man.  "Captains  of  industry"  are  few 
in  number  but  rare  in  ability.  They 
render  service  to  those  who  must  do  the 
physical  and  manual  work,  by  the  ap- 
plication of  science  and  invention  to  the 
arts  of  life.  When  such  men  are  true 
to  their  functions,  the  dollars  of  their 
wealth  are  but  so  many  tokens  of  the 
service  that  they  have  rendered  to  their 
fellow  men,  and  yet  they  themselves 
may  be  unaware  of  their  true  place  in 
the  great  organism  which  we  call  socie- 
ty, and  may  not  justify  even  to  them- 
selves the  work  that  they  do. 

What  is  the  motive  of  commerce  ?  Is 
it  not  mutual  service  for  mutual  benefit  ? 
How  else  does  commerce  exist  and  con- 
tinue on  its  way?  The  merchant  who 
cheats  his  customers  is  a  fool.  The 
manufacturer  who  debases  his  product, 


518 


Commercialism. 


and  who  tries  to  put  off  goods  and  wares 
upon  the  public  which  are  not  what  they 
seem  to  be,  is  a  knave.  Such  men  are 
relatively  few  in  number.  They  usually 
fail,  or,  if  they  secure  riches,  they  are 
marked  men  whom  society  distrusts,  even 
though  they  pile  up  dollars  by  their  evil 
practices.  The  abatement  of  this  class 
is  only  a  question  of  time  and  intelli- 
gence. The  makers  and  venders  of 
quack  medicines,  of  beverages  purport- 
ing to  promote  temperance  but  which 
are  merely  alcoholic  stimulants  in  dis- 
guise, will  be  unable  to  cheat  the  com- 
munity even  in  a  prohibitory  town  or 
state  when  common  education  is  a  little 
further  advanced.  The  stock  gambler 
who  uses  loaded  dice  on  the  exchange 
and  rigs  the  market  waits  only  for  the 
progress  of  better  commercial  education 
to  be  abated  as  a  common  nuisance. 
The  transactions  of  this  noxious  kind 
are,  however,  but  a  small  fraction  of  the 
great  trade  of  the  world  in  which  men 
and  nations  supply  each  other's  wants. 
There  are  two  principles  or  funda- 
mental rules  of  action  which  are  based 
on  human  nature,  that  are  hinted  at  but 
have  never,  within  the  limited  book 
knowledge  of  the  writer,  been  fully  de- 
veloped in  any  of  the  standard  works 
upon  political  economy  or  Asocial  science. 

1.  No  one  is  paid  for  his  work,  men- 
tal, manual,  or  mechanical,  nor  is  any 
one  entitled  to  be  paid,  by  the  measure 
of  the  work  which  he  does  either  in  hours 
of  labor,  in  the  intensity  of  the  physical 
effort,  or  by  the  quantity  or  kind  of  work 
done.     He  is  paid  by  the  measure,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  estimated,  of 
the  work  or  the  effort  which  he  saves  to 
the  man  by  whom  he  is  paid. 

2.  The  cost  of  each  man  to  the  com- 
munity is  only  what  he  and  those  imme- 
diately dependent  upon  him  consume, 
whether  his  income  be  a  dollar  or  a  thou- 
sand dollars  per  day.    He  can  eat,  drink, 
and  wear  only  what  he  consumes.    What 
he  eats,  drinks,  and  wears  is  his  share 
of  the  annual  product.     He  can  occupy 
only  a  limited  amount  of  space  in  his 


dwelling-house  or  his  office,  and  that 
constitutes  his  share  of  the  means  of 
shelter.  What  he  spends  is  a  part  of 
the  distribution  of  products,  by  which 
those  among  whom  he  spends  his  income 
procure  their  own  food,  clothing,  and 
shelter.  All  that  any  one  can  get  in  or 
out  of  life,  in  a  material  sense,  is  his 
board  and  clothing,  and  what  each  one 
costs  is  what  he  consumes  for  board, 
clothing,  and  shelter. 

Under  the  arduous  conditions  of  a  cen- 
tury ago  men  and  women  were  compelled 
to  do  their  own  work  in  providing  them- 
selves with  food,  fuel,  clothing,  and 
shelter.  In  the  present  age,  especially 
since  manual  training  has  been  taught 
in  the  schools,  well-grown  boys  and  girls 
and  well-bred  men  and  women  might 
supply  their  wants  with  less  work  than 
their  grandfathers  did,  thus  making 
themselves  independent  of  society. 
Why  do  they  not  supply  their  own  wants 
by  their  own  work  ?  We  could  all  have 
learned  how  to  spin  and  weave,  how  to 
tan  and  work  leather,  how  to  raise  hogs, 
cattle,  and  grain,  and  salt  down  the  meat 
for  winter,  how  to  build  log  cabins,  and 
cut  wood  for  fuel.  There  is  cleared  land 
now  reverting  to  pasture  and  woodland 
which  has  once  been  occupied  by  self- 
sustaining  people  of  this  type,  and  which 
could  be  recovered  and  used  with  less 
effort  or  cost  of  labor  than  was  neces- 
sary a  century  ago  to  provide  homes  for 
the  people  and  to  support  them  in  those 
homes,  especially  in  New  England. 
What  influence  forbids  recourse  to  the 
arduous  and  narrow  lives,  sometimes 
sordid  and  squalid,  of  a  former  genera- 
tion ?  Is  it  not  the  influence  of  com- 
merce making  for  mutual  benefit,  — 
is  it  not  commercialism,  in  fact  ?  Why 
does  the  adult  reader  buy  his  shoes  when 
he  may  make  a  clumsy  but  useful  pair, 
as  perhaps  his  own  grandfather  did? 
Does  he  measure  the  time  and  effort  of 
the  shoemaker  or  manufacturer  when  he 
decides  to  buy  a  pair  of  shoes  ?  Does 
any  such  computation  enter  his  mind  and 
does  he  say  to  himself,  The  man  who 


Commercialism. 


519 


made  these  shoes  spent  so  much  time 
and  so  much  labor  upon  them,  and  by 
that  measure  I  think  he  ought  to  be  paid 
about  three  dollars?  Not  a  bit.  The 
buyer  does  not  know  the  man,  and  can 
never  have  a  personal  interest  in  him. 
It  does  not  matter  to  him  whether  that 
man  worked  eight  hours  or  ten  hours  a 
day.  Consciously  or  unconsciously  he 
sets  the  price  which  he  will  pay  for  the 
shoes  by  what  he  saves  of  his  own  time 
and  effort  in  order  that  he  may  apply  it 
to  more  useful  purposes,  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned,  than  making  shoes.  As  it 
is  in  respect  to  shoes,  so  is  it  in  all  the 
exchanges  of  material  products  which 
constitute  commerce,  arid  commerce  is 
nothing  else  than  exchange  for  mutual 
service.  Such  is  commercialism. 

It  follows  that  the  unthinking  per- 
sons who  condemn  commercialism  from 
the  pulpit  or  the  rostrum  merely  expose 
their  own  "ignorance  of  the  true  function 
and  the  interdependence  of  the  mer- 
chant, the  manufacturer,  the  workman, 
and  the  laborer,  by  whom  the  modern 
conditions  of  society  have  been  evolved. 
Commerce  stands  for  all  that  is  good  in 
modern  society,  and  in  the  progress  of 
human  welfare  so  far  as  human  welfare 
rests  upon  the  supply  of  physical  wants. 
War  stands  for  all  that  is  brutal  and 
barbarous  in  modern  society,  however 
necessary  it  may  have  been  in  the  past 
in  making  way  for  the  present  commer- 
cial age. 

Napoleon  denounced  the  English  as 
a  nation  of  shopkeepers,  but  by  the  very 
strength  of  their  commerce  they  devel- 
oped the  power  by  which  he  was  beaten 
and  suppressed.  Spain,  in  her  day  the 
greatest  military  power  of  Europe,  tried 
to  conquer  Holland,  but  by  the  force  of 
their  commerce  and  industries  the  Dutch 
developed  yet  greater  power,  enabling 
them  to  defeat  their  oppressors. 

In  every  age  of  recorded  history  from 
the  time  of  the  Phoenicians  to  the  pre- 
sent date,  the  states  in  which  commerce 
has  been  most  fully  developed  have  been 
those  which  have  excelled  not  only  in 


the  common  welfare  of  the  people,  but 
also  in  art  and  literature.  The  progress 
of  law  is  indicated  by  its  very  name, 
jurisprudence,  the  science  of  rights. 
The  barbarism  and  brutality  of  war  have 
been  expressed  by  the  common  phrase, 
"Inter  arma  silent  leges."  In  war  the 
merchant  possesses  no  rights  which  the 
commerce  destroyer  is  bound  to  respect. 

Among  the  nations  this  country  stands 
almost  alone  in  the  freedom  of  its  com- 
merce on  a  continental  scale,  with  a 
greater  number  of  civilized  people  than 
ever  enjoyed  its  benefits  before. 

If  this  is  an  age  in  which  commer- 
cialism rules,  we  may  well  be  thankful. 
If  the  generals  of  armies  will  be  forced 
to  give  way  to  the  captains  of  indus- 
try, if  the  admiral  in  the  navy  has  be- 
come the  subordinate  of  the  engineer, 
if  the  line  officers  of  the  army  have  been 
forced  into  the  ranks  with  the  privates 
in  order  to  be  saved  from  the  sharp- 
shooters, whom  skilled  mechanics  work- 
ing solely  for  profit  have  supplied  with 
guns  of  which  the  discharge  can  neither 
be  seen  nor  heard,  —  then  we  may  be 
well  assured  that  the  peaceful  forces  of 
commerce  will  suppress  the  barbarity  of 
war.  May  we  not  also  be  well  assured 
that  as  commercialism  more  and  more 
governs  the  thought  and  directs  the  acts 
of  an  intelligent  community,  a  war  of 
tariffs  will  become  as  absurd  and  out  of 
date  as  a  war  of  weapons  has  always 
been  brutal  and  noxious  ? 

It  follows  that  both  the  preacher  and 
the  politician  must  mend  their  ways  if 
they  are  again  to  become  leaders  in 
thought  and  in  social  progress.  Instead 
of  making  an  effort  to  discredit  a  con- 
dition which  marks  the  highest  point  in 
the  progress  of  humanity  yet  reached, 
and  in  place  of  misapprehending  the 
commercialism  of  the  new  century,  let 
them  direct  their  thoughts  to  the  domi- 
nant power  of  commerce,  joining  with 
men  of  affairs  in  developing  it,  until 
every  man  and  every  nation  shall  be  free 
to  serve  another's  wants  without  the  per- 
version of  the  power  of  public  taxation  to 


520 


Commercialism. 


purposes  of  private  gain  under  the  pre- 
text of  protection  to  domestic  industry. 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  yet  for  a  short 
period  a  naval  armament  must  be  main- 
tained upon  the  sea  for  the  protection 
of  commerce.  This  necessity  will  exist 
so  long  as  there  are  brutal  nations  en- 
deavoring to  extend  their  commerce  by 
conquest,  and  to  annex  colonies  or  de- 
pendencies without  any  regard  to  the 
rights  of  their  inhabitants.  The  name 
of  "commerce  destroyers  "  has  already 
become  a  term  of  obloquy  and  of  con- 
tempt in  its  application  to  naval  vessels. 
In  respect  to  armaments  upon  the  land, 
standing  armies  are  already  in  disrepute. 
Volunteers  of  sufficient  intelligence  each 
to  fight  on  his  own  judgment  have  proved 
to  be  better  fighting  machines  than  regu- 
lars in  any  equal  contest.  Again,  volun- 
teers must  be  men  of  intelligence  who 
think  before  they  fight,  but  in  regular 
armies  thinking  is  not  consistent  with 
discipline. 

It  may  not  be  long  before  other  states 
will  follow  the  good  example  of  the  Do- 
minion of  Canada,  which  has  no  stand- 
ing army,  but  which  maintains  an  effec- 
tive national  police,  being  protected  on 
its  long  border  line  and  on  the  Great 
Lakes  by  the  common  interest,  and  by 
the  commercialism  which  controls  both 
the  government  of  Canada  and  of  the 
United  States,  in  spite  of  the  absurd  ob- 
struction of  tariffs  which  now  stand  in 
the  way  of  the  greater  mutual  service 
which  each  might  render  to  the  other. 
Canada  is  protected  upon  the  Great 
Lakes  by  the  simple  agreement,  entered 
into  at  the  instance  of  John  Quincy 
Adams  after  the  last  war  with  Great 
Britain,  by  President  Monroe  and  the 
British  Cabinet,  to  the  effect  that  "in 
order  to  avoid  collision  and  to  save  ex- 
pense "  no  armed  naval  force  should  be 
permitted  by  either  nation  upon  these 
interior  waters,  over  which  a  commerce 
vastly  greater  than  that  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean Sea  or  of  the  Suez  Canal  now 
passes  peacefully,  to  the  benefit  of  all 
and  to  the  injury  of  none. 


When  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States  propose  to  neutralize  an  ocean 
ferry-way  from  port  to  port  in  either 
land,  and  give  notice  to  other  states 
that  their  united  navies  forbid  any  in- 
terference with  their  commerce  in  such 
neutral  seas,  every  other  state  in  Eu- 
rope will  ask  to  join  in  the  agreement ; 
then  "the  ships  that  pass  from  thy  land 
to  that  shall  be  like  the  shuttle  of  the 
loom,  weaving  the  web  of  concord  among 
the  nations." 

The  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury was  marked  by  brutal  wars  engen- 
dered in  ignorance  of  what  constitutes 
the  true  wealth  of  nations  and  in  efforts 
of  rulers  to  suppress  commercialism. 
The  privileged  rulers,  holding  power 
which  they  used  as  if  the  common  peo- 
ple of  the  nations  had  no  rights  which 
rulers  were  bound  to  respect,  mortgaged 
the  future,  and  put  upon  present  gener- 
ations the  greater  part  of  an*  enormous 
debt,  which  is  now  a  chief  cause  of 
pauperism  even  in  Great  Britain ;  the 
taxes  for  interest  being  diffused  and  paid 
by  consumers  in  proportion  to  their  con- 
sumption wherever  they  are  first  put, 
taking  from  the  very  poorest  a  part  of 
the  product  which  is  necessary  to  their 
existence,  and  paying  it  over  to  others 
who  live  on  the  interest  of  debts  incurred 
for  destructive  wars. 

In  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century  yet  more  brutal  wars  were  en- 
gendered in  "blood  and  iron  "  for  the 
purpose  of  promoting  a  separation  of 
races  and  states,  establishing  artificial 
boundaries,  and  enacting  tariffs  which 
forbid  mutual  service.  This  policy  has 
ended  in  requiring  armies  for  the  main- 
tenance of  these  tariff  barriers  which 
cost  more  than  the  amount  of  the  reve- 
nue from  duties  on  imports.  These 
wars,  engendered  in  brutality,  greed, 
and  ignorance  of  economic  science,  have 
spent  their  active  force,  but  have  so  re- 
tarded the  progress  of  commercialism  as 
to  have  brought  disease  upon  multitudes 
for  lack  of  sufficient  food. 

The  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 


Democracy  and  the   Church. 


521 


century  was  marked  by  little  wars  of 
great  nations  upon  weak  states,  discred- 
itable if  not  dishonorable  to  the  coun- 
tries by  whom  they  were  permitted. 

But  the  standard  of  common  intelli- 
gence has  passed  or  is  passing  beyond 
the  stage  in  which  the  barbarity  of  war 
has  been  tolerated  and  justified,  at  least 
in  this  country,  and  we  may  hope  in 
others.  Commercialism  has  been  estab- 


lished with  greater  power  and  influence 
in  the  United  States  than  in  any  other 
nation.  Under  its  influence,  in  spite 
of  the  temporary  aberration  from  the 
works  of  peace,  order,  and  industry, 
the  United  States  has  become  a  world 
power  among  the  nations,  and  will  main- 
tain this  power  only  so  far  as  the  peo- 
ple develop  commercialism  and  suppress 
militarism. 

JSdward  Atkinson. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CHURCH. 


ONE  would  suppose  that  the  Christian 
church  would  find  itself  at  home  for  the 
first  time  in  the  democratic  state.  The 
religion  which  liberated  love  from  the 
narrow  confines  of  family  or  personal 
friends  ought  to  have  welcomed  with 
ardent  joy  the  social  theory  which  is 
merely  a  secular  name  for  "love  in 
widest  commonalty  spread."  Yet  so 
subtly  is  a  disguising  veil  woven  by  the 
forces  of  bewilderment  that  play  through 
history,  that  when  democracy  appeared 
as  a  Apolitical  force,  the  church  did  not 
welcome  it  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  she 
turned  reproachfully  away  from  the  ve- 
hement and  disturbing  newcomer,  while 
extending  hands  of  benediction  over 
those  graceful  and  dignified  institutions, 
a  monarchy  and  an  aristocracy.  From 
that  precursor  of  modern  democracy, 
the  struggle  for  political  freedom  in 
seventeenth-century  England,  the  or- 
ganized church  stood  apart,  fervently 
loyal  to  the  lost  cause  of  the  Stuarts. 
Again,  during  the  revolutionary  period 
in  France,  she  allied  herself  so  thor- 
oughly with  the  conservative  forces  that 
in  the  minds  of  friends  and  foes  alike 
she  and  the  ancien  regime  were  one, 
and  the  victory  of  the  people  meant  the 
overthrow  of  faith.  All  through  the 
heaving  unrest  of  the  last  century  in 
Europe,  the  same  unnatural  fellowship 
has  prevailed.  Until  to-day,  despite  the 


Christian  Socialist  movements  that  have 
never  been  wholly  lacking,  the  wanderer 
in  Europe  finds  the  church  everywhere 
regarded  as  the  bulwark  of  the  privi- 
leged classes,  and  the  forces  of  social 
revolt  opposed  to  organized  Christianity 
as  a  matter  of  course.  So  long  and 
strong  has  been  the  alliance  of  the 
church  with  the  aristocratic  principle, 
that  any  approach  on  the  part  of  her 
children  to  a  radical  position  is  greeted 
on  all  sides  with  distrust. 

That  the  situation  is  paradoxical,  who 
can  deny  ?  It  is  not,  however,  mysteri- 
ous. Dante's  great  cry,  so  nobly  echoed 
by  Milton,  is  the  key  to  the  paradox : 

"  Ahi,  Costantin,  di  quanto  mal  f u  matre, 
Noii  la  tua  conversion,  ma  quella  dote 
Che  da  te  prese  il  prinio  ricco  patre  !  " 

"  Ah,  Constantino ,  of  how  much  ill  was  cause, 
Not  thy  conversion,  but  those  rich  domains 
That  the  first  wealthy  Pope  received  of  thee  !  " 

The  periods  of  persecution  over,  the 
church,  in  the  first  glow  of  her  triumph, 
believing  that  the  world  was  won  for 
Christ,  accepted  the  protection  of  the 
state.  It  was  a  natural  and  noble  de- 
lusion whereby  she  trusted  that  in  a 
world  redeemed  the  spiritual  could  gov- 
ern the  temporal,  not  realizing  that  such 
nominal  control  would  be  a  mask  under 
which  the  temporal  would  govern  the 
spiritual.  Yet  ever  since  that  time  her 


522 


Democracy  and  the   Church. 


relation  to  society  has  changed.  So  long 
indeed  as  she  is  in  any  sense  true  to 
her  Master,  she  must  to  a  certain  de- 
gree remain  the  exponent  of  democratic 
principles ;  and  during  all  the  Middle 
Ages  she  offered,  especially  through  the 
religious  orders,  a  home  to  democratic 
practice.  But  the  services  which,  half 
unconsciously,  she  rendered  to  demo- 
cracy were  neither  consistent  nor  com- 
plete. Recognized,  honored,  all  but  en- 
throned by  the  world,  she  constantly 
assumed  more  or  less  of  the  world's 
aspect ;  till,  when  her  time  of  test  ar- 
rived, she  ranged  herself,  to  the  amaze- 
ment even  then  of  many  among  her 
children,  on  the  side  of  authority  and 
privilege,  rather  than  on  that  of  liberty 
and  the  poor. 

No  student  of  history  can  wholly  re- 
gret the  long  connection  of  spiritual  and 
temporal;  one  may  almost  say  that  it 
was  necessary  for  the  training  of  the  in- 
fant nations.  Even  to  this  day  a  na- 
tional church  is  undoubtedly  in  a  spe- 
cial and  valuable  sense  a  true  guardian 
of  national  morals.  Nevertheless,  it 
is  difficult  for  any  one  born  on  Ameri- 
can soil  to  believe  in  the  management 
of  religious  affairs  by  the  government. 
A  church  which  exists  on  the  patronage 
of  the  state  has  given  too  many  hos- 
tages to  fortune.  Dependent,  so  far  as 
her  outward  being  is  concerned,  on  the 
stability  of  things  as  they  are,  she  will 
in  times  of  stress  have  half  unconscious- 
ly an  invincible  bias  in  favor  of  the  es- 
tablished order.  A  church  ought  in- 
deed, now  and  again,  to  exercise  a  noble 
restraint  over  the  restless  passions  of 
men,  —  to  stand  for  law  when  the  never- 
ceasing  pendulum  is  swinging  too  far 
toward  license,  and  the  clock  of  the 
universe  is  running  out  of  gear.  But 
her  true  power,  as  champion  of  order 
no  less  than  as  champion  of  freedom,  is 
forfeited  the  moment  she  is  open  to 
suspicion  of  interested  motives.  If  the 
union  between  the  church  and  the  an- 
cien  regime  was  too  strong  to  be  shaken 
when  democracy  first  appeared;  if  the 


movement  toward  freedom  in  modern 
Europe  proceeds  with  little  or  no  help 
from  the  restraining  and  deepening 
power  of  Christianity;  if  the  names 
of  Christ  and  of  Humanity  are  the 
watchwords  of  opposing  camps,  —  we 
may  lament,  but  we  cannot  be  surprised. 
This  is  the  Nemesis  of  the  church,  this 
the  price  she  has  paid  for  her  alliance, 
so  tempting  but  so  dangerous,  with  the 
Powers  that  Be. 

Meanwhile,  with  us  in  the  United 
States,  the  religious  situation  is  less 
unnatural  than  in  Europe.  We  have 
the  free  church  in  the  free  state,  and 
that  is  much;  moreover,  no  one  or  two 
forms  of  the  manifold  divisions  of  Chris- 
tendom are  given  artificial  advantage. 
American  Christianity,  furthermore,  was 
founded  in  a  tradition,  which  it  has  not 
forgotten,  of  liberty  both  spiritual  and 
social ;  and  however  strongly  the  forces 
of  irreligion  are  at  work  among  us,  it 
may  well  seem  to  the  observer  that  we 
are  still  a  more  religious  people  than 
can  easily  be  found  among  the  leading 
Continental  nations.  For  reasons  also 
deeper  than  any  of  these,  the  church  in 
our  country  should  escape  the  dangers 
of  the  church  in  Europe.  A  long  strain 
is  over.  The  antagonism  between  her 
principles  of  equal  fellowship  among 
men  and  the  principles  of  the  aristo- 
cratic state  whereon  she  depended  need 
trouble  her  no  longer.  In  the  very  the- 
ory in  which  our  nation  was  founded 
she  finds  her  most  powerful  ally.  The 
complex  interplay  of  forces  shown  us  in 
history,  wherein  friends  so  often  wound- 
ed friends  in  the  dark,  yields  to  a  bless- 
ed simplicity,  for  the  ideal  of  democracy 
and  that  of  Christianity  on  its  human 
side  are  one. 

Under  these  favoring  circumstances, 
how  pure,  how  triumphant,  of  how  uni- 
versal an  appeal,  should  be  the  church 
in  America!  Liberated  from  hamper- 
ing temporal  control,  yet  strengthened 
by  the  secular  ideas  that  encompass  her, 
she  might  assuredly  approach  more 
nearly  than  ever  before  to  the  apostolic 


Democracy  and  the   Church. 


523 


conception.  One  beholds  her  in  vision, 
a  church  not  only  rich  in  works  of 
mercy,  —  this  Christianity,  even  when 
most  trammeled,  has  always  been,  — 
but  in  the  fullest  sense  the  exponent  of 
a  spiritual  democracy,  the  champion  of 
the  oppressed  and  the  outcast,  the  nat- 
ural home  of  rich  and  poor  meeting  in 
one  fellowship  of  love,  and  striving  all 
together  in  earnest  harmony  toward  that 
society  wherein  the  Beatitudes  shall  be 
the  rule  of  life,  and  the  mind  of  Christ 
be  revealed. 

Turning  now  to  the  actual,  what  do 
we  see  ?  Nothing  to  make  us  despair, 
much  to  make  us  hope;  but  much  also 
to  make  us  question  and  fear.  The 
church  in  America  —  and  for  the  pre- 
sent we  mean  by  the  church  all  forms 
of  organized  religion  that  acknowledge 
Christ  as  the  Master  of  men  —  is  on  a 
far  better  footing  than  in  Europe ;  but 
it  were  folly  to  pretend  that  she  is  as 
yet  adequately  conformed  to  a  democrat- 
ic type.  Free  from  dependence  on  the 
state,  she  illustrates  an  almost  more 
insidious  form  of  subordination  to  the 
powers  of  this  world.  For  a  voluntary 
church  almost  inevitably  enters  into 
dependence  upon  the  classes  of  privi- 
lege. It  leans  on  them  for  its  support, 
ministers  with  primary  energy  to  their 
spiritual  needs,  —  our  millionaires, 
even  when  their  business  methods  are 
open  to  criticism,  are  often  sincerely 
pious,  —  puts  up  the  larger  number  of 
its  buildings  in  the  quarters  inhabited 
by  them,  provides  the  type  of  worship 
and  preaching  most  grateful  to  them, 
and  only  as  an  afterthought  establishes 
those  numerous  mission  chapels,  Sun- 
day-schools for  the  poor,  etc.,  whose 
very  existence  marks  most  clearly  the 
tenacity  of  the  aristocratic  principle. 

It  is  hard  to  see  how  all  this  could 
be  avoided ;  and  in  one  sense  nobody  is 
to  blame  for  it.  Yet  so  long  as  this 
state  of  things  continues,  the  working 
people  will  instinctively  regard  the 
church  as  an  appendage  of  the  privi- 
leged classes.  Religion,  to  their  minds, 


will  too  often  appear  a  luxury  of  the 
rich,  who,  not  content  with  the  goods 
of  this  world,  seek  to  establish  a  lien 
on  those  of  the  world  to  come.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  alienation  of  the 
working  classes  from  organized  Chris- 
tianity is  a  truism  discussed  ad  nauseam. 
Even  the  Roman  Catholic  communion 

—  the  most  democratic  among  us,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  the  Methodists 

—  has  its  hold  mainly  on  the  women ; 
the  more  intellectualized  forms  of  Chris- 
tianity, such  as  Unitarianisin,  are  help- 
less to  reach  the  poor  except  on  lines  of 
practical  benevolence;   and  the  Protes- 
tant bodies  at  large,  though  of  course 
with  many  noble  and  striking  excep- 
tions, are  struggling  more  or  less  inef- 
fectively against  odds  which   they  do 
not  understand. 

It  would  be  an  exaggeration  to  say 
that  all  working  people  feel  antagonis- 
tic toward  the  church.  Their  general 
attitude  is  rather  that  of  indifference. 
The  thinking  poor  are  well  enough 
aware  that  there  is  nothing  unnatural 
in  the  situation,  and  that  if  the  tables 
were  so  turned  that  worldly  advantage 
shifted  to  their  side,  it  would  probably 
remain  unchanged.  At  times  their 
feeling,  especially  toward  the  clergy, 
is  curiously  sympathetic.  "Say,"  re- 
marked a  labor  leader  of  vivid  mind  to 
the  writer,  "say,  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  ministers.  Most  of  them  are  real 
good  men.  They  know  well  enough 
what  Christ  meant,  and  they  'd  like 
first  rate  to  preach  it,  —  if  they  dared. 
But,  Lord,  how  can  they  ?  They  've 
got  to  draw  their  salaries ;  they  've  got 
families  to  support."  All  this  quite 
without  a  touch  of  irony. 

Many  a  misapprehension  is  involved 
in  those  remarks,  but  how  salutary  for 
us  to  dwell  on  the  picture  they  suggest, 
of  our  institutional  Christianity  as  seen 
from  the  angle  of  the  working  classes ! 
It  is  the  fashion  to  ascribe  the  aliena- 
tion of  these  classes  from  religion  to 
the  spread  of  infidelity,  and  doubtless 
the  advance  of  scientific  thought  and 


524 


Democracy  and  the  Church. 


the  sapping  of  Biblical  authority  are 
responsible  for  much.  But  we  should 
be  quite  mistaken  to  look  here  for  the 
primary  cause  of  popular  irreligion. 
Simple  folk  are  far  less  affected  by  the 
demonstration  of  dogma  in  the  abstract 
—  could  dogma  ever  be  so  demonstrated 
—  than  by  the  revelation  of  a  supernat- 
ural power  in  the  life.  Here  indeed 
we  have  the  only  efficient  proof  that 
ever  was  or  will  be  to  the  existence  of 
supernatural  power  at  all,  —  and  to  this 
proof  people  are  as  sensitive  as  they 
were  a  thousand  years  ago.  Granted  a 
man  in  whose  actions  Christian  faith 
has  borne  its  perfect  fruit  of  holiness, 
and  it  is  extraordinary  to  note  how  the 
phantoms  of  Doubt  flee  from  his  pre- 
sence. Why  not  face  the  truth?  It  is 
not  the  defects  of  an  abstract  creed  that 
hold  our  laboring  poor  out  of  sympathy 
with  the  religious  life  of  the  nation ;  it 
is  rather  the  absence  of  any  evidence, 
accessible  and  satisfying  to  them,  that 
Christianity  is  a  vital  force  in  the  lives 
of  its  adherents ;  it  is  their  failure  to 
perceive  any  apparent  difference  in  the 
methods  of  business,  the  standards  of 
luxury,  the  social  practice,  of  those 
within  and  without  the  churches. 

Of  course  there  is  nothing  new  in  this 
contrast  of  the  Christianity  of  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount  taken  at  face  value 
with  the  Christianity  of  the  church. 
Wherever  we  tap  history  we  find  it. 
The  only  disappointing  fact  is  that  it 
should  continue  to  be  as  strongly  marked 
in  the  church  developed  under  the  fos- 
tering care  of  a  democratic  civilization 
as  it  was  in  the  church  of  old,  forced 
to  hold  her  own  more  or  less  valiantly 
against  an  opposing  theory  in  society 
and  the  state.  One  is  tempted  to  say, 
indeed,  that  never  was  the  contrast  so 
striking,  never  the  distinction  between 
the  church  and  the  world  so  nearly  invis- 
ible as  to-day.  "The  torpor  of  assur- 
ance, "  which  Browning  so  deprecated, 
no  longer  presses  on  Christian  belief; 
but  it  rests  with  heavier  weight  than 
ever  before  upon  average  Christian  con- 


duct. "We  are  suffering,"  writes  that 
honest  and  searching  thinker,  Bishop 
Gore,  "from  a  diffusion  of  Christianity 
at  the  cost  of  its  intensity."  Probably 
a  faith  in  the  brotherhood  of  man,  liv- 
ing enough  to  effect  a  radical  alteration 
in  the  standards  and  mode  of  life,  found 
more  obvious  and  widespread  expression 
under  distinctively  Christian  auspices  in 
the  thirteenth  century  than  it  does,  so 
far,  in  the  twentieth. 

What  will  convince  the  working  peo- 
ple that  Christianity  is  a  vital  force  in 
the  world,  making  for  brotherhood? 
Not  the  faithful  lives  of  the  many  be- 
lievers whose  characters  are  apostolic 
in  unworldly  beauty ;  owing  to  the  al- 
ienation of  classes,  these  lives  with  few 
exceptions  are  lived  out  of  the  range 
of  vision  of  the  poor.  Not  the  multi- 
plication of  works  of  mercy ;  owing  to 
mistakes  in  the  past,  these  works  may 
be,  and,  alas,  often  are,  misconstrued, 
as  sops  to  Cerberus,  —  opiates  thrown 
with  interested  motives  to  lull  into  in- 
glorious stupor  a  righteous  discontent. 
We  must  look  elsewhere  for  the  means 
of  making  unmistakably  evident  to  our 
disinherited  and  to  our  social  sufferers 
the  spiritual  devotion  and  unworldli- 
ness,  the  earnest  faith,  that  beyond  a 
shadow  of  doubt  exist  among  us.  This 
manifestation  we  shall  not  find  short  of 
the  true  socializing  of  the  church ;  the 
revelation  on  her  part  and  the  part  of 
her  children  of  that  spiritual  democracy 
toward  which,  in  the  midst  of  grow- 
ing materialism  and  greed,  our  people 
stretch  their  yearning  hands  of  prayer. 

It  is  a  pure  intellectual  process,  free 
from  sentimentality,  that  has  led  us  to 
this  conclusion.  In  one  way,  and  only 
in  one,  will  the  working  people  at  large 
be  convinced  that  our  Christianity  is 
genuine,  —  by  the  practice,  on  the  part 
of  rich  and  prosperous  folk  who  claim 
to  live  under  the  Holy  Name,  of  a  sim- 
plicity of  life  evidently  greater  than 
that  of  their  compeers,  and  of  a  social 
fellowship  visibly  independent  of  class 
divisions.  The  one  practice  implies  the 


Democracy  and  the   Church. 


525 


other.  We  of  the  modern  world  have 
experienced  a  healthy  and  thorough  re- 
action from  that  asceticism  pursued  to 
the  end  of  personal  holiness  that  marked 
the  Middle  Ages.  But  the  true  alter- 
native to  asceticism  is  not  the  enjoy- 
ment of  as  many  comforts  as  one  can 
honestly  afford,  nor  the  obliteration  of 
a  visible  difference  between  the  mode 
of  life  of  the  man  of  this  world  and  of 
him  whose  treasures  are  elsewhere. 
Rather,  as  democracy  effects  more  and 
more  completely  its  inward  transforma- 
tion, we  shall  find  an  irresistible  motive 
impelling  us  to  deliberate  simplicity  in 
that  love  of  our  fellows  which  cannot 
rejoice  in  abundance  while  others  go 
hungry.  Ours  will  be,  perhaps,  a  sim- 
plicity fine  as  that  which  marked  pri- 
vate life  in  the  best  days  of  Greece,  — 
no  foe  to  Beauty,  but  a  friend,  giving 
her  a  larger  scope,  dedicating  her  min- 
istry of  joy  to  the  common  life,  not  to 
individual  indulgence.  Mediaeval  as- 
ceticism drove  men  into  the  desert; 
modern  simplicity  should  be  a  social 
impulse,  opening  the  way  to  widest  fel- 
lowship. Surely,  this  ideal  needs  only 
to  be  seen  to  be  followed,  so  lovely  is 
it,  so  alluring,  so  near  an  approach 
does  it  offer  to  that  art  of  perfect  living 
which  blundering  humanity  seeks  in  de- 
vious experiments  through  the  ages,  and 
which  it  has  never  yet  attained.  That 
the  ideal  is  difficult  is  no  reason  against 
its  acceptance,  —  when  was  difficulty  a 
barrier  to  religious  zeal  ?  Always,  ar- 
dent souls  exist  who  yearn  for  sacrifice ; 
they  exist  to-day;  they  yearn  to  find 
clear  cause  of  division  between  church 
and  world.  The  cause  is  here,  did  they 
but  see;  the  Christian  ideal,  now  as 
"ever,  separates  its  votaries,  outwardly 
as  inwardly,  from  the  votaries  of  this 
world,  calls  on  them  for  sacrifice  of  com- 
fort, • —  harder  far,  of  conventionality, 
—  and  shapes  their  lives  to  a  new  like- 
ness. 

The  Christian  ideal  has  always  borne 
to  the  civilizations  in  which  it  found 
itself  a  double  relation.  It  has  modi- 


fied them,  it  has  also  set  them  at  defi- 
ance. Slowly,  subtly,  invisibly,  it  has 
transformed  the  life  it  found,  —  soft- 
ening manners,  altering  institutions, 
gently  raising  the  standard  of  purity, 
mercy,  and  honor.  To  achieve  its  end 
it  has  eagerly,  and  presumably  wisely, 
accepted  the  sanction  of  the  state  and 
of  the  public.  But,  in  this  process  of 
accommodation,  Christianity  has  itself 
suffered ;  it  has  been  driven  to  present, 
not  so  much  an  image  of  absolute  holi- 
ness as  a  compromise  adapted  to  the 
approval  of  the  majority  ;  gradually 
entering  the  shadows  of  earth,  the  radi- 
ance of  its  virtues  has  suffered  a  twi- 
light change.  Therefore  it  is  well  and 
necessary  that  every  civilization,  while 
undergoing  this  unconscious  influence, 
should  also  behold  perforce  in  the  lives 
of  actual  men  and  women  an  example 
of  that  uncompromising  Christian  type 
which  must  always  find  itself  more  or  less 
out  of  harmony  with  the  ethical  stan- 
dards accepted  by  the  world  at.  large. 

So,  in  the  far-away  days  when  Chris- 
tianity was  first  making  its  way  into 
the  noble  barbarian  hearts  of  our  fore- 
fathers, it  expressed  itself  serenely  if 
paradoxically  in  fiercest  fighting  terms, 
and  the  twelve  Apostles,  those  men  of 
peace,  became  "heroes  under  heaven, 
warriors  gloriously  blessed."  At  the 
same  time  a  Columba,  an  Aidan,  a 
Cuthbert,  suddenly,  and  as  it  were  by 
miracle,  revealed  to  the  world  living 
images  of  the  Beatitudes .  A  little  later, 
in  feudal  times,  we  find  the  militant 
ideal  so  native  to  humanity,  so  un- 
known to  the  Gospels,  still  in  control  of 
the  world.  Christianity,  in  its  heaven- 
ly wisdom,  utters  no  useless  denuncia- 
tions, but  adopts,  modifies,  introduces 
new  elements  of  courtesy  and  mercy,  and 
produces  that  most  alluring  of  figures, 
fascinating  by  an  inward  contradiction 
unknown  to  the  heroes  of  antiquity,  the 
Christian  knight,  who  lifts  an  angry 
sword  in  the  Name  of  the  Sufferer,  and 
slays  his  foes,  often  for  the  mere  joy  of 
the  slaying,  with  a  prayer  to  the  Victim 


526 


Democracy  and  the   Church. 


of  men  upon  his  lips.  At  the  same  time, 
the  Middle  Ages  never  forget  the  Coun- 
sel of  Perfection;  and  monk,  nun,  and 
friar,  especially  before  the  degradation 
of  the  religious  orders,  manifest  before 
men  the  mystery  "that  the  child  is  the 
leader  of  lions,  that  forgiveness  is  force 
at  the  height." 

The  centuries  march  onward  ;  and 
wherever  we  look  we  see  Christianity 
unconsciously  raising  the  moral  stan- 
dard, eliminating  the  cruder  sins,  pro- 
ducing a  civilization  more  and  more 
merciful  and  just.  Yet  we  see  it  also 
never  for  an  instant  tolerating  a  final 
compromise ;  ever  summoning  the  chil- 
dren of  the  spirit  to  follow  an  absolute 
ideal.  In  our  own  day  the  emphasis  of 
the  Powers  of  Evil  has  changed  from 
sins  of  violence  to  sins  of  greed;  the 
world,  that  is  to  say,  has  become  com- 
mercial rather  than  militant.  Religion 
does  not  falter.  She  accepts  the  typi- 
cal modern  leader  of  men  —  the  mer- 
chant —  as  she  accepted  the  fighter  of 
old.  Restrained,  modified,  the  fine  type 
results,  so  frequent  in  America  during 
the  days  of  our  fathers,  and  still,  one 
is  glad  to  say,  familiar,  —  the  Christian 
employer,  true  and  fair  in  all  his  deal- 
ings, albeit  chiefly  inspired  by  the  wish 
to  make  a  business  success  and  accumu- 
late large  wealth  for  his  children.  Mean- 
while, it  is  probable  that  the  level  of 
obvious  ethics  in  the  community  at  large 
has  become  higher  than  ever  before. 
This  we  note  with  satisfaction,  but  can 
we  pause  here  ?  Assuredly  not.  Still 
we  hear  the  ringing  summons,  "Be  ye 
perfect ;  "  still  there  shines  beyond  us 
that  vision  of  absolute  holiness,  which, 
though  one  and  the  same  forever,  yet 
varies  in  emphasis  from  age  to  age.  The 
moment  is  crucial.  A  more  generous 
theology  leads  us  to  turn  away  from  the 
rigors  and  terrors  of  the  religion  of  our 
fathers,  and  to  replace  the  image  of  the 
awful  God  they  feared  by  that  of  a  deity, 
less  holy,  one  is  tempted  to  say,  than 
good-natured.  The  Protestant  bodies, 
which  still  hold  the  balance  of  influence 


among  us,  have  always  set  the  level  of 
general  moral  compromise  higher  than 
has  the  Roman  Catholic  communion ;  at 
the  same  time,  they  have  with  few  excep- 
tions laid  less  stress  on  the  Counsel  of 
Perfection.  The  very  fact  that  obvious 
infractions  of  the  Decalogue  are  now  at 
a  discount  leads  to  an  insidious  self- 
satisfaction.  For  all  these  reasons  the 
need  of  those  who  shall  demonstrate  the 
uncompromising  nature  of  the  demands 
of  Christianity  is  not  over;  rather,  it 
was  never  more  profound.  The  special 
aspect  assumed  by  these  demands  is  de- 
termined by  the  special  inconsistencies 
and  errors  of  the  democratic  and  mer- 
cantile civilization  under  which  we  live. 
As,  in  the  days  when  sins  of  violence 
were  rampant,  meekness  and  non-re- 
sistance carried  to  an  extreme  were  the 
ideal  qualities  on  which  the  church  laid 
most  stress,  so  to-day,  in  these  times  of 
peace,  when  the  desire  for  luxury  or  at 
least  for  material  goods  all  but  domi- 
nates our  common  life,  and  renders  fel- 
lowship impossible,  the  chief  call  of  the 
church  invisible  is  to  an  unworldliness 
manifest  to  all  men.  And  as,  in  medi- 
aeval times,  it  was  probably  well  and 
essential  that  the  Christian  virtues 
should  be  dramatically  displayed  by  re- 
ligious orders  made  prominent  through 
separation  from  ordinary  society,  so  in 
a  democracy  our  need  is  not  for  an  or- 
der, nor  for  an  individual  here  or  there, 
set  apart  by  peculiar  marks  to  a  special 
holiness,  but  for  simple  folk  who  in  the 
normal  walks  of  daily  life  live  out  to  its 
completion  the  Christian  law. 

The  Christian  church  started  in  an 
"upper  chamber, "  and  Christian  homes, 
consecrated  by  religious  awe,  were  long 
its  only  abiding  place.  As  time  went 
on,  the  young  religion,  if  theory  once 
current  speaks  true,  adopted  for  its  own 
the  pagan  Halls  of  Justice.  The  House 
of  Justice  and  the  House  of  Christ  should 
be  indeed  forever  one  and  the  same ;  but 
the  more  primitive  and  more  certain 
connection  strikes  yet  deeper.  The 
Christian  homes  of  the  land  must  be  the 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


527 


shrines  of  that  social  practice  which  is 
but  Christianity  translated  into  terms 
of  human  relation.  Democracy  in  its 
advance  has  liberated  sinister  forces 
never  foreseen  by  the  earlier  apostles 
of  liberty,  and  that  common  life  which 
freedom  was  to  have  won  and  the  de- 
mocratic state  to  have  realized  is  not 
yet  seen.  Now  in  the  time  of  stress, 
when  these  separating  forces,  which  the 
new  society,  to  our  surprise,  permits  if 
it  does  not  engender,  are  driving  the 
classes  so  far  apart  that  they  cannot 
hear  each  other  speak,  where  if  not  to 
the  church  of  Christ  shall  we  look  for 
those  other  forces  that  make  for  unity  ? 
We  are  confronted  by  a  new  opposition ; 
no  longer  that  between  democracy  and 
aristocracy,  but  that  between  democracy 
the  creed  of  the  lover  and  democracy 
the  creed  of  the  egotist.  So  great  are 
the  demands  which  the  higher  concep- 
tion makes  on  poor  human  nature,  that 
only  the  tremendous  reinforcement  to 
social  idealism  afforded  by  Christianity 
can,  one  is  inclined  to  say,  enable  us  to 


satisfy  them.1  "It  is  by  the  religious 
life  that  the  nations  subsist,"  and  the 
church  is  the  soul  of  the  nation.  It  is 
not  enough  to-day  for  her  children  to 
exercise  private  virtues  in  the  domestic 
circle,  or  to  conform  to  the  strictest 
standard  of  honor  that  the  public  de- 
mands. They  have  a  great  misappre- 
hension, for  which  the  church  of  the 
past  is  responsible,  to  overcome;  they 
have  a  special  task  to  fulfill.  If  on  all 
citizens  it  is  incumbent  to  promote,  so 
far  as  they  may,  the  higher  aims  of  our 
civilization,  how  much  more  is  this  the 
duty  of  those  who  hear  the  double  sum- 
mons to  democratic  fellowship  uttered 
by  their  country  and  by  their  Lord ! 
Among  those  who  follow  the  Carpenter 
of  Nazareth  should  be  found  the  common 
life  we  seek.  To  the  church  at  least, 
though  all  else  should  fail  us,  we  may 
look  with  hope  unfaltering  for  the  slow 
but  sure  realization  of  that  spiritual  de- 
mocracy of  which  our  fathers  dreamed, 
and  in  the  faith  of  which  our  republic 
was  founded. 

Vida  D.  Scudder. 


TWO  JAPANESE  PAINTERS. 


I. 


YATANI    JIRO. 

LOOKING  into  a  lotus  pond,  —  gay  of 
a  summer  eve  with  tea-house  lanterns, 
—  and  where  Hon  Street  turns  down  to 
the  castle  of  Kameyama,  there  used  to 
be  a  fragment  of  a  huge  stone  wall.  Of 
old,  when  the  historic  castle  was  young 
in  the  heyday  of  samurai  chivalry,  there 
stood  at  that  very  spot  the  outer  gate  of 
the  castle. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  gate  stood  a 
modest  shop.  In  its  many  colored  in- 
terior, seated  upon  a  bit  of  cotton  cush- 
ion about  as  roomy  as  a  hand,  Yatani's 
father,  and  his  grandsire  before  his  fa- 


ther, had  painted  away  their  life-long 
days  upon  cheap  umbrellas.  It  brought 
rice,  not  much  to  be  sure,  but  quite 
enough  to  keep  their  bodies  upon  the 
earth,  and  from  the  curse  of  idleness  and 
luxury ;  also,  it  brought  peace  to  their 
families,  and  the  ghosts  of  their  ances- 
tors were  pleased  with  it.  Naturally, 
in  the  course  of  ripening  years,  Yatani 
was  also  expected  to  walk  in  the  worthy 
steps  of  his  father.  And  his  father, 
with  the  traditional  patience  and  devo- 
tion of  the  Nihonese  artisan  to  his  work, 
did  the  best  he  could  for  the  son.  But 
none  bought  the  umbrellas  which  Ya- 
tani painted. 

"Where  can  you  find  these  things, 
1  Bryce :  Holy  Roman  Empire. 


528 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


—  the  things  that  you  paint  upon  your 
umbrella  ?  What  are  these  things,  any- 
way ?  What  do  you  intend  them  to 
be  ?  Oh,  the  extreme  of  patience !  " 
his  father  would  say  to  his  son. 

The  effects  of  all  the  wise  admoni- 
tions, however,  were,  as  a  wise  proverb 
would  have  it,  as  "the  spring  wind  on 
the  horse's  ear!"  And,  instead  of 
painting  upon  sun  umbrellas  ladies  and 
beasts,  gods  and  fools,  knights  and 
things,  with  the  democratic  brush  which 
is  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  in  colors 
screaming  at  each  other,  he  went  on 
melting  his  dreams  into  colors,  and  put- 
ting at  naught  all  the  sane  and  good 
advices  of  his  sire,  and  did  not  cease, 
for  a  moment,  laying  on  bold  lines  upon 
cheap  umbrellas,  —  the  bold  lines  which 
frightened  his  customers  away. 

Something  worse  than  woman  —  for 
ambition  is  the  strongest  and  the  last 
love  of  a  man  —  was  at  the  bottom  of 
his  bad  ways.  He  wanted  fame,  and 
modestly  enough  and  incidentally  to 
bring  the  whole  artistic  world  at  his 
feet.  It  seemed  to  take  days  —  long 
days.  And  the  amazingly  long  patience 
of  his  father  was  not  quite  long  enougho 

One  fine  morning  Yatani's  father  was 
rubbing  his  eyes  at  the  mountain  which 
lay  between  Kameyama  and  Kioto.  He 
saw  no  trace  of  his  son  there,  but  spring 
mists  were  building  purple  shelves  on 
its  emerald  shoulders. 

Certain  loose-minded  streets,  crooked 
as  the  conscience  of  a  sinner,  in  a  little 
Bohemia  of  Kioto  artists,  for  a  few 
years  used  to  grin  pathetic  sympathy 
at  Yatani  as  he  wandered  through 
them,  aimless  as  Luck  and  careless  as 
Fate.  He  watched  many  a  grand  pro- 
cession of  Daimyo,  and  afterward  he 
painted  it.  But  no  order  from  a  prince 
came  for  his  pictures.  Temples,  flow- 
ers, birds,  pagodas,  spring  scenes,  cher- 
ry blossoms,  there  they  were,  —  all 
sketched  out  with  bad  ink,  the  precious 
wealth  of  his  fancies,  upon  the  sheets 
of  paper  which  he  cheated  out  of  his  fel- 
low Bohemians. 


When  a  good  meal  failed  his  stomach, 
then  the  dreamer  fed  upon  something 
more  spiritual,  a  cake  of  mist  which  came 
to  him  glorified  with  the  perfume  of 
the  immortal  names  of  masters. 

He  woke  with  a  start  one  night.  The 
straws  all  about  him  were  wet  with  dew- 
drops,  and  within  them  the  moon  spar- 
kled like  the  white  souls  of  stars.  He 
looked  up  at  the  eave  of  the  straw  roof 
of  a  deserted  hut  and  saw  the  moon  peep- 
ing curiously  at  his  open-aired  privacy. 
That  was  what  woke  him  then,  the  cu- 
rious moon.  He  had  been  tired  for  some 
time  of  straw  beds.  Moreover,  he  knew 
that  the  good  wives  of  farmers  were  also 
tired  of  feeding  him  from  day  to  day. 

"Suppose  I  should  become  a  guest 
of  a  prince,"  he  told  the  dewy  night. 
"Many  a  beggar-artist  has  been  enter- 
tained in  a  palace,  —  and  a  palace  may 
be  as  good  as  this  straw  bed,  at  least 
for  a  change !  " 

Desperation  is  such  a  bold  thing. 

The  Prince  of  Kaga,  who,  at  that 
time  was  representing  his  master,  the 
Shogun,  at  the  court  of  the  "Capital 
of  Flowers, "  was  famous  for  his  hospi- 
tality to  the  artist,  —  to  the  man  of 
genius.  And  those  were  the  goodly  days 
when  the  men  of  genius  wandered  with 
the  winds  over  the  land  despising  silk 
and  gold  for  their  attire. 

At  the  palace  gate  of  the  Prince  of 
Kaga:  — 

"The  august  wish  of  the  honorable 
presence  ?  " 

"  The  humble  one  is  an  artist,  —  a 
painter,"  Yatani  told  the  guard  at  the 
gate.  "Will  the  honorable  presence 
condescend  to  acquaint  his  august  prince 
that  the  humble  one  craves  to  wait  upon 
his  pleasure  ?  " 

Water  for  his  feet  was  brought,  and 
Yatani  threw  away  his  straw  sandals 
with  a  bitter  humor.  For  the  first  time 
the  significance  of  what  he  was  doing 
came  upon  him  with  the  full  force. 
He  was  playing  a  game  which  might 
cost  him  his  life.  To  trifle  with  the  art- 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


529 


judgment  of  a  prince  was  not  consid- 
ered, in  those  days,  the  safest  thing  in 
the  world.  Ah,  well!  what  mattered 
life  to  him,  —  the  life,  naked  of  fame 
and  robbed  of  immortality  ? 

"Condescend  to  pass  into  the  Hall 
of  Karasu,  —  this  way,  honorable  pre- 
sence,"  and  a  retainer  ushered  him. 

Dressed  in  a  cotton  kimono  —  and 
you  could  see  the  rigorous  hand  of  re- 
fined taste  upon  every  inch  of  it  —  the 
famous  patron  of  art  received  the  beg- 
gar-artist with  the  simplicity  of  a  com- 
rade. 

"That  screen, "  said  the  prince,  "has 
been  waiting  for  the  coming  of  a  master 
for  nearly  four  seasons.  And  whatever 
Master  pleases  to  bestow  upon  it,  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  but  too  impatient  and 
grateful  to  receive  it  from  him." 

The  screen  was  in  a  strange  contrast 
to  the  severe  simplicity  of  the  attire  of 
the  prince.  There  was  in  the  centre 
of  it  a  rectangular  piece  of  white  silk, 
very  narrow  and  very  long,  and  a  heavy 
brocade  stretched  away  from  it  to  the 
lacquer  frame  on  which  a  pair  of  gold 
dragons  were  climbing. 

Yatani,  as  you  know,  had  painted  of- 
ten on  his  sheets  of  paper ;  for  one  small 
iron  coin  he  could  get  two  of  them.  To 
paint  on  a  screen  which  would  cost  five 
hundred  pieces  of  gold  was  a  new  ex- 
perience for  him  therefore.  His  eyes 
staring,  he  froze  in  front  of  the  screen. 
Evidently  he  mistook  the  white  centre 
silk  for  the  face  of  Death.  The  prince 
with  his  own  hands  arranged  the  dishes 
of  ink  and  water. 

There  was  silence  —  the  silence  such 
as  you  sometimes  feel  rather  than  hear 
falling  between  prayers.  Yatani 's  face 
grew  white.  And  one  watching  him 
would  have  said  that  his  bloodshot  eyes 
were  trying  to  discover  a  viewless  pic- 
ture already  traced  there  upon  the  silk 
by  a  spirit  brush.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  believed  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  with  all  the  sincerity  of  his 
soul,  in  the  gods.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  was  praying.  Slowly  and  absent- 
VOL.  xc.  — NO.  540.  34 


mindedly  he  dipped  his  brush  into  the 
black  "sea"  of  the  ink-stone. 

To  the  best  of  his  memory,  he 
dreamed  —  for  a  certain  space  of  time, 
he  could  not  tell  how  long  —  that  he 
was  sitting  face  to  face  with  a  god. 
Because  he  could  not  reach  him  with  his 
voice  he  painted  his  prayer  in  black  and 
white  upon  the  silk  of  the  screen. 

In  after  days  he  remembered,  as  in  a 
vision,  the  wild  gestures  of  the  digni- 
fied prince,  sprouting  all  about  him  like 
a  forest  of  spirited  branches.  And  "Su- 
perb, Master!  'Tis  superb,  Master!" 
from  the  prince  reached  Yatani 's  ears 
like  a  shout  from  the  other  world. 

If  you  like,  you  can  see  it  this  very 
day,  in  a  certain  room  of  the  old  palace 
of  Kioto,  that  screen,  that  picture  of 
Yatani 's. 

A  terrific  hurricane  is  whipping 
mountain-huge  clouds  into  a  whirlpool. 
Through  its  nightly  coils  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  heaven-ascending  dragon. 
And  when  you  follow  the  lightning  of 
his  eyes  you  see  through  the  break  of 
the  dense  cloud  a  lone  star  beckoning 
the  ever  aspiring  dragon  —  like  the 
ideal  of  man,  like  the  smile  of  a  god 
—  from  the  far  away  which  becomes 
higher  as  he  mounts. 

That  is  the  picture. 


II. 


A    YEDO    PAINTER. 

Hokudo  was  descending  from  the 
Yedo  Castle  of  the  Shogun,  from  the 
feast  that  was  held  in  his  honor,  in 
the  above-cloud  company.  Also  it  was 
the  celebration  of  the  completion  of  a 
new  palace  room,  and  Hokudo 's  was  the 
chief  brush  that  gave  unto  the  new  room 
the  life  that  is  not  of  the  flower  nor  of 
the  mortal  man. 

Coming  down  the  palace  steps,  escort- 
ed by  the  proud  princes  and  the  lords 
of  many  castles  and  provinces,  at  the 


530 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


top  ladder  of  his  fame,  he  had  a  look 
about  him  of  a  man  whose  joys  were  a 
cobweb.  The  spring  of  the  festive  sake 
was  cold  within  his  veins.  His  eyes 
were  far  away. 

"The  honorable  work  of  the  Master 
is  altogether  above  praise ;  the  honor- 
able success,  domo,  is  quite  beyond  our 
humble  congratulations, "  these  and  sim- 
ilar words  his  companions  of  noble  rank 
were  saying  to  him. 

"The  humble  one  has  no  face-and-eye 
to  accept  so  high  a  praise  from  so  high 
a  source, "  his  cold,  courteous  voice  was 
saying. 

He  did  not  quite  understand  either 
what  his  noble  companions  were  saying, 
or  what  came  out  of  his  own  mouth. 

I  have  said  that  the  world  had  ren- 
dered unto  him  far  more  than  it  ren- 
dered unto  Caesar,  and  what  this  joke, 
or,  if  you  will  a  dream,  of  a  life  could 
afford  was  his.  Moreover,  he  had  some- 
thing of  what  the  gods  alone  could  give, 
—  for  was  he  not  blessed  with  the  gen- 
ius which,  in  the  minds  of  so  many, 
came  very  piously  close  to  meriting  a 
shrine  ?  That  was  not  all ;  it  was  also 
his,  that  happiness  which  seems  to  play 
will-o'-the-wisp  with  the  artist,  which 
is  considered  to  be  the  greatest  of  hu- 
man pleasures,  which  the  wise  and  the 
pious  cannot  always  be  sure  of  (witness 
Socrates  and  Wesley),  and  which,  more 
than  anything  else  mortal,  according  to 
the  testimony  of  the  good,  gives  man  a 
foretaste  of  heaven,  —  I  mean,  a  happy 
home.  He  was  deeply  in  love  with  his 
wife ;  as  for  her,  she  adored  her  husband. 

And  he  was  unhappy. 

"Upon  my  word,  you  are  the  hard- 
est mortal  to  please, "  said  a  very  inti- 
mate friend  of  his  once,  in  a  confiden- 
tial and  truth- telling  moment  ;  "and 
I  am  sure  that  is  the  opinion  of  the  gods 
as  well." 

"Not  too  fast,  my  friend, "  the  paint- 
er begged  his  judge;  "I  do  not  think 
that  I  am  so  very  hard  to  please,  since 
I  ask  for  only  one  thing.  There  are 
many  —  and  you  among  others  —  who 


ask  of  the  gods  for  more  than  a  thou- 
sand things." 

"And  what  is  that  one  thing?  " 

"Since  I  have  not  gained  it  as  yet, 
it  is  unreasonable  for  you  to  ask  me 
about  it." 

"  Of  course,  —  I  might  have  known 
this;  in  fact,  I  know  that  everything 
that  you,  yourself,  could  think  of,  the 
gods  have  given  unto  you." 

And  the  painter  smiled  sadly  at  his 
friend. 

"And  then,  look  at  my  white  hair!  " 
the  painter  went  on.  "I  am  getting 
old.  You  must  remember  that  you  are 
helping  me  to  celebrate  my  fiftieth 
birthday,  this  night." 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Atago  Moun- 
tains there  huddled  a  little  community, 
which,  although  much  looked  down  upon 
by  men,  still  was  happy  with  more  than 
an  ordinary  share  of  fresh  mountain  air, 
of  the  big  smiling  slice  of  blue  sky. 

Between  this  hunters'  village  and  the 
Kameyama  Castle  there  were  many 
pines,  ricefields,  thatched  roofs,  moun- 
tain streams,  and  the  clover  -  scented 
savanna  of  the  length  of  twenty-five 
miles.  And  Kameyama  was  the  native 
town  of  the  famous  court  painter  of 
the  day.  The  town  people  —  and  es- 
pecially the  simple  men  and  women  and 
children  of  the  field  —  were  very  much 
bewildered  in  their  attempt  at  forming 
a  definite  idea  as  to  the  real  greatness 
of  the  painter,  and  in  their  embarrass- 
ment they  concluded  that  the  prophet 
should  not  be  without  honor  in  his  own 
town,  and  in  their  magnificent  and  al- 
together sublime  hero-worshiping  enthu- 
siasm they  decided  in  seeing  a  very 
little  difference  between  the  painter  and 
an  every-day  god. 

The  painter,  on  the  other  hand,  when- 
ever he  came  back  to  his  home  and  clan 
—  and  he  remembered  it  once  every 
year  as  regularly  as  the  calendar  —  in- 
sisted that  he  was  the  same  one,  a  little 
bigger  now  and  a  little  older,  of  course, 
nevertheless  the  same  whom,  in  the  now 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


531 


fabled  days  of  their  boyhood,  Takano 
had  licked  within  a  rather  ticklish  dis- 
tance of  death  for  no  other  unreason 
than  that  the  painter  (a  very  timid  youth 
in  those  days,  looking  much  more  like 
a  girl  than  a  man-eating  monster,  fire- 
tongued  and  ever  laughing  at  death, 
which  was  the  supreme  ideal  of  the  boys 
of  those  golden  days)  gave,  unasked,  and 
secretly  like  the  gift  of  a  thief,  a  pat 
or  two  upon  Takano 's  dog,  half  dead, 
cut,  torn,  trampled,  kicked,  and  painted 
all  over  with  its  own  blood  and  the  mud 
of  the  street.  Very  free  and  sociable 
as  the  painter  was,  the  streets  of  Ka- 
meyama  used  to  miss  him  suddenly. 
Where  could  he  go  on  those  mysterious 
disappearances?  None  could  tell.  Not 
even  the  imagination  of  the  Kameyama 
people  to  whom  the  sun  of  the  south  is 
so  kind  and  gives  much  of  its  poetry. 

To  the  hunters'  village  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Atago  Mountains  there 
came,  once  upon  a  snowy  day,  a  sin- 
gular visitor.  The  simple  hunters  of 
beasts  did  not  know  who  he  was,  who  he 
could  be.  To  them,  he  had  much  of  the 
looks  of  a  sen-nin,  —  one  of  that  mar- 
velous race  of  philosophers  who  lived 
upon  meditation  and  mountain  dews. 

"A  rather  deep  snow,  Mr.  Hunter." 
The  singular  visitor  stopped  at  the  door 
of  one  of  the  huts  and  talked  with  its 
master.  When  the  hunter  asked  him 
in,  he  entered  without  the  slightest  em- 
barrassment, in  an  excellent  humor, 
thoroughly  at  home  and  at  ease,  and  sat 
at  the  fireplace  dug  in  the  ground  floor 
of  the  hut. 

"  I  see  the  God  of  Luck  smiled  upon 
you,  Mr.  Hunter;  he  has  sent  many 
good-looking  sons  to  you  ;  and  how  is  the 
game  of  the  year  ?  I  hear  that  the  deer 
are  making  their  shadows  more  and  more 
scarce  in  these  mountains  every  year." 

And  their  conversations  took  many  a 
wandering  trip  into  many  parts  of  the 
mountainous  country,  into  many  private 
corners  of  a  hunter's  lonely  life,  buried 
deep  in  the  winter  snow.  Then  suddenly 
the  eyes  around  the  hunter's  fireplace 


became  all  very  large,  and  those  of  the 
children  made  a  brave  effort  to  leap  out 
of  their  sleep-heavy  sockets.  The  rea- 
son of  it  all  was  that  the  strange  visi- 
tor, in  an  off-hand  way,  as  a  sort  of  side 
issue,  pulled  out  of  the  bosom  pocket  of 
his  thick  winter  clothing  a  roll.  When 
he  unrolled  it,  it  was  a  picture  of  a  wild 
boar. 

"Look  at  it  closely.  Have  you  seen 
a  dead  boar,  like  this  ?  "  so  saying  he 
handed  it  to  the  head  of  the  family. 
The  hunter  examined  it,  and  in  a  short 
time  he  lost  the  look  of  one  gazing  at 
a  bit  of  a  beautiful  picture.  In  his 
eyes  —  and  the  visitor  was  scrutinizing 
very  carefully  indeed  —  entered  the 
light  which  you  see  in  those  of  a  hunts- 
man who  is  looking  at  a  game  in  a  great 
distance.  The  hunter  evidently  was  no 
longer  thinking  of  the  picture;  he  was 
thinking  of  the  boar  itself. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  good  long 
look,  "yes,  it  is  dead,  this  boar!  " 

The  visitor  rolled  the  picture  back 
into  his  breast  pocket.  A  few  more 
words  were  exchanged,  meaningless  and 
very  meaninglessly  spoken  about  mean- 
ingless commonplaces.  And  the  strange 
visitor  passed  on.  At  the  door  of  an- 
other hut  he  was  seen  to  stop.  Inside 
the  second  hut,  as  in  the  first,  one  could 
see  him  pulling  out  the  roll  of  the  same 
picture,  speaking  in  much  the  same 
manner,  asking  the  identical  question, 
"  It  is  a  dead  boar,  as  you  see  ?  "  And 
the  hunter  of  the  second  hut,  like  he 
of  the  first,  agreed  with  the  stranger. 
"Yes,  yes,  it  is  dead,  — I  am  certain 
of  it!" 

And  the  third  hut  and  the  fourth, 
tenth  and  twentieth,  and  —  and  all 
agreed  that  the  boar  was  dead.  Then 
like  a  mist,  like  a  lie,  the  stranger  van- 
ished. 

And  the  streets  of  Kameyama  found 
once  more  the  famous  painter,  smiling 
his  sad  smiles,  unhappy,  oh,  so  unrea- 
sonably, as  ever! 


532 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


And  the  hunters  of  Atago  Mountain 
wondered  at  the  annual  visit  of  the 
stranger,  always  with  the  picture  of  a 
dead  boar,  asking  the  same  question  from 
year  to  year,  asking  the  same  people. 

And  romances  were  born  by  hun- 
dreds :  "  The  Master  goes  into  the  deep 
mountain  every  year  to  receive  the 
art-secret  from  the  demi-gods  Ten-gu, " 
said  the  prevailing  opinion.  It  was  not 
as  easy  for  the  townspeople  of  Kame- 
yama  as  it  is  with  us  to  connect  the 
strange  visitor  in  the  hunters'  village 
and  the  artist  in  his  mystic  disappear- 
ances. 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  the  Atago 
Mountains;  it  was  in  the  white  depth 
of  winter;  also,  it  was  in  the  silent 
dead  of  night.  Under  the  tall  arm  of 
a  very  tall  pine  of  the  age  unknown  to 
men  a  tall  flame  was  making  its  dazzling 
effort  to  be  taller.  Around  it  a  group 
of  hunters  was  laughing  and  poking  the 
embers,  trying  to  rekindle,  in  the  ashes 
of  past  days,  the  sparks  of  the  ancient 
memories  and  the  tales  told  them  by 
their  sires.  The  camp-fire  threw  upon 
the  snow,  over  the  half-erased  outlines 
of  the  squattering  hunters  (which  looked 
like  brush  and  wash  study,  soft  as  the 
tropical  twilight),  all  sorts  of  golden 
patterns  for  the  benefit  of  the  studious 
stars  doing  their  utmost  to  peep  through 
the  envious  net  of  pine  needles. 

All  of  a  sudden  their  ears  stood  watch- 
ful sentinels,  just  like  those  of  the  deer. 
Some  one  was  treading  upon  the  white 
silence  of  the  winter  night;  a  vague 
form  rose  from  the  sloping  path. 

"lya!  fair  night  to  you,  Masters-of- 
Hunt." 

It  was  a  clear  voice.  One  of  the 
hunters  made  room  for  him.  When  the 
fire  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  newcomer 
the  hunters  recognized  their  old  ac- 
quaintance. He  spoke  to  the  hunters, 
as  of  yore,  of  their  affairs ;  told  them 
a  few  entertaining  tales  of  far-away 
Yedo  of  the  Shogun ;  and  sure  enough, 


just  as  the  hunters  were  expecting  to 
see,  the  visitor  looked  for  the  roll  of 
picture  in  his  breast  pocket. 

The  hunters  did  not  know  that  the 
painter  had  just  finished  the  picture  that 
very  evening  by  the  last  fading  light 
upon  the  snow.  And  how  could  they  ? 
They  did  not  know  that  the  visitor  was 
a  painter  at  all. 

"  A  picture  of  a  dead  boar,  as  usual  !  " 
—  that  was  what  the  painter  said.  And 
the  picture  started  on  its  silent  tour 
around  the  fire.  He  was  the  third  who 
spoke : — 

"  But  —  ei,  but  this  is  no  dead 
boar!" 

One  who  had  an  exacting  eye  upon 
the  painter  would  have  said  that,  just 
then,  the  painter  strangled  a  sudden 
thrill  within  him. 

The  first  and  the  second  hunters  who 
had  looked  at  the  picture  raised  them- 
selves upon  their  hands  and  tilted  them- 
selves toward  the  third,  who  was  hold- 
ing the  picture. 

"That 's  —  that 's  what  I  was  think- 
ing ;  I  could  see  very  well  that  the  boar 
is  not  dead, "  said  the  first.  And  the  sec- 
ond, "No,  sir,  that  thing  is  n't  dead." 

And  the  gray  silence  upon  the  snow 
absorbed  the  variously  worded  opinions 
of  the  hunters  around  the  fire.  A  sleep- 
ing boar  —  that  was  the  consensus  of  the 
opinions  around  the  fire.  The  painter 
rolled  the  canvas,  and  burying  it  care- 
fully in  his  breast  pocket  he  lifted  his 
face  toward  the  fire.  It  played  upon  it 
curiously,  wondering  much.  Upon  it 
was  a  light,  —  it  was  the  reflection  of 
the  smile  that  was  blossoming,  just  then, 
in  the  painter's  soul,  —  but  how  could 
the  fire  be  expected  to  know  anything 
about  it? 

The  painter  tried,  as  was  his  polite 
custom,  to  finish  off  his  interview  with 
the  hunters  with  many  friendly  sen- 
tences about  the  matters  which  had  much 
interest  for  them  but  very  little  for 
himself.  His  lips,  however,  were  empty 
because  his  heart  was  so  full. 


Two  Japanese  Painters. 


533 


Beyond  cavil,  it  was  in  the  direction 
of  the  studio  of  her  husband,  that  sin- 
gular noise.  The  good  lady  who  had 
shared  the  life  of  struggle  and  of  fame 
with  the  painter  was  opening  her  ears 
very  wide,  full  of  unquiet  curiosity. 
Her  imagination  was  paralyzed;  what 
on  earth  could  it  be?  It  was  not  an 
ugly  sound,  far  from  it ;  in  it  was  some- 
thing of  the  laughters  of  young  frolic. 

It  came  again.  And  the  reason  that 
it  gave  her  a  little  start  was  because  — 
oh,  of  course,  she,  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  so  outrageous  a  thought,  made  haste 
to  erase  it  with  a  smile  —  she  thought 
that  she  recognized  the  voice  of  her  il- 
lustrious husband  in  the  sound.  The 
greatest  painter  of  his  age,  at  the  prime 
of  his  artistic  powers,  he,  shouting  in 
the  sacred  calm  of  his  studio,  like  a  boy 
of  five  with  his  first  stolen  persimmon ! 
What,  indeed,  could  she  be  thinking 
about  ? 

"Oh,  ho,  ho,  ho!  "  she  laughed.  At 
the  time  she  was  arranging  flowers  in 
the  tokonojML.  And  her  fingers  were 
returning  to  a  pair  of  scissors.  How- 
ever, she  was  a  woman  She  rose,  and 
smiling,  half  in  the  spirit  of  investiga- 
tion, half  for  the  joy  of  taking  her  hus- 
band in  a  mirthful  surprise,  and  wholly 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  —  yes,  for  fun, 
—  she  made  her  gentle  way  toward  the 
shoji  of  the  studio. 

On  her  way,  upon  the  polished  oaken 
veranda,  she  stopped  all  of  a  sudden, 
tottered  a  little;  all  her  skepticism 
was  shattered;  there  could  be  no  more 
doubt  about  the  matter ;  it  was  her  hus- 
band, —  her  dignified,  cultured  hus- 
band; it  was  the  greatest  of  all  the 
court  painters,  who  was  actually  cutting 
up  like  a  pup  with  a  kitten.  What  could 
be  the  matter  with  him  ?  Feeling  very 
sure,  this  time,  that  she  was  doing  some- 
thing wrong,  strangling  her  breaths  in 
the  throat,  she  stole  her  way  to  the 


shoji  of  the  studio.  And  another  burst 
of  childish  merriment  broke  upon  her 
nervous  ears.  She  fell  in  a  heap,  like  a 
feather,  on  the  veranda  outside  the  shoji. 
She  heard  the  voice  within  say :  — 

"Now,  then,  old  chap,  —  happy, 
happy  old  man !  Buddha  and  Rakwan ! 
was  there,  could  there,  ever  be  a  man 
happier  than  I  am  now?  I,  the  envy 
of  the  gods !  and  at  last  —  Bosatsu  and 
Buddha !  —  it  was  the  tedious  road, 
and  ye  gods !  how  I  did  toil  and  eat  my 
bitter  heart  in  silence,  in  sadness,  de- 
spair !  Ah,  well !  but  look  at  this  — 
at  last  —  after  —  after  —  let  me  see, 
—  thirty,  well  nearly  forty  years  in 
round  numbers!  And  at  last!  Ei! 
Ei !  —  look  at  this !  So  at  last  I  have 
succeeded  in  painting  the  difference,  — 
the  nice  distinction  between  sleep  and 
death!  Victory,  and  oh  the  glory!  Ei! 
Ei !  Not  a  hunter  —  no,  not  one  — 
saw  a  dead  boar  in  this  picture !  Ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Overwhelmed  with  anxiety,  forget- 
ting altogether  the  mirth  which  made 
her  first  steps  light  with  the  lightness 
of  that  of  a  mischievous  child,  and  per- 
fectly blind  to  the  humor  of  the  famous 
painter,  shouting  and  laughing  like  an 
Indian,  she  forced  the  shoji,  her  hand 
all  in  a  cold  tremor.  The  shoji  glided 
open  without  saying  anything. 

"Any  one  can  paint  the  boundary 
line  between  life  and  death,  but  the 
sleeping  life !  What  a  triumph !  You 
rogue,  —  the  happiest  of  mortals,  you, 
the  envy  of  the  gods,  you  little  rogue ! 
a-ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  " 

The  good  lady  saw  her  husband  wild 
with  a  picture.  "  His  masterpiece, 
doubtless ;  I  had  never  seen  him  in  such 
a  condition  in  all  my  life !  "  she  thought, 
with  a  black  fear  creeping  into  her  heart. 
"And  —  and  —  Buddha  forbid  that  it 
should  rob  him  of  his  mind,  that  mas- 
terpiece !  " 

Adachi  Kinnosuke. 


534 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


INTERCOLLEGIATE  ATHLETICS. 


ONE  of  the  aspects  of  American  life 
that  must  impress  every  foreigner  visit- 
ing this  country  for  the  first  time  is  the 
attention  given  to  outdoor  sports.  Ath- 
letic meetings  and  sporting  events  are 
regularly  reported  in  the  daily  newspa- 
pers with  a  wealth  of  detail  exceeding 
any  other  single  department  of  news. 
The  rivalry  among  cities,  clubs,  and 
schools  is  so  keen  that  our  main  inter- 
est outside  of  business  hours  seems  to  be 
in  some  form  of  physical  contest.  Or- 
ganized outdoor  sports  are  recent  devel- 
opments which  have  begun  within  the 
memory  of  men  still  young.  They  seem 
at  first  glance  like  a  sudden  reaction 
against  former  neglect  of  the  body,  but 
they  are  more  logically  a  development 
of  physical  exercise  into  a  newer  and 
more  artificial  form,  and  under  changed 
conditions. 

Up  to  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  the 
need  of  physical  training  was  not  felt, 
and  the  stimulus  to  an  outdoor  life  was 
supplied  by  the  continual  exploration  of 
new  country.  All  life  was  practically 
out  of  doors.  Our  people  were  scat- 
tered over  a  wide  domain,  and  the  cen- 
tres of  population  were  small.  The 
great  West  to  be  explored  and  settled 
easily  turned  the  thoughts  of  a  young 
man  to  his  rifle,  and  to  the  adventures 
to  be  found  in  the  forest.  Sport  was  a 
child's  occupation  by  the  side  of  the 
great  game  that  he  played. 

Colleges  suffered  from  the  effect  of 
this  drain  of  men  of  strength  and  ini- 
tiative, who  were  more  likely  to  turn 
away  from  books  to  seek  their  careers 
in  the  opening  up  of  new  territory  and 
in  the  business  connected  with  develop- 
ing natural  resources.  The  improvement 
in  physical  appearance  of  college  boys 
generally  is  often  ascribed  to  the  phy- 
sical training  which  is  now  common ; 
but  it  might  with  as  good  reason  be  as- 
cribed to  the  large  infusion  of  the 


stronger  type.  The  pale  student  no 
longer  holds  a  monopoly  in  education. 
He  is  still  with  us,  surrounded  by  so 
many  of  his  sturdy  companions  that  he 
is  no  longer  typical  of  college  life.  The 
disappearance  of  the  backwoods  and  the 
growth  of  large  centres  of  population 
have  thus  created  the  demand  for  an 
artificial  outlet ;  and  the  games  are  the 
natural  successors  of  the  youthful  activ- 
ities of  a  pioneer  period.  For  boys  in 
a  large  city  far  removed  from  open 
country  organized  play  is  almost  a  ne- 
cessity. 

What  a  foreigner  would  observe  of 
the  intensity  of  sports  is  only  one  man- 
ifestation of  the  spirit  which  American 
people  now  put  into  everything.  The 
commercial  growth  of  the  past  twenty 
years  is  probably  equal  to  that  of  all 
the  preceding  years  since  the  discovery 
of  the  continent.  The  energies  of  the 
entire  nation  have  been  turned  into 
channels  of  trade  and  pleasure,  and  we 
are  passing  through  a  period  of  surprise 
and  readjustments  calculated  to  upset 
the  nerves  of  any  people.  Many  arts 
are  being  revolutionized.  A  machine 
has  no  time  in  the  United  States  to  wear 
out,  before  it  is  superseded  by  some- 
thing thought  to  be  better,  and  we  are 
constantly  hearing  of  inventions  that 
will  wipe  out  entire  industries.  Our 
sudden  leap  into  prominence  as  a  com- 
mercial power  has  affected  us  like  the 
discovery  of  a  vast  gold  mine.  The 
majority  are  engaged  in  the  struggle  for 
wealth,  and  most  things  are  judged  from 
a  material  standpoint.  This  condition 
was  inevitable  from  the  first,  and  it 
constitutes  only  a  phase  of  American 
development  which  will  pass  away  as 
the  novelty  wears  off. 

If  in  the  craze  for  winning  our  sports 
exhibit  the  spirit  and  method  of  trade, 
it  is  because  boys  cannot  escape  from 
their  environment  into  an  atmosphere 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


535 


more  ideal.  The  only  place  where  we 
can  hope  to  maintain  the  higher  motive 
is  in  colleges  and  schools.  There  the 
young  men  are  collectively  under  better 
control,  and  they  are  for  a  season  re- 
moved from  the  competition  of  the  out- 
side world.  Athletic  sports  have  ob- 
tained a  strong  hold  upon  them,  and  the 
public  is  entirely  familiar  with  the 
large  number  of  games  among  students 
of  different  universities  and  colleges. 
Much  has  been  said  against  the  contests, 
and  the  opinion  that  they  have  been  al- 
lowed to  go  too  far  is  quite  common. 
In  discussing  this  subject,  let  us  remem- 
ber that  boys  and  girls  will  carry  to 
school  the  impulses  and  habits  learned 
at  home,  and  that  society  at  large  shares 
the  responsibility  for  degraded  sports. 
Youth  is  the  natural  time  for  play,  and 
it  is  well  to  provide  some  wholesome 
method  of  working  off  superfluous  ani- 
mal spirits.  Physical  contests  are  prob- 
ably the  best ;  at  any  rate  they  are  far 
ahead  of  billiards  and  horse-play.  If, 
then,  disagreeable  extremes  often  spring 
from  them,  it  does  not  follow  that  the 
ultimate  result  is  not  the  best  that  could 
be  attained  in  the  present  state  of  so- 
ciety. 

While  universities  and  colleges  have 
become  natural  centres  for  athletic  con- 
tests, scholarship  has  seemed  to  lose 
its  proper  perspective.  The  appearance 
of  thirty  thousand  people  to  see  a  foot- 
ball game,  and  the  disappearance  of  all 
students  from  their  classrooms  during 
an  entire  day,  would  have  filled  a  pro- 
fessor of  the  old  school  with  despair. 
He  would  have  looked  upon  it  much  as 
the  general  public  now  regard  a  prize 
light  or  a  bull  fight.  Many  professors 
hold  this  view  to-day,  and  a  very  re- 
spectable vote  could  be  obtained  in  most 
college  faculties  against  the  severer 
forms  of  intercollegiate  contests.  It  is 
not  intended  to  imply  that  teachers  are 
opposed  to  outdoor  sports ;  but  rather 
to  some  of  the  practices  that  seem  to 
follow  in  their  train.  There  are  evils, 
and  for  the  good  of  American  students 


they  ought  to  be  stated  without  reserve. 
At  the  same  time  the  subject  should  be 
approached  without  prejudice,  as  the 
adequate  treatment  of  the  physical  side 
of  college  life  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
most  important  questions  now  before 
educators. 

The  old  idea  of  education  was  that  a 
youth  could  obtain  all  the  benefits  of  a 
college  training  from  books.  The  value 
of  a  sound  body  was  recognized  in  the- 
ory, but  in  practice  no  systematic  meth- 
od of  obtaining  it  seemed  to  be  thought 
necessary.  A  college  simply  represented 
study  and  books.  Education,  crystal- 
lized along  conventional  lines,  was  con- 
fined mainly  to  men  entering  the  pro- 
fessions of  law,  medicine,  and  divinity. 
Now  all  this  is  changed.  The  modern 
college  is  obliged  to  take  into  account 
the  demands  of  commerce,  and  the  ap- 
plications of  science  to  the  well-being  of 
man.  Many  of  the  professions  now  re- 
quire the  higher  education  as  a  founda- 
tion, and  the  majority  of  subjects  taught 
have  been  placed  on  college  catalogues 
within  a  few  years.  The  dominating 
note  underlying  courses  of  study  for 
undergraduate  students  is,  before  all 
else,  the  production  of  enlightened  citi- 
zens. Physical  vigor  has  therefore  ac- 
quired a  practical  significance  which  it 
never  had  before.  It  is  fast  becoming 
as  much  a  man's  duty  to  take  proper 
care  of  his  body  as  it  is  to  cultivate  his 
reason.  Most  colleges  have  been  forced 
to  provide  the  opportunity  for  some  kind 
of  physical  training. 

The  systematic  culture  of  the  body 
began  in  this  country  in  a  very  small 
way,  but  its  growth  has  been  most  rapid. 
Gymnasiums,  such  as  are  now  resorted 
to  by  many  young  people,  fill  a  highly 
useful  function.  Unfortunately  many 
colleges  and  universities  lose  a  large 
part  of  the  benefit  accruing  from  them. 
Usually  there  is  no  recognition  of  the 
work  done.  Competent  instructors  are 
provided,  and  every  opportunity  is  given 
to  the  students  to  benefit  by  their  teach- 
ing, but  everything  is  voluntary.  Phy- 


536 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


sical  excellence  does  not  in  any  way  af- 
fect a  student's  standing  or  help  him  to 
get  his  degree.  This  is  a  serious  handi- 
cap to  a  gymnasium,  as  the  exercises  in- 
doors are  at  best  extremely  monotonous 
and  dull.  It  is  only  natural  that  a 
young  man  should  want  credit  in  the 
shape  of  marks,  as  for  a  course  of  stud- 
ies, when  he  has  spent  several  hours  a 
week  during  an  entire  year  in  manipu- 
lating weights  for  the  good  of  his  body. 
Failing  these  or  any  other  inducement 
in  the  gymnasium,  he  turns  to  outdoor 
sports,  wherein  success  yields  an  im- 
mediate return  in  the  applause  of  his 
classmates  and  friends.  This  is  where 
college  faculties  have  been  slow  to  re- 
cognize their  opportunities  and  duties. 
Outdoor  sports  were  for  many  years 
left  to  regulate  themselves  in  the  hands 
of  students  without  experience  of  life 
to  guide  them,  and  often  under  the  in- 
fluence of  irresponsible  persons  to  whom 
college  contests  represented  nothing 
more  than  the  excitement  to  be  found 
in  a  horse  race  ur  a  professional  base- 
ball game.  It  was  not  sport  for  sport's 
sake,  but  sport  for  the  sake  of  beat- 
ing somebody  by  fair  means,  or  by  po- 
litical intrigue.  The  inevitable  result 
was  an  intolerable  condition  which  had 
to  come  under  the  correction  of  fac- 
ulties whether  they  liked  to  take  the 
time  from  their  lectures  or  not.  Their 
interference  was  resented  at  first  by 
students  and  athletic  graduates,  and 
mutual  confidence  was  practically  de- 
stroyed. The  difficulty  was  how  to  im- 
prove the  contests  without  entirely  pro- 
hibiting them.  The  enthusiastic  pro- 
moters of  the  sports  were  rarely  good 
advisers,  and  for  some  years  college  pro- 
fessors worked  alone  on  a  most  trouble- 
some problem.  The  prevailing  notion 
that  they  belonged  to  a  class  living  in 
the  clouds  did  not  increase  respect  for 
their  opinions  even  when  governed  by 
reason  and  sound  sense.  In  consequence 
progress  has  been  slow.  The  spirit  of 
sport  is  certainly  much  better  as  the 
newness  has  worn  off,  but  much  remains 


to  be  done.  The  first  step  was  to  make 
rules  for  the  guidance  of  students  in 
their  intercollegiate  relations.  Com- 
mittees were  necessary  to  that  end,  and 
as  a  rule  representatives  of  the  student 
body  were  called  into  consultation.  In 
most  colleges  these  committees  have  re- 
mained to  regulate  the  sports  and  to 
safeguard  them  against  bad  practices 
in  the  future.  The  rules  commonly  in 
force  are  similar  in  spirit,  if  not  in  sub- 
stance, throughout  the  college  world. 
They  are  simply  records  of  experience 
relating  to  past  abuses,  as  they  have 
invariably  been  framed  to  cure  some 
evil  or  to  promote  fairness. 

There  are  only  three  rules  that  re- 
quire comment  here.  The  first  and  most 
difficult  of  administration  is  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  definition  of  professionalism. 
The  intention  of  this  rule  is  to  disqual- 
ify from  participation  in  college  sports 
all  men  who  have  received  a  money  ben- 
efit or  its  equivalent  by  reason  of  their 
previous  connection  with  athletics.  It 
would  be  foolish  to  treat  this  as  a  moral 
question,  although  it  does  affect  the 
honor  of  a  team.  The  distinction  be- 
tween an  amateur  and  a  professional  is 
one  purely  in  the  interest  of  sport,  be- 
cause the  latter  has  presumably  made 
more  or  less  of  an  occupation  of  athlet- 
ics, and  therefore  outclasses  the  former. 
Hence  the  contest  wherein  professionals 
are  set  against  amateurs  is  unequal  if 
the  facts  are  known ;  unfair,  if  the  facts 
are  concealed.  In  either  case  the  result 
is  bad.  A  spirit  of  retaliation,  abso- 
lutely fatal  to  friendly  contests,  is  in- 
troduced. The  rule  was  made  at  a  time 
when  abuses  were  common,  and  some  of 
its  provisions  now  seem  too  sweeping. 
The  technicalities  that  arise  are  often 
absurd,  yet  the  distinction  between  the 
two  kinds  of  players  had  to  be  drawn, 
and  the  line  was  not  a  clear  one  under  the 
best  of  circumstances.  On  the  whole, 
the  rule  has  promoted  honorable  dealing 
between  college  boys,  and  its  influence 
in  the  preparatory  schools  has  been  far 
reaching.  It  should  not  be  modified  in 
\ 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


53T 


spirit  except  for  very  weighty  reasons, 
although  a  greater  latitude  in  its  inter- 
pretation might  be  allowed  to  commit- 
tees. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  college  boys 
often  dishonor  themselves  consciously 
or  unconsciously  by  concealing  facts  in 
relation  to  their  standing  as  amateurs. 
Even  older  men  are  sometimes  willing 
to  degrade  sports  by  deception.  A  let- 
ter was  received  at  Harvard  several 
years  ago,  informing  the  Athletic  Com- 
mittee that  the  services  of  a  well-known 
athlete  could  be  secured  as  coach,  if  he 
could  be  paid  a  stated  sum  in  such  a 
way  that  no  evidence  could  be  found 
against  his  amateur  standing.  The  most 
common  lapses  among  students  occur  in 
the  summer  in  connection  with  baseball. 
Some  of  the  men  undoubtedly  play  on 
hotel  and  summer  resort  nines  for  a  sub- 
stantial gain.  They  know  that  they  are 
cheapening  themselves,  but  the  practice 
continues  with  concealment  of  the  ac- 
tual facts.  There  are  various  methods 
of  receiving  financial  benefit  without 
violating  the  letter  of  the  athletic  rules. 
One  of  these  is  exhibited  in  a  letter,  by 
no  means  unique,  received  last  spring 
by  a  first-rate  college  ball  player.  A 
few  extracts  are  given  below :  — 

"  I  write  to  ask  it  you  know  of  a  first- 
class  pitcher  that  can  be  obtained  for 

the  summer,  to  pitch  on  the team 

of  the League,  a  team  that 

will  be  made  up  entirely  of  fast  college 
players.  Such  a  pitcher  would  be  used 
most  liberally  here,  —  in  fact,  he  could 
have  almost  anything  he  wanted,  and 
he  would  be  protected  in  the  matter  of 
privacy  concerning  any  arrangement 
made.  This  is  the  best  summer  town 
on  the  coast,  and  clean  baseball  players 
will  be  taken  into  the  best  society  here. 

Our  players  will  come  from  , 

,  ,  and  other  colleges.  It  is 

possible  that  you  may  know  of  one  or 
two  good  men  on  the  Harvard  team  who 
would  like  such  an  outing,  which  will 
cost  them  nothing  from  the  time  they 
leave  home  until  they  return  there.  If 


so,  I  shall  consider  it  a  great  favor  if 
you  will  write  me  about  them.  We 
must  have  a  corking  team  this  year  and 
stand  willing  to  plunge  on  a  pitcher. 
The  right  man  will  find  seventy-five 
monthly  in  his  jeans,  and  he  can  won- 
der as  much  as  he  likes  how  it  got  there. 
Couldn't  you  be  induced  to  visit  some 
friends  who  will  be  provided  for  you 
down  this  way  ?  " 

Another  rule  requires  all  members  of 
athletic  teams  to  be  genuine  students  of 
the  college  which  they  represent,  and  to 
be  satisfactory  in  their  studies.  A  stu- 
dent who  is  not  promoted  every  year  to 
a  higher  class,  or  is  on  probation  for 
neglect  of  studies,  is  not  allowed  to  play 
on  any  team.  It  does  not  follow  from 
this  that  athletes  as  a  class  are  good 
students.  The  eager  desire  to  play 
acts  as  a  spur  to  many  otherwise  dull 
men,  and  some  of  them  have  been  thus 
goaded  into  mental  activity.  The  games 
are  powerful  incentives  to  some  boys, 
and  can  be  depended  upon  to  keep  them 
straight.  In  this  respect  their  advan- 
tage to  mental  and  physical  discipline 
cannot  be  denied.  Statistics  on  the 
scholarship  of  athletes  are  not  conclu- 
sive. Allowance  is  rarely  made  for  the 
fact  that  young  men  in  bad  standing  are 
carefully  weeded  out  of  the  'teams,  and 
that  therefore  comparison  with  all  other 
students  is  unfair.  It  does  not  stand 
to  reason  that  a  student  in  intercolle- 
giate athletics  can  do  as  much  work  as 
one  who  devotes  all  his  time  to  study. 
The  athletic  season  of  football,  for  ex- 
ample, lasts  six  weeks  in  the  fall,  and, 
so  far  as  classroom  work  is  concerned, 
the  time  is  practically  thrown  away. 
The  members  of  the  team  attend  lec- 
tures regularly,  they  are  obliged  to; 
but  their  minds  are  on  signals  and  plays 
for  the  next  game  or  practice.  As  a 
consequence,  one  fifth  of  the  year  is  lost, 
and  the  players  have  to  do  as  much  work 
in  the  remaining  four  fifths  as  others  do 
in  the  five  fifths.  With  average  stu- 
dents it  will  not  be  done.  The  physi- 
cal training  which  the  football  men  have 


538 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


gone  through  cannot  under  favorable 
circumstances  increase  their  efficiency 
enough  to  make  good  the  difference. 
Then,  as  a  rule,  their  participation  in 
athletics  has  made  them  natural  leaders 
in  the  social  life  of  the  college,  and  so 
they  lose  still  more  time.  The  only 
point  that  may  be  regarded  as  estab- 
lished by  the  records  is  that  few  stu- 
dents admitted  to  the  teams  are  sub- 
sequently thrown  off  for  poor  scholar- 
ship. This  proves  that  most  athletes 
can  usually  do  enough  work  to  remain 
satisfactory  in  their  studies.  Of  late 
years  a  good  player  has  lost  caste  if 
he  permits  himself  to  be  disqualified 
through  any  fault  of  his  own. 

The  question  of  scholarship  should 
not  be  approached  in  a  narrow  spirit. 
Do  students  gain  anything  in  athletics 
that  justifies  the  time  taken  from  their 
studies  ?  That  is  the  vital  considera- 
tion. While  a  definite  and  convincing 
answer  cannot  be  given  in  all  cases,  it 
is  safe  to  say  that  many  do.  It  is  a 
matter  of  common  observation  that  ath- 
letes as  a  class  have  more  initiative, 
and  know  better  how  to  deal  with  men, 
than  other  students,  especially  when 
they  first  graduate.  Whether  they 
really  hold  their  own  in  a  long  life  is 
another  matter.  Much  depends  upon 
the  individual. 

A  third  rule  relates  to  the  procure- 
ment of  good  players  from  other  col- 
leges, by  social  or  money  inducements. 
To  discourage  this  practice  no  ex -player 
of  a  college  team  is  allowed  to  join  the 
team  of  another  college  until  after  he 
has  been  enrolled  for  one  entire  year. 
This  has  removed  one  cause  of  com- 
plaint, but  a  real  evil  nevertheless  re- 
mains. There  is  too  much  solicitation 
of  boys  in  the  preparatory  schools  with 
a  view  to  the  strengthening  of  college 
teams.  Agents  are  constantly  on  the 
lookout  for  good  candidates.  Let  a  boy 
exhibit  any  unusual  ability  as  an  ath- 
lete, and  half  a  dozen  colleges  will  be 
after  him.  Inducements  are  offered  in 
the  nature  of  social  advantage  or  of  sin- 


ecure positions,  which  carry  with  them 
substantial  financial  gains.  Often  good 
athletes  or  their  friends  set  a  value  on 
their  services,  and  solicit  positions.  An 
example  of  this  is  shown  in  the  following 
extract  from  a  letter  lately  received  by 
the  Athletic  Committee  at  Harvard :  — 

"  I  should  like  to  call  your  attention 
to  Mr. ,  who  is  thinking  of  enter- 
ing college.  We  want  to  place  him  in 
some  college  where  his  athletic  talents 
will  be  recognized  and  will  be  of  use  to 
him." 

Then  follows  a  list  of  his  achieve- 
ments, with  a  request  to  know  what  the 
university  can  do  for  him.  College 
teams  should  be  made  up  of  men  who 
come  to  them  naturally,  and  the  second- 
ary schoolboys  should  be  freed  from  all 
forms  of  solicitation.  They  unsettle  the 
judgment  of  both  parents  and  boys.  An 
extension  of  the  one  year  rule  to  include 
all  students  from  going  into  the  inter- 
collegiate games  during  their  first  year 
in  college  would  be  wholesome  in  its 
effects. 

The  three  rules  mentioned  form  in 
the  main  the  backbone  of  college  regu- 
lation of  athletics.  There  are  other 
rules  intended  mainly  to  keep  the  con- 
tests within  bounds,  and  to  promote  so 
far  as  possible  a  friendly  relation  be- 
tween contestants,  but,  unhappily,  many 
things  cannot  be  reached  by  rules.  Stu- 
dent tradition  and  public  opinion  when 
rightly  directed  are  of  greater  value 
than  even  regulation,  if  the  players  can 
be  made  to  feel  them.  Various  abuses 
creep  in  from  an  intense  desire  to  win, 
and  every  year  brings  its  crop  of  tricks. 
One  of  these  is  found  in  coaching  a  team 
from  outside  after  the  men  have  gone 
on  the  field  to  play.  When  eleven  young 
men  appear  on  the  football  field,  it  is 
commonly  understood  that  they  are  go- 
ing to  win  or  lose  on  their  merits,  and 
not  with  the  assistance  of  some  one  on 
the  side  lines.  Outside  coaching  is  in 
this  sense  entirely  wrong,  and  yet  it  is 
often  done  secretly.  In  most  cases  the 
only  justification  pleaded  by  those  guilty 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


539 


of  it  is  that  the  other  side  does  the 
same,  —  just  as  a  corrupt  politician 
would  justify  buying  votes,  —  and  that 
we  have  to  resort  to  this  method  to  en- 
able the  good  to  triumph.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  trickery  is  usually  resorted 
to,  not  because  the  other  side  actually 
does  it,  but  because  some  one  suspects 
that  the  other  side  is  going  to  do  it.  In 
some  cases  he  is  wrong,  in  others  he  is 
right.  The  best  that  can  be  said  for 
side  line  coaching  in  football,  however, 
is  that  it  belongs  to  that  class  of  shady 
practices  which  lessen  the  interest  in 
the  game. 

Intercollegiate  athletics  seem  at  times 
to  suffer  from  a  kind  of  insanity  which 
bids  fair  to  ruin  them  by  destroying  the 
interest  of  people  who  like  to  see  fair 
play.  There  is  no  reason  why  games 
should  not  be  made  to  build  up  char- 
acter, and  to  teach  patience,  grit,  and 
courage;  but,  unfortunately,  winning 
in  these  days  is  put  above  everything 
else.  This  I  believe  to  be  a  mere  fad 
that  we  can  live  down  in  course  of 
time,  for  deep  in  every  young  man's 
heart  there  is  a  love  of  fairness  which 
permits  him  to  be  led  into  trickery 
only  under  the  mistaken  idea  that  it 
is  justified  as  a  last  resort.  No  good 
business  man  in  America  can  ever  de- 
rive satisfaction  over  success  achieved 
by  sharp  practice  or  dishonesty.  This 
is  the  saving  grace  of  the  nation.  The 
principal  lessons  that  rules  and  tradi- 
tion can  teach  are  to  play  the  games 
fairly  without  whining  over  the  result, 
and  to  introduce  no  element  prejudicial 
to  the  highest  ideal  of  college  life. 

There  are  several  claims  for  intercol- 
legiate sports.  First,  that  they  estab- 
lish the  physical  vigor  necessary  to  en- 
able the  mind  to  do  its  most  effective 
work;  second,  that  they  stimulate  out- 
door exercise  all  over  the  country ;  third, 
that  they  form  an  atmosphere  of  tem- 
perance and  moderation  in  living,  and 
thus  restrain  students  from  excesses; 
fourth,  that  they  teach  self-control  and 
fairness ;  fifth,  that  they  bring  the  grad- 


uates and  undergraduates  of  different 
universities  together  in  bonds  of  friend- 
ship ;  sixth,  that  college  loyalty  is  pro- 
moted. Let  us  examine  these  claims 
somewhat  more  in  detail. 

At  present  all  sports  do  serve  as  phy- 
sical developers  to  a  number  of  college 
students,  but  not  equally.  Some  are 
better  suited  to  the  purpose  than  oth- 
ers. A  moderate  game  which  does  not 
try  the  powers  to  the  utmost,  and 
which  can  be  entered  by  any  one,  is 
undoubtedly  beneficial.  Others,  which 
involve  a  tremendous  strain  on  the  sys- 
tem and  elaborate  preparation  contin- 
ued over  long  periods,  are  of  doubtful 
benefit.  It  is  the  daily  exercise  ex- 
tending over  years  that  builds  up  the 
physical  strength,  and  keeps  a  man  up 
to  his  highest  mental  powers.  Regu- 
lar sleep  and  moderate  eating  are  even 
more  important  than  exercise.  For  this 
reason  the  military  schools  are  vastly 
superior  to  the  ordinary  colleges  in  the 
physical  setting  up  of  boys.  The  teams 
need  very  little  special  training  at  West 
Point  and  Annapolis,  for  the  cadets  are 
always  in  training.  They  are  kept  busy 
during  a  four  years'  course  in  which  the 
body  receives  as  much  daily  attention 
as  the  mind.  Every  afternoon  has  its 
drill,  usually  out  of  doors,  and  every 
evening  finds  the  cadet  in  bed  by  ten 
o'clock. 

The  sports  most  commonly  found  in 
colleges  are  football,  baseball,  track 
athletics,  ice  hockey,  lacrosse,  basket 
ball,  hand  ball,  cricket,  rowing,  tennis, 
golf,  fencing,  and  swimming.  The  first 
six  usually  end  with  graduation;  the 
others  may  be  continued  through  life  as 
opportunity  offers.  Three  of  them, 
football,  rowing,  and  track  athletics,  de- 
mand at  times  an  exhausting  strain, 
which  may  leave  behind  it  a  permanent 
weakness  in  some  part  of  the  body. 
Statistics  would  be  difficult  to  obtain, 
and  the  statement  should  be  made  with 
due  reservation ;  nevertheless,  it  stands 
to  reason  that  no  physical  effort  that 
leaves  a  man  in  a  fainting  condition 


540 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


can  be  of  real  benefit.  All  of  us  have 
seen  men  collapse  in  a  boat,  or  after  a 
hard  foot  race.  It  may  be  that  this 
is  generally  due  to  poor  preparation  for 
the  contest,  and  that  better  methods 
would  remove  all  danger.  Rowing  and 
the  track  games  are  so  improving  and 
satisfactory  to  a  large  number  of  stu- 
dents that  they  could  not  be  given  up 
without  serious  loss.  Some  modifica- 
tion of  the  length  of  the  course  might 
make  rowing  less  exhausting.  Four 
miles  does  not  seem  any  better  than 
three  miles  in  testing  two  crews,  and  it 
is  usually  the  fourth  mile  that  does  all 
the  damage. 

Football  stands  in  a  class  by  itself. 
It  attracts  enormous  crowds,  and  is  more 
spectacular  than  anything  else  we  have 
ever  had  in  American  colleges.  This 
is  considered  by  many  to  be  one  of  the 
chief  objections  to  it.  In  some  respects 
it  is  superior  to  any  other  sport.  The 
combinations,  like  those  in  war,  are 
endless,  and  the  same  quality  of  mind 
is  required  to  work  them  out.  Then, 
while  the  element  of  the  unexpected  is 
not  lacking,  games  are  seldom  won  by 
a  fluke.  The  best  equipped  team  almost 
always  wins.  Yet  as  at  present  played, 
it  is  doubtful  if  football  ought  to  have 
a  place  on  college  grounds.  The  old 
idea  of  fun  has  long  since  passed  away, 
and  although  the  excitement  of  a  great 
final  contest  still  remains,  the  players 
cannot  possibly  enjoy  the  season  of 
drudgery  that  leads  up  to  it.  I  have 
heard  students  say  that  they  cared  lit- 
tle for  the  ordinary  game.  One  young 
man  told  me  that  he  loathed  it,  and 
that  only  the  pressure  of  his  friends, 
and  an  ambition  to  share  in  the  glory 
of  a  winning  team,  carried  him  into  it. 

There  is  always  the  risk  of  serious 
injury  to  the  participants.  No  season 
passes  without  many  of  them  being  in 
the  doctor's  hands  for  bruises,  sprains, 
and  broken  or  displaced  bones.  Fre- 
quently in  the  heavy  games,  players 
have  to  be  carried  off  the  field,  some- 
times unconscious.  Often  in  stopping 


a  play,  the  side  on  the  defensive  take 
chances  with  their  own  lives  and  with 
those  of  their  opponents,  justified  only 
in  certain  professions  like  fire  protec- 
tion, life-saving,  sea-faring,  and  rail- 
roading. Another  aspect  of  the  game 
is  that  foul  play  cannot  well  be  detected 
by  an  umpire,  and,  worse  still,  it  often 
pays. 

It  is  a  fact  that  modern  life  demands 
courage,  and  that  football  develops  it; 
nevertheless  it  is  foolish  to  risk  life  and 
limb  in  a  game  because  it  teaches  phy- 
sical courage.  There  are  so  many  ways 
of  learning  courage,  which  is  most  of- 
ten a  matter  of  temperament,  that  we 
may  well  look  around  for  some  less 
dangerous  method,  unless  the  roughness 
of  the  game  can  be  regulated  out  of  it. 
This  is  by  no  means  impossible.  The 
steady  improvement  in  spirit  and  the 
great  reduction  in  the  number  of  inju- 
ries promise  much  for  the  future.  It 
is  only  fair  to  add  that  the  advocates 
of  the  game  seem  to  be  fully  warranted 
in  claiming  that  injuries  indicate  lack 
of  skill,  and  that  proper  training  teaches 
a  boy  how  to  take  care  of  himself  on  the 
field.  The  attitude  assumed  by  most 
colleges  that  the  game  has  merits  which 
entitle  it  to  further  trial  is  perhaps 
justifiable  ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  the  most 
practical.  There  is  a  mistaken  idea 
that  football  is  peculiarly  fitted  to  train 
men  for  military  service,  and  there  is 
absolutely  no  evidence  to  justify  it. 
Quick  decision,  courage,  and  ready  re- 
source are  often  called  out  in  a  game 
as  in  a  campaign;  but  there  is  much 
more  demanded  of  a  good  soldier.  The 
monotonous  and  regular  performance  of 
duty  in  the  long  delays  between  battles, 
and  in  the  many  years  that  happily  in- 
tervene between  wars,  tests  a  man's 
moral  fibre  more  than  the  charge  across 
a  bloody  field.  The  bulk  of  a  soldier's 
or  of  a  sailor's  work  lies  in  the  prepara- 
tion for  the  thing  he  may  be  called  upon 
to  do,  while  the  principal  work  of  a 
team,  and  that  for  which  they  entered 
college,  is  neglected  during  the  six 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


541 


weeks  of  the  season.  This  is  the  proper 
point  of  view  in  considering  the  value 
of  a  training  for  war.  As  to  the  moral 
courage  which  is  more  frequently  the 
badge  of  good  citizenship  than  physical 
courage,  that  is  about  evenly  distributed 
throughout  the  student  body,  with  per- 
haps a  slight  advantage  to  the  young 
man  who  is  working  hard  for  his  edu- 
cation. 

It  is  difficult  to  make  a  clear  case  for 
intercollegiate  athletics  as  a  stimulus  to 
outdoor  sports.  We  may 'be  confusing 
cause  and  effect,  and  it  may  be  the 
craving  for  an  outdoor  life  which  has 
stimulated  college  sport.  Without 
doubt,  the  great  intercollegiate  games 
do  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  all  small 
boys,  and  lead  them  away  from  mischief 
to  baseball,  football,  and  the  track 
games.  In  this  respect  they  are  of  un- 
qualified good  to  every  community.  We 
see  hundreds  of  boys  at  their  games  to- 
day where  we  saw  only  tens  a  genera- 
tion ago. 

One  of  the  chief  objections  to  in- 
tercollegiate games  is  that  at  present 
they  require  only  a  handful  of  specially 
qualified  men  on  the  big  teams,  with  a 
very  large  number  of  unqualified  men 
sitting  on  the  bleachers  to  watch  them. 
Now,  it  is  the  latter  class  that  most  need 
physical  training  and  that  waste  much 
of  their  time  in  college.  With  the  pre- 
sent rage  for  victory  at  almost  any  cost, 
sports  cease  to  be  all  round  developers, 
and  teams  are  necessarily  made  up  by 
a  weeding  process  which  pays  little  at- 
tention to  any  who  are  not  physically 
able  to  stand  the  strain  of  a  hard  season. 
The  sports  cannot,  therefore,  be  consid- 
ered in  a  thoroughly  healthy  condition. 
Intercollegiate  games  ought  to  be  the 
result  of  a  great  deal  of  competition 
wholly  within  each  university,  where 
every  student  should  be  encouraged  to 
go  out  on  the  field  an  hour  every  day. 

No  one  can  associate  with  the  ath- 
letes of  our  large  universities  without 
being  struck  with  their  general  temper- 
ance and  moderation.  They  commonly 


talk  more  about  their  sports  than  their 
studies,  and  they  are  sometimes  too  de- 
monstrative ;  but  in  the  essential  things 
that  go  to  make  men  of  good  physique 
they  establish  the  fashion  at  college. 
In  this  respect  alone,  outdoor  sports 
and  intercollegiate  games  offset  much  of 
the  trouble  they  cause.  The  presence 
of  a  large  number  of  young  men  who 
are  in  training  and  who  keep  themselves 
in  good  condition  has  a  wholesome  ef- 
fect upon  every  entering  class.  The 
practical  disappearance  of  hazing  may 
be  fairly  credited  to  athletics  as  much 
as  to  faculty  regulation.  The  upper 
class  men  would  find  it  difficult  to  haze 
a  possible  candidate  for  a  team.  An- 
other consideration  is  the  atmosphere 
of  democratic  equality  that  prevails  on 
the  athletic  fields. 

That  college  sports  promote  self-con- 
trol and  fairness  is  quite  evident  in  spite 
of  occasional  lapses.  There  has  been 
a  steady  improvement  in  the  spirit  of 
the  college  youth  during  the  past  twen- 
ty years.  After  all  it  is  only  by  expe- 
rience in  the  actual  conduct  of  affairs, 
such  as  those  relating  to  sports,  that 
young  men  learn  fairness.  The  major- 
ity of  them  go  to  college  unformed,  with 
experience  only  in  what  is  proper  in  the 
home  circle,  but  with  no  adequate  no- 
tion of  what  is  due  to  their  fellow  be- 
ings in  the  world  at  large.  From  this 
spring  many  of  the  errors  into  which 
they  fall.  A  freshman  often  violates 
the  spirit  of  ordinary  courtesy  and  fair- 
ness in  his  sports,  not  because  he  is  bad, 
but  simply  because  he  has  never  come 
into  contact  with  other  men  in  such  a 
way  as  to  show  him  what  is  really  square. 
The  games  exert  a  very  wholesome  in- 
fluence in  this  respect.  The  cheerful- 
ness with  which  the  average  student  will 
suffer  a  penalty  in  a  game,  or  will  ac- 
cept exclusion  from  a  game,  is  proof  that 
athletics  teach  self-control.  When  a 
young  man  says  that  he  "  did  not  make 
the  team,"  that  is  the  whole  story. 
There  is  very  little  whining  about  un- 
fairness in  the  selection  of  a  team  or 


542 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


about  the  one  -  sidedness  of  the  coach 
and  captain.  It  usually  comes  down 
to  the  statement,  "I  was  not  good 
enough  to  make  it. "  This  kind  of  edu- 
cation is  unqualifiedly  good.  Team 
play  which  means  that  the  individual 
must  give  way  to  the  needs  of  the  so- 
ciety in  which  he  is  placed  is  a  valu- 
able antidote  to  the  spirit  of  the  age,  — 
individual  success  at  almost  any  cost. 

One  feature  of  the  games  is  partic- 
ularly disagreeable  to  any  one  not  in- 
terested in  either  side.  That  is  the 
organized  cheering.  The  home  team 
always  has  the  advantage,  if  there  is 
any,  as  their  friends  are  most  numer- 
ously represented  on  the  seats,  and  are 
well  prepared  to  assist  them  by  shouting 
at  critical  moments.  They  always  cheer 
the  good  plays  of  their  own  side,  and 
often  the  mistakes  of  the  opposing  side. 
Nothing  could  be  more  discourteous  or 
unfair  to  visitors,  and  yet  it  seems  im- 
possible to  make  students  understand 
this.  The  call  that  is  regularly  issued, 
"  Come  out  and  help  the  team, "  carries 
with  it  the  implication  that  they  are 
willing  to  win  by  shouting  and  playing 
against  a  team  that  can  only  play.  The 
amusing  side  of  this  is  that  students  al- 
ways complain  of  the  organized  attempt 
to  rattle  their  own  men  when  visiting 
other  universities.  There  is  no  possi- 
ble objection  to  the  cheers  that  spring 
naturally  to  a  young  man's  lips  over  a 
good  play,  and  enthusiasm  is  a  beautiful 
sight  in  a  crowd  of  boys ;  but  let  the 
whole  thing  be  natural  and  not  pumped 
up. 

The  friendships  and  memories  asso- 
ciated with  one's  college  days  become 
increasingly  attractive  as  the  years 
pass.  A  boy  of  fine  temper  and  strong 
sympathy  is  always  an  influence,  and 
there  is  no  place  where  his  true  quali- 
ties may  be  discovered  as  they  can  be 
in  a  team.  It  is  doubtful,  however,  if 
games  between  two  teams  ameliorate 
college  courtesies  in  any  great  degree. 
There  is  at  present  a  prevailing  atmos- 
phere of  suspicion,  and  colleges  are  too 


often  set  at  odds  with  one  another  by  a 
game.  This  extends  to  the  graduates 
and  sometimes  even  to  the  faculties, 
and  it  is  shocking  to  hear  what  one  uni- 
versity will  say  about  another  when 
there  is  a  difference  of  opinion  upon 
some  eligibility  question.  The  news- 
papers are  full  of  it.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  one  athletic  dispute  can  destroy  for 
years  the  good  will  of  two  otherwise 
friendly  colleges.  We  see  so  many 
cases  of  it,  that  we  may  be  pardoned 
some  skepticism  on  the  promotion  of 
intercollegiate  friendship  by  intercolle- 
giate games.  When  students  and  offi- 
cers of  one  university  point  the  finger 
of  scorn  at  those  of  another,  we  may 
usually  be  sure  that  both  are  wrong,  and 
that  their  games  should  be  suppressed 
as  common  nuisances.  We  still  have 
much  to  learn,  and  the  effort  to  study 
the  subject  in  conference  of  representa- 
tives from  all  universities  is  a  move- 
ment in  the  right  direction. 

The  loyalty  of  college  men  is  with- 
out doubt  quickened  by  regular  return 
to  the  alma  mater  to  see  the  chief 
games ;  but  it  is  not  unfair  to  charge  it 
with  being  the  shouting  kind  of  loyalty 
which  does  not  yield  adequate  return. 
The  great  gifts  to  the  universities  rarely 
come  from  men  who  have  been  athletes, 
and  not  seldom  from  men  who  have 
never  been  to  college.  In  some  insti- 
tutions, athletic  teams  are  encouraged 
and  intercollegiate  contests  are  delib- 
erately promoted  for  advertising  pur- 
poses. It  is  doubtful  if  the  resulting 
gains  are  of  solid  advantage.  The  real 
value  of  the  athletic  system  in  stim- 
ulating loyalty  and  in  fostering  the 
growth  of  a  college  is  not  yet  fully 
tested.  It  has  been  in  effective  opera- 
tion less  than  a  generation,  and  ex- 
members  of  teams  have  not  had  time  to 
earn  great  wealth.  Of  the  good  will  of 
the  graduated  athlete  there  is  no  possi- 
ble doubt.  He  always  holds  his  college 
in  affectionate  remembrance.  He  will 
work  for  it,  and  beg  for  it,  but  he  would 
not  claim  to  be  alone  in  this. 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


543 


One  aspect  of  athletics  which  stands 
apart  from  the  merits  of  the  games  is 
the  large  sum  of  money  necessary  to  run 
them.  At  one  university,  for  instance, 
the  expenditure  on  the  teams  was  over 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  This  seems  un- 
duly large,  but  when  we  divide  the  to- 
tal outlay  for  all  teams  by  the  number 
of  boys  who  appeared  upon  the  fields, 
the  amount  for  each  one  does  not  appear 
so  out  of  proportion.  There  were  about 
two  thousand  men  in  rowing,  baseball, 
football,  track  athletics,  tennis,  and 
many  other  minor  sports,  and  the  annu- 
al expense  was  about  twenty -five  dollars 
per  student.  Of  course  this  does  not 
represent  the  whole  case,  as  most  of  the 
money  was  used  to  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  university  football,  baseball,  track, 
and  rowing  teams  on  which  only  a  small 
percentage  of  the  students  actually 
played.  There  are  undoubtedly  great 
wastefulness  and  extravagance  where 
undergraduates  are  entrusted  with  the 
management  of  finances.  They  have 
not  had  the  experience  to  safeguard  them 
against  loss.  A  graduate  treasurer,  or 
manager,  is  an  absolutely  necessary  part 
of  the  administration.  Under  the  best 
of  conditions,  a  large  part  of  the  in- 
come from  the  sale  of  tickets  for  the 
games  goes  into  expenses  that  would 
have  been  thought  wholly  unnecessary 
twenty  years  ago.  The  training  and 
equipment  for  a  game  are  immeasurably 
more  expensive  than  they  were  when 
a  young  man  provided  himself  with  a 
single  garment  to  use  in  a  boat  race, 
and  no  trainer  was  thought  of.  Now- 
adays no  player  is  expected  to  pay  any 
part  of  the  expense  beyond  what  he 
would  have  to  pay  for  his  board  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  Everything  is 
provided  by  the  management.  This 
proceeds  from  two  causes:  first,  the 
praiseworthy  desire  to  give  all  students 
an  equal  chance  for  the  teams,  when  oth- 
erwise the  rich  man  would  have  the 
advantage  of  the  poor  one ;  second,  the 
questionable  desire  to  give  every  com- 
petitor recognition  for  his  participation 


in  athletics.  The  young  man  who  makes 
a  team  usually  looks  upon  himself  as 
one  deserving  well  of  his  university, 
just  as  a  man  who  has  fought  for  his 
country  expects  to  hear  of  it.  It  is  es- 
sentially the  same  spirit  that  creates  a 
large  pension  appropriation.  As  a  mem- 
ber of  a  second  eleven  once  said,  "I 
am  working  faithfully  for  the  univer- 
sity, and  I  ought  to  have  some  re- 
cognition." He  was  arguing  that  he 
ought  to  be  sent  with  the  first  eleven  to 
a  neighboring  city,  where  he  could  en- 
joy a  vacation  during  term  time.  Not 
that  any  of  the  athletes  are  paid,  but 
their  relation  to  the  management  is  pre- 
cisely that  of  a  citizen  to  the  Treasury 
Department.  The  money  seems  to  roll 
in  freely,  and  the  average  boy  does  not 
realize  the  value  of  it.  This  is  the  real 
evil  of  gate  money.  No  student  should 
have  his  responsibility  in  money  matters 
destroyed  by  the  undermining  and  agree- 
able process  of  spending  unlimited 
means  easily  obtained.  The  correction 
is  found  in  the  graduate  treasurer,  and 
in  a  committee  responsible  for  the  col- 
lection of  money  and  for  the  sale  of 
tickets.  By  holding  team  captains  and 
undergraduate  managers  to  rules  laid 
down  by  a  committee,  and  relieving 
them  of  all  money  that  comes  in,  reck- 
less expenditure  is  at  least  checked. 
At  the  same  time,  income  and  expend- 
iture should  be  reduced  by  common 
agreement  among  colleges. 

One  of  the  largest  items  in  the  yearly 
budget  is  for  training,  which  requires 
trainers,  coachers,  physicians,  rubbers, 
and  a  special  diet.  The  fundamental 
cause  of  the  employment  of  doctors  is 
that  the  men  are  undergoing  prepara- 
tion for  extraordinary  effort,  and  ex- 
traordinary risk.  The  heart  has  to  be 
examined,  and  those  who  develop  weak- 
ness rejected.  Then,  too,  young  men 
who  are  nearing  the  end  of  a  season  are 
said  to  be  "  on  edge, "  when  the  nervous 
system  is  on  the  verge  of  a  breakdown. 
The  services  of  physicians  are  most 
necessary  in  football. 


544 


Intercollegiate  Athletics. 


The  trainer  is  usually  a  man  who  su- 
pervises the  food  and  the  general  rela- 
tion of  the  students  to  exercise,  very 
much  as  a  nurse  looks  after  a  patient, 
or  as  a  mother  tends  a  family  of  chil- 
dren. He  is  often,  especially  if  good- 
tempered  and  straight,  a  very  useful 
man.  On  the  other  hand,  if  suspicious 
and  jealous  of  his  reputation  as  a  skill- 
ful manipulator  of  muscle,  he  is  likely 
to  set  rival  teams  by  the  ears,  and  to 
exert  his  influence  toward  the  worst 
kind  of  jockeying.  He  seldom  possesses 
the  ideals  that  should  prevail  in  a  col- 
lege atmosphere.  His  introduction  into 
sports  springs  probably  from  the  diffi- 
culty of  getting  practical  advice  from 
the  doctors.  Their  experience  has  usual- 
ly been  with  sick  men,  and  with  the 
remedial  methods  necessary  to  cure  the 
sick.  When  confronted  with  the  prob- 
lem of  taking  care  of  well  men,  they 
seem  to  fail.  There  is  no  telling  what 
a  man's  nerves  will  do  under  stress  of 
emergency,  and  a  good  judgment  of  char- 
acter is  generally  superior  to  a  know- 
ledge of  anatomy.  That  there  is  much 
to  be  learned,  however,  is  shown  by  the 
many  disastrous  failures  of  overtrained 
teams.  The  best  training  seems  to  be 
in  a  natural  and  regular  life,  with  com- 
mon sense  applied  to  the  choice  of  food, 
and  great  temperance  in  the  use  of  al- 
cohol and  tobacco. 

Another  large  item  of  expense  is  in 
traveling  between  colleges.  A  number 
of  substitutes  and  advisers  are  often 
carried  along,  as,  for  instance,  in  a  re- 
cent game  requiring  eleven  men  about 
sixty  formed  the  squad  whose  traveling 
expenses  were  paid  by  the  management. 


It  is  like  moving  a  theatre  troupe.  The 
engagements  are  made  six  months 
ahead,  and  scheduled  games  have  to  be 
played  on  the  hour,  regardless  of  ex- 
pense. 

How  far  intercollegiate  sports  have 
demonstrated  their  permanent  value  as 
part  of  a  college  education  is  still  a 
matter  of  opinion.  They  must  be  judged 
in  the  end  by  their  effect  upon  charac- 
ter. If  they  can  be  made  to  teach  self- 
control  and  manliness  to  a  large  num- 
ber of  students  without  a  sacrifice  of 
the  regular  classroom  work,  they  are 
worth  keeping  and  assisting.  The  pre- 
sent evidence  is,  on  the  whole,  favor- 
able, although  there  is  nothing  to  show 
that  outdoor  games  wholly  within  the 
confines  of  each  university  would  not 
accomplish  as  much.  The  intercolle- 
giate feature  is  the  main  cause  of  the 
great  publicity  and  of  the  numerous  dis- 
putes. 

There  is  no  doubt  of  the  false  per- 
spective which  on  account  of  this  pub- 
licity athletics  assume  in  the  eyes  of 
every  schoolboy.  A  boy  preparing  for 
college  once  explained  the  situation  to 
me.  "I  must  learn  baseball  and  foot- 
ball. It  doesn't  make  any  difference 
how  poorly  I  pass  the  examinations,  so 
long  as  I  get  through.  That  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  my  career  in  college. 
If  I  can  play  football  I  amount  to  some- 
thing immediately  af^jr  I  get  in.  What 
is  the  good  of  the  other  things,  if  I 
don't  amount  to  anything?  "  This  the- 
ory of  the  case  will  not  produce  scholars 
or  enlightened  citizens,  and  it  is  upon 
this  issue  that  the  case  must  be  worked 


out. 


Ira  N.  Hollis. 


Moral  Hesitations  of  the  Novelist. 


545 


MORAL  HESITATIONS  OF  THE  NOVELIST. 


I  WAS  reading  one  of  the  more  bril- 
liant of  our  recent  novels  the  other  day, 
when  I  stumbled  upon  the  definition  of 
a  typical  modern  consciousness.  Fol- 
lowing the  hesitations  of  its  hero  in 
his  effort  at  self -recovery,  as  he  tried  to 
break  the  tie  which  bound  him  to  the 
wife  of  another  man,  I  was  conscious 
all  the  time  that  while  the  situation 
was  old  enough,  the  moral  criticism  be- 
longed to  the  present  and  not  to  the 
past.  The  story  concerned  itself  with 
the  difficulties  of  passion,  but  its  chief 
emphasis  was  on  the  difficulties  of  a 
conscience  alive  to  infinite  possibilities 
of  mistaking  the  right  in  a  moral  ex- 
perience yet  unmapped.  What  are  the 
duties  to  one's  self  and  what  to  another 
in  the  tragedy  of  passion?  That  was 
the  problem  of  the  story.  Charlotte 
Bronte  answered  the  question  easily 
enough,  fifty  years  ago  —  a  simpler  prob- 
lem in  Jane  Eyre,  of  course,  because  the 
woman  may  always  sacrifice  the  man 
with  less  brutality  than  the  man  may 
sacrifice  the  woman.  But  simpler,  also, 
I  came  to  think,  because  for  the  author 
of  Jane  Eyre  certain  moral  values  held 
good  which  have  lately  themselves  been 
questioned.  In  fact,  this  novel  seemed 
to  me  diagnostic  oj  a  mood  which  is  at 
present  producing  some  of  our  best  lit- 
erary work,  and  confirmed  certain  of  its 
traits  in  my  mind.  Readers  of  modern 
fiction  will  at  once  recognize  the  traits 
that  I  mean.  The  first  is  sincerity; 
not  only  the  sincerity  of  an  upright  na- 
ture, but  the  sincerity  of  which  we  read 
in  John  Fiske's  description  of  Huxley, 
that  lives  in  a  resolute  fear  of  self-de- 
ception. The  second  is  a  lack  of  dog- 
matism, especially  dogmatism  about  the 
moral  life,  amounting  almost  to  timid- 
ity. The  modern  novelist  is  perplexed, 
not  only  by  the  difficulties  of  conduct, 
but  by  the  reality  of  the  moral  stan- 
dards themselves. 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  35 


Stevenson's  Pulvis  et  Umbra  is  the 
best  known  and  most  complete  expres- 
sion of  this  modern  mood.  In  fact, 
Stevenson's  greatest  hold  upon  us  is  not 
his  style,  but  just  the  way  in  which  he 
has  given  typical  and  humane  expression 
to  the  new  ideals.  They  were  waiting 
for  a  personality  so  daringly  unconven- 
tional as  his  to  make  them  live.  "The 
canting  moralist  tells  us  of  right  and 
wrong,"  says  Stevenson,  "and  we  look 
abroad,  even  on  the  face  of  our  small 
earth,  and  find  them  change  with  every 
climate,  and  no  country  where  some  ac- 
tion is  not  honored  for  a  virtue  and  none 
where  it  is  not  branded  for  a  vice ;  and 
we  look  in  our  experience,  and  find  no 
vital  congruity  in  the  wisest  rules,  but 
at  best  a  municipal  fitness. "  And  again, 
in  the  Christmas  Sermon  he  describes  the 
same  predicament,  "  Somehow  or  other, 
though  he  [man]  does  not  know  what 
goodness  is,  he  must  try  to  be  good." 
My  novel  puts  it  more  hopefully  when 
it  says  that  with  the  new  ideas  "there 
are  so  many  more  ways  of  being  right." 
In  both  cases,  however,  the  relativity 
of  our  experience  is  the  fact  brought 
home  to  the  moralist.  Absolute  stan- 
dards are  out  of  date.  Science  has 
changed  all  that.  We  are  called  upon 
to  reconsider  all  the  old  vmdebatable 
things  which  f ormerly,  put  their  check 
upon  the  will  and  the  imagination.  If 
a  man's  acts  are  so  many  pathological 
symptoms,  how  shall  we  speak  of  mo- 
rality at  all  ?  Suppose  even  that  what 
we  have  denounced  as  a  sin  may  have 
in  it  something  of  natural  virtue  ?  We 
have  lost  the  old  touchstone,  and  where 
shall  we  discover  a  new  ? 

Stevenson  would  say  that  the  new 
aim  is  larger  charity  of  judgment,  that 
the  kindness  possible  to  the  new  point 
of  view  is  our  compensation  for  the  great 
loss  we  have  suffered  in  faith  and  sin- 
gleness of  purpose.  Whatever  else  we 


546 


Moral  Hesitations  of  the  Novelist. 


moderns  are,  at  least  egotism  has  be- 
come for  us  an  impossible  sin.  We  find 
ourselves  and  others  conditioned  alike 
by  facts  of  birth  and  of  surrounding  be- 
yond our  own  control.  The  suspended 
judgment,  meekness  in  the  presence  of 
an  inscrutable  destiny,  —  this  is  what 
the  revelations  of  the  modern  world  have 
bred  in  us.  And  if  we  have  lost  on  the 
side  of  our  convictions,  at  least  we  have 
gained  greatly  in  our  power  to  sympa- 
thize and  to  perceive.  The  exercise  of 
these  gifts  is  our  first  duty. 

Just  here  Howells  and  Stevenson 
agree.  No  writers  are  surely  further 
apart  in  artistic  conviction.  We  are  al- 
ways pitting  them  one  against  the  other 
for  the  sake  of  argument.  But  we  do  not 
notice  the  identity  of  their  moral  feel- 
ing, although  here  they  are  both  mod- 
ern, both  under  the  same  dispensation. 
You  will  remember  in  Annie  Kilburn 
how  the  minister  of  the  new  school  can- 
not "prophesy  worth  a  cent."  Neither 
can  Mr.  Howells,  in  those  books  which 
seem  most  characteristic  of  his  quality. 
He  shows  us  good  and  evil  in  a  man's 
life,  he  lays  bare  the  causes  of  failure 
in  character  or  in  our  imperfect  socie- 
ty; but  he  is  shy  of  judgment,  or  if  he 
ends  in  a  dogmatism  at  last,  we  feel  that 
it  is  not  without  some  violence  to  his 
own  nature.  Kane's  worldly  but  de- 
licious comment  on  the  dream  of  social 
betterment  in  the  World  of  Chance  reads 
like  a  betrayal  of  the  author  himself, 
unable  to  dismiss  his  humorous  doubt 
of  the  ideal,  which  has  yet  won  his  se- 
rious devotion.  When  it  comes  to  moral 
judgment  of  the  individual,  the  same 
inconclusiveness  reigns.  What,  after 
all,  can  we  say  of  Northwick,  creature  of 
environment,  or  of  Faulkner,  a  change- 
ling of  disease.  Surprised,  often  sor- 
rowful observers  of  life  we  may  be,  but 
never  prophets  and  never  judges  of  hu- 
man conduct.  Mr.  Barrie's  Tommy 
and  Grizel  strikes  the  same  note.  It 
is  so  unlike  the  author's  characteris- 
tic good  humor  that  I  have  sometimes 
thought  the  story  showed  the  unfortu- 


nate influence  of  Stevenson  upon  a  man 
of  quite  a  different  genius.  But  per- 
haps not.  The  fatalism  of  Tommy's 
end  reads,  after  all,  like  the  fruit  of 
that  self-searching  which  in  modern  fic- 
tion is  another  name  for  sincerity.  The 
modern  author  feels  obliged  to  give  ac- 
count to  himself  of  every  motive ;  and  if 
he  stands  very  near  to  his  experience, 
the  result  is  a  confusion  of  mind  that 
overwhelms  moral  judgment.  Is  Tom- 
my and  Grizel  the  confession  of  such  an 
acute  self-consciousness  ?  The  last  chap- 
ter is  not  pleasant  to  read.  It  is  an 
offense  to  me,  as  I  hope  it  is  to  all  good 
readers.  The  author  is  bound  to  ex- 
tenuate nothing  of  the  painful  record, 
but  he  has  pushed  his  scrutiny  beyond 
the  limit  of  his  self-control. 

The  reader  never  feels  so  much  the 
refinement  of  the  modern  conscience  as 
when  he  turns  from  some  older  litera- 
ture to  the  contemporary  novel.  There 
are  some  questions,  for  instance,  that 
Shakespeare  never  asks,  or  never  presses 
too  far,  in  spite  of  the  Elizabethan 
freedom  of  speculation,  and  that  special 
subtlety  of  intellect  which  made  him  so 
hospitable  to  all  moods  and  all  facts. 
Beyond  a  certain  range  of  speculation 
he  does  not  go.  Partly,  perhaps,  be- 
cause the  world  beyond  does  not  exist 
for  the  Elizabethan  imagination;  but 
partly  the  man's  instinct  seems  to  guard 
the  sanctity  of  accepted  moral  expe- 
rience. 'T  is  to  consider  too  curiously. 
There  is  something  eminently  practical 
in  the  attitude  of  even  the  emancipated 
Elizabethan  toward  the  moral  life.  It 
is  the  saving  grace  of  Hamlet.  Perhaps 
no  modern  novelist,  with  an  equally  typ- 
ical modern  subtlety,  has  come  so  near 
this  moral  simplicity  as  Tourguenieff. 

Shall  we  ever  again  recover  it  with- 
out a  loss  of  sincerity  ?  Or  would  a  de- 
liberate return  to  the  practical  point  of 
view  mean  a  step  backward  ?  Emerson 
stands  to  our  latest  generation  of  think- 
ers for  a  very  positive  mood,  which  only 
half  represents  the  man.  In  fact  Still- 
man  was  nearer  the  truth  when  he  said 


Moral  Hesitations  of  the  Novelist. 


547 


that  Emerson  would  willingly  have  gone 
to  the  stake,  but  he  would  have  done  so 
questioning  the  nature  of  his  own  emo- 
tions. And  this  is  what  the  good  reader 
of  Emerson  comes  to  feel.  His  serene 
independence  of  vision  was  a  hard-won 
gift,  the  fruit  of  character  rather  than 
of  temperament.  "No  sentence  will 
hold  the  whole  truth, "  this  prophet  ex- 
claims, "and  the  only  way  in  which  we 
can  be  just  is  by  giving  ourselves  the 
lie."  And  again,  "lam  always  insin- 
cere, as  always  knowing  there  are  other 
moods, "  —  a  sentence  one  might  rea- 
sonably ascribe  to  Amiel.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  all  this  imaginative  restlessness,  one 
carries  away  from  Emerson  an  impres- 
sion of  the  singleness  of  his  character, 
of  a  moral  integrity  which  I  have  heard 
to-day  called  egotism.  Rather  we  may 
think  it  was  the  final  fruit  of  the  man's 
insight.  I  have  been  looking  in  vain 
through  his  essays  for  a  sentence  which 
I  remember  well  enough,  in  which  he 
counsels  the  writer  to  speak  as  if,  for 
the  time,  his  truth  were  the  one  truth 
in  the  world.  This  is  certainly  a  coun- 
sel not  of  arrogance  but  of  self-disci- 
pline. The  author  is  sacrificing  the 
complete  sincerity,  which  has  so  many 
temptations  for  the  intellect,  to  what 
he  takes  to  be  the  better  cause. 

Fe'nelon  has  made  a  distinction  be- 
tween simplicity  and  sincerity;  it  has 
a  wonderfully  modern  application.  Ac- 
cording to  Mrs.  Craigie's  interesting 
theory,  our  modern  turn  for  introspec- 
tion is  the  heritage  of  the  Roman  con- 
fessional. If  that  is  so,  Fe'nelon,  priest 
and  confessor,  had  evidently  direct  ac- 
quaintance with  our  spiritual  difficulties 
in  his  own  day  and  generation.  "Sim- 
plicity, "  he  says,  "  is  an  uprightness  of 
soul  which  checks  all  useless  dwelling 
upon  one's  self  and  one's  actions.  It 
is  different  from  sincerity,  which  is  a 
much  lower  virtue."  In  other  words, 
there  is  a  rule  of  abstinence  for  the  in- 
tellect which  forbids  us  to  analyze  mo- 
tive too  far,  and  which  tells  us  that  truth 
cannot  be  captured  by  this  elaborate 


sincerity  that  we  feel  to-day  is  our  pain- 
ful duty. 

Who  will  say  that  this  word,  so  true 
for  practical  life,  is  not  the  last  word 
for  art  ?  Simplicity  is  a  higher  virtue 
of  style  than  sincerity,  —  almost  an  im- 
possible virtue,  one  would  think  to-day, 
on  account  of  the  influences  that  have 
confused  and  suspended  judgment.  It 
is  only  by  an  effort  of  character  that  a 
man  of  imagination,  a  disinterested  ob- 
server of  human  nature  in  the  light  of 
all  that  science  has  told  us  of  its  origin, 
can  arrive  at  any  moral  conclusion  about 
life.  Yet  it  is  just  the  lack  of  these 
final  judgments  which  seems  at  the  root 
of  our  modern  pessimism  and  of  the 
sense  of  futility  that  haunts  the  modern 
novel.  There  has  been  an  almost  licen- 
tious use  of  the  perception.  We  have 
understood  all  sides;  we  have  entered 
sympathetically  into  every  point  of  view. 
But  the  will  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
all  practical  morality  and  all  construc- 
tive art  has  been  paralyzed  by  this  act 
of  speculation.  The  modern  apologist 
finds  himself  in  a  world  far  more  unreal 
than  any  he  has  tried  to  escape. 

To  return  to  Tommy  and  Grizel.  For 
all  the  author  strives  so  violently  against 
self-deception,  do  we  not  feel  that  less 
truth  than  moral  casuistry  went  into  the 
invention  of  Tommy's  end;  and  that  in 
real  life  nothing  of  the  sort  took  place  ? 
When  we  are  disembarrassed  of  all  per- 
sonal feeling  in  the  matter,  we  are  sure 
that  while  Tommy  continued  to  have 
sentimental  lapses,  he  was  yet  at  bottom 
a  better  man  for  the  struggle  he  had 
made  with  himself.  We  are  sure  that 
Grizel,  the  mother,  was  not,  after  all, 
so  unhappy;  for  of  course  the  woman 
Grizel  bore  Tommy  children,  and  in  that 
simple  and  natural  way  bound  him  to 
herself.  The  story,  so  told,  would  of 
course  be  infinitely  less  clever  than  now, 
but  nearer  to  what  Thackeray  and  the 
old-fashioned  novelist  would  have  im- 
agined it.  And  may  not  the  old-fash- 
ioned novelist,  with  his  old-fashioned 
ideals,  have  been  the  truer  to  life? 


548 


Elaine. 


Somehow  it  looks  as  if  the  next  liter- 
ary motive  was  to  be  a  rediscovery  of 
the  simpler  moral  outlook.  At  least 
one  feels  in  the  work  of  the  very  latest 
school  not  so  much  a  new  method  as  a 
new  way  of  feeling  life.  Tolstoy's  case 
is  typical.  He  was  born  into  the  gen- 
eratiOjQ  of  the  scientific  novel ;  then  by 
and  by  came  the  humanistic  revolt,  en- 
tirely inevitable  for  a  nature  so  passion- 
ate and  so  imaginative.  He  found  no 
help  for  any  of  his  speculative  difficul- 
ties ;  yet  he  took  refuge  in  a  life  which, 
whether  it  could  bear  the  test  of  scien- 
tific analysis  or  not,  had  at  least  more 
reality  for  the  man.  Still,  in  Tolstoy's 
case,  there  remains  the  great  schism  be- 
tween the  moral  and  the  scientific  in- 
stinct. He  returned  to  the  old  mood 
with  its  simpler  moral  distinctions,  his 
mind  still  unconvinced.  But  science  it- 
self is  preparing  the  way  for  the  younger 
writer.  Since  psychology  is  becoming 
humanized  and  is  less  and  less  inclined 
to  confuse  its  own  point  of  view  with 
practical  reality,  sooner  or  later  the 
psychological  novelist  is  bound  to  con- 
fess a  change  in  his  own  principle.  He 


will  be  more  inclined  to  credit  the  ideal- 
ism of  simple  people  and  to  let  the  will 
play  its  part  in  the  story.  Perhaps  of 
all  forms  of  imaginative  literature  the 
novel  is  the  last  to  be  able  to  voice  a 
new  intellectual  inspiration.  In  the 
novel,  ideas  are  the  very  body  of  expe- 
rience ;  and  the  observer,  less  easily  than 
the  thinker,  can  change  his  habit  all  at 
once.  Whenever  a  change  occurs  with 
him,  it  must  be  not  merely  intellectual ; 
it  must  be  structural.  So  Ho  wells, 
Hardy,  Tolstoy  even,  belong  to  the  older 
generation.  But  every  year  new  writ- 
ers are  being  born  into  the  new  set  of 
influences,  and  the  younger  men  are  un- 
consciously infected.  Instinctively  they 
begin  to  trust  the  larger  and  more  en- 
thusiastic moods  which  were  crowded 
down  by  a  conscientious  intellectualism. 
The  new  prejudice  is  away  from  subtle- 
ty toward  more  force  and  conviction  in 
style.  All  this  means  that  the  author 
is  regaining  the  courage  of  his  person- 
ality, and  that  the  next  generation  of 
novelists  shall  recover  a  certain  hold 
upon  life  which  thos'e  just  passing  have 
lost. 

Edith  Baker  Brown. 


ELAINE. 


THE  Damosel,  succored  at  last,  stood 
under  her  pavilion,  which  was  a  blos- 
soming peach  tree,  sun  all  round  her, 
gay  summer  green  underfoot,  the  brown 
and  the  flash  of  the  brook  in  her  eyes. 
And  in  the  open,  eager  and  brave,  the 
Knight  battled  with  the  Giant,  who,  all 
accounts  agree,  was  as  cruel  as  he  was 
voracious. 

Five  minutes  the  combat  lasted  up 
and  down  the  little  meadow,  the  Knight 
flushed  and  breathless,  —  though  one 
would  swear  he  fought  because  he  loved 
it,  —  the  Giant  smiling  broadly  through 
his  growls.  Five  minutes  the  two  wres- 
tled, locked  close,  the  Knight  matching 


his  quickness  against  his  adversary's 
strength,  until  at  last  —  this  always 
happened,  you  remember,  in  the  old 
days  —  the  Giant  slipped  and  sprawled. 
The  Knight  put  his  foot  on  his  foe's 
neck  and  flourished  his  arms. 

"  Where  's  your  sword  ?  "  called  the 
Damosel  from  her  place. 

"  Over  there  by  the  brook.  Hurry 
up  and  get  it,  Damosel."  Then,  look- 
ing down  at  the  Giant,  "  Lie  still,  Ma- 
jor," commanded  the  Knight. 

Something  like  a  spray  of  blossoms 
from  the  peach  tree  flashed  lightly  across 
the  grass  of  the  battlefield. 

"You   run   pretty  good  for  a  girl," 


Elaine. 


549 


said  the  champion,  as  he  reached  out  his 
hand  for  the  sword,  "  but  "  — 

"Behold  Excalibur!"  the  Damosel 
said,  not  heeding.  "  Now  give  the  Do- 
lorous Stroke." 

"  The  what  ?  "  asked  the  Knight,  ra- 
ther blankly. 

"  The  Dolorous  Stroke.  Don't  you 
remember  ?  You  must  n't  poke  him 
that  way.  And  then  the  castle  will  all 
tumble  down." 

"  Oh  yes.     Look  out  then  !  " 

The  Damosel  shut  her  eyes.  In  the 
dark  she  saw  the  great  brand  flash  all 
silver,  heaved  high  above  the  champion's 
head ;  she  heard  it  hiss  down  ;  and  when 
the  Giant  yelped  a  little,  as  not  under- 
standing this  part  of  the  play,  the  Damo- 
sel looked  up  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

It  had  been  a  splendid  combat.  They 
sat  them  down  in  the  shade  of  the  pa- 
vilion to  rest. 

"Now,"  said  the  Knight,  looking  about 
him,  "  I  '11  find  a  Saracen." 

"  That  does  n't  come  yet"  the  Damo- 
sel made  answer,  very  quickly.  She 
picked  up  a  battered  little  volume  from 
where  it  lay  in  the  grass  beside  them, 
half  opened  it,  made  as  if  reading  down 
a  page,  then  closed  it.  "  The  —  the 
book  says  "  — 

She  waited  one  tremulous  minute,  not 
looking  at  her  companion.  The  cheek 
turned  toward  him  glowed  warm  as  the 
heart  of  a  peach  blossom.  She  plaited 
tiny  folds  in  the  edge  of  her  skirt.  A 
minute  long  the  silence  lasted.  Perhaps 
there  was  that  in  the  summer  sunlight, 
or  in  the  south  air,  or  in  the  warm  scent 
of  the  earth,  which  laid  an  enchantment 
on  her  light  and  sweet. 

"Well,  what  do  we  do,  silly?"  in- 
quired the  Knight. 

"  We  'd  better  go  back  to  King  Ar- 
thur's court,  I  suppose,"  she  answered 
after  a  moment,  the  smile  dying  from 
her  eyes. 

The  Knight  scrambled  briskly  to  his 
feet.  "  Go  ahead,"  he  cried,  "  I  '11  give 
you  a  start  V  beat  you." 


A  second  time  the  pink  and  white 
whirled  over  the  meadow,  the  Knight 
close  behind  ;  and  the  Giant,  recalled 
from  hunting,  barked  wildly  as  he  wal- 
lowed alongside.  Here  was  something 
better  than  sitting  under  a  tree.  Then 
the  whistle  of  the  five  o'clock  express 
shrilled  up  the  valley,  and  with  the 
sound  Excalibur  became  a  stick  again, 
and  Camelot  a  pile  of  fence  rails.  It 
was  the  Knight  who  first  perceived  the 
change. 

"  Got  to  go  now,"  he  declared.  One 
would  guess  he  had  waited  the  signal. 

"  Don't  let 's,"  urged  the  Damosel 
from  her  perch  on  Camelot's  highest 
tower.  "  I  don't  believe  it 's  time." 

The  other  moved  away.  "  Oh,  come 
on,  Jean.  We  can't  stay  here  all  day.'' 

The  Damosel  looked  from  her  cham- 
pion back  across  the  fair  level  field  of 
Arthur's  realm,  to  where  under  the  two 
pines  dark  Cornwall  began,  —  that  dear 
green  land  where  were  adventures  for 
any  knight  to  seek,  for  gallant  ladies 
perils  to  undergo  and  delights  to  enjoy. 
She  saw  her  blossoming  pavilion,  where 
enchantments  were. 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  go  home  ?  " 
she  asked  doubtingly. 

"  Joe  said  I  might  help  milk  if  I  got 
in  early." 

The  dull  dwellers  in  the  summer  vil- 
lage never  could  rightly  call  this  pair 
who,  clad  in  mail  or  in  samite,  rode  a 
foaming  charger  and  a  milk  white  pal- 
frey at  a  hand  gallop  across  the  fields 
and  through  the  woods  seeking  adven- 
tures. Knight  and  Damosel  remained 
unguessed.  Just  as  Arthur's  realm 
seemed  a  level  pasture,  so  these  two 
looked  to  be  only  a  handsome  twelve 
year  old  boy  and  girl,  whose  manners 
were  as  delightfully  formal  as  their  be- 
havior entirely  scandalous.  For  them 
the  country  people  could  find  no  other 
name  but  "  the  Professor's  children." 

Perhaps  though  this  was  only  for  the 
sake  of  convenience.  Perhaps  the  vil- 
lagers knew  in  their  hearts  that  by 


550 


Elaine. 


rights  the  titles  of  chivalry  were  the 
youngsters',  but  were  kept  in  some  way 
from  uttering  them  aloud.  They  always 
explained  anyhow  that  they  never  could 
remember  who  the  children  really  were. 
And,  in  a  way,  that  was  the  case  in  the 
city  too,  where  everybody  called  the  boy 
and  girl  "  the  Professor's  children  "  even 
in  the  very  shadow  of  the  university 
buildings.  It  was  the  easiest  name  to 
give  them,  said  the  world,  though  the 
world  knew  that  they  did  not  belong 
to  the  Professor  at  all,  —  the  villagers 
choosing  it  because  they  were  at  a  loss 
to  tell  the  true  names  of  those  whose  life 
seemed  in  flashes  that  of  the  old  times, 
the  college  folk  hearing  their  little  ro- 
mance from  this  or  that  story-teller. 

"  They  're  up  to  the  darndest  things," 
said  the  country  folk,  bringing  to  mind 
some  queer  bit  of  mimic  pageantry  or 
deed  of  knight-errantry.  "Why"  — 

"He's  the  old  gentleman's  grand- 
nephew,"  the  gossips  explained,  with 
circumstance.  "  He  was  left  when  young 
Stevenson  and  the  girl  he  married  died 
down  at  Caracas  somewhere.  There 
was  an  epidemic  or  a  revolution." 

"And  the  little  girl?" 

"  Poor  Avery's." 

The  conversation  at  the  club  would 
hang  suspended  at  that  point  always. 
The  elders  sighed  when  they  recalled 
the  memory  of  the  dead  young  scholar, 
and  the  juniors  wondered  soberly  if  ever 
their  little  names  would  be  remembered 
as  this  one. 

They  were  not  the  Professor's  chil- 
dren at  all.  They  were  fairy  folk. 
They  were  legacies  to  him,  much  like 
the  books  he  received  from  time  to  time, 
or  —  to  value  them  at  the  Professor's 
own  rating,  said  some  with  a  giggle  — 
they  were  like  the  two  sheets  of  early 
English  manuscript  which  Dr.  von  Pentz 
willed  him  when  at  last  Tubingen  air 
blew  out  that  flame  itself  had  kindled. 

The  last  of  all  to  give  the  boy  and 
girl  their  popular  name  was  the  Profes- 
sor himself. 


"My  charges  are  very  well,  thank 
you,"  was  his  invariable  answer  to  any 
one  asking  how  the  children  did.  He 
stressed  his  words  lightly,  but  so  as  to 
admit  of  no  misunderstanding.  And 
for  five  years  after  they  came  to  him 
he  kept  to  his  formula.  He  brought 
them  nurses  and  tasteful  clothes  and  a 
doctor  when  they  had  measles.  He 
asked  advice,  considerably  embarrassed, 
of  this  or  that  house-mother.  In  the 
twilight  hours  he  tried  to  tell  them 
about  the  dear  great  God  who  loved 
them,  and  of  the  bad  little  devil  who 
sat  on  their  right  shoulders  to  whisper 
in  their  ears. 

"  I  will  do  my  duty  by  them,"  said 
the  Professor,  "  conscientiously." 

A  dweller  on  a  mountain  top,  he  came 
down  every  day  into  the  valley  of  child- 
ish things.  From  his  proper  place  he 
could  look  east  and  west,  and  talk  with 
the  giants  and  the  gods,  seeing  the  world 
far  below  him,  a  friend  of  lightnings 
and  of  the  wind  from  the  sea.  The 
swallows  visited  him  up  there  and  the 
curlews.  Though  he  accomplished  it 
every  day,  the  descent  from  his  throne 
was  not  easy.  He  scarcely  knew  how 
to  speak  the  speech  of  the  tiny  creatures 
he  found  waiting  for  him  below  a  little 
in  awe.  For  five  years  he  saw  them 
across  wide  spaces.  Talking  with  them 
as  they  sat  round-eyed  and  very  quiet 
side  by  side  on  the  high-backed  settle, 
he  kept  his  hand  on  the  book  —  any  book 
—  which  would  bear  him  back  again,  up, 
up,  to  the  company  of  the  Great  Ones. 
And  presently  the  difficult  hour  would 
tick  itself  out,  the  mellow  voice  quiet, 
the  little  listeners  would  look  at  each 
other  and  go  back  to  where  Major  was 
waiting.  His  children  ?  Hardly  that, 
but  he  took  scrupulous  care  of  them. 

"  My  duty,"  said  the  Professor  one 
day,  as  often  before,  "  is  plain." 

There  came  to  him  then  a  light  wind 
as  he  sat  lonely  and  very  high  on  his 
cold  throne.  The  Professor  listened 
carefully,  for  the  breeze  was  from  the 


Elaine. 


551 


quarter  of  inspiration.  He  knew  it  was 
apt  to  speak  the  truth,  for  all  he  could 
sometimes  hardly  understand  its  mes- 
sage. 

"  It  should  n't  be  your  duty,  sir." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  them." 

"  To  a  logical  mind  the  next  step  is 
obvious." 

The  Professor  looked  east  and  west 
into  the  cold  clouds,  then  down  to  the 
greening  earth.  "  I  think,"  he  mur- 
mured, getting  on  his  feet,  "  I  will  try 
anyway." 

"  They  are  waiting  for  you,"  said  the 
breeze,  "  in  the  library.  They  are  read- 
ing in  the  Morte  d' Arthur." 

The  Professor  prepared  to  descend. 
"  I  remember  that  I  used  to  play  In- 
dians," he  admitted ;  "  but  I  should 
think  that  Sir  Tor,  for  instance,  or  "  — 

"Sir  Gareth,"  the  breeze  laughed 
with  him. 

"  And  she  could  play  Lynette.  I  '11 
show  them." 

"  You  can  be  a  horse  perhaps,  or  a 
dwarf.  One  must  be  humble,  sir.  And 
you  are  going  to  be  very  happy." 

Not  remote  any  longer,  making  his  life 
part  of  theirs,  —  a  very  sweet  relation, 
people  said,  —  the  Professor  watched 
every  move  of  his  children,  whether  at 
play  in  Arthur's  fairy  realm,  or  listen- 
ing to  the  real  world.  He  suffered,  was 
rewarded,  was  very  contented.  There 
were  sunny  days  on  the  old  place  in  the 
country,  —  sheer  romance.  There  were 
the  earnest  months  from  September  till 
June  when  the  hours  for  work  and  play 
were  sounded  from  the  college  chimes. 
Jean  went  away  to  the  famous  school, 
but  came  back  after  a  few  months  be- 
cause all  the  money  was  needed  for 
Jerry.  The  latter  began  to  discover 
things,  and  to  miss  others,  for  all  his 
cleverness,  not  guessing  at  their  exist- 
ence. The  Professor  continued  to  meet 
with  the  world's  greatest.  If  there  en- 
tered changes  into  the  life  of  the  two 
wise  men  and  the  girl  who  knew  only 
her  duty,  they  were  but  as  the  slow  al- 


terations of  nature  from  one  beauty  to 
another,  —  those  of  a  tree  or  of  the  day- 
light, a  little  of  autumn  cr  of  night 
that  the  leafage  and  the  sun  may  be  the 
fuller  and  more  beautiful.  If  it  came 
about  after  the  years  that  the  three  fol- 
lowed no  longer  a  single  path,  at  least 
their  ways  were  not  so  sundered  but  that 
they  could  call  to  one  another  as  they 
walked  on.  It  seemed  to  make  no  dif- 
ference even  when  the  Professor  bade 
his  boy  further  the  work  he  would  leave 
incomplete,  for  Jerry  said  he  could  do 
nothing  unless  he  felt  his  guide's  hand  in 
his,  and  the  next  instant  turned  in  his 
chair  to  catch  the  friend's  smile  he  had 
learned  to  look  for  in  Jean's  eyes. 

"A  delightful  family!"  exclaimed 
the  gossips,  watching  carefully  through 
the  years.  "  The  old  man 's  really  like 
a  father  to  'em." 

"And  the  children  brother  and  sis- 
ter." 

"  Possibly,"  said  the  gossips,  "  but "  — 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  Are  they  — 
does  Jean  "  — 

"  Of  course  we  don't  know  anything 
about  it,"  rejoined  the  gossips  quickly. 

But  that  night,  when  the  big  new  life- 
plan  was  talked  of,  Jean  —  this  quite 
by  chance  —  was  sitting  outside  the  cir- 
cle of  light  around  the  hearth,  so  that 
her  brother  could  not  see  her  face.  And 
all  through  the  two  hours  that  followed 
she  said  no  word,  remaining  all  quiet  in 
her  place,  though  the  men's  talk  was  of 
high  things,  and  though  more  than  once 
the  old  or  the  young  would  seem,  as  al- 
ways, to  include  her  as  one  who  planned 
with  them  for  all  that  was  to  come. 
They  talked  of  the  happy  years  in  Ger- 
many, of  the  long  days  in  the  Bodleian 
or  the  Museum,  of  the  thrill  that  comes 
with  power,  —  all  this  as  Jerry's  due,  the 
heritage  of  him  whom  Barham  called 
her  brother.  But  when  Jean  came  into 
the  light  her  lip  quivered  and  her  eyes 
were  dulled. 

Neither  of  the  men  looked  at  her, 
however. 


552 


Elaine. 


"Ohne  Hast,  ohne  Hast,  boy,"  the 
Professor  was  saying. 

"  I  'm  going  to  try,  sir." 

"  And  we  're  going  to  help  him,  eh, 
Herzchen?"  The  Professor  caught  her 
hy  the  arm  as  she  passed.  "  We  '11  stay 
behind,  like  the  old  man  and  weak  wo- 
man we  are,  but  we  '11  help.  Shall  we 
not  ?  Ah,  I  am  so  happy  !  I  feared  he 
might  choose  some  other  path." 

"  You  must  be."  Then  came  a  little 
pause.  "  Will  Jerry  be  going  away  very 
soon  ?  " 

"  All  in  good  time,  Liebling.  There 
is  much  to  be  done.  He  's  only  begin- 
ning. But  go  he  shall  some  day,  and  he 
shall  make  himself  great." 

"  Of  course  Jerry  will  be  great !  "  she 
cried,  as  though  answering  a  challenge. 
Then  she  came  close  to  the  younger  man. 
"  Good-by,"  said  Jean,  kissing  him. 

"  Good-night,"  he  replied,  thinking  to 
answer  her. 

Theirs  was  a  very  sweet  relation,  Bar- 
ham  said  again.  It  was  pleasant  to  see 
the  old  man,  spent  with  long  battling, 
hand  his  weapons  to  the  youngster  and 
send  him  forward,  pleasant  to  mark  the 
skill  and  strength  of  the  new  champion. 
And  Jean  ?  Well,  college  women  are  a 
good  deal  like  soldiers'  wives  after  all. 
If  they  cannot  fight  themselves,  at  least 
they  can  hearten  those  stronger,  or  bind 
the  wounds  of  their  hurt  heroes.  It  is 
not  much  to  do,  perhaps  ;  but  then  they 
are  best  far  from  the  field.  The  battle 
is  easier  won  so. 

The  working  time  passed.  Once  more 
the  little  meadow  stretched  out  all  green 
and  gold  under  the  sun,  along  its  edge 
the  brown  brook  sang  cheerily,  and  un- 
der the  peach  tree  sat  the  Damosel  all 
alone.  She  was  reading  in  a  little  book, 
but  looked  up  quickly  as  a  shadow  fell 
across  her  page. 

"  Always  Malory  !  "  cried  the  voice  of 
the  Knight.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  girl !  " 


"  You  used  to  like  him,  too." 

"  I  do  now.  All  those  romances  of 
chivalry.  They  're  very  interesting." 

"  We  used  to  act  him  out,  don't  you 
remember  ?  "  the  Damosel  went  on. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  You  were  fine  at  all 
those  games." 

"  So  were  you.     I  remember." 

"  They  've  given  me  the  traveling  fel- 
lowship, Jean." 

The  Damosel  did  not  answer  at  once. 
Watching  her,  one  would  say  she  had 
not  heard,  she  was  looking  so  far  away. 
But  her  mouth  pinched  a  little  at  the 
corners. 

"  Yes,  we  've  won  out,  Jean.  Three 
years  sure  wherever  I  want  abroad. 
And  it 's  all  your  doing,  Jean,  —  yours 
and  the  Governor's.  If  it  had  n't  been 
that  you  and  he  helped  so  much  and  told 
me  how  "  — 

"  Three  years  ?  "  she  asked  swiftly. 

"  Yes.     And  "  - 

"  Oh,  Jerry,  I  am  glad  you  've  won 
it.  Jerry,  did  I  really  help  you  any  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  did.  It 's  my  start 
in  life,  Jean.  And  I  do  thank  you  for  it." 

"  It 's  for  three  whole  years  ?  " 

"  At  least.     More  if  I  behave." 

"You  must  try  to  be  good,  then." 
She  laughed  up  at  him  hardily. 

The  boy  laughed  too,  and  turned 
away ;  but  stopped  for  a  moment  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  length  of  the 
meadow. 

"  A  fine  old  playground,  was  n't  it, 
Jean  ?  Do  you  remember  the  names 
we  used  to  call  things  ?  I  don't  believe 
you  do." 

The  Damosel  bent  her  head.  Her 
fingers  were  knit  tight. 

"  What  was  the  peach  tree  then  ?  "  he 
asked  lightly. 

It  was  a  breathing  space  before  she 
replied.  Then  — 

"  Astolat,"  said  the  Damosel,  very 
low. 

Emerson  Gifford  Taylor. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


553 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


POETRY   AND   COMMONPLACE. 


"ONLY  a  staff  cut  from  Sophoclean 
timber  will  support  your  lonely  dreamer 
as  he  makes  his  way  over  the  marl," 
wrote  Mr.  Francis  B.  Gummere  not  long 
ago ; *  "but  the  common  citizen,  who  does 
most  of  the  world's  work,  and  who  has 
more  to  do  with  the  future  of  poetry 
than  a  critic  will  concede,  finds  his  ac- 
count in  certain  smooth,  didactic,  and 
mainly  cheerful  verses  which  appear  in 
the  syndicate  newspapers,  and  will  never 
attain  a  magazine  or  an  anthology.  If 
singing  throngs  keep  rhythm  alive,  it  is 
this  sort  of  poets  that  must  both  make 
and  mend  the  paths  of  genius.  ...  If 
minor  poets  and  obvious,  popular  poems 
ever  disappear,  and  if  crowds  ever  go 
dumb,  then  better  and  best  poetry  itself 
will  be  as  dead  as  King  Pandion.  No 
Absent-Minded  Beggar,  no  Recession- 
al." 

Nobody  can  suppose  that  Mr.  Gum- 
mere  is  here  advancing  a  new  go&pel  of 
doggerel  or  a  defense  of  the  slipshod. 
Since,  according  to  his  habit  elsewhere, 2 
he  is  considering  poetry  as  a  scientific 
fact,  as  "emotional  rhythmic  utter- 
ance," and  striving  to  emphasize  the 
significance  of  that  utterance  in  its 
ruder  forms,  it  is  natural  that  his  ar- 
gument should  appear  to  approach  an 
apology  for  the  commonplace.  Indeed, 
he  is  frank  in  accepting  the  word  as  ap- 
plicable to  the  best  poetry,  if  it  is  ap- 
plicable at  all.  "Commonplace  is  a 
poor  word, "  he  says.  "Horace  gives  one 
nothing  else."  Whatever  impatience 
he  manifests  toward  persons  of  other 
minds  is  due  to  his  sense  of  the  extreme 
urgency  of  his  theme :  that  the  study  of 

1  The  Old  Case  of  Poetry  in  a  New  Court. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  June,  1902. 


poetry  to  be  intelligent  must  attain  the 
rank  and  method  of  a  science.  "Po- 
etry, high  or  low,  as  product  of  a  human 
impulse  and  as  a  constant  element  in 
the  life  of  man,  belongs  to  that  history 
which  has  been  defined  of  late  as  '  con- 
crete sociology;  '  and  it  is  on  this 
ground,  and  not  in  criticism,  that  the 
question  of  the  decline  of  poetry  must 
be  answered."  Mr.  Gummere  is  indig- 
nant with  critics  for  not  perceiving  this : 
"  They  exclude  from  their  study  of  po- 
etry,"  he  complains,  "a  good  half  of 
the  facts  of  poetry." 

This  is  a  sobering  charge.  One  wishes 
to  be  sure  that  there  is  reason  for  throw- 
ing such  overwhelming  stress  upon  the 
significance  of  the  social  element  in  po- 
etry. When  we  have  admitted  that 
some  sort  of  emotional  rhythmic  utter- 
ance has  always  been  essential  to  the 
popular  comfort,  and  when  we  have  de- 
termined by  the  method  which  Mr. 
Gummere  suggests  that  the  instinct  for 
such  utterance  is  not  likely  to  grow  dull 
with  time,  shall  we  have  even  paved 
the  way  for  proof  that  great  poetry  will 
continue  to  be  produced  ?  Yet  this  is 
precisely  the  "old  case "  which  Mr. 
Gummere  is  considering.  However 
academic  the  question  of  the  decline  of 
poetry  may  have  been,  it  has  never 
meant  anything  else,  to  those  who  were 
disposed  to  be  exercised  about  it,  than 
the  decline  of  great  poetry. 

Mr.  Gummere  further  urges  the  ap- 
plication of  the  sociological  method  to 
concrete  criticism.  Yet  when  we  have 
gone  the  length  of  historical  analysis  to 
prove,  according  to  his  suggestion,  that 
"Lycidas,  as  a  poem,  is  the  outcome  of 
emotion  in  long  reaches  of  social  pro- 

2  The  Beginnings  of  Poetry.  By  FRANCIS 
B.  GUMMERE.  New  York:  The  Macmillan 
Co.  1901. 


554 


Books  New  and  Old. 


gress, "  it  is  not  altogether  clear  what 
new  truth  we  shall  have  discovered 
about  the  poem  or  about  the  poetic  func- 
tion. Necessarily  the  great  poet  con- 
serves and  epitomizes  and  perfects ;  that 
is  why  he  is  great.  And  that,  since  he 
implies,  and  acts  as  spokesman  for,  a 
thousand  smaller  voices  heard  only  by  a 
few  and  for  a  day,  is  why  we  still  find 
meaning  even  in  "those  old  hysterics 
about  genius,"  which  Mr.  Gummere 
disdains ;  and  why  we  find  it  unneces- 
sary to  refer  every  poem,  great  or  small, 
to  whatever  mass  of  data  in  "  concrete 
sociology. " 

In  our  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  or 
usefulness  of  the  neutral  definition  of 
poetry  which  sociology  affords,  we  may 
profitably  recall  that  merely  literary  de- 
finition which  has  hitherto  served  the 
world  comfortably  if  unscientifically. 
One  turns  perhaps  to  certain  well-re- 
membered passages  in  the  Oxford  lec- 
tures of  Mr.  W.  J.  Courthope,  one  of 
the  greatest  modern  expositors  of  clas- 
sical criticism.  "Poetry,"  he  says, 
"  is  the  art  which  produces  pleasure  for 
the  imagination  by  imitating  human  ac- 
tions, thoughts,  and  passions,  in  metri- 
cal language."  It  must,  however,  pro- 
duce pleasure  not  for  the  coterie  or  the 
class,  or  even  the  people  as  a  whole,  but 
"  pleasure  which  can  be  felt  by  what  is 
best  in  the  people  as  a  whole  .  .  .  plea- 
sure such  as  has  been  produced  by  one 
generation  of  great  poets  after  another 
whose  work  still  moves  in  the  reader 
wonder  and  delight."  Naturally,  there- 
fore, "  the  sole  authorities  in  the  art  of 
poetry  are  the  great  classical  poets  of 
the  world. "  This  view  of  poetry  by  no 
means  ignores  its  fundamental  relation 
toward  society.  "As  the  end  of  art  is 
to  produce  pleasure,  poets  and  all  other 
artists  must  take  into  account  alike  the 
constitution  of  the  human  mind  and  the 
circumstances  of  the  society  which  it  is 
their  business  to  please."  But  this 
truth,  stated  without  qualification,  may 
easily  mislead :  "Popular  taste  has,  no 
doubt,  a  foundation  in  Nature.  .  .  . 


'  But  the  unrefined  instinct  of  the  multi- 
tude is,  as  a  rule,  in  favor  of  what  is 
obvious  and  superficial:  impatient  of 
reflection,  it  is  attracted  by  the  loud 
colors  and  the  commonplace  sentiment 
which  readily  strike  the  senses  ,or  the 
affections.  Observe  the  popular  songs 
in  the  Music  Halls,  the  pictorial  adver- 
tisements on  the  hoardings,  the  books 
on  the  railway  stalls,  the  lists  in  the 
circulating  libraries;  from  these  may 
be  divined  the  level  to  which  the  public 
taste  is  capable  of  rising  by  its  own  un- 
trained perception.  That  which  is  nat- 
ural in  such  taste  is  also  vulgar ;  and 
if  vulgar  Nature  is  to  be  the  standard 
of  Art,  nothing  but  a  versatile  medio- 
crity of  invention  is  any  longer  possi- 
ble." The  classical  critic,  that  is,  would 
see  no  hope  for  poetry  in  the  mere  sur- 
vival of  a  popular  susceptibility  for 
rhythm.  Yet  if  he  does  not  spare  con- 
tempt for  the  commonplace  and  vulgar, 
he  is  at  great  pains  to  make  clear  the 
importance  of  the  universal  element  in 
poetry.  "The  real  superiority  of  the 
painter  or  the  poet,  if  we  measure  by 
the  work  of  the  highest  excellence,  lies 
...  in  the  ability  to  find  expression 
for  imaginative  ideas  of  nature  floating 
unexpressed  in  the  general  mind." 
"The  secret  of  enduring  poetical  life 
lies  in  individualizing  the  universal,  not 
in  universalizing  the  individual." 

From  this  point  of  view,  one  reflects, 
what  does  Mr.  Gummere 's  "communal 
song "  mean  to  the  critical  mind  ? 
Taken  to  include,  as  seems  to  be  ex- 
pected, all  current  attempts  at  "emo- 
tional rhythmic  utterance,"  it  means 
very  little ;  hardly  more  than  the  really 
considerable  public  inclination  for  the 
banjo  and  the  coon-song  would  mean  to 
the  student  of  music.  At  its  best,  with 
all  possible  concession  to  its  virtue  of 
spontaneity  and  its  suggestion  of  a  natu- 
ral prestige  for  poetry,  it  represents  only 
the  rude  attempt  at  expressing  that  uni- 
versal experience  which  the  individual- 
izing hand  of  genius  is  able  to  express 
adequately.  An  instinct  for  utterance 


Books  New  and  Old. 


555 


does  not  in  itself  constitute  or  even  im- 
ply, though  it  may  produce  art.  There 
have  been  nations  singularly  prone  to 
rhythmic  utterance,  yet  barren  of  noble 
poetry.  The  significance  of  such  a  habit 
of  utterance  must  be  little  more  than 
sociological.  It  is,  in  short,  doubtful 
if  any  deeply  scientific  method  is  likely 
to  affect  the  general  sense  that  a  million 
failures  in  poetry  (however  ingenuous 
and  sincere,  however  widely  listened  to 
even)  are  of  less  import  to  the  race  than 
a  single  success ;  that  to  study  the 
mighty  poets  of  the  world  must  be  the 
most  probable  means  of  realizing  the 
immense  significance  of  poetry  as  an 
element  in  human  life. 


II. 


Very  narrow  in  range  and  monoto- 
nous in  substance  is  the  verse  in  which 
many  of  us  common  citizens  find  our 
account.  It  is  flatly  emotional  and 
baldly  respectable.  It  preaches,  it  pit- 
ies, it  regrets;  it  is  full  of  the  memo- 
ries of  childhood,  of  innocence,  of  the 
old  homestead  and  the  song  that  mother 
used  to  sing.  At  its  nadir  of  quality  and 
perhaps  its  zenith  of  influence,  one  finds 
it  cried  over  at  the  vaudeville  theatre. 
It  is  surprising  how  sympathetically 
even  a  "submerged  "  audience  will  lis- 
ten to  that  babbling  of  green  fields  which 
it  has  never  seen. 

Here  in  America  this  sort  of  commu- 
nal song  appears  to  have  attained  a  sort 
of  apotheosis.  Not  to  risk  the  indis- 
cretion of  naming  Longfellow  in  the 
connection,  one  may  cite  aloud  the  work 
of  Whitcomb  Riley,  a  poet  of  real  pow- 
ers, who  has  been  content  to  make  very 
common  citizens  laugh  and  cry  by  quite 
obvious  means.  The  morale  of  the  case 
is  similar  to  that  of  a  hypothetical 
painter  with  a  cultivable  talent  of  a  high 
order  who  should  content  himself  with 
drawing  crayon  portraits  for  country  sit- 
ting-rooms. Yet  it  is  hard  to  judge 
coldly  of  the  fact.  So  many  persons  have 
read  Mr.  Riley 's  good  verse  who  would 


never  have  read  his  or  anybody  else's 
better  verse,  that  only  determined  loy- 
alty to  an  unbiased  standard,  the  stan- 
dard of  the  poet's  own  possible  best,  can 
keep  one  discontented  with  the  result  of 
his  work.  Measured  by  that  standard, 
he  is  seen  to  have  loitered  upon  the 
broad  levels  of  commonplace  when  he 
might  have  dropped  his  plumb  into  the 
depths  of  universality.  It  is.  something 
to  be  a  virtuoso,  even  upon  the  harmo- 
nium ;  but  the  instrument  has  fatal  lim- 
itations. 

Now  and  then  Mr.  Riley 's  character- 
istic mood  escapes  from  the  vernacular 
and  finds  a  voice  of  much  lyric  delicacy ; 
as  in  these  verses  from  Our  Boyhood 
Haunts :  — 

"  And  then  we 

Just  across  the  creek  shall  see 
(Hah  !  the  goaty  rascal !)  Pan 
Hoof  it  o'er  the  sloping  green, 
Mad  with  his  own  melody  : 
Aye,  and  (bless  the  beasty  man  !) 
Stamping  from  the  grassy  soil 
Bruised  scents  of  fleur-de-lis, 
Boneset,  mint,  and  pennyroyal." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  during  such 
momentary  lapses  into  English  the 
writer  should  incline  to  the  employment 
of  classical  allusions  and  literary  fash- 
ions of  speech.  That  is  a  form  of  re- 
venge which  the  Muse  delights  to  take 
upon  those  who  wish  to  ignore  her. 

If  Mr.  Riley  approaches  his  best  in 
moments  of  emancipation  from  dialect, 
the  reverse  is  true  of  Mr.  Paul  Law- 
rence Dunbar.  In  his  Poems  of  Lowly 
Life  and  its  companion  volume  there  is 
much  merely  graceful  echoing  of  famil- 
iar strains.  'It  is  in  his  negro  melo- 
dies, with  their  rich  and  home-felt  sym- 
pathy, their  projection  of  a  racial  con- 
tour which  is  of  universal  interest,  that 
one  feels  the  presence  of  the  quality 
with  which  the  world  in  the  end  finds 
its  account.  If  this  is  communal  song, 
it  is  also  something  more ;  it  is  pfeetry. 

One  is  not  so  sure  what  to  say  of  the 
verse  of  Mr.  Edwin  Markham,  who  has 
taken  rank  of  late  as  a  poet  of  the  peo- 
ple. When  he  does  not  remember  to 


556 


Books  New  and  Old. 


be  full-chestedly  democratic,  he  is  re- 
markably pliable  to  suggestions  from 
classic  literature.  When  he  is  not  talk- 
ing about  toilers  and  tyrants,  he  is  quite 
likely  to  be  chanting  of  naiads  and 
"Noras. "  One  is  not  sure  that  The  Man 
with  the  Hoe  fails  of  being  a  true  in- 
spiration. Perhaps  one  is  unfairly  pre- 
judiced against  the  poem  by  the  ex- 
traneous fact  that  the  author,  after  its 
first  success,  wrote  a  magazine  article 
thereon  beginning,  "  I  did  it !  "  and  pro- 
ceeding to  describe  the  manner  of  its 
doing,  with  diagrams.  At  all  events, 
the  dogged  force  which  marked  that 
poem  does  not  reappear  elsewhere  in  his 
work.  The  bluntness  and  simplicity  of 
his  didactic  manner  appear  artificial  in 
the  bulk.  There  is,  for  example,  rhet- 
oric but  not  quite  poetry  to  be  sure  of 
in  his  characterization  of  Lincoln  as 

"  A  man  that  matched  the  mountains,  and  com- 
pelled 
The  stars  to  look  our  way  and  honor  us." 

As  poetry  it  must  be  felt  that  many  of 
his  conceptions  are,  to  use  Mr.  Court- 
hope's  phrase,  mere  "Idols  of  the  Fan- 
cy." That  is  perhaps  why  one  expe- 
riences a  sudden  relief  in  coming  now 
and  again  upon  a  passage  from  which 
the  didactic  spirit  is  altogether  absent, 
and  in  which  fancy  has  legitimate  play, 
as  in  these  lines  describing  a  lizard :  — 

"  The  slim  gray  hermit  of  the  rocks, 
With  bright  inquisitive  quick  eyes, 
His  life  a  round  of  harks  and  shocks, 
A  little  ripple  of  surprise." 

Surely  this  is  a  very  delicate  touch  of 
poetry,  as  just  as  it  is  unpretentious  in 
conception,  and  as  right  as  it  is  simple 
in  expression. 

Simple  justice  must  aclmit  that  the 
daily  press  now  and  then  produces  verse 
which,  while  it  may  not  possess  just  the 
quality  to  commend  it  to  the  magazine 
or  to 'insure  it  a  place  in  the  anthology, 
is,  in  one  sense  or  another,  beyond  the 
commonplace.  The  Chicago  Tribune  is 

1  Line  o1   Type  Lyrics.    By  BERT  LESTON 
TAYLOR.    Evanston  :  William  A.  Lord.     1902. 


to  be  congratulated  upon  having  origi- 
nally printed  the  verses  which  make  up 
Mr.  Taylor's  recent  volume.1  They  are 
far  better  than  most  newspaper  verse ; 
they  contain  more  sense,  and,  as  a  whole, 
more  poetry.  The  trail  of  the  journal- 
ist is  sometimes  too  apparent.  There 
are  frequent  slips  in  accuracy  and  not 
infrequent  lapses  in  taste,  jests  not  quite 
far  enough  from  vulgarity,  and  local  hits 
too  palpable  for  the  relish  of  a  second 
reading.  But  there  are  several  numbers 
which  are  more  fit  to  rank  with  English 
light  verse  of  the  better  class  than  any- 
thing American  since  the  day  of  H.  C. 
Bunner;  there  are  some  admirable  sa- 
tirical bits;  and  there  is  a  Ballade  of 
Spring's  Unrest  from  which  the  third 
octave  especially  deserves  to  be  quoted : 

"  Ho  for  the  morning  I  sling 

Pack  at  my  back,  and  with  knees 
Brushing  a  thoroughfare  fling 

Into  the  green  mysteries  ; 

One  with  the  birds  and  the  bees, 
One  with  the  squirrel  and  quail, 

Night,  and  the  stream's  meiedies :  — 
Ho  for  the  pack  and  the  trail  !  " 

Another  volume  is  at  hand  whose  title 
confesses  its  origin, 2  and  which  contains 
verse  of  the  "smooth,  didactic,  and 
mainly  cheerful  "  sort  in  the  continued 
production  and  popularity  of  which  lies, 
we  are  told,  hope  for  the  poetry  of  the 
future.  Here  are  many  such  passages 
as 

"  Wiser  the  honest  words  of  a  child 

Than  the  scornful  scholar's  fleers  ; 
Richer  a  fortnight  of  crudest  faith 
Than  a  score  of  cynic  years." 

Or,— 

"  Let  not  the  sham  life  of  the  tinsel  city, 
Whose  false  gods   all   the   blazing  fires   of 

folly  fan, 

Blast  the  green  tendrils  of  my  human  pity  ; 
Oh,  let  me   still  revere  the  sacred  soul   of 
man." 

This  sort  of  verse  is  probably  as  palata- 
ble, and  even  as  immediately  profita- 
ble, to  the  common  citizen  as  any  verse 
could  be.  Nobody  can  possibly  wish  to 

2  Songs  of  the  Press.    By  BAILEY  MILLARD. 
San  Francisco  :  Elder  &  Shepard.     1902. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


557 


laugh  at  it.  Unless  to  the  sociologi- 
cal student  of  poetry,  however,  it  falls 
short  of  special  significance ;  not  be- 
cause the  feeling  expressed  is  not  sin- 
cere and  sensible  and  of  universal  ap- 
peal, but  because  it  is  imperfectly  indi- 
vidualized :  loosely  grasped  and  vaguely 
uttered.  One  perceives  that  this  is  the 
real  status  of  the  trite  and  the  common- 
place, and  fancies  that  when  Mr.  Gum- 
mere  chooses  Horace  as  an  eminent  ex- 
ample of  the  commonplace  in  poetry,  he 
is  holding  the  weak  thread  to  the  light. 
For  there  can  be  nothing  less  common- 
place than  the  perfect  expression  by  in- 
dividual genius  of  the  facts  of  universal 
experience :  nothing  less  commonplace, 
that  is,  than  true  poetry. 

ill. 

We  may  turn  for  a  moment  to  a  re- 
cent volume  of  verse  l  in  which  this  feat 
has  been  in  some  manner  accomplished ; 
in  which  simple  and  common  emotions 
have  been  turned  to  poetry  in  the  liter- 
ary as  well  as  in  the  sociological  sense  of 
the  word.  The  verse  of  Ethna  Carbery 
is  informed  with  that  passionate  sense 
of  race  to  which  the  work  of  the  Neo- 
Celtic  school  owes  much  of  its  saliency ; 
a  patriotism  concerned  less  with  poli- 
tics than  with  the  conservation  of  na- 
tional ideals.  It  therefore  represents 
the  spirit  of  an  ancient  folk-poetry,  and 
constitutes  the  true  though  fragmentary 
restoration  of  one  authentic  type  of 
communal  song.  The  process  is  in  a 
sense  artificial;  but  these  lyrics,  with 
their  tense  passion  and  subtle  melan- 
choly, so  different  from  the  broader 
Teutonic  pathos  and  sentiment,  evident- 
ly utter  the  poet's  temperament  as  well 
as  that  of  her  race.  She  employs  an 
extraordinary  variety  of  metrical  forms 
without  appearing  to  be  whimsical.  Of- 
ten by  trifling  irregularities  of  rhythm 
she  is  able  to  gain  a  singular  effect  of 

1  The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn :  Poems  by 
ANNA  MACMANUS  (ETHNA  CARBERY).  Dub- 
lin :  M.  H.  GUI  &  Co.  1902. 


naive  beauty;  as  in  these  stanzas  from 

On  an  Island :  — 

"  Weary  on  ye,  sad  waves  ! 
Still  scourging  the  lonely  shore, 
Oh,  I  am  far  from  my  father's  door, 
And  my  kindred's  graves. 

"  From  day  to  day,  outside 
There  is  nothing  but  dreary  sea ; 
And  at  night  o'er  the  dreams  of  me 
The  great  waters  glide. 

"  If  I  look  to  East  or  West, 
Green  billows  go  tipped  with  foam  — 
Green  woods  gird  my  father's  home, 
With  birds  on  each  nest." 

Often,  too,  the  verse  moves  with  the 
restless  lilt,  and  the  expression  takes  on 
the  curious  figures  of  color,  which  are 
unmistakable  marks  of  race :  — 

"I  bared  my  heart  to  the  winds  and  my  cry 
went  after  you  — 

A  brown  west  wind  blew  past  and  the  east  my 
secret  knew, 

A  red  east  wind  blew  far  to  the  lonesome  bog- 
land's  edge, 

And  the  little  pools  stirred  sighing  within  their 
girdling  sedge. 

"  The  north  wind  hurled  it  south  —  the  black 

north  wind  of  grief  — 
And  the   white    south   wind   came    crooning 

through  every  frozen  leaf  ; 
Yet  never  a  woe  of   mine,  blown  wide  down 

starlit  space, 
H,ath  quickened   the  pulse   of  your  heart,  or 

shadowed  your  rose-red  face." 

I  do  not  know  how  the  listener  to  mu- 
sic like  this,  however  bound  by  the  poeti- 
cal conventions  of  his  own  race,  can  deny 
that  it  possesses  the  genuine  lyric  rap- 
ture. Apart  from  its  appeal  as  the  up- 
welling  of  a  true  poetic  impulse,  its  root- 
hold  in  a  tradition  of  large  significance 
must  give  it  immunity  from  the  stigma 
of  that  poetry  of  coterie  which  Mr. 
Courthope  shows  to  be  one  of  the  signs 
of  decadence.  It  is  sad  that  the  first 
collected  work  of  so  delicate  a  poet 
should  have  been  published  posthumous- 
ly. The  recent  death  of  Mrs .  MacManus 
will  be  felt  as  a  genuine  loss  by  lovers 
of  poetry. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  carry  over  into 


558 


Books  New  and  Old. 


the  expression  of  modern  English  or 
American  life  the  free  disregard  of  our 
established  metrical  forms  which  is  tol- 
erable in,  because  in  a  way  indigenous 
to,  the  poetry  of  the  Celt  is  made  clear 
by  such  work  as  that  of  Mr.  Bridges.1 
There  is  something,  it  seems,  in  the  im- 
mitigable leaven  of  our  Teutonic  blood 
which  calls  for  restraint  and  conform- 
ity, and  is  disinclined,  these  qualities 
lacking,  to  admit  that  Horace's  rule  has 
been  followed  —  that  the  right  form  of 
expression  has  sprung  naturally  out  of 
a  just  mode  of  conception.  For  exam- 
ple, the  form  of  expression  employed  in 
the  two  pieces  of  verse  which  open  the 
present  volume  seems  almost  painfully 
inadequate.  Can  one  imagine  the  fit- 
ness of  addressing  a  dying  friend  in 
these  tripping  staves  ?  — 
' '  We  must  part  now  ?  Well,  here  is  the  hand 

of  a  friend ; 
I  will  keep  you  in  sight  till  the  road  makes 

its  turning 

Just  over  the  ridge  within  reach  of  the  end 
Of   your   arduous    toil  —  the   beginning    of 

learning. 

"  You  will  call  to  me  once  from  the  mist,  on 

the  verge, 
'  Au  revoir ! '  and  '  good  night ! '  while  the 

twilight  is  creeping 

Up  luminous  peaks,  and  the  pale  stars  emerge  ? 
Yes,  I  hear  your  faint  voice  :  '  This  is  rest, 

and  like  sleeping.'  " 

Or  is  it  possible  to  be  impressed  with 
the  propriety  of  imputing  the  measure 
of  "  'T  was  the  night  before  Christmas  " 
to  a  communication  From  One  Long 
Dead?  — 
"  I  've  been  dead  all  these  years  !  and  to-night 

in  your  heart 
There 's   a  stir  of    emotion,   a   vision  that 

slips  — 
It 's  my  face  in  the  moonlight  that  gives  you  a 

start, 
It 's  my  name  that  in  joy  rushes  up  to  your 

lips !  " 

Mr.  Bridges  tells  us  in  his  dedicatory 
lines  that  he  has  found  his  inspiration 
in  Burns,  or  one  might  have  suspected 

1  Bramble  Brae.  By  ROBERT  BRIDGES 
(DROCH).  New  York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1902. 


here  a  resuscitation  of  the  metrical 
habit  once  (but  long  ago)  admired  in 
Thomas  Moore.  But  his  forms  do  not 
always  err  upon  the  side  of  elaboration : 
"  I  lent  him  to  my  country 

And  he  wore  the  Navy  blue  ; 
I  bade  him  do  his  duty, 

And  he  said  he  would  be  true. 

It 's  home  they  say  you  're  coming, 

And  it 's  home  you  came  to  me 
When  you  wore  your  first  blue  jacket 

At  the  old  Academy. 
And  the  neighbors  said,   '  How   hand- 
some ! 

What  a  sailor  he  will  be ! ' 
But  I  only  drew  him  closer 

In  my  coddling  mother's  joy, 
And  said,  '  Well,  what 's  a  sailor  ? 
He 's  my  brave  boy !  ' ' 

One  is  tempted  to  quote  the  rest  of  the 
piece  because  it  illustrates  so  admirably 
the  kind  of  verse  the  study  of  which  is 
expected  to  illuminate  our  understand- 
ing of  poetry  in  the  large.  Of  course 
Mr.  Kipling  has  been  setting  the  pace 
for  this  sort  of  thing,  and  a  great  deal 
of  it  is  to  be  looked  for  by  a  public 
which  has  tolerated  The  Absent-Minded 
Beggar.  May  it  lead,  in  some  myste- 
rious way,  to  the  production  of  many 
more  poems  like  The  Recessional,  —  a 
poem,  it  must  be  noticed,  which  owes 
much  of  its  power  to  its  rich  treatment 
of  a  simple  and  conventional  metrical 
form.  Mr.  Bridges  is  himself  capable 
of  such  restraint  and  such  success,  as  is 
proved  by  the  charming  lines  on  Ste- 
venson :  — 

"  What  a  glorious  retinue 
Made  that  arduous  chase  with  you  ! 
Half  the  world  stood  still  to  see 
Song  and  Fancy  follow  free  .  .  . 

And  now  the  race 
Ends  with  your  averted  face  ; 
At  full  effort  you  have  sped 
Through  that  doorway  of  the  dead." 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  talent  which  pro- 
duced this  should  so  seldom  have  exerted 
itself  to  such  an  end. 

The  verse  of  Mr.  Robert  Underwood 
Johnson,2  on  the  other  hand,  possesses 

2  Poems.     By  ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHN- 
SON.    New  York :  The  Century  Co.     1902. 


Gardens  and  Garden- Craft. 


559 


remarkable   evenness  of   quality.      Its 
faults  are  not  of  exuberance  or  careless- 
ness or  arbitrariness  of   form,   but  of 
occasional  stiffness  and  over-conscious- 
ness.     These  defects,  however,  belong 
to  the  quality  of  careful  workmanship 
which,  allied  with  the  quality  of  sane 
imagination,  produces  most  good  poet- 
ry.     Certainly  the  emotional  value  of 
Mr.  Johnson's  work  is  seldom  compro- 
mised by  his  adroitness  as  a  metrist. 
He  does  not  invent  metres,  he  employs 
them,  and  with  exceptional  skill.     The 
Winter  Hour,  his  longest  flight,  is  cast 
into  a  simple  measure  to  which  he  gives 
much  flexibility  and  grace :  — 
"  O  silent  hour  that  sacred  is 
To  our  sincerest  reveries  !  — 
When  peering  Fancy  fondly  frames 
Swift  visions  in  the  oak-leaved  flames  ; 
When  Whim  has  magic  to  command 
Largess  and  lore  from  every  land, 
And  Memory,  miser-like,  once  more 
Counts  over  all  her  hoarded  store." 

One  imagines  how  instinctively  the  poet 
may  have  chosen  the  Heine-like  measure 
of  his  Farewell  to  Italy,  to  fit  the  tem- 
per of  brooding  retrospect,  so  like  Heine, 
which  he  has  to  express :  — 

"  Alas !  for  the  dear  remembrance 

We  chose  for  an  amulet : 
The  one  that  is  left  to  keep  it  — 
Ah !  how  can  he  forget  ?  " 

Nor  does  it  appear  that  there  is  any- 
thing artificial  in  the  delicate  seven- 
teenth-century suggestion  which  lingers 


about  the  very  sweetest  and  most  spir- 
ited of  his  lyrics,  Love  in  the  Calendar, 
which  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  quote 
entire :  — 

"  When  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 

Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 

And  every  sound  's  a  tune  ; 
When  Nature  fills  a  fuller  cup, 

And  hides  with  green  the  gray,  — 
Then,  lover,  pluck  your  courage  up 

To  try  your  fate  in  May." 

It  is  necessary  to  speak  with  more 
reservation  of  Mr.  Johnson's  didactic 
and  occasional  verses.  His  Poems  on 
Public  Events,  Songs  of  Liberty,  and 
the  like,  many  of  them  ring  not  false 
but,  compared  with  his  other  verse,  a 
little  thin.  The  full  ardor  of  his  con- 
sciousness is  bestowed  upon  conceptions 
less  diffused.  He  has  done  more  in 
creating  such  a  phrase  as  "grass  half- 
robin  high  "  than  in  writing  many  poems 
upon  Dewey  at  Manila  or  The  Voice  of 
Webster.  But  this  is  in  accordance 
with  a  law  which  governs  all  but  the 
few  supreme  masters  of  song;  for  it  is 
only  they  who  can  with  equal  success 
touch  the  stops  of  various  quills;  who 
are  able  always,  in  whatever  mood  or 
upon  whatever  plane,  to  conceive  justly 
and  to  express  rightly ;  to  create,  that 
is,  the  noble  and  rare  flower  of  genius 
which  the  world  will  for  some  time  con- 
tinue to  style  Poetry. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


GARDENS  AND  GARDEN-CRAFT. 


"  A  garden  in  its  pride, 
Odorous  with  hint  and  rapture 
Of  soft  joys  no  tongue  can  capture," 

is  a  delight  to  which  none  but  the  thrushes 
can  give  adequate  expression,  for  they 
are  past  masters  in  the  **  fine  careless 
rapture." 

It  is  this  nameless  charm  with  which 
the  poets  and  the  thrushes  are  so  famil- 


iar, this  sense  of  green  delights  and  gar- 
den blessedness  which  makes  itself  felt 
in  two  of  the  most  refreshing  books  of 
garden-lore  that  have  been  published  for 
many  a  day,  Garden-Craft,  by  John  D. 
Sedding,  and  Forbes  Watson's  Flowers 
and  Gardens,  the  second  edition  of  a 
book  which  endeared  itself  to  plant-lov- 
ers of  thirty  years  ago.  The  books  are 


560 


Gardens  and  Garden- Craft. 


written  from  widely  differing  stand- 
points, but  each  reflects  the  man :  the 
winsomeness  of  John  Bedding's  sunny 
personality  and  the  rare  sweetness  and 
unworldliness  of  Forbes  Watson's  char- 
acter are  alike  touched  with  that  indefin- 
able grace  wherewith  the  gardens  are 
ever  blessing  back  those  who  love  them 
aright. 

To  leave  the  din  and  clatter  of  the 
streets,  the  clang  of  the  trolley  cars,  the 
cries  of  the  venders,  and  all  the  jarring 
noises  of  this  workaday  world,  and  lose 
one's  self  in  such  a  book  as  that  of  John 
Sedding's,  is  indeed  a  rest  unto  the  soul : 
to  feel  the  dreamy  charm  and  half-for- 
gotten fragrance  of  the  old  gardens  and 
breathe  a  Herrick  atmosphere 

"  Of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and  bowers," 

a  book  where  it  is  a  matter  of  course  to 
meet  Gower  and  Andrew  Marvell,  and 
a  surprise  to  chance  upon  a  bit  of  Brown- 
ing ;  where  Sir  William  Temple  disser- 
tates upon  "  The  perfectest  figure  of  a 
Garden  I  ever  saw,  either  at  Home  or 
Abroad,"  and  Evelyn  gives  advice  on 
terraces ;  where  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  forgets  her  neuralgia  and  her 
quarrel  with  Pope,  although  he  is  not  two 
chapters  off,  and  discourses  amiably  of 
the  Giardino  Jiusti,  and  even  crusty  Hor- 
ace Walpole  drops  his  misanthropy  for 
the  moment,  and  does  a  service  which 
makes  the  garden-lover  always  his  debtor. 
Like  these  old-time  worthies  who  chat 
and  mingle  so  congenially  in  his  pages, 
Sedding  was  not  a  gardener  by  profes- 
sion :  he  was  an  architect,  whose  work 
was  blest  with  both  originality  and  ar- 
tistic quality,  an  artist  with  a  passion- 
ate love  for  studying  flower  and  leaf. 
For  garden-making  is  the  craft  of  crafts 
for  the  artist-amateur.  "  Thus,  if  I  make 
a  garden,"  writes  Sedding,  "  I  need  not 
print  a  line,  nor  conjure  with  the  paint- 
er's tools  to  prove  myself  an  artist.  .  .  . 
Whilst  in  other  spheres  of  labor  the  great- 
er part  of  our  life's  toil  and  moil  will  of 
a  surety  end,  as  the  wise  man  predicted, 


in  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit,  here  is 
instant  physical  refreshment  in  the  work 
the  garden  entails,  and,  in  the  end,  our 
labor  will  be  crowned  with  flowers." 

"  A  garden  is  a  place  where  these  two 
whilom  foes  —  Nature  and  Man  —  patch 
up  a  peace  for  the  nonce.  Outside  the 
garden  precincts  —  in  the  furrowed  field, 
in  the  forest,  the  quarry,  the  mine,  out 
upon  the  broad  seas  —  the  feud  still  pre- 
vails that  began  when  our  first  parents 
found  themselves  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  gate  of  Paradise." 

"  <  There  be  delights,' "  quotes  Sed- 
ding, "  '  that  will  fetch  the  day  about 
from  sun  to  sun  and  rock  the  tedious  year 
as  in  a  delightful  dream.'  .  .  .  For  a 
garden  is  Arcady  brought  home.  It  is 
man's  bit  of  gaudy  make-believe  —  his 
well-disguised  fiction  of  an  unvexed  Par- 
adise ...  a  world  where  gayety  knows 
no  eclipse  and  winter  and  rough  weather 
are  held  at  bay." 

But  this  first  chapter  with  its  page  after 
page  of  garden  rhapsody  is  by  way  of 
invocation.  There  are  quaint  designs 
for  formal  gardens  with  their  sundials 
and  clipped  yew  hedges,  an  admirable 
historical  sketch  of  English  garden-craft, 
the  work  of  the  old  masters,  Bacon,  Eve- 
lyn, and  Temple ;  the  sad  record  of 
the  early  eighteenth  century  when  Mr. 
Brown,  in  the  name  of  landscape  gar- 
dening and  nature,  demolished  the  an- 
cient avenues  and  pleasure  grounds  with 
a  completeness  which  would  have  made 
Spenser's  Sir  Guyon  think  of  his  efforts 
in  Acrasia's  bower  and  blush  for  incom- 
petence :  not  even  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
garden  was  spared  "  unparalleled  by  anie 
in  these  partes,"  and  as  an  advertising 
agent  blazons  his  wares  on  the  silent 
boulders,  Mr.  Brown's  name  was  writ 
large  for  posterity  on  English  gardening. 
"  All  in  CAPITALS,"  to  quote  Dr.  Young. 

It  is  the  old-fashioned  garden,  "  that 
piece  of  hoarded  loveliness  "  as  he  calls 
it,  which  holds  Sedding's  allegiance  :  the 
garden  of  the  men  who  wrote  and 
wrought  when  English  poetry  and  Eng- 


Gardens  and  Garden- Craft. 


561 


lish  garden-craft  were  in  their  spring- 
time, where  contentions  had  not  entered 
in.  He  finds  excellent  poetic  backing 
for  his  love  of  confessed  art  in  a  gar- 
den, intrenching  himself  behind  two  such 
nature-lovers  and  notable  gardeners  as 
Wordsworth  and  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Indeed,  the  kinship  between  garden- 
craft  and  poetry  is  often  overlooked ;  "  we 
have  only  to  turn  to  the  old  poets  and 
note  how  the  texture  of  the  speech  —  the 
groundwork  of  the  thought  —  is  satu- 
rated through  and  through  with  garden 
imagery,"  for  garden-craft  is  only  an- 
other medium  of  expression  for  the  art 
of  the  period  :  even  in  the  Jacobean  gar- 
den, "  we  have  much  the  same  quips  and 
cranks,  the  same  quaint  power  of  metri- 
cal changes,  playful  fancy  of  the  poe- 
try of  Herbert,  Vaughan,  Herrick,  and 
Donne." 

Perhaps  the  most  potent  charm  of  the 
book,  as  of  the  Canterbury  Pilgrimage, 
is  in  the  goodly  company  and  the  plea- 
sure of  finding,  like  Chaucer, 

"  That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon," 

"  to  be  brought  to  old  Lawson's  state  of 
simple  ravishment,  *  What  more  delight- 
some than  an  infinite  varietie  of  sweet- 
smelling  flowers  ?  decking  with  sundry 
colors  the  green  mantle  of  the  Earth, 
coloring  not  onely  the  earth,  but  decking 
the  ayre,  and  sweetning  every  breath 
and  spirit ;'  ...  to  be  inoculated  with 
old  Gerarde  of  the  garden-mania  as  he 
bursts  forth,  t  Go  forward  in  the  name 
of  God :  graffe,  set,  plante,  nourishe  up 
trees  in  every  corner  of  your  grounde.'  " 

The  landscape  architect  may  look 
askance  at  some  of  Sedding's  authorities, 
not  only  such  garden-masters  as  Bacon, 
Temple,  Evelyn,  or  the  later  gardeners 
of  repute,  Gilpin  and  Repton,  or  London 
of  the  "  Gardenesque  School,"  but  More, 
Sir  Joshua,  Sir  Walter,  Elia,  Tennyson, 
William  Morris,  and  Wordsworth,  who 
was  Sedding's  ideal  gardener.  If,  as 
Ruskin  says,  an  architect  should  be  a 
painter  and  a  sculptor,  a  landscape  ar- 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  540.  36 


chitect  should  be  an  artist  and  a  poet  also, 
with  the  poet's  imagination  and  the  gift 
of  seeing  "  the  wonders  that  may  be." 
"  To  my  mind,"  writes  Sedding,  "  a  gar- 
den is  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a 
man's  innate  love  of  loveliness."  Now 
if  a  man  have  not  this  love  of  loveliness, 
which  is  the  soul  of  poetry,  his  garden- 
craft  profiteth  him  nothing. 

Although  it  is  of  English  gardening 
that  Mr.  Sedding  writes,  the  American 
landscape  architect  will  find  excellent 
planting  hints  if  he  does  not  object  to 
"precepts  wrapped  in  a  pretty  meta- 
phor," and  there  is  this  catholic  advice 
for  the  amateur,  "  Put  all  the  beauty  and 
delightsomeness  you  can  into  your  gar- 
den, get  all  the  beauty  and  delight  you 
can  out  of  your  garden,  never  minding 
a  little  mad  want  of  balance,  and  think 
of  the  proprieties  afterwards  !  "  while  he 
turns  to  the  "  Other  Side,"  and  in  his 
Plea  for  Savagery  makes  charming  ex- 
cuse for  those  of  us  to  whom  the  wilder- 
ness is  dearer  and  better  than  the  best  of 
gardens,  the  sweet  and  blessed  country 
which,  however  the  title  deeds  run,  be- 
longs by  birthright  to  the  shy  wood  folk. 

Very  pleasant  is  the  glimpse  Mr.  Rus- 
sell gives  in  his  memoir  of  the  man  John 
Sedding,  —  the  sunshiny,  helpful  pre- 
sence among  the  young  art  students,  the 
ready  friendliness  which  was  the  outer 
garment  of  a  deeply  religious  nature,  the 
earnest  work,  and  after  the  day's  work 
the  delights  of  gardening,  "the  happiest 
of  homes  and  the  sweetest  of  wives,"  the 
grave  on  the  sunny  slope  of  the  little  Kent- 
ish churchyard  where,  under  the  quiet 
elmsr  John  Sedding  and  this  "  sweetest 
of  wives  "  are  together  :  — 

"  'T  is  fit  One  Flesh  One  House  should  have 
One  Tombe,  One  Epitaph,  One  Grave  ; 
And  they  that  lived  and  loved  either 
Should  dye,  and  Lye  and  sleep  together." 

Unlike  Garden  -  Craft,  there  is  little 
theory  in  Flowers  and  Gardens,  and  the 
poetry  of  the  book  lies  in  the  rarely  beau- 
tiful flower  studies,  the  chapters  on  Vege- 
tation and  the  Withering  of  Plants,  while 


562 


Gardens  and  Garden- Craft. 


the  garden  papers  are  rather  desultory 
prose.  The  author,  who  died  in  early 
manhood,  was  a  physician  by  profession, 
a  botanist  by  taste  and  inheritance,  and 
more  than  this  deeply  and  intensely  a 
flower-lover,  which  the  botanist  does  not 
always  nor  of  necessity  include.  Did  not 
Karshish,  who  was  botanist  enough  to 
notice 

"  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 
Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort," 

express  his  astonishment  that  Lazarus 
should  so  love  "  the  very  flowers  of  the 
field  "  ?  Forbes  Watson  from  his  youth 
up  was  preeminently  and  passionately  a 
lover  of  flowers,  —  not  for  the  lust  of 
the  eye,  nor  for  the  pride  of  the  collector, 
not  for  gracing  the  house  with  their  "  en- 
dearing young  charms,"  nor  giving  color 
and  fragrance  to  the  gardens,  —  he  loved 
each  for  its  "  own  dear  loveliness." 

To  his  mind  there  was  more  to  be 
learned  of  a  plant  than  its  physical  struc- 
ture, —  there  was  its  expression,  its  pe- 
culiar beauty  :  "  What  is  the  dearest  and 
the  deepest  in  the  flower,"  he  wrote,  "  is 
best  seen  when  that  flower  is  observed 
alone."  It  was  of  this  "  dearest  and 
deepest"  element  that  Forbes  Watson 
sought  to  learn,  studying  with  scrupulous 
care  of  the  smallest  detail,  with  unweary- 
ing patience,  one  and  another  of  the  com- 
mon every-day  flowers,  until  as  Shelley 
says,  — 

"  The  soul  of  its  beauty  and  love  lay  bare," 

and  he  found  there  is  no  curve  of  petal, 
no  line  of  leaf  nor  touch  of  color,  that  has 
not  only  its  part  to  play  in  the  physical 
life,  but  is  essential  to  the  attainment  of 
its  individual  beauty. 

The  twelve  Studies  in  Plant  Beauty, 
which  comprise  the  first  part  of  the 
book,  show  a  rare  delicacy  of  observa- 
tion, a  poetic  insight  into  the 

"  deeper  meanings  of  what  roses  say," 

that  not  even  Ruskin  exceeded,  and  are 
touched  beside  with  that  other -world- 
liness  one  might  look  to  find  in  writing 


done  during  an  illness  which  a  man 
knew  to  be  his  last. 

It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  quote  his 
analysis  of  the  Yellow  Crocus  with  its 
tiny  mirror-like  devices  for  flashing  and 
holding  the  sunlight,  or  the  Cowslip,  or 
his  finely  delicate  study  of  the  Snowdrop, 
or  the  poetic  interpretation  of  the  Pur- 
ple Crocus's  expression ;  but  these  are 
too  long  to  be  given  in  full,  and  with- 
out the  complete  analysis  quotations  if 
not  rendered  meaningless  would  be  sadly 
marred,  and  the  studies  are  too  beautiful 
for  such  spoiling. 

To  a  man  who  loved  flowers  after  this 
manner,  dwelt  on  their  beauty  with  such 
a  lingering  tenderness,  it  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand that  the 'gardener's  use  of  them 
seemed  sometimes  a  desecration ;  flowers 
and  leaves  speckled  and  spotted  whose 
chief  claim  to  attention  was  novelty. 
"  Look  at  that  scarlet  geranium,"  he 
writes,  "whose  edges  are  broadly  but- 
tered round  with  cream  color  (I  can  use 
no  other  term  which  will  express  the  vul- 
garity of  the  effect)  ;  consider  first  the 
harshness  of  the  leaf  coloring  in  itself, 
then  its  want  of  relation  to  the  form, 
and  finally,  what  a  degradation  this  is  of 
the  clear,  beautiful,  and  restful  contrast 
which  we  find  in  the  plain  scarlet  gera- 
nium ;  and  then  you  ask  yourself  what 
this  taste  can  be  where  this  is  not  only 
tolerated,  but  admired." 

It  was  because  of  his  love  of  the  indi- 
vidual flower  that  Forbes  Watson  fought 
a  good  fight  against  the  carpet  beds 
that  thirty  years  ago  were  in  their  glory, 
and  considered  the  acme  of  garden  per- 
fection, —  the  greatest  blare  of  color,  the 
greatest  excellence  (which  suggests  the 
ideal  of  the  Vicar's  family  in  another  art, 
when  Olivia  declares  admiringly  that  the 
Squire  can  sing  "  louder  than  her  mas- 
ter"). 

"  Our  flower  beds,"  he  wrote  indignant- 
ly, "  are  considered  mere  masses  of  color 
instead  of  an  assemblage  of  living  beings, 
—  the  plant  is  never  old,  never  young, 
it  degenerates  into  a  colored  ornament." 


Woodberry's  Hawthorne. 


563 


The  carpet  beds,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
have  passed  away  with  that  other  carpet 
work  of  an  earlier  generation  which  Mrs. 
Jameson  declared  so  immoral ;  still,  that 
popular  feminine  adornment,  the  huge 
bunch  of  violets  is  only  another  form  of 
the  same  barbarism ;  nothing  could  be 
more  utterly  alien  to  the  character  and 
individuality  of  this  dear,  shadow-loving, 
poet's  flower,  and  here  is  a  landscape  ar- 
chitect whose  advertisement  in  one  of  the 
current  magazines  runs  in  this  fashion : 
"  There  is  no  more  useful  garden  mate- 
rial than  the  so-called  Dutch  bulbs,  hya- 
cinths, crocuses,  narcissi,"  and  the  like, 
none  which  yield  a  larger  return  "  for 
so  small  an  expenditure  of  time  and 


money 


Alas  for  the  flowers !  —  the 


narcissi  that  Shelley  loved  —  the  dain- 
ty crocuses  that  lift  their  faces  to  the 
doubtful  sun  with  such  a  childlike  confi- 
dence ;  they  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
the  Philistines  ;  how  they  must  sigh  for 
Content  in  a  Garden  of  Mrs.  Wheeler's 
making,  where  the  flowers  have  their  pre- 
ferences consulted,  are  loved  and  petted 
and  praised  as  flowers  should  be,  make 
room  for  one  another  in  the  garden  beds 
with  gracious  courtesy,  and  are  given  de- 
lightful introduction  to  the  world  in  the 
charming  pages  of  her  little  volume  where 


the  sense  of  green  things  creeps  into  the 
very  pages. 

"  None,"  Forbes  Watson  declares,  — 
"  none  can  have  a  healthy  love  for  flow- 
ers unless  he  lovea  the  wild  ones."  It 
is  on  this  study  of  the  wild  flowers  that 
he  insists,  not  only  for  their  own  sake, 
although  they  give  ample  recompense, 
but  because  it  is  only  in  this  way  that 
the  eye  may  be  kept  single,  that  one  can 
know  the  true  beauty  from  the  false,  nor 
go  after  strange  gods  and  sacrifice  for 
more  size  and  sensuousness  the  rarer, 
finer  qualities  of  harmony  and  purity  of 
form. 

If  Forbes  Watson  thought  of  the  hur- 
rying, restless  generation,  the  men  and 
women  nerve  -  distracted,  careful  and 
troubled  about  many  things,  or  wearied 
with  pleasures  "  daubed  with  cost,"  as. 
Bacon  says,  —  the  things  which  make 
for  "  state  and  magnificence,  but  are  no- 
thing to  the  true  pleasure  of  a  garden," 
—  who  have  eyes,  but  not  for  the  flow- 
ers, he  might  have  felt  with  the  prophet 
when  his  servant  was  anxious  and  dis- 
tressed because  he  saw  not  the  heavenly 
vision. 

"  My  master  how  shall  we  do  ?  "  and 
Elisha  prayed  unto  the  Lord  and  said, 
"  Lord,  I  pray  thee,  open  his  eyes." 
Frances  Duncan. 


WOODBERRY'S  HAWTHORNE. 


IT  was  no  uncertain  calling  and  elec- 
tion which  made  Mr.  George  Edward 
Woodberry  the  biographer  of  Haw- 
thorne.1 Fifteen  years  ago,  in  his  Life 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  the  same  series, 
Mr.  Woodberry  showed  himself  to  be  a 
skillful  architect  of  biography,  a  just 
and  singularly  illuminating  critic;  but 
in  the  present  volume  there  are  virtues 
not  conspicuously  evident  in  the  treat- 

1  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  By  GEORGE  ED- 
WARD WOODBERRY.  [American  .Men  of  Let- 


ment  of  Poe.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  less 
fruitage  here  of  the  painstaking  and 
happily  rewarded  research  so  notable  in 
the  Poe,  but  this  was  scarcely  either 
possible  or  desirable.  There  was  no 
melodramatic  mystery  in  Hawthorne's 
external  life ;  and  the  journals  of  him- 
self and  his  wife,  with  the  ample  re- 
cords which  have  been  composed  by  many 
of  his  friends,  by  his  son-in-law,  and 

ters.J  Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.  1902. 


564 


Woodberry  s  Hawthorne. 


by  his  son,  leave  few  of  the  objective 
facts  and  incidents  of  his  career  un- 
known. Nevertheless,  this  latest  bio- 
graphy has  a  distinction  all  its  own,  aris- 
ing in  part  from  the  firm  and  incisive 
critical  analysis,  but  yet  more  largely 
the  result  of  a  certain  racy  and  indige- 
nous sympathy  between  the  moods  and 
minds  of  men  bred  upon  the  same  pine- 
hung,  history-haunted  shore. 

The  account  of  the  earlier  fortunes 
of  the  Hawthorne  family  in  America, 
and  of  the  parentage  and  boyhood  of 
the  one  great  Hawthorne,  is  distin- 
guished by  a  felicitous  use  of  the  signifi- 
cant detail,  giving  everywhere  evidence 
of  that  faculty  which  may  not  impro- 
perly be  termed  the  biographical  imagi- 
nation, whereby  the  crude  actual  stuff 
of  diverse  dusty  records  is  fused  into 
the  lively  image  of  a  man.  But  it  is  in 
the  chapter  upon  the  Chamber  under 
the  Eaves  that  Mr.  Woodberry  first  im- 
presses the  reader  with  a  sense  of  the 
intimacy  of  his  understanding  of  Haw- 
thorne's temperament.  The  part  played 
in  the  development  of  Hawthorne's  pe- 
culiar genius  by  his  singular  sequestra- 
tion throughout  a  dozen  of  his  most 
plastic  years  has  already  been  noted  by 
many  discerning  critics.  Hawthorne 
himself  wrote :  "  If  ever  I  should  have 
a  biographer,  he  ought  to  make  great 
mention  of  this  chamber  in  my  me- 
moirs." Taking  this  as  his  text,  Mr. 
Paul  Elmer  More  contributed  to  the 
Atlantic  not  long  ago l  a  remarkable 
essay  upon  The  Solitude  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  wherein  the  heart  of  his 
mystery  narrowly  escapes  the  plucking 
out;  but  Mr.  Woodberry's  is  perhaps 
the  first  formal  biography  to  make  suf- 
ficiently "  great  mention  "  of  this  quaint, 
chrysalitic  little  room. 

The  color  and  import  of   the  level 
years  spent  in  this  retirement  are  excel- 
lently stated  in  the  following  passage: 
"He  had  no  visitors  and  made  no 
friends ;   hardly  twenty  persons  in  the 
town,  he  thought,  were  aware  of  his  ex- 
1  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1901. 


istence ;  but  he  brought  home  hundreds 
of  volumes  from  the  Salem  Athenaeum, 
and  knew  the  paths  of  the  woods  and 
pastures  and  the  way  along  the  beaches 
and  rocky  points,  and  he  had  the  stuff 
of  his  fantasy  with  which  to  occupy 
himself  when  nature  and  books  failed  to 
satisfy  him.  At  first  there  must  have 
been  great  pleasure  in  being  at  home, 
for  he  had  not  really  lived  a  home  life 
since  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  he 
was  fond  of  home;  and,  too,  in  the 
young  ambition  to  become  a  writer  and 
in  his  efforts  to  achieve  success,  if  not 
fame,  in  fiction,  and  in  the  first  motions 
of  his  creative  genius,  there  was  enough 
to  fill  his  mind,  to  provide  him  with 
active  interest  and  occupation,  and  to 
abate  the  sense  of  loneliness  in  his  daily 
circumstances ;  but  as  youth  passed  and 
manhood  came,  and  yet  Fortune  lagged 
with  her  gifts,  this  existence  became 
insufficient  for  him,  —  it  grew  burden- 
some as  it  showed  barren,  and  depres- 
sion set  in  upon  him  like  a  chill  and  ob- 
scure fog  over  the  marshes  where  he 
walked.  This,  however,  year  dragging 
after  year,  was  a  slow  process ;  and  the 
kind  of  life  he  led,  its  gray  and  dead- 
ening monotone,  sympathetic  though  it 
was  with  his  temperament,  was  seen  by 
him  better  in  retrospect  than  in  its  own 
time." 

Yet  it  was  precisely  this  brooding, 
monotonous  life  —  so  congruous  with 
that  essential  tacitness  of  temperament 
which  was  perhaps  Hawthorne's  chief 
inheritance  from  his  Puritan  an6estry 
—  that  determined  the  true  bent  and 
idiosyncrasy  of  his  art.  It  was  here 
that  the  high  singularity  of  his  nature 
was  intensified,  and  it  was  in  this  crea- 
tive and  populous  solitude  that  he  ac- 
quired that  glance  which,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  descended  to  meet 
with  his  fellows,  "comprehended  the 
crowd  and  penetrated  the  breast  of  the 
solitary  man. "  All  this  is  developed 
by  Mr.  Woodberry  very  fully  and  effec- 
tively. It  is  well  to  hold  it  clearly  in 
mind,  for  it  bears  upon  an  interesting 


Woodberry's  Hawthorne. 


565 


critical  dictum  to  be  noticed  hereafter, 
wherewith  many  honest  readers  will 
surely  wish  to  join  issue. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  a  greater 
change  than  that  which  came  in  the 
manner  of  Hawthorne's  life  after  his 
fortunate  union  with  Sophia  Peabody. 
Mr.  Woodberry  writes  of  the  Haw- 
thorne home  at  Concord  with  discretion 
and  delicacy,  —  "a  home  essentially 
not  of  an  uncommon  New  England  type, 
where  refined  qualities  and  noble  behav- 
ior flourished  close  to  the  soil  of  home- 
ly duties  and  the  daily  happiness  of 
natural  lives  under  whatever  hardships ; 
a  home  of  friendly  ties,  of  high  thoughts 
within,  and  of  poverty  bravely  borne." 

Except  in  his  genial  Italian  days, 
Hawthorne  was  probably  never  happier 
than  here.  After  the  cloistered,  shad- 
owy years  in  Salem,  with  its  sombre 
traditions  and  peculiar  sophisticated 
provinciality,  feeling  himself  always 
by  contradictory  impulses  at  once  an 
alien  and  a  true-born  child  of  the  soil, 
what  must  have  been  the  joy  deep  root- 
ed in  Hawthorne's  life  during  those 
first  months  of  perfect  domestic  content- 
ment in  the  green  countryside  of  Con- 
cord! Mr.  Woodberry  is  particularly 
happy  in  his  characterization  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  Concord  in  those  years,  and 
in  his  statement  of  Hawthorne's  rela- 
tion as  an  artist  to  its  life :  — 

"  That  part  of  New  England  was  not 
far  from  being  a  Forest  of  Arden,  when 
Emerson  might  be  met  any  day  with  a 
pail  berrying  in  the  pastures,  or  Mar- 
garet Fuller  reclining  by  a  brook,  or 
Hawthorne  on  a  high  rock  throwing 
stones  at  his  own  shadow  in  the  water. 
There  was  a  Thoreau  —  there  still  is 
—  in  every  New  England  village,  usual- 
ly inglorious.  The  lone  fisherman  of 
the  Isaac  Walton  type  had  become,  in 
the  New  World,  the  wood- walker,  the 
flower-hunter,  the  bird-fancier,  the  ber- 
ry-picker, and  many  another  variety  of 
the  modern  ruralist.  Hawthorne  might 
easily  have  found  a  companion  or  two 
of  similar  wandering  habits  and  half 


hermit- like  intellectual  life,  though  sel- 
dom so  fortunate  as  to  be  able  to  give 
themselves  entirely  up  to  vagrancy  of 
mind,  like  himself.  Thoreau  is,  per- 
haps, the  type  on  the  nature  side ;  and 
Hawthorne  was  to  village  what  Thoreau 
was  to  the  wild  wood." 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  dwell  longer 
upon  this  graceful  narrative  of  Haw- 
thorne's external  life,  but  the  details 
of  his  later  career  as  a  custom-house 
official,  as  a  consul,  as  a  man  of  letters, 
are  already  so  well  known  to  most  read- 
ers that  it  is  better  to  advert  to  the 
criticism  and  appreciation  of  his  writ- 
ings and  his  genius  as  an  artist,  in 
which,  after  all,  the  chief  significance 
of  the  book  lies. 

In  closing  his  chapter  upon  The  Old 
Manse  Mr.  Woodberry  takes  occasion 
to  summarize  critically  Hawthorne's 
work  in  the  form  of  the  short  story. 
The  essential  character  of  the  narratives 
in  Twice-Told  Tales  and  Mosses  from 
an  Old  Manse  is  set  forth  with  firmness 
and  subtlety.  Hawthorne's  peculiar 
use  of  the  symbol  of  borrowed  or  attrib- 
uted life,  his  preference  for  the  proces- 
sional in  the  construction  of  a  story,  and 
the  distinctive  flavor  and  effect  of  the 
tales  are  especially  well  stated.  Of  them 
Mr.  Woodberry  says  finely :  — 

"A  charm,  a  health,  even  a  power, 
comes  to  the  surface  as  one  gazes,  the 
power  of  peace  in  quiet  places ;  and  even 
a  cultivated  man,  if  he  be  not  callous 
with  culture,  may  feel  its  attractive- 
ness, a  sense  that  the  tide  of  life  grows 
full  in  the  still  coves  as  well  as  on  all 
the  sounding  beaches  of  the  world." 

But  throughout  this  part  of  the  dis- 
cussion there  is,  as  has  been  hinted,  one 
presupposition  about  which  there  is  room 
for  a  very  considerable  difference  of 
opinion.  To  put  it  in  the  fewest  pos- 
sible words,  this  is  that  Hawthorne's 
art,  particularly  as  it  is  exhibited  in  the 
earlier  tales,  is  rather  labored  than 
spontaneous  with  the  spontaneity  of 
genius  of  the  first  order.  But  in  re- 
porting the  opinion  of  another,  the  few- 


566 


Woodberry's  Hawthorne. 


est  words  are  too  often  misleading. 
Mr.  Woodberry  must  speak  to  his  own 
brief.  He  says  of  Hawthorne :  — 

"The  most  surprising  thing,  how- 
ever, is  that  his  genius  is  found  to  be 
so  purely  objective ;  he  himself  empha- 
sized the  objectivity  of  his  art.  From 
the  beginning,  as  has  been  said,  he  had 
no  message,  no  inspiration  welling  up 
within  him,  no  inward  life  of  his  own 
that  sought  expression.  He  was  not 
even  introspective.  He  was  primarily 
a  moralist,  an  observer  of  life,  which 
he  saw  as  a  thing  of  the  outside,  and  he 
was  keen  in  observation,  cool,  interest- 
ed. If  there  was  any  mystery  in  his 
tales,  it  was  in  the  object,  not  in  the 
author's  breast;  he  makes  no  confes- 
sions either  direct  or  indirect,  —  he  de- 
scribes the  thing  he  sees.  He  main- 
tained that  his  tales  were  perfectly  in- 
telligible, and  he  meant  this  to  apply 
not  only  to  style  but  to  theme.  It  is 
best  to  cite  his  own  testimony.  His 
personal  temper  is  indicated  in  the  frag- 
mentary phrase  in  the  Note-Books; 
*  not  that  I  have  any  love  of  mystery, 
but  because  I  abhor  it, '  he  writes ;  and 
again  in  the  oft-quoted  passage,  he  de- 
scribes perfectly  the  way  in  which  his 
nature  cooperated  with  his  art  to  give 
the  common  ground  of  human  sympa- 
thy, but  without  anything  peculiar  to 
himself  being  called  into  play." 

There  is  truth  in  all  this,  cogently 
stated.  No  sensitive  reader  is  likely  to 
maintain  that  there  is  to  be  felt  beneath 
the  somewhat  rigid  structure  of  Haw- 
thorne's tales  either  the  irrepressible 
welling  of  inspiration  or  the  large 
rhythm  which  he  feels  in  the  work  of 
the  greatest  masters.  Still,  is  it  quite 
just  to  say  that  Hawthorne  had  no  in- 
ward life  of  his  own  which  sought  ex- 
pression ?  One  feels  that  here,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Woodberry  has  carried  the  delicate 
affair  of  rationalizing  genius  to  a  dan- 
gerous limit.  There  is,  to  be  sure, 
small  trace  of  "  lyricism  "  to  be  found 
anywhere  in  Hawthorne's  writings. 
Nevertheless,  many  readers  will  con- 


tinue to  believe  that  there  was  a  spring 
of  inspiration  "in  the  author *s  breast, " 
and  that  the  practice  of  brooding  intro- 
spection was  not  unknown  to  him  in  the 
Chamber  under  the  Eaves.  Indeed, 
some  people  will  like  to  think  that  there 
was  a  queer  streak  of  mystery  and  su- 
pernaturalism  in  Hawthorne's  tempera- 
ment, —  perhaps  too  fancifully  referred 
to  his  atrabilious,  witch-judging  ances- 
try, —  which  as  much  as  conscious  and 
elaborate  objectivity  of  method  affected 
his  art.  This  view  is  sustained  by  sev- 
eral of  his  friends  who  thought  that, 
hidden  beneath  his  shy  reserves,  broken 
by  moods  almost  pagan  in  their  sunny 
geniality,  they  detected  something  very 
like  a  heart's  mystery,  "an  inward  life 
that  sought  expression. "  Indeed,  there 
be  some  who  in  reading  the  very  Note- 
Books  which  are  here  put  in  evidence, 
wherein  Hawthorne  himself  expounds 
the  externality  of  his  art,  will  find  in 
the  singular  supernaturalism  or  spirit- 
uality of  the  stray,  casual  jottings  of 
his  fantasy,  there  set  down,  a  hint  of 
the  truth.  It  is  true  that  Hawthorne 
merely  describes  the  things  he  sees,  but 
with  what  eyes  shall  one  behold  the 
dark  depths  of  character  and  the  mys- 
teries of  sin  in  the  soul  ?  Is  it  not,  to 
use  a  hackneyed  but  precise  "term  of 
art,"  by  apperception?  And  in  such 
a  process  is  not  something  more  than 
an  author's  "human  sympathy,"  some- 
thing "peculiar  to  himself,"  called  into 
play?  It  may  be  that  all  this  distorts 
the  natural  emphasis  of  our  critic's 
thought;  nevertheless,  some  such  qual- 
ification seems  not  unimportant.  For 
after  all  how  great  in  biography,  as  in 
art  and  in  life,  is  the  import  of  the  in- 
definable and  the  vague ! 

We  have  paused  so  long  over  this  chia- 
roscuro of  criticism  that  we  must  pass 
Mr.  Woodberry 's  remarks  upon  Haw- 
thorne's longer  works  rather  summarily. 
This  is  the  less  to  be  regretted  because 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  in  dealing  with  the 
short  story  that  he  has  best  defined 
Hawthorne's  art,  showing  by  a  beauti- 


Woodberry's  Hawthorne. 


567 


f  ul  demonstration  how  it  is  universalized 
by  the  abstract  moral  element  in  it,  the 
chief  result  alike  of  Hawthorne's  Pu- 
ritan descent  and  of  his  long  solitary 
brooding  upon  the  life  of  men's  souls. 

Yet  it  will  not  do  to  overlook  one 
powerful  paragraph  about  the  Scarlet 
Letter,  which,  while  it  is  not  at  all  the 
usual  thing  to  say  about  that  book,  is 
likely  to  win  a  hearty  assent  from  the 
judicious  reader :  — 

"Its  truth,  intense,  fascinating,  ter- 
rible as  it  is,  is  a  half-truth,  and  the 
darker  half ;  it  is  the  shadow  of  which 
the  other  half  is  light;  it  is  the  wrath 
of  which  the  other  half  is  love.  A 
book  from  which  light  and  love  are  ab- 
sent may  hold  us  by  its  truth  to  what  is 
dark  in  life,  but  in  the  highest  sense 
it  is  a  false  book.  It  is  a  chapter  in 
the  literature  of  moral  despair,  and  is 
perhaps  most  tolerated  as  a  condemna- 
tion of  the  creed  which,  through  imper- 
fect comprehension,  it  travesties." 

Here  is  a  hint  which  may  throw  a 
ray  of  light  down  into  that  "abyss" 
in  him  of  which  Hawthorne  sometimes 
spoke.  By  the  inherited  constitution 
and  the  acquired  tendency  of  his  mind 
Hawthorne  was  prone  to  ponder  upon 
the  great  evil  of  sin ;  his  nature  was  too 
true  and  high  to  find  consolation  for 
such  evil  in  that  recognition  of  its  ne- 
cessity which  often  is  laid,  a  flattering 
unction,  to  lesser  souls.  Yet  by  the 
subtle  constraints  of  his  inheritance  he 
seemed  precluded  from  rising  to  a  full 
realization  of  the  mercy  which  dissolves 
evil,  which  is  doubtless  in  the  last  anal- 
ysis the  finest  justice. 

This  comment  has  been  so  much  con- 
cerned with  the  more  sombre  aspects 
of  Hawthorne's  professional  character, 
that  the  stick  needs  bending  the  other 
way  to  straighten  it.  Perhaps  the  most 
veracious  impression  of  the  essential 
sweetness  of  his  temperament  can  be 
conveyed  by  quoting  Mr.  Woodberry's 
delightful  appreciation  of  his  children's 
books,  —  a  department  of  his  work  too 
often  overlooked  in  critical  estimates : 


"  If  to  wake  and  feed  the  imagination 
and  charm  it,  and  fill  the  budding  mind 
with  the  true  springtime  of  the  soul's 
life  in  beautiful  images,  noble  thoughts, 
and  brooding  moods  that  have  in  them 
the  infinite  suggestion,  be  success  for  a 
writer  who  would  minister  to  the  child- 
ish heart,  few  books  can  be  thought  to 
equal  these ;  and  the  secret  of  it  lies  in 
the  wondering  sense  which  Hawthorne 
had  of  the  mystical  in  childhood,  of 
that  element  of  purity  in  being  which  is 
felt  also  in  his  reverence  for  woman- 
hood, and  which,  whether  in  child  or 
woman,  was  typical  of  the  purity  of  the 
soul  itself,  —  in  a  word,  the  spiritual 
sense  of  life.  His  imagination,  living 
in  the  child-sphere,  pure,  primitive,  in- 
experienced, found  only  sunshine  there, 
the  freshness  of  the  early  world ;  nor 
are  there  any  children's  books  so  dipped 
in  morning  dews." 

The  architectonic  of  Mr.  Woodber- 
ry's book  is  unusual  among  literary  bi- 
ographies. We  miss  the  customary  final 
attempt  at  definitive  characterization  of 
the  subject's  personality  and  the  esti- 
mation of  his  "place  in  literature." 
Yet  the  book  is  doubtless  more  effective 
—  it  certainly  is  more  artistic  —  as  it 
stands.  Any  competent  reader  is  sure 
to  derive  a  just  impression  from  the 
compactly  wrought  narrative  with  its 
sympathetic,  luminously  phrased  com- 
ment, whereas  not  rarely  the  set  pic- 
ture leaves  even  capable  readers  to  de- 
plore 

"  Ter  f rustra  comprensa  manus  effugit  imago.' ' 

The  true  lover  of  Hawthorne  will  not 
care  to  go  beyond  Mr.  Woodberry's  con- 
cluding sentence,  which  follows  immedi- 
ately upon  the  plain  account  of  Haw- 
thorne's death:  — 

"His  wife  survived  him  a  few  years 
and  died  in  London  in  1871 ;  perhaps 
even  more  than  his  genius  the  sweetness 
of  his  home  life  with  her,  as  it  is  so 
abundantly  shown  in  his  children's 
memories,  lingers  in  the  mind  that  has 
dwelt  long  on  the  story  of  his  life." 

F.  G. 


568 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


I  HAVE  no  teapot  in  my  soul.     If  I 

An  After-      were  a  man  and  a  citizen,  this 

noon  Griev-   would  not  matter ;  but,  being: 

ance.  .  .     ,, 

a  woman,  it  matters  vitally. 

It  means  that  I  have  no  love  for  the 
pantry  shelves  or  the  things  on  them, 
that  I  loathe  a  chafing-dish,  and  that 
when  my  friends  drop  in,  casually,  about 
five  o'clock,  I  have  not  the  power  of 
concocting,  in  the  intervals  of  light  and 
airy  conversation,  a  cup  of  amber  tea  to 
be  served  with  cheery  smiles  and  a  lem- 
on. These  things  ought  not  so  to  be  in 
a  Christian  country.  Having  been  born 
in  a  Christian  country,  —  a  privilege  to 
which  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  what 
I  am,  as  I  am  reminded  from  time  to 
time  in  church  and  prayer-meeting,  — 
I  ought  to  live  up  to  the  condition  in 
life  to  which  I  have  been  called.  I 
ought  to  dote  on  home,  and  I  ought  to 
be  able  to  evolve  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
wafer  out  of  my  inner  consciousness,  at 
a  moment's  notice,  —  which,  alas,  I  can- 
not. There  is  a  moral  tagging  along 
somewhere  after  this  subject.  I  do  not 
know  just  what  it  is ;  but  I  know  that 
it  strikes  deep  into  the  roots  of  being. 
I  cannot  tell  when  my  unregenerate 
state  set  in.  I  was  not  always  thus. 
I  recall  a  time  when  I  played  dishes 
on  the  window-sill  and  made  "Sally 
Lunns  "  out  of  a  yellow  covered  receipt 
book.  It  was  a  very  disreputable  re- 
ceipt book,  printed  on  thin  paper,  and 
full  of  indigestion,  given  away  at  the 
drug  store  to  wondering  schoolchildren 
and  treasured  by  me  for  my  delectable 
window-sill.  The  Sally  Lunns,  I  ad- 
mit, were  chosen  chiefly  for  their  pic- 
turesque name,  and  for  the  stimulus  it 
furnished  to  the  higher  imagination; 
they  were  doubtless  of  a  deadly  nature. 
But  the  delight  I  took  in  them  and  the 
airs  and  graces  and  flourishes  that  went 
to  their  composition  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate that  I  was  not,  at  that  period  of 


my  career,  at  least,  an  unsexed  female. 
Somewhere,  sometime,  unawares,  the 
fatal  thing  crept  upon  me. 

There  were  signs  of  it  in  early  maid- 
enhood. I  know  the  signs  were  there, 
because  I  had  a  sister  in  whom  they 
were  absent.  She  was  always  passing 
things.  If  an  innocent  company  assem- 
bled in  our  parlor  of  an  evening,  this 
sister  would  slip  quietly  away  and  would 
presently  return  bearing  in  her  hands 
food  products,  which  she  distributed  to 
the  waiting  crowd.  Sometimes  it  was 
a  pan  of  apples,  red  and  shining,  from 
the  cellar,  and  sometimes  cookies;  and 
once,  I  remember,  it  was  crackers  and 
water.  But  it  seemed  to  be  the  idea 

—  the  idea  of  having  something  passed 

—  that  counted.    The  thing  passed  was 
immaterial,  a  mere  device  for  setting  in 
motion  the  wheels  of  conversation ;   and 
between  nibbles  flights  of  wit  were  es- 
sayed prodigious  in  their  import.     Our 
parties  were  always  a  success,  thanks 
to  the  presence  of  a  born  hostess.     The 
teapot  on  her  hearth  sang  always  gen- 
tly;  and  not  the  least  and  most  unim- 
portant member  of  the  company  but  felt 
that  it  was  good  to  be  there.   One  touch 
of  nature  makes  the  world  akin.      And 
in  the  matter  of  chewing  there  is  small 
choice  of  souls.     I  have  seen  a  lumpish 
young  man,  with  a  look  of  dressed-up 
desperation  in  his  face,  changed,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  into  an  intelligent 
human    being,    chewing     complacently 
with  the  best  of  them.      This  I  have 
seen.   But  this,  alas,  I  have  not  brought 
to  pass  myself.      It  never  occurred  to 
me  to  pass  anything.     I  could  only  look 
on  with  the  rest,  in  dumb  admiration 
of  one  who  did  not  have  to  struggle  for 
acts  of  social  grace,  one  in  whose  soul 
they  sprang  ready  born  from  a  simple, 
gracious  wish  to  please.      I  did  once, 
out  of  the  depths  of  my  being,  in  my 
sister's  absence,  evolve  the  idea  of  pass- 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


569 


ing  something.  But  my  imagination 
refused  to  rise  higher  than  crackers,  and 
when  I  went  to  look  the  bag  was  emp- 
ty. So  I  did  not  pass  them.  The  cru- 
cial moment  went  by.  I  have  sometimes 
wondered  since  whether,  if  there  had 
been  but  a  handful  of  crackers  in  that 
mocking  paper  bag,  things  might  not 
have  turned  out  differently.  I  like  to 
fancy  that  I  too  might  be  a  gentle,  gra- 
cious hostess,  permeating  my  assemblies 
with  the  fragrant  scent  of  tea,  and 
moulding  public  opinion  on  olives.  But 
it  was  not  to  be. 

With  wondering  gaze  I  saw  the  ap- 
ples passed  and  wit  and  conversation  be- 
gin to  flow.  But  I  never  caught  the 
secret.  "They  also  serve  who  only 
stand  and  wait, "  perhaps  —  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  that  Mrs.  Milton 
might  have  given  a  different  version  of 
the  affair.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  she 
had  the  knack  of  passing  things.  That 
kind  of  woman  is  always  passing  things, 
with  her  husband  sitting  placidly  by 
and  composing  poems:  "Serene  I  fold 
my  hands  and  wait,"  or  "They  also 
serve  who  only  stand  and  wait, "  and 
think  that  they  have  contributed  their 
share  to  the  sum  total  of  happiness. 
Perhaps  they  have.  Their  wives  think 
so,  —  gentle  creatures, —  and  give  them 
tea  to  drink  when  their  arduous  work 
is  done. 

The  teapot  soul  is  not  a  product  of 
any  one  land  or  clime  or  race.  Wher- 
ever woman  is  found  it  shines  serene. 
There  is  one  who  dwells  in  my  mind,  a 
born  Frenchwoman,  exiled  in  early  life 
to  the  shores  of  Boston,  but  retaining 
ever  in  her  soul  a  delicate  fragrance  of 
social  grace.  Her  sons  have  become 
distinguished  scientists;  her  daughters 
have  taken  to  themselves  husbands  of 
the  land;  and  the  gatherings  in  Ma- 
dame's  little  parlor  are  unique.  It  has 
sometimes  been  my  good  fortune  to  be 
present  at  these  gatherings,  and  to  watch 
the  tact  of  Madame  in  holding  together 
the  diverse  elements  of  her  household 
and  in  permeating  the  whole  with  a 


sense  of  well-being  and  joy.  She  is 
not  an  intellectual  woman,  and  she  cer- 
tainly is  not  beautiful.  Yet  stalwart, 
gray-haired  men  seek  her  like  a  sibyl. 
Long  observation  has  led  me  to  a  convic- 
tion —  Madame  belongs  to  the  Order  of 
the  Teapot.  There  you  have  the  se- 
cret. And  much  good  will  it  do  you ! 
For  unless  you  too  are  born  with  a  tea- 
pot in  your  soul,  not  all  the  knowledge 
of  Bryn  Mawr  nor  the  beauty  of  the 
Gibson  girl  will  avail  you.  Your  par- 
ties will  be  cold ;  and  if  men  think  you 
clever  it  will  be  only  to  wish  that  you 
were  not.  I  have  a  picture  of  Madame, 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  in  old  Duxbury, 
stealing  silently  around  the  corner  of 
the  house,  under  her  big  sun  hat,  while 
her  sons  and  her  sons-in-law  lounged  and 
laughed  and  smoked  on  the  grass  under 
the  elm  by  the  door.  When  she  reap- 
peared she  bore  in  her  small  hands  a 
plate  heaped  with  cake  and  pie  and 
doughnuts  and  cookies,  —  goodies  for- 
aged from  the  boarding-house  pantry. 
Shouts  of  joy  greeted  her, —  dinner  be- 
ing exactly  one  hour  past  by  the  clock. 
She  was  hailed  as  a  saving  angel.  Her 
sons  and  her  sons-in-law  fell  upon  the 
plate  and  devoured  it  to  the  last  crumb. 
If  you  want  to  hear  them  talk,  mention 
casually  in  their  presence  the  name  of 
Madame,  their  mother.  Then  will 
springs  of  eloquence  be  unlocked.  They 
will  tell  you  of  her  remarkable  powers, 
and  of  her  infinite  tact  and  patience  and 
sagacity,  and  of  what  she  has  done  for 
them.  But  they  will  not  speak  of  the 
plate  of  pie  and  cake  and  doughnuts  and 
cookies.  It  is  hardly  worth  mentioning 
—  unless  one  thinks  so. 

It  is  only  when  the  teapot  rises  to 
the  dignity  of  an  art  symbol  that  its  full 
significance  is  seen.  I  have  a  friend 
who  dotes  on  cooking  as  a  poet  dotes  on 
his  lines.  Her  soul  floats  in  tea  as  nat- 
urally and  as  gracefully  as  the  swan 
upon  its  native  lake.  There  are  doubt- 
less other  similes  that  might  be  used; 
but  these  will  serve  to  give  a  faint  pic- 
ture of  my  idea.  Cooking  to  her  is  not 


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The   Contributors'    Club. 


a  trade,  nor  a  science,  nor  a  task,  but  a 
divine  art.  Her  approach  to  the  pan- 
try is  a  triumphal  progress,  and  her 
glance  as  it  sweeps  the  shelves  for  pos- 
sibilities and  suggestions  is  full  of  shin- 
ing delight.  Everything  in  sight  is 
doomed.  With  salad  bowl  and  fork  and 
spoon,  with  salt  and  pepper  and  oil  and 
vinegar,  with  a  few  scraps  of  nothing 
and  an  onion,  she  will  concoct  a  dish 
for  the  gods.  To  the  uninitiated  these 
things  are  not  so.  One  may  talk  learn- 
edly of  salads.  The  receipt  books  are 
filled  with  lore  on  the  subject.  But  the 
true  salad  maker  knows  that  it  can  only 
be  mixed  —  like  a  poem  —  under  the 
fine  frenzy  of  inspiration.  To  me  a  po- 
tato is  a  potato  and  a  bean  is  a  bean 
and  an  onion  is  an  onion,  and  the  sight 
of  these  respectable  vegetables,  repos- 
ing each  on  its  separate  dish,  does  not 
awaken  in  my  soul  the  divine  fire  of 
composition.  I  have  no  promptings  to 
make  a  poem  of  the  potato  and  the  bean 
and  the  onion,  and  serve  it  on  a  lettuce 
leaf,  fresh  and  curly,  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  my  friends.  Alas  and  alas,  that 
I  have  not !  I  would  that  it  were  oth- 
erwise. When  I  think  of  these  things, 
I  would  that  I  had  never  been  born,  or 
that  the  teapot  had  never  been  born,  or 
that  other  and  more  gifted  women  had 
never  been  born  with  the  fatal  and  beau- 
tiful and  eclipsing  teapot  shining  in 
their  souls. 

AN  old  law  book  published  in  1732 
The  Lady's  did  not  promise  much  enter- 
Law-  tainment  for  a  lazy  summer 

afternoon,  and  The  Lady's  Law  would 
have  returned  to  its  dusty  compeers  in 
a  neglected  corner  of  the  library  if  the 
following  sentence  had  not  caught  my 
eye :  "  Our  old  Laws  and  Customs  re- 
lating to  Women  are  many  of  them  very 
merry,  though  the  Makers  of  them  might, 
possibly  be  grave  men." 

A  lawyer  who  thought  that  there  was 
just  a  possibility  —  a  bare  chance  — 
that  lawmakers  might  be  serious  mind- 
ed was  at  least  original,  and  the  "very 
merry  "  customs  proved  as  irresistible 


a  temptation  to  me  as  my  author  hoped 
that  they  would  "to  all  Practisers  of 
the  Law  and  other  Curious  Persons." 

"All  Women,"  began  the  preface, 
"  in  the  eye  of  the  Law,  are  either  mar- 
ried  or  to  be  married." 

It  is  worth  going  back  two  centuries 
to  hear  such  an  encouraging  doctrine, 
and  it  is  certainly  a  contrast  to  that 
expressed  in  a  recent  graduation  ser- 
mon at  a  well-known  Woman's  College, 
where  the  senior  class  were  assured  that 
only  twenty-five  per  cent  of  them  might 
even  dream  of  marriage. 

Is  it  possible,  by  the  way,  that  this 
pessimistic  axiom  accounts  for  the  epi- 
demic of  Love-Letters  with  which  the 
book  market  is  afflicted? 

Are  the  Love-Letters  of  an  English- 
woman, the  Love  -  Letters  of  a  Liar, 
and  the  Love-Letters  of  Balzac,  Victor 
Hugo,  the  Brownings,  and  all  the  rest, 
only  published  in  the  vain  hope  of  sooth- 
ing that  craving  in  the  breast  of  the 
seventy-five  per  cent  of  college  women 
who  are  warned  that  they  need  never 
expect  to  receive  a  personal  love-letter  ? 

The  Lady's  Law  gives  many  proofs 
of  the  extraordinary  change  which  has 
taken  place  in  the  position  of  women  in 
the  last  two  centuries,  and  in  the  pop- 
ular view  of  marriage ;  perhaps  none  is 
more  striking  than  the  statement  that 
"whoever  marries  for  Beauty,  Riches, 
or  other  motives  than  those  before  men- 
tioned "  (the  Scriptural  reasons)  "are 
said  to  be  guilty  of  a  Crime  though  it 
be  not  expressly  disallow' d  by  our 
Law." 

The  position  of  a  married  woman  was 
not  very  enviable  in  those  days ;  she  was 
subject  to  her  husband  absolutely,  al- 
though he  could  not  beat  her  except  for 
"reasonable  correction  and  chastise- 
ment ;  "  neither  could  he  sell  her  "  Dia- 
mond and  pearl  chain, "  if  she  had  such 
a  thing,  nor  her  "  necessary  apparel, " 
but  otherwise  he  had  almost  unlimited 
power  over  her.  She  might  not  "Sub- 
mit to  an  Award,  for  the  Submission  is  a 
free  Act,  and  the  will  of  a  Feme  Covert 


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571 


is  subject  to  the  Will  of  her  Husband 
and  so  is  not  free."  If  she  was  ex- 
travagant and  borrowed  money  and 
"cloaths  herself  better  than  doth  be- 
long to  her  Quality,  although  this  comes 
to  the  Use  of  the  Baron,  because  his 
Feme  ought  to  be  cloathed ;  yet  because 
it  is  beyond  her  Degree,  he  is  not 
chargeable  with  it."  In  matters  of 
household  bills,  however,  where  women 
"are  allowed  by  their  Husbands  to  be 
Housekeepers,  and  they  are  used  to  buy 
things  upon  Trust  for  the  Household, 
the  Husband  shall  be  charged  for  them, 
for  in  such  respect  the  Wife  is  as  a  Ser- 
vant." 

In  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  Judge 
Hyde  arguing  on  the  subject  of  a  man's 
liability  for  his  wife's  personal  expenses 
said:  "It  is  objected  that  the  Jury  is 
to  Judge  what  is  fit  for  the  Wife's  De- 
gree, that  they  are  trusted  with  the 
Reasonableness  of  the  Price,  and  are  to 
examine  the  Value;  and  also  the  Ne- 
cessity of  the  Things  or  Apparel.  Alas, 
poor  Man !  What  a  Judicature  is  set 
up  here,  to  decide  the  private  Differ- 
ence between  Husband  and  Wife  ?  The 
Wife  will  have  a  Velvet  Gown  and  a 
Sattin  Petticoat,  and  the  Husband 
thinks  Mohair  is  as  Fashionable  and 
fitter  for  his  Quality:  The  Husband 
says  that  a  plain  Lawn  Gorget  of  10s. 
pleaseth  him  and  suits  best  with  his 
Condition;  but  the  Wife  takes  up  at 
the  Exchange  a  Flanders  Lace  or  Point 
handkerchief  at  £40.  A  Jury  of 
Mercers,  Silkmen,  Sempsters  and  Ex- 
change-men are  very  excellent  and  in- 
different Judges  to  decide  this  Contro- 
versy :  It  is  not  for  their  Support  to  be 
against  the  Wife,  but  to  be  for  her, 
that  they  may  put  off  their  braided 
Wares  to  the  Wife  upon  Trust,  at  their 
own  Price  and  then  sue  the  Husband 
for  the  Money." 

How  constant  is  Human  Nature,  and 
to-day  how  many  a  husband  with  an  ex- 
travagant wife  thinks  "Mohair  is  as 
Fashionable  and  fitter  for  his  Quality. " 

The  Law  was  not  always  consistent 


in  its  defense  of  a  husband's  purse 
against  his  wife's  encroachments.  In 
one  case  where  a  man's  heirs  sue  his 
widow  for  goods  and  money  purloined 
from  her  husband  during  his  lifetime, 
"Egerton,  Chancellor,  denied  Relief. 
He  said  he  would  not  relieve  the  Hus- 
band were  he  Living,  for  he  sate  not 
there  to  give  Relief  to  Fools'and  Buz- 
zards, who  could  not  keep  their  money 
from  their  Wives."  Yet,  in  another 
case,  where  the  wife  of  an  improvident 
husband,  "by  her  great  frugality, "  had 
saved  a  large  sum  of  money  for  the  good 
of  her  children,  the  money  was  taken 
from  her  as  "  being  dangerous  to  give 
a  Feme  Power  to  dispose  of  her  Hus- 
band's Estate,"  although  it  is  difficult 
to  see  why  this  husband  was  less  of  a 
Fool  and  Buzzard  than  the  other. 

The  Law  is  liberal  enough  to  secure 
the  "  necessary  apparel "  of  a  married 
woman  to  her  even  after  her  husband's 
death,  and  goes  so  far  as  to  pronounce 
that  if  a  husband  has  given  his  wife  "  a 
Piece  of  Cloth  to  make  a  garment,  and 
dies,  although  it  was  not  made  up  in 
the  Life  of  the  Husband,  yet  the  Wife 
shall  have  it."  Among  a  woman's 
"  Bona  Paraphernalia, "  a  chain  of  dia- 
monds and  pearls  worth  £400  has  been 
held  "necessary  apparel "  to  an  earl's 
daughter;  although  a  dissenting  opin- 
ion maintained  that  they  were  "not 
necessary  for  her,  but  only  convenient." 

Breach  of  promise  cases  and  suits  for 
non-support  must  have  been  astonishing- 
ly easy  in  those  days  if  fashionable,  for 
the  Law  held  that:  "If  a  Man  say  to 
a  Woman,  I  do  promise  to  marry  thee, 
and  if  thou  be  content  to  marry  me, 
then  kiss  me  or  give  me  thy  Hand ;  and 
if  the  other  Party  do  kiss  or  give  her 
Hand  accordingly,  Spousals  are  con- 
tracted. " 

A  marriage  was  even  held  to  have 
been  contracted  when  no  words  were 
said:  "A  Ring  is  solemnly  delivered 
and  put  on  the  Woman's  fourth  Finger 
by  the  Party  himself,  and  she  willingly 
accepts  the  same  and  wears  it,  the  Par- 


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The   Contributors'   Club. 


ties  are  presumed  to  have  mutually  con- 
sented to  be  Man  and  Wife,  and  so  have 
contracted  Matrimony,  altho'  they  used 
not  any  Words." 

A  nice  distinction  is  made  by  the 
Law  in  regard  to  presents  made  before 
marriage.  "When  Jewels,  etc.,  are 
given  as  a  pledge  of  Future  Marriage 
between  two  Persons,  there  is  an  im- 
plied Condition  annexed,  that  if  Matri- 
mony do  not  ensue,  the  Things  may  be 
demanded  back  and  recovered.  Though, 
according  to  our  old  Books,  if  the  Man 
had  a  Kiss  for  his  Money,  then  the  one 
Half  of  what  was  given  could  only  be 
recovered,  and  the  other  Half  was  to 
be  the  Woman's  own  Goods;  but  the 
Female  is  more  favoured,  for  what  so 
ever  she  gave,  were  there  kissing  or  no 
kissing  in  the  Case,  she  may  demand 
and  have  all  again." 

The  difference  of  fifty  per  cent  ad 
valorem  seems  rather  a  high  estimate 
of  the  discrepancy  in  value  between  a 
man's  kiss  and  a  woman's,  and  appears 
to  prove  conclusively  the  author's  state- 
ment that  woman  is  indeed  "  a  Favour- 
ite of  the  Law." 

IT  was  during  the  height  of  the  sea- 

A  Little  Out  son?  and  at  the  end  of  a  long 
of  the  Way.  \[s^  of  cans?  that  we  suddenly 

thought  of  the  old  friends  we  had  not 
seen  for  so  long. 

"  It  is  a  little  out  of  the  way,  but  I 
think  we  shall  have  time,"  said  my 
companion. 

Almost  all  the  carriages  on  Connect- 
icut Avenue  were  going  in  the  other 
direction,  and  we  seemed  to  be  driving 
out  of  the  world  of  busy,  happy,  careless 
leisure,  —  the  world  of  painstaking 
idleness,  of  conscientious  pleasure- seek- 
ing, and  of  obvious  advantages !  It  made 
one  feel  a  little  lonely  to  be  going  the 
other  way.  It  was  a  very  attractive 
world  indeed. 

On  one  of  the  still  unpaved  avenues 
framed  in  a  distant  glimpse  of  woods 
and  hills,  we  explored  slowly  for  the 
house.  It  was  at  the  very  end  of  a 
pretty  little  white  stono  block,  aggres- 


sively new,  and  turning  a  blank  stare 

—  in  the  form  of  an  unsheathed  brick 
wall  —  upon  the  neglected  field  just  be- 
yond.    The  elevation  of  the  street  was 
such   that   one    could    look   diagonally 
across  the  city  and  see  the  late  afternoon 
sunlight  flash  in  a  glittering  rebound 
from  the  golden  dome  of  the  library. 

A  maid  evidently  as  new  as  the  house, 
but  not  as  urban,  opened  the  door  for 
us,  and  was  good-naturedly  uncertain 
whether  to  let  us  in  or  not,  as  "the 
Missus  is  sick,  ye  know." 

But  before  she  had  clumped  halfway 
upstairs  to  see  if  we  should  be  received, 
the  Squire  had  heard  our  voices,  and 
came  hurrying  down.  His  grim  old  face 
wore  a  look  of  welcome  that  seemed  to 
erase  the  stern  lines,  and  he  shook  both 
of  us  by  the  hand  at  once,  long  and 
heartily.  "  Come  right  up !  "  he  said. 
"It  '11  do  her  a  heap  of  good  to  see 
you." 

She  was  sitting  in  the  front  chamber, 

—  a  small,  fragile  figure  half  hidden  in 
a  pink  chintz  easy-chair,  with  the  most 
inviting  of  footstools  under  her  helpless 
feet.      There  was  a  pale  pink  bow  in 
her  dainty  cap  to  match  the  ribbon  at 
the  throat  of  her  white  wrapper.     The 
sunlight,  flowing  through  the  broad  win- 
dow to  ripple  placidly  on  the  walls, 
seemed  a  very  different  thing  from  the 
blinding  dazzle  on  the  library  dome,  — 
it  was  mellow  and  tranquil,  —  the  gold- 
en heart  of  the  sun  poured  out  there  to 
delight  and  cheer  those  faded  blue  eyes. 

"I  '11  take  myself  off  and  leave  you 
ladies  together, "  said  the  Squire.  He 
bustled  away  with  a  great  assumption 
of  hurried  responsibility.  We  three 
talked  awhile  of  old  friends,  happy 
associations,  and  beloved  places.  She 
forgot  a  great  deal,  repeated  herself 
very  often,  and  cried  softly  from  time 
to  time,  as  she  stroked  our  hands,  and 
told  us  how  glad  she  was  that  we  had 
come.  We  could  see  how  much  she  had 
failed  since  we  saw  her  last,  but  her 
wrinkled  face  was  prettier  than  many 
a  girl's  with  both  beauty  of  feature  and 


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573 


the  immortal  loveliness  of  a  gentle  na- 
ture and  a  pure,  sweet  soul. 

We  had  always  called  her  husband 
"  the  Squire. "  The  title  traveled  with 
him  from  his  own  little  town  when  he 
first  came  to  Congress.  He  was  a  rug- 
ged old  fellow,  of  pronounced  views,  — . 
often  as  narrow  as  they  were  positive, 
—  but  the  man  was  genuine  through  and 
through ;  there  was  not  an  ounce  of  ex- 
pediency in  his  being.  When  he  clung 
with  savage  energy  to  some  position 
which  seemed  —  and  probably  was  — 
retrogressive  to  younger,  broader  men, 
it  was  never  a  matter  of  cautious  policy 
or  a  weighing  of  possible  benefits,  but 
the  defense  of  a  profound  conviction. 
By  and  by  they  did  not  return  him  to 
Congress.  That  was  after  his  wife  be- 
gan to  fail.  His  career  was  her  glory. 
He  put  off  telling  her  again  and  again. 
At  last  the  usual  time  came  for  them 
to  move  to  Washington,  and  she  began 
to  wonder  at  the  delay.  He  made  a 
sudden,  desperate  resolve,  —  she  should 
never  know  at  all.  The  packing  began, 
the  journey  was  taken,  and  this  small 
house  rented  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city.  He  picked  up  a  little  law  prac- 
tice here  and  there,  through  interested 
friends  and  his  real  ability.  He  re- 
quested those  of  us  who  were  likely  to 
see  his  wife  not  to  mention  his  defeat 
before  her. 

It  was  slow,  hard  work  for  him,  but 
even  in  his  native  town,  through  his 
long  absences,  he  was  no  longer  in  the 
current  of  things,  and  it  was  perhaps 
almost  as  easy  to  gain  a  modest  income 
here. 

I  sat  where  I  could  see  him  filing 
papers  in  the  next  room.  With  nervous 
fingers  he  pored  over  them,  and  fastened 
them  carefully  into  neat  packages  with 
the  rubber  bands  which  are  a  sine  qua 
non  to  every  man  who  has  once  been  a 
Congressman.  His  eyes  wandered  from 
time  to  time  toward  the  little  figure  in 
the  front  window,  and  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  on  that  grim  face  an  undisguised 
look  of  yearning  tenderness.  And  then 


he  silently  drifted  back  into  our  room 
again,  "to  put  things  to  rights  on  the 
mantel-piece." 

A  few  more  moments,  and  he  was 
standing  behind  her  chair,  forgetting 
that  he  had  ever  tried  to  stay  away. 
She  reached  a  soft  wrinkled  hand  up  to 
him  without  a  word,  and  he  covered  it 
in  both  of  his.  Then  we  all  went  on 
quietly  talking. 

"Ezra  had  to  go  up  to  the  house  to- 
day," she  said,  "and  the  morning  was 
a  whole  year  long  without  him.  I  'm 
a  selfish  old  woman,  for  I  know  the 
country  needs  him,  and  I  'm  afraid  his 
committee  work  is  getting  behind ;  but 
it  isn't  going  to  be  for  long, — and 
I  want  him  so.  Ezra,  you  must  n't  ever 
leave  me  again!  "  She  turned  to  look 
back  at  him,  with  anxious,  clinging, 
dependent  worship  in  her  eyes.  He 
lifted  a  loop  of  the  little  bow  on  her 
cap  over  his  finger,  and  bent  to  kiss  it. 

"No,  no,  wife,  never  again.  We  '11 
let  Congress  go."  He  half  turned  to- 
ward us  as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  a 
pleading  inquiry  in  the  motion.  It  said, 
"You  will  spare  her?  —  and  help  me 
pretend?" 

Proud  and  sensitive,  defeated  and  set 
aside,  he  chose  to  bear  it  all  alone. 

"Your  husband  can  afford  to  stay 
away  awhile  now, "  I  said  quickly. 
"He  has  won  his  reputation,  you  know. 
Don't  you  remember  I  happened  to  be 
beside  you  in  the  gallery  the  day  he  was 
called  the  best  parliamentarian  on  the 
floor  ?  "  (He  had  defeated  the  consid- 
eration of  a  very  popular  measure  which 
he  considered  extravagant,  by  a  clever 
and  pertinacious  use  of  points  of  order.) 
I  have  always  been  so  glad  I  was  there 
that  day,  for  as  I  spoke,  his  old  back 
straightened,  and  the  "official"  poise 
came  back. 

"Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  remember  that  day 
well, "  he  said,  with  a  gratified  ring  in 
his  voice.  She  said  nothing,  but 
watched  him  proudly. 

As  we  went  away,  he  escorted  us 
downstairs,  but  first  he  kissed  her,  and 


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The   Contributors'    Club. 


she  clung  to  him  as  if  he  were  going 
from  her  on  a  long  journey.  She  called 
down  to  us,  "Come  again  soon.  Per- 
haps if  you  can  spend  the  morning  some 
day  I  would  let  Ezra  go  up  to  Congress, 
—  but  I  don't  know,  — I  don't  believe 
they  need  him  as  much  as  I  do  —  just 
now." 

And  with  smiling,  patient  bravery, 
as  if  -she  could  see  him  from  her  cham- 
ber, he  called  back  cheerily,  "I  don't 
believe  they  do,  wife  —  just  now !  " 

THE  name  of  Dean  Prior,  where  our 
friend  Herrick  says  he  was  of 
Robert  Her-  jocund  Muse  and  chaste  life, 
c  '  is,  like  one  of  his  songs,  in 

everybody '  s  memory.  It  is  a  hard,  grit- 
ty little  place  to  get  to,  however,  even 
at  the  best  season :  some  miles  from  any 
station,  and  caught  in  a  web  of  wind- 
ing roads  and  equivocating  signposts. 
On  the  fiercely  stormy  afternoon  when 
I  had  my  one  choice  to  do  it  or  die,  I 
nearly  achieved  both  ends.  Such  a 
savage  horizon,  with  sinister  glimpses 
of  the  bare  tors  of  Dartmoor;  such  a 
clotted,  malign  sky;  such  steep,  miry, 
and  stony  ways,  where  you  were  alter- 
nately chased  or  encountered  by  all  the 
infant  floods  of  England,  are  not  often 
known,  let  us  hope,  in  the  county  of 
sunshine  and  clotted  cream.  At  any 
rate,  that  critic  who  bewailed  the 
"  abominable  tidiness  "  of  the  English 
landscape  cannot  have  been  cradled  in 
romantic  and  whimsical  Devon.  The 
whole  countryside,  allowing  for  the 
great  decrease  in  woods,  must  have 
looked  quite  the  same  in  Herrick' s  time. 
We  think  of  him,  shrewdly,  but  care- 
lessly, as  an  Elizabethan ;  but  his  grave 
was  dug  while  Charles  II.,  no  longer 
young,  was  still  chasing  moths  at  White- 
hall. Many  trees  which  stand  about, 
many  thatched  roofs  and  gables,  are 
much  as  he  knew  them.  Overhead  is 
the  same  heaven  of  intense  flamelike 
blue,  a  reflection  caught,  perhaps,  from 
the  tropical  beauty  of  a  not  far  -  off 
sea;  and  on  every  side  are  the  slanted 
fields  and  "cloistered  hills,"  dyed  the 


most  exquisite  red  in  the  world :  a  color 
so  strange  and  sweet  that  it  sets  you 
thinking  of  mystical  things,  and  of  the 
sanguis  martyrum  of  this  Isle  of  Saints. 
The  letter  remaineth;  but  where  are 
Herrick 's  merrymakers,  his  hock-carts, 
wassails,  and  stomachers  of  primroses  ? 
From  a  not  too  cursory  survey  of  the 
inhabitants  of  his  parish,  I  should  give 
them  first  place  in  a  competition  of 
miserable  sinners.  A  more  joyless  set 
of  folk  I  wot  not  of.  The  pilgrim, 
baptismally  clean  in  the  spring  rain,  in 
the  jolly  armor  of  a  mackintosh  and  a 
decidedly  centripetal  old  hat,  longed  to 
shout  in  passing  at  each  of  the  dismal 
female  faces  at  door  or  window :  — 
"  Come,  my  Corinna,  come  !  Let 's  go  a-May- 

ing." 

My  private  conviction  is  that  Parson 
Herrick 's  delicious  pastoral  pages  are 
pure  bluff;  that  there  was  no  Anthea, 
no  Perilla,  no  flute-playing,  no  bride- 
cakes, no  goblins,  nothing!  and  that 
"dull  Devon,"  a  phrase  which  came 
from  his  town-loving  heart  in  a  per- 
sonal poem,  hit  the  truth.  To  prove 
it,  you  need  but  accost  the  posterity  of 
those  Christians  to  whom  that  darling 
pagan  ministered.  There  they  are,  in- 
capable of  Maypoles  "to  this  day." 

Dean  Prior  is-  a  village,  pretty  as  a 
picture,  which  lies  a  mile  north  of 
Dean  Church.  At  the  latter  hamlet 
you  find,  as  the  name  implies,  the 
church  and  vicarage,  and  a  few  shy 
houses  among  trees.  And  there,  most 
probably  in  his  own  chancel,  Herrick 
sleeps.  Though  the  high  ground  with- 
out is  sown  with  graves,  you  may  look 
in  vain  there  for  Prew,  his  Maide,  and 
for  the  other  young  names  of  "a  short 
delight,"  which  are  deathless  in  the 
Hesperides.  The  church  is  interesting 
from  its  comely  situation,  but  the  in- 
terior, "restored,"  of  course,  has  no 
character.  People,  you  are  told,  do 
not  always  come  there  for  Mr.  Herrick. 
No,  indeed !  They  come  for  architec- 
ture. Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Peo- 
ple. High  up  against  the  north  aisle 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


575 


wall,  at  the  east  end,  is  a  tablet  to  the 
poet's  memory,  the  wording  of  which, 
happily,  I  have  forgotten.  I  retain, 
however,  only  too  clear  an  impression 
of  various  items  which  nobody  wants  to 
know :  especially  that  a  family  of  re- 
pute in  Leicestershire  was  responsible 
for  the  "lyric  voice  of  England,"  and 
that  some  hyphenated  member  of  that 
family  graciously  provided  his  famous 
kinsman  with  a  stone.  Oddly  enough, 
the  inscription  names  Herrick  as  the 
author  of  the  Hesperides  only.  It 
would  have  seemed  decent,  close  to  his 
old  altar,  to  have  remembered  the  No- 
ble Numbers,  and  their  genuine,  though 
slightly  decorative  pieties.  One  dis- 
covery I  made  which  pleased  me,  and 
sent  me  marching  back  to  Totnes,  over 
wet  hill  and  dale,  with  the  lovely  stanza 
in  my  ears:  I  saw  in  Dean  Church  an 
epitaph  which  Herrick  must  have  seen 
too,  and  liked,  and  which  had  a  more 
immediate  pathos  for  him,  inasmuch  as 
he  must  have  known  the  living  three 
who  chose  there  a  nobly  humble  tomb. 
The  little  monument,  beautifully  pre- 
served in  its  original  coloring,  holds  the 
kneeling*  figures  separated,  in  the  usual 
fashion  of  the  time  (that  of  King  James 
I.,  judging  from  the  dress),  by  a  fald- 
stool ;  the  wife  and  mother  on  one  side, 
the  knight  and  their  only  son  upon  the 
other.  It  is  the  latter,  represented  in 
little,  for  convention's  sake,  whose  love 
speaks  in  the  mural  verse  cut  below, 
without  date  or  name  for  any  of  the 
dead:  — 

"  No  trust  to  Metal  nor  to  Marble,  when 
These  have  their  Fate,  and  wear  away,  as  men. 
Times,  titles,  trophies,  may  be  lost  and  Spent : 
But  vertue  rears  the  eternall  Monument. 
What  more  than  these  can  tombs  or  tombstones 

pay? 

But  here  's  the  Sun-set  of  a  tedious  Day. 
These  two  asleep  are  :  I  '11  but  be  undrest 
And  so  to  Bed.     Pray  wish  us  all  Good  Rest." 

Let  us  summon  no  local  antiquary  to 
dispel  for  us  the  exquisite  impersonal- 
ity of  those  lines,  with  their  plaintive 
closes  marking  the  transition  ef  re- 
ligious feeling  between  a  Catholicism, 


which  asked  only  a  Requiescat  of  the 
passer-by,  and  a  Protestantism  which 
spent  itself  on  eulogy  of  the  departed 
and  moral  precepts  directed  against  the 
unarmed  reader. 

There  were  primroses  and  wild  myr- 
tle in  the  sodden  hedgerows  around 
Herrick 's  home;  lambs  were  bleating 
by  their  mothers  in  the  chilly  meadows  : 

"  And  all  the  sweetness  of  the  Long  Ago 
Sounds  in  that  song  the  thrush  sent  through  the 
rain," 

as  the  silent  custodian  closed  the  door 
of  the  church  on  the  "happy  spark" 
which  no  man  can  find  where  it  is  still 
glowing.  But  on  the  way  home,  by 
thought  transference  or  coincidence,  I 
had  a  bit  of  humorous  and  illustrious 
luck.  There  in  the  rough,  narrow, 
muddy  lane  lay  a  lumpy  whitish  stone, 
and  in  the  stone  was  Master  Robert 
Herrick!  It  was  a  little  joke  of  the 
gods  to  reproduce  so,  in  profile,  the  one 
known  portrait  of  him,  Marshall's 
print,  curly -headed,  jovial,  draped  upon 
an  urn;  unbeautiful  as  that  is,  only 
older,  with  the  very  biggest  of  Roman 
noses,  and  an  artificial  eye  -  twinkle 
which  is  a  joy  forever  to  the  drenched 
worshiper  who  pocketed  the  heaven-sent 
souvenir,  with  a  grin,  on  that  last  day 
of  March,  A.  D.  1901. 

I  WONDER  if  other  readers  find  the 
MagnaPars  autobiographic  novel  as  un- 
Fnl-  satisfactory  as  I  do.  Prob- 

ably but  few,  if  any,  to  judge  by  the 
enormous  currency  which  many  books 
written  in  that  form  attain.  When  I 
have  finished  reading  one  such,  however 
entertaining  and  engrossing,  I  lay  it  by 
with  a  certain  sense  of  having  been  dis- 
appointed and  half  defrauded  of  the  in- 
terest and  excitement  which  I  felt  I  had 
a  right  to  expect  from  the  subject,  the 
epoch,  and  the  circumstances  concomi- 
tant with  the  action. 

There  is  no  veil  of  secrecy  that  can 
conceal  from  the  reader  the  conclusion 
of  the  autobiographic  novel.  The  spec- 
tator in  the  theatre,  witnessing  even  a 
standard  sensational  melodrama,  may 


576 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


always  have  in  reserve  his  doubts  wheth- 
er the  conventional  scheme  of  rehabili- 
tations and  retributions  may  not  be 
changed  ultimately  into  an  unexpected 
tragic  plan,  and  the  virtuous  hero  sink 
at  last  a  victim  into  the  evil  snares 
which  are  spread  for  him  according  to 
regulation.  But  when  the  hero  lives  to 
tell  the  tale  of  his  own  exploits,  the 
reader  can  have  no  misgivings  as  to  the 
outcome  of  any  peril  or  conflict;  the 
narrator,  although  disheartened  or  dam- 
aged for  the  time,  must  have  pulled 
safely  through,  or  he  could  not  now  be 
recounting  his  triumphant  steps. 

True,  we  still  press  on  from  chapter 
to  chapter  with  a  natural  interest  to 
learn  how  many  more  dangers  and  diffi- 
culties are  to  present  themselves,  of  just 
what  nature  they  are  to  be,  and  by  what 
hairbreadth  escapes  safety  from  them  is 
to  be  won ;  but  of  their  actual  outcome 
there  can  be  no  question,  while  also  the 
general  tone  and  temper  of  the  narra- 
tive enlighten  us  as  to  whether  the  con- 
clusion of  the  whole  matter  was  bright, 
peaceful,  and  happy,  or  darkened  by 
permanent  regrets  and  sufferings  or  ir- 
reparable losses  and  bereavements.  For 
given  retrospects  would  appear  different 
to  cheerful  and  to  melancholic  souls. 
And,  further,  however  terrific  and  ex- 
hausting a  bout  may  threaten  to  be,  one 
loses  interest  in  the  most  dreadful  de- 
tails when  the  end  is  foregone.  When 
one  knows  that  there  has  been  "hippo- 
droming  "  in  a  race,  a  ball  game,  or  a 
glove  fight,  what  can  he  really  care  for 
the  separate  heats,  innings,  or  rounds  ? 

To  enjoy  a  story  thoroughly,  one 
should  be  always  uncertain  not  only  as 
to  what  he  will  find  on  the  next  page, 
but  also  as  to  what  the  last  chapter  will 
contain  for  him.  The  true  playwright 
understands  this,  and  resorts  to  every 
device  he  can  contrive  to  elude  both  rea- 
son and  suspicion,  and  to  increase  as 
much  as  possible  the  element  of  unex- 
pectedness in  his  denouement.  Con- 
sider for  an  instant  the  splendid  illus- 
tration given  in  Much  Ado  about  No- 


thing. Follow  the  action  as  closely  as 
we  may,  estimate  every  probability  at 
its  full  value,  and  give  all  weight  to 
Beatrice's  virtual  betrothal  of  herself 
to  Benedick  in  the  chapel  scene,  —  yet 
we  shall  have  come  to  within  about  thir- 
ty lines  of  the  last  curtain  ere  Shake- 
speare consents  to  settle  the  question 
finally  and  to  show  us  the  lady  actually 
accepting  her  suitor  in  the  presence  of 
the  assembled  company  ;  so  that  the 
satisfaction  of  the  long  perplexed  spec- 
tator may  well  range  with  the  joy  of 
the  much  tantalized  wooer. 

Suspense  and  surprise  are  among  the 
great  factors  in  the  construction  of  a 
story  as  well  as  of  a  play,  and  the  query 
may  therefore  fairly  be  raised  as  to 
whether  that  novelist  does  not  diminish 
his  power  and  his  command  over  his 
readers  who  adopts  the  autobiographic 
manner  for  a  tale  meant  to  thrill  and 
perplex,  to  enchain  and  to  lead  captive 
and  captivated.  Undoubtedly,  the  cap- 
tiously interrogative  will  always  "want 
to  know  "  how  the  impersonal  narrator 
can  have  become  acquainted  with  the 
incidents  and  words  that  he  records; 
but  as  relation  in  the  anonymous  third 
person  is  as  old  as  tradition,  ballad,  and 
history,  it  may  continue  to  be  accept- 
ed as  the  standard  and  most  authentic 
form,  and  still  be  excused  from  explain- 
ing how  it  comes  into  possession  of  its 
facts.  And,  at  any  rate,  it  cannot  be 
accused  of  drawing  the  long  bow  in  self- 
glorification  and  concentrating  atten- 
tion upon  an  Ego  and  his  experiences, 
with  disturbing  the  fit  proportions  of  a 
whole  story,  or  discounting  the  aggre- 
gate values  by  "  too  previous  "  state- 
ment or  suggestion.  This  is  in  itself 
an  additional  advantage,  for  one  does 
not  like  to  have  his  admiration  for  a 
hero's  prowess,  or  his  delight  at  an 
unexpected  and  hardly  hoped  -  for  vic- 
tory or  escape,  qualified  by  the  appar- 
ent boastfulness  or  bumptiousness  of 
that  hero's  reiterated  "Thus  did  I," 
with  its  savor  of  Falstaff  rather  than 
of  Coriolanus. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
Jftaga?ine  of  literature,  Science,  art,  anfc 

VOL.  XC.  —  NO  V EMBER,  1902.  —  No.  DXLI. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS. 


I.    FORESIGHT    AND    REPENTANCE. 

SINCE  psychology  and  ethics  are  part- 
ners, ethics  is  bound  to  take  the  first 
chance  to  return  psychology's  lead.  As 
long  as  psychology  put  full-fledged  fac- 
ulties of  free  will  and  conscience  into 
the  soul's  original  outfit,  it  was  all  very 
well  for  ethics  to  respond  with  inexpli- 
cable intuitions  and  categorical  impera- 
tives. Now  that  psychology  is  telling 
us  that  the  will  is  simply  "  the  sum  to- 
tal of  our  mental  states  in  so  far  as  they 
involve  attentive  guidance  of  conduct, " 
and  its  sole  sphere  of  action  "the  at- 
tentive furthering  of  our  interest  in  one 
act  or  desire  as  against  all  others  pre- 
sent to  our  minds  at  the  same  time, " 
ethics  can  no  longer  put  us  off  with  cut 
and  dried  rules  for  keeping  a  fixed, 
formal  self  out  of  mischief,  but  must 
show  us  how,  from  the  raw  materials 
of  appetites,  passions,  and  instincts,  with 
the  customs,  institutions,  and  ideals  of 
the  race  for  our  models,  to  create,  each 
man  for  himself,  an  individuality  of 
ever  tightening  coherence  and  ever  ex- 
panding dimensions. 

This  twofold  task,  to  preserve  the 
unity  of  life  at  the  same  time  that  we 
multiply  and  magnify  the  interests  we 
unify,  gives  to  ethics  at  once  its  diffi- 
culty and  its  zest.  Either  half  of  this 
task  would  be  easy  and  stupid.  If  uni- 
fication, simplicity,  peace,  is  our  sole 
aim,  we  have  but  to  call  in  the  monks 
and  the  mystics,  the  lamas  and  the  men- 
tal healers,  for  a  half  dozen  lessons  and 


treatments.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
aim  at  bulk,  complexity,  tension,  almost 
any  business  man,  or  club  woman,  or 
"globe-trotter, "  or  debauchee,  can  teach 
us  as  much  as  that.  To  challenge  the 
simple  unity  of  our  habitual  lives  by 
every  interest  that  promises  enlarge- 
ment and  enrichment,  and  in  turn  to 
challenge  each  new  interest  in  the  name 
of  a  singleness  of  purpose  which  it  may 
stretch  as  much  as  it  please,  but  on  no 
account  shall  break,  —  this  double  task 
is  hard  indeed ;  the  zest  of  this  game  is 
great. 

In  a  task  so  difficult  as  this  of  relat- 
ing ever  new  materials  to  each  other  in 
the  unity  of  an  organic  whole,  failure 
is  the  only  road  to  success.  For  there 
are  ten  thousand  possible  combinations 
of  our  appetites,  desires,  interests,  and 
affections,  of  which  only  one  precise, 
definite  way  can  be  right,  and  all  the 
rest  must  be  wrong.  As  Aristotle 
learned  from  the  Pythagoreans,  virtue 
is  definite,  or  limited:  vice  is  indefi- 
nite, or  infinite.  It  is  so  easy  to  miss 
the  mark  that  any  fool  can  be  vicious ; 
so  hard  to  hit  it  that  the  strongest  man's 
first  efforts  go  astray.  "Adam's  fall  " 
was  foreordained  by  stronger  powers 
than  even  the  decree  of  a  God.  For 
every  son  of  Adam,  sin,  or  the  missing 
of  the  perfect  mark,  is  a  psychological 
necessity.  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
could  prevent  a  man's  first,  experimen- 
tal adjustments  of  his  environment  to 
himself  from  being  the  failures  they  are. 
For  in  every  art  and  craft,  in  every  game 


578 


The  New  Ethics. 


and  sport  where  skill  is  involved,  the 
progressive  elimination  of  errors  is  the 
only  way  to  a  perfection  which  is  ever 
approximated,  but  never  completely  at- 
tained. 

Yet  the  difficulty  of  the  moral  life  is 
at  the  same  time  its  glory.  For  the 
very  source  of  the  difficulty  may  be 
turned  into  a  weapon  of  conquest.  The 
difficulty  is  all  due  to  the  organic  con- 
nection of  experience.  If  experiences 
stood  alone,  disconnected,  the  moral 
problem  would  be  simple  indeed.  Hun- 
ger feasting  is  better  than  hunger 
starved;  thirst  drinking  is  better  than 
thirst  unquenched ;  weariness  resting  is 
better  than  weariness  at  work.  If  the 
feast,  or  the  drink,  or  the  rest  were 
the  only  things  to  be  considered,  then 
the  gratification  of  each  desire  as  fast 
as  it  arose  would  be  the  whole  duty  of 
man.  None  but  a  fool  could  err.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  wise  man  would 
be  no  better  off  than  the  fool.  There 
would  be  no  use  for  his  wisdom;  no 
world  of  morals  to  conquer. 

Foresight  is  the  first  great  step  in 
this  career  of  moral  conquest.  The 
mind  within  and  the  world  without  are 
parallel  streams  of  close-linked  se- 
quences, in  which  what  goes  in  as  pre- 
sent cause  comes  out  as  future  effect. 
This  linkage  at  the  same  time  binds 
and  sets  us  free.  It  binds  us  to  the 
effect,  if  we  take  the  cause.  It  sets  us 
free  in  the  effect,  if  the  effect  is  fore- 
seen, and  the  cause  is  chosen  with  a 
view  to  the  effect.  These  streams  of 
sequence  repeat  themselves.  They  are 
reducible  to  constant  types.  They  can 
be  accepted  or  rejected  as  wholes.  To 
accept  such  a  whole,  taking  an  undesir- 
able present  cause  for  the  sake  of  a  de- 
sirable future  effect,  is  active  foresight, 
or  courage.  To  reject  a  whole,  fore- 
going a  desired  present  cause  in  order 
to  escape  an  undesirable  future  effect, 
is  passive  foresight,  or  temperance. 
Foresight  reads  into  present  appetite  its 
future  meaning;  and  if  backed  up  by 
temperance  and  courage,  rejects  or  ac- 


cepts the  immediate  gratification  ac- 
cording as  its  total  effect  is  repugnant 
or  desirable. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  vice  creeps 
into  life.  If  virtue  is  choosing  the 
whole  life  history,  so  far  as  it  can  be 
foreseen,  in  each  gratification  or  repres- 
sion of  a  particular  desire,  vice  is  the 
sacrificing  of  the  whole  self  to  a  single 
desire.  How  is  this  possible? 

Partly  through  ignorance,  or  lack  of 
foresight.  Yet  vice  due  to  ignorance 
is  pardonable,  and  is  hardly  to  be  called 
vice  at  all.  It  is  sheer  stupidity.  This, 
however,  which  was  the  explanation  of 
Socrates,  lets  us  off  too  easily. 

Vice  is  due  chiefly  to  inattention; 
not  ignorance,  but  thoughtlessness.  "I 
see  the  better  and  approve ;  yet  I  pur- 
sue the  worse. "  In  this  case  knowledge 
is  not  absent,  but  defective.  It  is  on 
the  margin,  not  in  the  focus  of  conscious- 
ness. In  the  language  of  physiological 
psychology,  a  present  appetite  presents 
its  claims  on  great  billows  of  nerve  com- 
motion which  come  rolling  in  with  all 
the  tang  and  pungency  which  are  the 
characteristic  marks  of  immediate  pe- 
ripheral excitation.  The  future  conse- 
quences of  the  gratification  of  that  ap- 
petite, on  the  contrary,  are  represented 
by  the  tiny,  faint,  feeble  waves  which 
flow  over  from  some  other  brain  centre, 
excited  long  ago,  when  the  connection 
of  this  particular  cause  with  its  natural 
effect  was  first  experienced.  In  such 
an  unequal  contest  between  powerful  vi- 
brations shot  swift  and  straight  along 
the  tingling  nerves  from  the  seat  of  im- 
mediate peripheral  commotion,  and  the 
meagre,  measured  flow  of  faded  impres- 
sions whose  initial  velocity  and  force 
were  long  since  spent,  what  wonder  that 
the  remote  effect  seems  dim,  vague,  and 
unreal,  and  that  the  immediate  gratifi- 
cation of  the  insistent,  clamorous  appe- 
tite or  passion  wins  the  day !  This  is 
the  modern  explanation  of  Aristotle's 
old  problem  of  incontinence. 

Whence  then  comes  repentance? 
From  the  changed  proportions  in  which 


The  New  Ethics. 


579 


acts  present  themselves  to  our  after- 
thought. "The  tumult  and  the  shout- 
ing dies. "  The  appetite,  once  so  urgent 
and  insistent,  lies  prostrate  and  exhaust- 
ed. Its  clamorous  messages  stop.  The 
pleasure  it  brought  dies  down ;  vanishes 
into  the  thin  air  of  memory  and  sym- 
bolical representation,  out  of  which  it 
can  only  call  to  us  with  hollow,  ghost- 
like voice.  On  the  contrary,  the  effect, 
whether  it  be  physical  pains,  or  the  felt 
contempt  of  others,  or  the  sense  of  our 
own  shame,  gets  physical  reinforcement 
from  without,  or  invades  those  cells  of 
the  brain  where  memory  of  the  conse- 
quences of  this  indulgence  Jie,  latent 
but  never  dead,  and  stirs  them  to  the 
very  depths.  Now  all  the  vividness 
and  pungency  and  tang  are  on  their 
side.  They  cry  out  Fool  !  Shame! 
Sin !  Guilt !  Condemnation !  Then  we 
wonder  how  we  could  have  been  fools 
enough  to  take  into  our  lives  such  a  mis- 
erable combination  of  cause  and  effect 
as  this  has  proved  to  be.  The  act  we 
did  and  the  act  we  repent  of  doing  are 
in  one  sense  the  same.  But  we  did  it 
with  the  attractive  cause  in  the  fore- 
ground, and  the  repulsive  effect  in  the 
background.  We  repent  of  the  same 
act  with  the  repulsive  effect  vivid  in  the 
foreground  of  present  consciousness,  and 
the  attractive  cause  in  the  dim  back- 
ground of  memory.  Then  we  vow  that 
we  will  never  admit  that  combination 
into  our  lives  again. 

Will  we  keep  our  vow?  That  de- 
pends on  our  ability  to  recall  the  point 
of  view  we  gained  in  the  mood  of  peni- 
tence the  next  time  a  similar  combina- 
tion presents  itself.  It  will  come  on  as 
before,  with  the  attractive  offer  of  some 
immediate  good  in  the  foreground,  and 
the  unwelcome  effect  trailing  obscurely 
in  the  rear.  If  we  take  it  as  it  comes, 
adding  to  the  presentation  no  contribu- 
tion of  our  own,  we  shall  repeat  the  folly 
and  vice  of  the  past ;  become  again  the 
passive  slaves  of  circumstance ;  the  easy 
prey  of  appetite  and  passion ;  the  stupid 
victims  of  the  serpent's  subtlety. 


Our  freedom,  our  moral  salvation,  lies 
in  our  power  to  call  up  our  past  expe- 
rience of  penitence  and  lay  this  revived 
picture  of  the  act,  with  effect  in  the 
foreground,  on  top  of  the  vivid  picture 
which  appetite  presents.  If  we  suc- 
ceed in  making  the  picture  we  repro- 
duce from  within  the  one  which  deter- 
mines our  action,  we  shall  act  wisely 
and  well.  By  reflecting  often  upon  the 
pictures  drawn  for  us  in  our  moments 
of  penitence,  by  reviving  them  at  in- 
tervals when  they  are  not  immediately 
needed,  and  by  forming  the  habit  of 
always  calling  them  up  in  moments  of 
temptation,  we  can  give  to  these  pic- 
tures, painted  by  our  own  penitence, 
the  control  of  our  lives.  This  is  our 
charter  of  freedom;  and  though  pre- 
cept, example,  and  the  experience  of 
others  may  be  called  in  to  supplement 
our  own  personal  experience,  this  power 
to  revive  the  actual  or  borrowed  lessons 
of  repentance  is  the  only  freedom  we 
have.  Call  it  memory,  attention,  fore- 
sight, prudence,  watchfulness,  ideal 
construction,  or  what  name  we  please, 
the  secret  of  our  freedom,  the  key  to 
character,  the  control  of  conduct,  lies 
exclusively  in  this  power  to  force  into 
the  foreground  considerations  which  of 
themselves  tend  to  slip  into  the  back- 
ground, so  that,  as  in  a  well-constructed 
cyclorama,  where  actual  walls  and  fences 
join  on  to  painted  walls  and  fences  with- 
out apparent  break,  the  immediately 
presented  desire,  backed  up  by  all  the 
impetus  of  immediate  physical  excita- 
tion, shall  count  for  precisely  its  pro- 
portionate worth  in  a  representation  of 
the  total  consequences  of  which  it  is 
the  cause. 


n. 


SOCIAL    SYMPATHY    AND    RESPONSI- 
BILITY. 


If  I  were  the  only  person  in  the 
world,  if  all  the  other  forces  were  ma- 
terial things,  with  no  wills  of  their  own, 
then  the  single  principle  of  inserting 
into  the  stream  of  sequence  the  causes 


580 


The  New  Ethics. 


which  lead  to  the  future  I  desire  for 
myself,  and  excluding  those  of  which 
I  have  had  reason  to  repent,  would  be 
the  whole  of  ethics.  Fortunately  life 
is  not  so  simple  and  monotonous  as  all 
that.  The  world  is  full  of  other  wills 
as  eager,  as  interesting,  as  strenuous, 
as  brave  as  we,  in  our  best  moments, 
know  our  own  to  be.  By  sympathy, 
imagination,  insight,  and  affection  we 
can  enrich  our  lives  an  hundred-fold  by 
making  their  aims  and  aspirations,  their 
interests  and  struggles,  their  joys  and 
sorrows  our  own.  Not  only  can  we  do 
this,  but  to  some  extent  we  must.  It 
is  impossible  to  live  an  isolated  life, 
apart  from  our  fellows.  Man  is  by  na- 
ture social.  Alone  he  becomes  inhu- 
man. A  life  which  has  no  outlet  in 
sympathy  with  other  lives  is  unendur- 
able. If  men  cannot  find  some  one  to 
love,  they  insist  on  at  least  finding  some 
one  to  quarrel  with,  or  defy,  or  mal- 
treat, or  at  least  despise.  Even  hatred 
and  cruelty  and  pride  have  this  social 
motive  at  their  heart;  and  in  spite  of 
themselves  are  witnesses  to  the  essen- 
tially social  nature  of  man,  and  the  soul 
of  latent  goodness  buried  beneath  the 
hardest  of  corrupted  and  perverted 
hearts. 

Our  social  nature  complicates  and  at 
the  same  time  elevates  enormously  the 
moral  problem.  It  is  no  longer  a  ques- 
tion of  dovetailing  together  the  petty 
fragments  of  my  own  little  life  so  as  to 
make  their  paltry  contents  a  coherent 
whole ;  I  now  have  the  harder  and  more 
glorious  task  of  making  my  life  as  a 
whole  an  effective  and  harmonious  ele- 
ment in  the  larger  whole  which  includes 
the  lives  of  my  fellows  and  myself. 
Here  again  there  is  a  vast  task  for  the 
imagination  to  perform;  a  more  spa- 
cious cyclorama  for  it  to  construct.  Not 
merely  the  effects  upon  myself,  but  the 
consequences  for  as  many  of  my  fellows 
as  my  act  directly  and  traceably  affects, 
I  must  now  represent.  Before  I  can 
permit  an  act  to  find  a  place  in  my 
present  conduct  I  must  foresee,  not  only 


what  it  means  for  my  own  future,  but 
for  the  future  of  all  my  neighbors  who 
come  within  the  range  of  its  influence. 

For  their  future  is,  in  proportion  to 
the  closeness  of  the  ties  that  bind  us, 
almost  as  completely  in  my  control  as 
it  is  in  their  own.  Indeed,  if  I  be  the 
stronger  person,  if  I  have  clear  foresight 
where  their  prevision  is  dim,  if  I  grasp 
firmly  aims  which  they  hold  but  feebly, 
their  future  may  be  even  more  in  my 
hands  than  it  is  in  their  own.  Thus  the 
parent  is  more  responsible  for  the  child's 
future  than  is  the  child  himself.  The 
husband  often  holds  the  alternative  of 
life  or  death  for  his  wife  in  his  hands, 
according  as  he  is  patient,  forbearing, 
considerate,  and  kind,  or  exacting,  in- 
considerate, cross,  and  cruel.  The  wife, 
on  the  other  hand,  more  often  holds  the 
future  of  her  husband's  character  in  her 
hands,  making  him  sober  and  honest  if 
she  is  winsome  and  sincere ;  driving  him 
to  drink  if  she  is  slovenly  and  queru- 
lous ;  leading  him  into  dishonesty  if  she 
is  extravagant  and  vain.  Every  person 
of  any  considerable  strength  of  charac- 
ter can  recall  many  an  instance  in  which 
by  a  half  hour's  conversation,  followed 
up  by  occasional  suggestions  afterward, 
he  has  changed  the  whole  subsequent 
career  of  another  person.  To  one  who 
has  discovered  the  secret  of  this  power, 
a  week  permitted  to  pass  by  without  thus 
changing  the  life -currents  of  half  a  doz- 
en of  his  fellows  would  seem  a  wicked, 
wanton  waste  of  life's  chief  privilege 
and  joy.  I  could  name  a  quiet,  modest 
man  who  at  a  low  estimate  has  changed 
directly  and  radically  for  the  better  a 
thousand  human  lives ;  and  indirectly,  to 
an  appreciable  degree,  certainly  not  less 
than  a  hundred  thousand.  He  is  no 
professional  preacher  or  evangelist ;  and 
the  greater  part  of  this  vast  work  has 
been  done  in  quiet  conversation,  mainly 
in  his  own  home,  and  by  correspondence. 

Such  power  of  one  man  over  another 
is  in  no  way  inconsistent  with  the  free- 
dom and  responsibility  of  them  both. 
In  psychical  as  in  physical  causation 


The  New  Etliics. 


581 


many  antecedents  enter  into  each  ef- 
fect. When  I  pull  the  trigger  of  my 
shotgun,  and  by  so  doing  shoot  a  par- 
tridge, I  am  by  no  means  the  only  cause 
of  the  bird's  death.  The  maker  of  the 
powder,  the  maker  of  the  shot,  the  man 
who  put  them  together  in  the  cartridge, 
the  maker  of  the  gun,  the  dog  that 
helped  me  find  the  bird,  and  countless 
other  forces,  which  we  express  in  such 
general  terms  as  the  laws  of  chemistry 
and  physics,  enter  into  the  production 
of  the  effect.  Nevertheless,  my  pull- 
ing the  trigger,  though  not  the  whole 
cause,  is  a  real  cause.  Precisely  so  when 
I  offer  my  boy  a  quarter  for  shooting  a 
partridge,  and  under  the  influence  of 
that  inducement  he  goes  hunting,  he  is 
just  as  free  in  trying  to  secure  the  re- 
ward as  I  am  in  offering  it.  Both  my 
desire  for  the  partridge  which  leads  me 
to  offer  the  prize  and  his  desire  for  the 
quarter  are  factors  in  producing  the 
result.  We  are  both  free  in  our  acts, 
and  both  share  responsibility  for  the 
shooting  of  the  bird.  For  that  act  fig- 
ured alike  in  his  future  and  in  my  fu- 
ture as  an  element  in  a  desired  whole. 
The  same  external  fact  may  enter  as 
an  element  in  the  freedom  of  thousands 
of  persons.  A  great  work  of  art,  for 
example,  is  an  expression  of  the  free- 
dom not  only  of  the  artist  who  paints  or 
writes,  but  of  all  who  see  or  read  in  it 
that  which  they  long  for  and  admire. 
The  goods  of  the  will  and  the  spirit, 
unlike  the  goods  of  the  mill  and  the 
market,  are  "in  widest  commonalty 
spread."  They  refuse  to  be  made  ob- 
jects of  exclusive  possession.  I  cannot 
intensely  cherish  an  idea,  or  entertain 
a  plan,  for  which  my  fellows  shall  not 
be  either  the  better  or  the  worse.  Every 
conscious  act  deliberately  chosen  and  ac- 
cepted is  an  act  of  freedom,  and  every 
word  or  deed  goes  forth  from  us  freight- 
ed with  social  consequence,  and  weight- 
ed to  that  precise  extent  with  moral 
responsibility. 

Hence  social  imagination  or  sympa- 
thy is  the  second  great  instrument  of 


morality,  as  individual  imagination  or 
foresight  was  the  first.  If  our  individ- 
ual salvation  is  by  foresight  and  re- 
pentance, our  social  salvation  is  through 
imagination  and  love.  No  logical  "re- 
conciliation of  egoism  and  altruism  "  is 
possible;  for  that  would  involve  redu- 
cing one  of  the  two  elements  to  terms 
of  the  other.  Both  are  facts  of  human 
experience,  found  in  every  normal  life. 
I  live  my  own  life  by  setting  before  my- 
self a  future,  and  taking  the  means  that 
lead  thereto.  I  find  this  life  worth  liv- 
ing in  proportion  to  the  length  and 
breadth  and  height  of  the  aims  I  set  be- 
fore myself,  and  the  wisdom  and  skill 
I  bring  to  bear  upon  their  achievement. 
But  I  cannot  make  my  own  aims  long, 
wide,  or  high,  without  at  the  same  time 
taking  account  of  the  aims  of  my  fel- 
lows. I  may  clash  with  them,  and  try 
to  use  them  as  means  to  my  own  ends. 
That  leads  to  strife  and  bitterness,  sor- 
row and  shame.  Either  my  own  ends 
are  defeated  if,  as  is  generally  the  case, 
my  fellows  prove  stronger  than  I;  or 
else  they  are  won  at  such  cost  of  injury 
to  others  that  in  comparison  they  seem 
poor  and  pitiful,  not  worth  the  winning. 
This  is  the  experience  of  the  normal 
man ;  and  though  by  pride  and  hardness 
of  heart  one  may  make  shift  to  endure 
a  comparatively  egoistic  life,  no  person 
can  find  it  so  good  as  never  to  be  haunt- 
ed by  visions  of  a  better,  which  sym- 
pathy and  love  might  bring. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  I  generously 
take  into  account  the  aims  of  my  fellow 
man,  and  live  in  them  with  the  same 
eagerness  with  which  I  live  in  my  own, 
using  for  him  the  same  foresight  and 
adaptation  of  means  to  ends  that  I  would 
use  for  myself,  throwing  my  own  re- 
sources into  the  scale  of  his  interests 
when  his  resources  are  inadequate,  shar- 
ing with  him  the  sorrow  of  temporary 
defeat,  and  the  triumph  of  hard  won 
victories,  I  find  my  own  life  more  than 
doubled  by  this  share  in  the  life  of  an- 
other. The  little  that  I  add  to  his  fore- 
sight and  strength,  if  given  with  sym- 


582 


The  New  Ethics. 


pathy  and  love,  when  added  to  the  en- 
ergy, latent  or  active,  which  he  already 
has,  works  wonders  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  results  I  could  achieve  in  my  life 
alone,  or  which  he  alone  could  achieve 
in  his.  Love  not  merely  adds ;  it  mul- 
tiplies ;  as  in  the  story  of  the  loaves  and 
fishes.  It  not  only  increases ;  it  mag- 
nifies the  life,  alike  of  him  who  gives 
and  him  who  receives.  Just  why  it 
should  do  so  is  hard  to  explain  in  purely 
egoistic  terms ;  as  hard  as  to  explain  to 
an  oyster  why  dogs  like  to  run  and  bark ; 
or  to  a  heap  of  sand  why  the  particles 
of  a  crystal  arrange  themselves  in  the 
wondrous  ways  they  do.  It  is  a  sim- 
ple, ultimate  fact  of  experience  that 
just  as  a  life  of  individual  foresight  is 
on  the  whole  better  worth  living  than 
the  life  of  hand  to  mouth  gratification, 
so  the  life  of  loving  sympathy  is  a  life 
infinitely  more  blessed  than  the  best 
success  the  poor  self-centred  egoist  can 
ever  know.  If  a  selfish  life  were  found 
on  the  basis  of  wide  experience  and 
comprehensive  generalization  to  be  a 
more  blessed  and  glorious  life  than  the 
life  of  loving  sympathy,  then  the  selfish 
life  would  be  the  life  we  ought  to  live : 
precisely  as  if  houses  in  which  the  cen- 
tre of  gravity  falls  outside  the  base 
were  the  most  stable  and  graceful  struc- 
tures men  could  build,  that  would  be  the 
style  of  architecture  we  all  "  ought  "  to 
adopt.  Ethics  and  architecture  are  both 
ideal  pursuits,  in  the  sense  that  they 
have  as  their  object  to  make  a  present 
ideal  plan  into  a  future  fact.  But  both 
must  build  their  ideals  out  of  the  solid 
facts  of  past  experience.  It  is  just  as 
undeniable,  unescapable  a  fact  of  ethics 
that  the  aim  of  a  noble  and  blessed  life 
must  fall  outside  its  own  individual  in- 
terests, as  it  is  an  undeniable,  unescap- 
able law  of  architecture  that  the  cen- 
tre of  gravity  of  a  stable,  graceful  struc- 
ture must  fall  within  its  base. 

Still  the  appeal  to  brute  fact,  though 
valid,  is  not  ultimate.  There  is  a  rea- 
son for  the  fact  that  structures  in  which 
the  centre  of  gravity  falls  outside  the 


base  are  unstable;  and  physics  formu- 
lates that  reason  in  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion. So  there  is  a  reason  why  a  self- 
ish life  is  unsatisfactory;  and  ethics 
formulates  that  reason  in  the  law  of 
love.  These  facts  are  so ;  but  they  have 
to  be  so  because  they  could  not  find  a 
place  in  the  total  system  of  things  if 
they  were  otherwise.  A  universe  of 
consistent  egoists  would  not  be  a  perma- 
nent possibility.  It  could  only  exist 
temporarily  as  a  hell  in  process  of  its 
own  speedy  disruption  and  dissolution. 
Yet  just  as  a  man  can  forget  his  own 
future,  and  in  so  doing  wrong  his  own 
soul,  a  man  can  be  blind  to  the  conse- 
quence of  his  act  for  his  neighbor,  and 
in  so  doing  wrong  society  and  his  own 
social  nature.  The  root  of  all  social  sin 
is  this  blindness  to  social  consequence. 
Hence  the  great  task  of  sound  ethics  is 
to  stimulate  the  social  imagination. 
We  must  be  continually  prodding  our 
sense  of  social  consequence  to  keep  it 
wide  awake.  We  must  be  asking  our- 
selves at  each  point  of  contact  with  the 
lives  of  others  such  pointed  questions  as 
these :  How  would  you  like  to  be  this 
tailor  or  washerwoman  whose  bill  you 
have  neglected  to  pay  ?  How  would  you 
like  to  be  the  customer  to  whom  you  are 
selling  these  adulterated  or  inferior 
goods  ?  How  would  you  like  to  be  the 
investor  in  this  stock  company  which 
you  are  promoting  with  water?  How 
would  you  like  to  be  the  taxpayer  of 
the  city  which  you  are  plundering  by 
lending  your  official  sanction  to  contracts 
and  deals  which  make  its  buildings  and 
supplies  and  services  cost  more  than  any 
private  individual  would  have  to  pay? 
How  would  you  like  to  be  the  employer 
whose  time  and  tools  and  materials  you 
are  wasting  at  every  chance  you  get  to 
loaf  and  shirk  and  neglect  the  duties 
you  are  paid  to  perform  ?  How  would 
you  like  to  be  the  clerk  or  saleswoman 
in  the  store  where  you  are  reaping  extra 
dividends  by  imposing  harder  conditions 
than  the  state  of  trade  and  the  market 
compel  you  to  adopt?  How  would  you 


The  New  Ethics. 


583 


like  to  be  the  stoker  or  weaver  or  me- 
chanic on  the  wages  you  pay  and  the 
conditions  of  labor  you  impose  ?  How 
would  you  like  to  live  out  the  dreary, 
degraded,  outcast  future  of  the  woman 
you  wantonly  ruin  for  a  moment's  pas- 
sionate pleasure  ?  How  would  you  like 
to  be  the  man  whose  good  name  you  in- 
jure by  slander  and  false  accusation? 
How  would  you  like  to  be  the  business 
rival  whom  you  deprive  of  his  little  all 
by  using  your  greater  wealth  in  tempo- 
rary cut-throat  competition? 

These  are  the  kind  of  questions  the 
social  imagination  is  asking  of  us  at 
every  turn.  There  are  severe  conditions 
of  trade,  politics,  war,  which  often  com- 
pel us  to  do  cruel  things  and  strike  hard, 
crushing  blows.  For  these  conditions 
we  are  not  always  individually  respon- 
sible. The  individual  who  will  hold  his 
place,  and  maintain  an  effective  position 
in  the  practical  affairs  of  the  world, 
must  repeatedly  do  the  things  he  hates 
to  do,  and  file  his  silent  protest,  and 
work  for  such  gradual  change  of  condi- 
tions as  will  make  such  hard,  cruel  acts 
no  longer  necessary.  We  must  some- 
times collect  the  rent  of  the  poor  widow, 
and  exact  the  task  from  the  sick  woman, 
and  pay  low  wages  to  the  man  with  a 
large  family,  and  turn  out  the  well- 
meaning  but  inefficient  employee.  We 
must  resist  good  men  in  the  interest  of 
better  things  they  cannot  see,  and  dis- 
cipline children  for  reasons  which  they 
cannot  comprehend.  Yet  even  in  these 
cases  where  we  have  to  sacrifice  other 
people,  we  must  at  least  feel  the  sac- 
rifice ;  we  must  be  as  sorry  for  them  as 
we- would  be  for  ourselves  if  we  were  in 
their  place.  We  must  not  turn  out  the 
inefficient  employee,  unless  we  would  be 
willing  to  resign  his  place  ourselves,  if 
we  held  it,  and  were  in  it  as  inefficient 
as  he.  We  must  not  exact  the  rent  or 
the  task  from  the  poor  widow  or  the 
sick  saleswoman,  unless  on  the  whole  if 
we  were  in  their  places  we  should  be 
willing  to  pay  the  rent  or  perform  the 
task.  Even  this  principle  will  not  en- 


tirely remove  hardship,  privation,  and 
cruelty  from  our  complex  modern  life. 
But  it  will  very  greatly  reduce  it ;  and 
it  will  take  out  of  life  what  is  the  cruel- 
est  element  of  it  all,  —  the  hardness  of 
human  hearts.  / 

To  sternly  refuse  any  gain  that  is 
purchased  by  another's  loss,  or  any  plea- 
sure bought  with  another's  pain;  to 
make  this  sensitiveness  to  the  interests 
of  others  a  living  stream,  a  growing 
plant  within  our  individual  hearts;  to 
challenge  every  domestic  and  personal 
relat  on,  every  industrial  and  business 
connection,  every  political  and  official 
performance,  every  social  and  intellec- 
tual aspiration,  by  this  searching  test  of 
social  consequence  to  those  our  act  af- 
fects, —  this  is  the  second  stage  of  the 
moral  life ;  this  is  one  of  the  two  great 
commandments  of  Christianity. 

III.    AUTHORITY    AND    PUNISHMENT. 

To  see  the  whole  effect  upon  our- 
selves, and  upon  others,  of  each  act  which 
we  perform  is  the  secret  of  the  moral 
life.  Yet  we  are  shortsighted  by  na- 
ture, and  often  blinded  by  prejudice  and 
passion.  The  child  at  first  is  scarcely 
able  to  see  vividly  and  clearly  beyond 
the  present  moment  and  his  individual 
desires.  And  in  many  respects  we  all 
remain  mere  children  to  the  end.  Is 
not  the  moral  task  then  impossible? 

Hard  it  is  indeed.  Impossible,  too, 
it  would  be,  if  we  had  no  tools  to  work 
with;  no  helps  in  this  hard  task.  For- 
tunately we  have  the  needed  helps,  and 
they  come  first  in  the  authority  of  our 
parents  and  rulers.  Their  wider  experi- 
ence enables  them  to  see  what  the  child 
cannot  see.  Their  commandments, 
therefore,  if  they  are  wise  and  good, 
point  in  the  direction  of  consequences 
which  the  child  cannot  see  at  the  time, 
but  which,  when  he  does  see,  he  will  ac- 
cept as  desirable.  An  act  which  leads 
to  an  unseen  good  consequence,  done  in 
obedience  to  trusted  authority,  or  re- 
spected law,  is  right.  The  person  who 


584 


The  New  Ethics. 


does  such  an  act  is  righteous.  And  the 
righteousness  of  it  rests  on  faith :  faith 
in  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  the  per- 
son he  obeys.  Righteousness  at  this 
stage,  therefore,  is  goodness  "going  it 
blind, "  as  the  slang  phrase  is ;  or,  in 
more  orthodox  terms,  walking  by  faith, 
and  not  by  sight. 

As  long  as  the  child  walks  in  implicit 
trust  in  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  his 
parents  he  cannot  go  far  astray.  Ig- 
norant, shortsighted,  inexperienced  as 
he  is,  he  nevertheless  is  guided  by  a  vi- 
carious intelligence,  in  which  the  wis- 
dom and  experience  of  the  race  are  re- 
produced and  interpreted  for  him  in  each 
new  crisis  by  the  insight  of  love.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  the  commandment, 
Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother, 
whether  in  Hebrew  or  Chinese  legisla- 
tion, is  the  great  commandment  with 
promise!  Not  only  does  the  obedient 
child  in  particular  cases  get  the  conse- 
quences which  he  afterwards  comes  to 
see  were  desirable,  but  he  acquires  hab- 
its of  doing  the  kind  of  acts  which  lead 
to  desirable  consequences,  and  of  re- 
fraining from  the  kind  of  acts  which 
lead  to  undesirable  consequences.  These 
habits  are  the  broad  base  on  which  all 
subsequent  character  rests,  as  on  a  solid 
rock  deeply  sunk  in  the  firm  soil  of  the 
unconscious.  As  our  bodies  are  first 
nourished  by  our  mother's  milk,  our 
souls  are  built  up  first  out  of  the  habits 
of  acting  which  we  derive  directly  from 
doing  what  our  mothers  tell  us  to  do  in 
thousands  of  specific,  concrete  cases, 
and  refraining  from  doing  the  things 
their  gentle  wisdom  firmly  forbids.  The 
love  of  mothers  is  the  cord  that  ties  each 
newborn  soul  fast  to  the  wisdom  and  ex- 
perience of  the  race.  "We  are  suckled 
at  the  breast  of  the  universal  ethos, " 
chiefly  through  the  vicarious  maternal 
intelligence.  Hence  the  awful* waste, 
amounting  to  a  crime  against  both  the 
hard  won  ideals  and  standards  of  the 
race,  and  the  future  character  of  the 
child,  when  indolent,  or  vain,  or  ambi- 
tious mothers  turn  over  the  formative 


years  of  their  children  to  ignorant,  un- 
developed nurses !  Though  the  chances 
are  that  the  average  nurse  will  prove 
quite  as  wise  and  good  a  guide  to  the 
young  mind  as  a  mother  who  is  capable 
of  turning  her  child  over  to  the  exclu- 
sive training  of  any  other  guide  than 
herself.  The  pity  is  not  so  much  that 
the  ambitious  mother  relinquishes  her 
highest  and  holiest  function  as  that 
there  are  children  born  who  have  mo- 
thers capable  of  doing  it.  Given  such 
mothers,  the  nurses  are  often  a  great 
improvement  on  them. 

The  derivative,  vicarious  nature  of 
righteousness  at  this  stage  makes  clear 
the  need  and  justification  of  punish- 
ment. The  mother  sees  a  great,  far-off 
good,  which  the  child  cannot  see  at  all. 
She  commands  the  child  to  act  in  a  way 
to  secure  this  good  as  a  consequence. 
He  disobeys.  He  loses  the  consequence 
which  she  desires  for  him.  He  weakens 
the  indispensable  habit  of  obedience,  on 
which  countless  other  great  goods  be- 
yond his  vision  depend.  He  cannot  see 
vividly  either  the  specific  good  at  which 
she  aims,  nor  the  general  good  that  flows 
from  the  habit  of  implicit  obedience. 
She  then  brings  within  the  range  of  his 
keen  and  vivid  experience  some  such 
minor  and  transitory  evil  as  a  spank- 
ing, or  being  sent  supperless  to  bed; 
and  makes  him  understand  that,  if  he 
cannot  see  the  good  of  obedience,  he  can 
count  with  certainty  on  these  evils  of 
disobedience.  Punishment,  then,  is  an 
act  of  the  truest  kindness  and  consider- 
ation. It  is  a  help  to  that  instinctive 
and  implicit  obedience  to  authority,  on 
which  the  child's  greatest  good  at  this 
stage  of  his  development  depends.  No 
child  will  permanently  resent  such  well- 
meant  punishment.  As  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing says : — 

"  A  mother  never  is  afraid 
Of  speaking  angerly  to  any  child, 
Since  love,  she  knows,  is  justified  of  love." 

The  withholding  of  punishment  in 
such  cases  is  the  real  cruelty;  and  the 
mother  who  is  weak  enough  to  do  it  is  a 


The  New  EtUcs. 


585 


mawkish  sentimentalist,  to  whom  a  few 
passing  cries  and  tears  are  of  more  con- 
sequence than  the  future  welfare  and 
permanent  character  of  her  child.  From 
this  point  of  view,  punishment  is  an  act 
of  mercy  and  kindness,  as  Plato  shows 
us  so  clearly  in  the  Gorgias.  Every 
mother  who  believes  her  child  to  be  ever 
so  little  below  the  angels  is  bound  to 
substitute  the  gentler  evils  of  artificial 
punishment  for  the  greater  evils  of  a  life 
of  unpunished  naughtiness. 

All  moral  punishment,  whether  in- 
flicted by  parents,  schools,  colleges,  or 
courts  of  justice,  is  of  this  nature.  It 
helps  the  offender  to  see  both  ends  of 
his  deed.  When  he  commits  the  of- 
fense, he  sees  vividly  only  one  end  of 
it,  the  temporary  advantage  to  himself 
as  an  individual.  He  does  not  see  with 
equal  vividness  the  other  end,  the  injury 
to  the  interests  of  others,  and  to  his  own 
best  self  as  a  potential  participant  in 
these  larger  interests.  Punishment  at- 
tempts to  bring  home  to  him,  if  not  in 
the  precise  terms  of  his  offense,  an  eye 
for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  at  least 
a  partial  equivalent,  in  privation  of 
money  or  liberty,  or  public  favor,  the 
other  end  of  his  act,  which  at  the  time 
of  acting  he  did  not  keenly  and  vividly 
appreciate.  Such  strict  retribution  is 
the  best  favor  we  can  confer  on  an  of- 
fender, so  long  as  he  remains  unrepent- 
ant. To  give  him  less  than  this  is  to 
cut  him  off  from  his  only  chance  to  get 
a  right  view  of  his  own  wrong  act.  It 
is  the  only  way  to  open  his  eyes  to  see 
his  act  in  its  totality. 

What  if  a  man  repents  ?  Shall  we 
still  punish  him  ?  Not  if  the  repent- 
ance is  genuine  and  thoroughgoing. 
What,  then,  is  true  repentance  ?  An  evil 
act,  as  we  have  seen,  has  two  ends :  one 
attractive  to  the  individual  for  the  sake 
of  which  he  does  it ;  the  other  injurious 
to  his  own  better  self  and  to  the  inter- 
ests of  others.  This  second  end  the 
wrongdoer  does  not  see  clearly  when  he 
commits  the  offense.  Afterwards  he 
sees  it,  in  its  natural  consequences;  in 


the  indignation  of  the  offended,  in  the 
condemnation  of  society,  in  the  immi- 
nence of  punishment.  This  second  part 
of  his  act,  when  it  comes  home  to  him, 
he  does  not  like,  but  wishes  himself 
well  out  of  it.  This,  however,  is  not 
repentance ;  and  no  amount  of  tears  and 
promises  and  importunities  should  ever 
deceive  us  into  accepting  this  dislike  of 
unpleasant  consequences  for  a  genuine 
repentance  of  the  wrong  act.  Every 
wise  parent,  every  efficient  college  offi- 
cer, every  just  judge,  must  harden  his 
heart  against  all  these  selfish  lamenta- 
tions, and  discount  them  in  advance  as 
a  probable  part  of  the  culprit's  natural 
programme.  Dislike  of  unpleasant  con- 
sequences to  one's  self  is  not  repent- 
ance. Repentance  must  reach  back  to 
the  original  act,  and  include  both  the 
pleasant  cause  and  its  unpleasant  con- 
sequences to  others,  as  well  as  to  one's 
self,  in  the  unity  of  one  total  deed, 
and  then  repudiate  that  deed  as  a  whole. 
When  repentance  does  that,  it  does  the 
whole  moral  work  which  punishment 
aims  to  do.  To  inflict  punishment  af- 
ter such  repentance  is  inexcusable  and 
wanton  brutality. 

The  theory  of  punishment  is  clear: 
its  application  is  the  most  difficult  of 
tasks.  It  is  very  hard  to  discriminate 
in  many  cases  real  repentance  from 
dislike  of  unpleasant  personal  conse- 
quences. Then  it  is  hard  to  justify 
severity  toward  one  who  is  believed  to 
be  unrepentant,  and  absolute  forgiveness 
to  one  who  has  shown  evidence  of  true 
penitence.  Whoever  has  to  administer 
punishment  on  a  large  scale,  and  at- 
tempts to  be  inflexibly  retributive  to 
the  impenitent  and  infinitely  merciful 
toward  the  penitent,  must  expect  to 
be  grossly  misunderstood  and  severely 
criticised  for  all  he  does,  and  all  he  re- 
frains from  doing.  If  the  way  of  the 
transgressor  is  hard,  the  way  of  the 
moral  punisher  is  harder.  The  state 
practically  confesses  its  inability  to  dis- 
criminate true  from  false  repentance ; 
and  lowers  its  practice  from  the  moral 


586 


The  New  Ethics. 


plane  of  retribution  or  forgiveness  to 
the  merely  legal  plane  of  social  protec- 
tion, giving  to  the  executive  a  power  of 
pardon  by  which  to  correct  the  more 
glaring  mistakes  of  the  courts.  In  view 
of  the  clumsiness  of  the  means  at  its  dis- 
posal, the  great  diversity  of  moral  con- 
dition in  its  citizens,  and  the  imperson- 
ality of  its  relations,  probably  this  pro- 
tective theory  of  punishment,  which 
says  to  the  offender,  "  I  punish  you,  not 
for  stealing  sheep,  but  to  prevent  other 
sheep  from  being  stolen,"  is  the  best 
working  theory  for  practical  jurispru- 
dence. But  it  is  utterly  unmoral.  It 
has  no  place  in  the  family.  Only  in  ex- 
treme cases  is  it  defensible  in  school  and 
college.  In  settling  personal  quarrels 
it  should  have  small  place.  Uncompro- 
mising retribution  to  the  impenitent, 
unreserved  forgiveness  to  the  penitent, 
which  Christianity  sets  forth  as  the  at- 
titude of  God,  is  the  only  right  course 
for  men  who  are  called  to  perform  this 
infinitely  difficult  task  of  moral  punish- 
ment. 


IV.     THE    SYMBOLICAL    VALIDITY    OF 
MORAL    LAWS. 

The  success  of  the  ethical  life  de- 
pends on  keeping  the  consequences  of  our 
acts,  for  ourselves  and  for  others,  vivid- 
ly in  the  foreground  of  the  mind.  Per- 
sonal authority  of  parents  and  rulers, 
supported  by  swift  sure  penalties  for 
disobedience,  is  the  first  great  help  to 
the  good  life.  But  we  cannot  always 
have  parents,  tutors,  and  governors 
standing  over  us  to  tell  us  what  to  do 
and  what  not  to  do ;  to  reward  us  if  we 
do  right  and  punish  us  if  we  do  wrong. 
Still  less  can  we  afford  to  rely  on  natu- 
ral penalties  alone,  as  they  teach  us  their 
lessons  in  the  slow  and  costly  school  of 
experience.  The  next  stage  of  moral 
development  employs  as  symbols  of  the 
consequences  we  cannot  foresee  and  ap- 
preciate maxims  to  guide  the  individual 
life,  and  laws  to  represent  the  claims  of 
our  fellows  upon  us.  These  maxims 


and  laws  have  no  intrinsic  worth.  Their 
authority  is  all  derived  and  representa- 
tive. Yet  inasmuch  as  they  represent 
individual  or  social  consequences,  they 
have  all  the  authority  of  the  conse- 
quences themselves.  More  than  that, 
since  consequences  are  particular  and 
limited,  while  these  maxims  and  laws 
are  universal,  these  maxims  and  laws, 
derivative  and  representative  symbols 
though  they  are,  have  a  sacredness  and 
authority  far  higher  and  greater  than 
that  of  any  particular  consequences  for 
which  in  a  given  case  they  happen  to 
stand. 

These  maxims  and  laws  are  like  the 
items  on  a  merchant's  ledger;  or,  better 
still,  like  the  currency  which  represents 
the  countless  varieties  of  commodities 
and  services  we  buy  and  sell.  The  items 
on  the  ledger,  the  bills  in  the  pocket- 
book,  have  no  intrinsic  value.  Yet  it 
were  far  better  for  a  merchant  to  be  care- 
less about  his  cotton  cloth,  or  molasses, 
or  any  particular  commodity  in  which 
he  deals,  than  to  be  careless  about  his 
accounts  which  represent  commodities 
of  all  kinds :  better  for  any  one  of  us  to 
forget  where  we  laid  our  coat,  or  our 
shoes  or  umbrella,  than  to  leave  lying 
around  loose  the  dollar  bills,  which  are 
symbols  of  the  value  of  these  and  a  thou- 
sand other  articles  we  possess.  Pre- 
cisely so,  the  authority  and  dignity  of 
moral  maxims  and  laws  are  in  no  way 
impaired  by  frankly  acknowledging 
their  intrinsic  worthlessness.  To  vio- 
late one  of  these  maxims,  to  break  one 
of  these  laws,  is  as  foolish  and  wicked 
as  it  would  be  to  set  fire  to  a  merchant's 
ledger,  or  to  tear  up  one's  dollar  bills. 
These  maxims  and  laws  are  our  moral 
currency,  coined  by  the  experience  of 
the  race,  and  stamped  with  universal 
approval.  Their  authority  rests  on  the 
consequences  which  they  represent ;  and 
their  validity,  as  representative  of  those 
consequences,  is  attested  by  the  experi- 
ence of  the  race  in  innumerable  cases. 
A  moral  law  is  a  prophecy  of  conse- 
quences based  on  the  widest  possible  in- 


The  New  Ethics. 


587 


duction.  Hence  the  man  who  seeks  a 
satisfactory  future  for  himself,  and  for 
those  his  act  affects,  in  other  words  the 
moral  man,  must  obey  these  maxims  and 
laws  in  all  ordinary  cases  without  stop- 
ping to  verify  the  consequences  they 
represent,  any  more  than  an  ordinary 
citizen  investigates  the  solvency  of  the 
government  every  time  he  receives  its 
legal  tender  notes. 

This  illustration  at  the  same  time 
reveals  the  almost  universal  validity  of 
moral  laws,  and  yet  leaves  the  neces- 
sary room  for  rare  and  imperative  ex- 
ceptions. A  man  may  find  it  wise  to 
burn  dollar  bills.  If  he  is  in  camp, 
and  likely  to  perish  with  cold,  and  no 
other  kindling  is  available,  he  will  kin- 
dle his  fire  with  dollar  bills.  He  will 
be  very  reluctant  to  do  it,  however.  He 
will  realize  that  he  is  kindling  a  very 
costly  fire.  He  will  consent  to  do  it 
only  as  a  last  resort,  and  when  the  fire 
is  worth  more  to  him,  not  merely  than 
the  intrinsic,  but  than  the  symbolic  value 
of  the  bills.  Now  there  may  be  rare 
cases  when  a  moral  law  must  be  broken 
on  the  same  principle  that  a  man  kin- 
dles a  fire  with  dollar  bills.  The  cases 
will  be  about  as  rare  when  it  will  be 
right  to  steal  or  lie  as  it  is  rare  to  find 
circumstances  when  it  is  wise  to  build 
a  fire  with  dollar  bills.  They  come  per- 
haps once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime  to  one 
or  two  in  every  thousand  men.  The 
breaking  of  a  moral  law  always  involves 
evil  consequences,  far  outweighing  any 
particular  good  that  can  ordinarily  be 
gained  thereby,  through  weakening  con- 
fidence and  respect  for  the  validity  and 
authority  of  the  law  itself.  Yet  there 
are  exceptional,  abnormal  conditions  of 
war,  or  sickness,  or  insanity,  or  moral 
perversity,  where  the  defense  of  precious 
interests  against  pathological  and  per- 
verse conditions  may  warrant  the 
breaking  of  a  moral  law,  on  the  same 
principle  that  impending  freezing  would 
warrant  the  lighting  of  a  thousand-dol- 
lar fire. 

One  hesitates  to  give  examples  of  cir- 


cumstances which  justify  the  breaking 
of  a  moral  law,  for  fear  of  giving  to 
exceptions  a  portion  of  the  emphasis 
which  belongs  exclusively  to  the  rule, 
and  falling  into  the  moral  abyss  of  a 
Jesuitical  casuistry.  Yet  it  is  an  inva- 
riable rule  of  teaching  never  to  give  an 
abstract  principle  without  its  accom- 
panying concrete  case.  Hence,  if  cases 
must  be  given,  the  lie  to  divert  the 
murderer  from  his  victim,  the  horse 
seized  to  carry  the  wounded  man  to  the 
surgeon,  the  lie  that  withholds  the  story 
of  a  repented  wrong  from  the  scandal- 
monger who  would  wreck  the  happiness 
of  a  home  by  peddling  it  abroad,  are 
instances  of  the  extreme  urgency  that 
might  warrant  the  building  of  a  thou- 
sand -  dollar  bonfire  which  takes  place 
whenever  we  break  a  moral  law.  The 
law  against  adultery,  on  the  other  hand, 
admits  of  no  conceivable  exception ;  for 
no  good  could  possibly  be  gained  there- 
by that  would  be  commensurate  with 
the  undermining  of  the  foundations  of 
the  home. 

Moral  laws  are  the  coined  treasures 
of  the  moral  experience  of  the  race, 
stamped  with  social  approval.  As  such 
they  are  binding  on  each  individual,  as 
the  only  terms  on  which  he  can  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  free  exchange  of  the  moral 
goods  of  the  society  of  which  he  is  a 
member.  No  man  can  command  the 
respect  of  himself  or  of  society  who  per- 
mits himself  to  fall  below  the  level  of 
these  rigid  requirements. 

The  mere  keeping  of  the  law,  how- 
ever, does  not  make  one  a  moral  man. 
It  may  insure  a  certain  mediocrity  of 
conduct  which  passes  for  respectability. 
But  one  is  not  morally  free,  he  does  not 
get  the  characteristic  dignity  and  joy  of 
the  moral  life,  until  he  is  lifted  clear 
above  a  slavish  conformity  to  law  into 
hearty  appreciation  of  the  meaning  of 
the  law  and  enthusiastic  devotion  to  the 
great  end  at  which  all  laws  aim.  A 
juiceless,  soulless,  loveless  Pharisaism 
is  the  best  morality  mere  law  can  give. 
To  protest  against  the  slavery  and  in- 


588 


The  New  Ethics. 


sincerity  of  such  a  scheme  was  no  small 
part  of  the  negative  side  of  the  mission 
of  Jesus  and  Paul. 

Yet  the  freedom  which  Jesus  brings, 
the  freedom  which  all  true  ethical  sys- 
tems insist  on  as  the  very  breath  of  the 
moral  life,  is  not  freedom  from  but 
freedom  in  the  requirements  of  the  law. 
It  is  not  freedom  to  break  the  law,  ex- 
cept in  those  very  rare  instances  cited 
above,  where  the  very  principle  on  which 
the  law  is  founded  demands  the  breaking 
of  the  letter  of  the  law  in  the  interest 
of  its  own  spiritual  fulfillment.  It  is 
doubtless  true  that  no  man  keeps  any 
law  aright  who  would  not  dare  to  break 
it.  I  lack  the  true  respect  for  life  which 
is  at  the  heart  of  the  law  against  mur- 
der if  I  would  not  kill  a  murderer  to 
prevent  him  from  taking  the  life  of  an  in- 
nocent victim.  I  do  not  really  love  the 
right  relation  between  persons  which  is 
the  heart  of  truth  if  I  would  not  dare 
to  deceive  a  scandal-monger,  intent  on 
sowing  seeds  of  bitterness  and  hate.  I 
do  not  love  that  welfare  of  mankind 
which  is  the  significance  and  justifica- 
tion of  property  if  I  would  be  afraid 
to  drive  off  a  horse  which  did  not  be- 
long to  me  to  take  the  wounded  man  to 
the  surgeon  in  time  to  save  unnecessary 
amputation  or  needless  death.  I  do  not 
believe  in  that  union  of  happy  hearts 
which  is  the  soul  of  marriage  if  I  would 
not,  like  Caponsacchi,risk  hopeless  mis- 
understanding, and  shock  convention,  in 
order  to  let  the  light  of  love  shine  on 
a  nature  from  which  it  had  been  mon- 
strously, cruelly,  wantonly  withheld. 

There  is  nothing  antinomian  in  this 
freedom  in  the  law.  He  who  will  at- 
tempt the  role  of  Oaponsacchi  must, 
like  him,  have  a  purity  of  heart  as  high 
above  the  literal  requirements  of  ex- 
ternal law  as  are  the  frosty  stars  of 
heaven  above  the  murky  mists  of  earth. 
He  who  drives  off  the  horse  to  the  sur- 
geon honestly  must  be  one  who  would 
sooner  cut  off  his  right  hand  than  touch 
his  neighbor's  spear  of  grass  for  any 
lesser  cause.  He  who  will  tell  the 


truthful  lie  to  the  scandal -monger  must 
be  one  who  would  go  to  the  stake  before 
he  would  give  the  word  or  even  the  look 
of  falsehood  to  any  right-minded  man 
who  had  a  right  to  know  the  truth  for 
which  he  asks.  He  who  will  slay  a  mur- 
derer guiltlessly  must  be  one  who  would 
rather,  like  Socrates,  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  betray  the  slightest  claim 
his  fellows  have  upon  him.  No  man 
may  break  the  least  of  the  moral  com- 
mandments unless  the  spirit  that  is  ex- 
pressed within  the  commandment  itself 
bids  him  break  it.  And  such  breaking 
is  the  highest  fulfillment. 

This  theoretical  explanation  of  moral 
laws,  with  its  justification  of  exceptions 
in  extreme  cases,  is  absolutely  essential 
to  a  rational  system  of  ethics.  Yet  it 
must  not  blind  us  to  the  practically  su- 
preme and  absolute  authority  of  these 
laws  in  ordinary  conduct.  These  moral 
laws  are,  as  Professor  Dewey  happily 
terms  them,  tools  of  analysis.  They 
break  up  a  complex  situation  into  its  es- 
sential parts,  and  tell  us  to  what  class 
of  acts  the  proposed  act  belongs,  and 
whether  that  class  of  acts  is  one  which 
we  ought  to  do  or  not. 

The  practical  man  in  a  case  of  moral 
conduct  asks  what  class  an  act  belongs 
to ;  and  then,  having  classified  it,  follows 
implicitly  the  dictates  of  the  moral  law 
on  that  class  of  cases.  Gambling,  steal- 
ing, drunkenness,  slandering,  loafing, 
he  will  recognize  at  a  glance  as  things 
to  be  refrained  from,  in  obedience  to 
the  laws  that  condemn  them.  He  will 
not  stop  to  inquire  into  the  grounds  of 
such  condemnation  in  each  special  case. 
To  know  the  ground  of  the  law,  however, 
helps  us  to  classify  doubtful  cases ;  as, 
for  instance,  whether  buying  stocks  on 
margins  is  gambling ;  whether  the  spoils 
system  in  politics  is  stealing;  whether 
moderate  drinking  is  incipient  drunk- 
enness ;  whether  good  -  natured  gossip 
about  our  neighbor's  failings  is  scandal ; 
whether  a  three  months'  vacation  is  loaf- 
ing, and  the  like.  Once  properly  classi- 
fied, however,  the  man  who  is  wise  will 


The  Book  in  the  Tenement. 


589 


turn  over  his  ordinary  conduct  on  these 
points  to  the  automatic  working  of  habit. 
Habit  is  the  great  time-saving  device 
of  our  moral  as  well  as  our  mental  and 
physical  life.  To  translate  the  moral 
laws  which  the  race  has  worked  out  for 
us  into  unconscious  habits  of  action  is 
the  crowning  step  in  the  conquest  of 
character.  These  laws  are  our  great 
moral  safeguards.  They  come  to  us 


long  before  we  are  able  to  form  any 
theory  of  their  origin  or  authority,  and 
abide  with  us  long  after  our  speculations 
are  forgotten.  If  ethical  theory  is  com- 
pelled to  question  their  meaning  and 
challenge  their  authority,  it  does  so  in 
the  interest  of  a  deeper  morality,  which 
appeals  from  the  letter  of  the  law  to 
the  spirit  of  life  of  which  all  laws  are 
the  symbolic  expression. 

William  De  Witt  Hyde. 


THE  BOOK  IN  THE  TENEMENT. 


CARLYLE  once  exclaimed,  "On  all 
sides,  are  we  not  driven  to  the  conclu- 
sion that,  of  the  things  which  man  can 
do  or  make  here  below,  by  far  the  most 
momentous,  wonderful,  and  worthy  are 
the  things  we  call  Books !  Those  poor 
bits  of  rag-paper  with  black  ink  on 
them ;  —  from  the  Daily  Newspaper  to 
the  sacred  Hebrew  Book,  what  have 
they  not  done,  what  are  they  not  do- 

ing!" 

To  most  of  us  books  are  so  wonted ; 
at  one  and  the  same  time  they  are  the 
most  utter  necessities  and  the  most 
splendid  and  lavishly  bestowed  luxuries 
of  daily  living.  We  have  access  to  so 
many  more  books  than  we  need  or  can 
possibly  use,  that  to  the  bewildering 
greatness  of  our  riches  a  new  volume 
is  often  an  embarrassment,  however 
"momentous,  wonderful,  and  worthy." 
With  difficulty  are  we  able  to  appreci- 
ate a  poverty,  an  actual  famine  of  those 
good  things  with  which  we  are  surfeit- 
ed, "the  things  we  call  Books." 

One  summer  I  went  to  a  somewhat 
isolated  town  of  small  size,  taking  with 
me  all  of  my  own  extremely  limited  but 
most  treasured  library.  I  was  unpack- 
ing it  one  afternoon,  when  a  friendly 
neighbor  called.  "I  have  just  been  ar- 
ranging my  books, "  I  happened  to  say 
casually. 

"Books!  "  cried  my  visitor.    "Have 


you  brought  some  books?  May  I,  oh 
may  I  see  them  ?  " 

Like  other  personal  collections  they 
were  widely  various.  Mr.  Stedman's 
Victorian  Poets,  in  sober  indigo,  stood 
beside  the  Essays  of  Elia,  in  white  be- 
sprinkled with  blue  forget-me-nots,  —  a 
little  girl's  Christmas  present.  A  lav- 
ender and  silver  volume  of  Drummond's 
Addresses  leaned  lightly  against  the 
Lincoln  green  of  Le  Morte  D' Arthur; 
Vanity  Fair  was  not  far  from  Emerson's 
Poems,  while  a  prompt  book  of  Tenny- 
son's Becket  and  a  table  of  logarithms 
were  together.  My  cherished  volumes 
seemed  indeed  a  "motley  crew." 

The  joy  of  my  neighbor  was  increased 
by  their  very  diverseness.  She  seized 
upon  them  eagerly,  one  by  one,  and 
rapturously  examined  their  title-pages. 
"Nobody  in  town  has  Trilby,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "and  we  have  been  so  anxious 
to  read  it;  we  have  seen  reviews  of 
it !  And  Burke  on  the  Sublime  and  the 
Beautiful !  —  I  have  always  wanted  to 
read  that;  and  the  only  person  in  the 
place  who  has  it  doesn't  like  to  lend 
his  books, "  —  her  face  suddenly  fell. 
"Perhaps  you  don't,  either,"  she  added 
tentatively.  "There  are  so  few  books 
in  our  town,"  she  continued,  "that 
even  one  new  one  is  a  blessing,  and  is 
passed  around  and  around.  And  the 
very  sight  of  a  lot  of  unexpected  new 


590 


The  Book  in  the   Tenement. 


ones  like  these  makes  a  person  forget 
her  manners.  Maybe  you  don't  lend 
your  books,  though."  She  glanced  at 
me  in  half  apology ;  she  gazed  at  my 
books  with  complete  longing.  A  per- 
son averse  to  lending  a  morning  paper 
would  instantly  have  been  melted  by 
that  look  to  the  point  of  proffering  a  first 
edition. 

"  But  I  do  lend  my  books, "  I  said ; 
"always  and  often;  you  may  borrow 
any  of  them,  and  you  may  lend  them  to 
any  one  else  in  town." 

She  took  me  at  my  word.  Trilby 
I  did  not  see  for  several  months ;  it  jour- 
neyed from  house  to  house ;  no  time  was 
wasted  in  periodically  returning  it  to 
me ;  friends  and  neighbors  passed  it  on, 
until,  as  one  of  them  told  me,  "every 
one  had  read  it. "  Then  it  came  home, 
travel- stained  and  older,  but  all  the 
more  valuable  to  me  for  additional  as- 
sociations. Treasure  Island,  I  finally 
presented  to  a  family  of  boys  who 
seemed  unable  to  part  with  it.  A  vol- 
ume of  Emerson's  Essays  attached  itself 
permanently  to  another  group ;  and  not 
until  a  tardily  obtained  new  copy  had 
grown  familiarly  penciled  and  faded 
did  I  cease  to  feel  lonely  for  the  volume 
of  Edward  Rowland  Sill's  Poems  that 
never  returned.  Was  it  not  Thoreau 
who,  when  his  Homer  was  transplanted 
without  the  formality  of  his  consent  to 
another's  library,  said  that  the  Iliad 
and  the  Odyssey  belonged  to  every  man, 
and  therefore  to  any  man  ? 

The  happiness  of  my  first  caller  in 
that  small  town  over  a  few  score  books, 
apparently  unrelated,  I  never  quite  for- 
got, —  her  keen  enjoyment ;  her  deli- 
cious hesitations  as  to  whether  she  should 
read  Trilby  first,  or  Burke  on  the  Sub- 
lime and  the  Beautiful,  or  Colombe's 
Birthday ;  her  delight  as  she  looked  for 
the  first  time  at  the  Hugh  Thomson  pic- 
tures in  a  quaint  edition  of  Cranford. 
She  aroused  an  interest  that  I  do  not 
expect  ever  to  lose  in  those  persons  who 
are  not  surrounded  by  bookshelves ;  who 
have  not  dwelt  among  libraries ;  in  those 


persons  especially  and  chiefly  who  have 
not  "heard  great  argument  about  it  and 
about." 

In  the  city  tenements  I  have  met  so 
many  of  them ;  and  incidentally,  some- 
times almost  accidentally,  they  have 
told  me  what  they  have  read,  and  why 
they  have  read.  They  do  not  read 
books  about  books,  nor  do  they  read 
them  for  that  "mystic,  wonderful " 
thing,  their  style.  They  never  "hold 
up  their  hands  in  ecstasy  and  awe  over 
an  innocent  phrase ;  "  and  they  would 
stare  inquiringly  at  a  person  who  might 
invite  them  to  join  "  a  band  of  esoteric 
joy."  To  them  a  book  is  great  or 
small  according  to  what  it  says,  not  to 
the  way  it  says  it.  They  may  admire 
the  felicity  of  the  saying;  frequently 
they  do ;  but  their  admiration  does  not 
in  the  slightest  degree  color  their  view 
of  the  saying  itself.  A  spade,  they 
would  seem  to  argue,  is  always  —  to 
quote  Cleg  Kelly — "juist  only"  a 
spade,  no  matter  how  gracefully  and 
exquisitely  it  may  be  otherwise  called. 

Not  very  long  ^go  I  was  calling  on 
one  of  my  friends  in  the  tenements. 
Observing  her  interested  glances  toward 
Mr.  Oliver  Herford's  Primer  of  Natu- 
ral History  which  I  chanced  to  have 
with  me,  I  asked  her  if  she  cared  to  look 
at  it  more  closely.  She  opened  it  at 
random,  and  meditatively,  musingly, 
read  aloud :  — 

AN  ARCTIC  HARE. 

AN  Arc-tic  Hare  we  now  be-hold. 

The  hair,  you  will  ob-serve,  is  white  ; 

But  if  you  think  the  Hare  is  old, 

You  will  be  ver-y  far  from  right. 

The  Hare  is  young-,  and  yet  the  hair 

Grew  white  in  but  a  sin-gle  night. 

Why  then  it  must  have  been  a  scare 

That  turned  this  Hare.     No  ;  't  was  not  fright 

(Al-though  such  cases  are  well  known)  ; 

I  fear  that  once  a-gain  you  're  wrong. 

Know  then,  that  in  the  Arc-tic  Zone 

A  sin-gle  night  is  six  months  long. 

'*  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  I  asked 
as  she  finished  the  rhyme  and  silently 
turned  the  page. 


The  Book  in  the  Tenement. 


591 


"I  think  it 's  nonsense,"  she  replied 
briefly  ;  "I  should  n't  have  s' posed  peo- 
ple ud  read  anything  so  silly.  Why 
do  they  ?  " 

"It  is  written  so  delightfully,"  I 
explained. 

"What  dif'rence  does  that  make?  " 
she  said  in  puzzled  surprise.  To  her, 
certainly,  it  made  none  whatever. 

This  woman  was  one  of  the  first  per- 
sons in  the  tenement  district  to  speak 
to  me  about  books  and  her  reading  of 
them.  One  Christmas  I  gave  her  lit- 
tle girl  a  copy  of  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales. 
The  next  time  I  met  the  mother  I  in- 
quired as  to  whether  the  child  had  been 
interested  in  the  stories.  "Yes,  she 
was  that !  "  was  the  reply.  "She  got  a 
lot  o'  pleasure  outer  that  book,  —  an', " 
she  added,  with  a  shy  smile,  "so  did  I." 

"  I  suppose  you  read  it  to  her, "  I  said. 

"No,"  answered  the  woman,  "I  did 
n't ;  I  read  it  to  myself  after  she  was 
in  bed,  —  which  was  the  only  time  I  got 
a  chance  at  it,  so  took  up  was  she  read- 
in*  it  herself.  Maybe  it  was  silly, "  she 
continued,  "but  I  did  enjoy  them  sto- 
ries !  One  night  I  felt  awful  discour- 
aged an'  kinder  blue;  an'  I  read  some 
of  'em,  'bout  kings  an'  princesses,  with 
ev'rything  so  gorgeous,  an'  they  sorter 
sparkled  up  my  feelin's  till  I  felt  real 
heartened  up."  As  she  concluded,  she 
looked  at  me  a  trifle  anxiously,  wonder- 
ing whether  I  understood. 

The  next  week  I  gave  her  The  Talis- 
man, and  one  day,  The  Scottish  Chiefs ; 
and  then  Kenilworth;  and  I  lent  her 
The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  and  The  Pride 
of  Jennico.  She  read  them  all  with  the 
keenest  joy.  "If  I'd  knowed, "  she 
said  one  night,  "what  a  'mount  o'  plea- 
sure, an',  more  still,  real  comfort, 
books  has,  I  'd  er  took  to  readin'  'em 
long  before  I  did." 

Since  she  has  taken  to  reading  them, 
not  a  few  have  found  their  way  to  her 
dingy  tenement.  Most  of  them  have 
been  "about  kings  and  princesses,  with 
everything  so  gorgeous."  Some  one  ad- 
vised me  once  to  offer  her  something 


less  highly  colored,  but  I  did  not.  She 
supports  her  drunken  husband  and  her 
children ;  her  daily  work  is  the  scrub- 
bing of  public  stairways.  Surely  she 
is  entitled  to  long  evenings  of  fairy 
tales;  not  all  the  romances  in  all  our 
libraries  can  give  her  picture  of  the 
world  too  bright  a  tint. 

She  came  sometimes  to  the  college 
settlement  in  which  I  was  especially  in- 
terested, and  we  spent  delightful  hours 
discussing  the  relative  charms  of  Helen 
Mar  and  the  Princess  Flavia,  and  the 
comparative  prowess  of  Richard  Co3ur 
de  Lion  and  Basil  Jennico.  One  even- 
ing she  noticed  a  copy  of  Ibsen's  Ghosts 
lying  on  the  table,  and,  impelled  no 
doubt  by  the  weird  title,  she  wished  to 
borrow  it.  "You  would  n't  find  it  par- 
ticularly attractive,"  I  said;  but  she 
continued  to  regard  it  with  fascinated 
eyes;  and  remembering  the  allurement 
of  the  thing  denied,  I  reluctantly  gave 
it  to  her. 

In  less  than  a  day  she  returned  the 
book.  "What  did  you  think  of  it?  " 
I  inquired. 

"Well,"  she  replied  thoughtfully, 
"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  read  it  all. 
I  read  the  first  part,  an'  it  was  that 
gloomy !  Then  I  read  the  last,  an'  it 
was  gloomy  too,  —  so  I  did  n't  read  no 
more.  I  don't  mind  books  to  begin 
gloomy,  if  they  end  all  right.  But 
what 's  the  use  readin'  things  that  be- 
gin gloomy  an'  end  gloomy  too  ?  They 
don't  help  you,  —  an'  you  can't  enjoy 
'em." 

This  was  her  criticism  of  Henrik  Ib- 
sen's dramas.  She  had  read  not  more 
than  half  of  one  of  them  ;  but  have  not 
other  critics  who  have  read  all  of  all  of 
them  expressed  a  somewhat  similar  opin- 
ion? 

The  majority  of  the  workers  of  the 
settlement  during  one  summer  were  per- 
sons possessed  of  a  consuming  enthusi- 
asm for  the  poetry  of  Rudyard  Kipling. 
They  read  it,  and  memorized  and  quot- 
ed it,  and  left  volumes  of  it  scattered 
about  in  every  part  of  the  house.  In 


592 


The  Book  in  the   Tenement. 


the  course  of  a  very  short  time,  some  of 
the  people  of  the  neighborhood  who  were 
friends  of  the  workers  acquired  the  pre- 
vailing taste. 

Several  of  the  girls  whom  I  knew  be- 
came extremely  interested,  and  by  de- 
grees genuinely  enthusiastic.  "It 's  so 
different  from  other  poetry, "  one  girl 
said  to  me  as  she  returned  my  copy  of 
Seven  Seas  after  having  read  aloud  the 
Hymn  before  Action,  of  which  she  never 
tired.  This  same  girl  memorized  L'En- 
voi,  and  repeated  it  with  such  beauty  of 
expression  and  depth  of  feeling  that  vis- 
itors, having  once  heard,  remembered 
so  well  that  coming  again  to  the  settle- 
ment many  months  later,  they  eagerly 
asked  for  "the  girl  who  recites  L'En- 
voi." 

Another  girl  was  captivated  by  Our 
Bobs.  She  learned  the  poem,  and  of- 
ten repeated  it,  and  imperceptibly  she 
came  to  have  a  fervent  admiration  for 
Lord  Roberts.  Her  delivery  of  the 
stanzas  was  delightful ;  she  was  of  Hun- 
garian birth  and  tradition,  but  she  said 
Our  Bobs  with  a  convincing  warmth, 
most  especially  these  lines :  — 

"  Then  'ere  's  to  Bobs  Bahadur  — 

Little  Bobs,  Bobs,  Bobs  ! 

Pocket- Wellin'ton  and  'arder  — 

Fightin'  Bobs,  Bobs,  Bobs ! 
This  ain't  no  bloorain'  ode, 
But  you  've  'elped  the  soldier's  load, 
An'  for  benefits  bestowed, 

Bless  yer,  Bobs !  " 

One  night  an  Englishman  happened 
to  be  among  our  guests  at  a  settlement 
festivity,  and  his  astonishment  at  the 
foreign  girl's  rendering  was  evident. 
"Kipling,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  Lord 
Roberts;  and  she  isn't  English!  "  "He 
was  not  speaking  to  the  girl,  but  she 
overheard .  "  You  don '  t  have  to  be  Eng- 
lish to  appreciate  Lord  Roberts  and 
like  Kipling, "  she  explained  simply. 

One  of  my  particular  friends,  a  Pol- 
ish girl,  was  attracted  by  only  one  of  all 
Kipling's  poems ;  and  that  one, The  Last 
Rhyme  of  True  Thomas,  she  loved.  It 
seemed  always  to  be  present  with  her. 


Going  to  see  her  once,  after  she  had  been 
in  the  country,  I  asked,  "Were  you  in 
a  pleasant  place?"  She  smiled:  "It 
wass  like  the  place  in  the  poem." 

"The  poem?" 

"Yes;   don't  you  remember?  — 
'  'T  wass  bent  beneath  and  blue  above  — 

'T  wass  open  field  and  running  flood.'  " 

Very  recently  she  called  to  see  me, 
just  in  time  to  hear  another  caller  ve- 
hemently express  her  views  regarding 
the  newly  bestowed  English  titles.  The 
Polish  girl  listened  with  the  greatest  in- 
terest. 

"Who  iss  Beerbohm  Tree?"  she 
questioned  when  we  were  alone.  I  told 
her,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection  she 
said,  "If  he  iss  great,  what  doess  it 
matter?  He  iss  like  True  Thomas;  he 
doess  not  need  to  be  made  a  Knight, 
he  already  iss  one." 

Most  of  the  girls  did  not  care  for  the 
Barrack-Room  Ballads.  The  girl  who 
recited  L' Envoi  said  that  she  thought 
they  were  not  real  poetry.  To  her  the 
most  real  of  Kipling's  verse  was  this 
one  stanza :  — 

"  Small  mirth  was  in  the  making1.     Now 
I  lift  the  cloth  that  cloaks  the  clay, 
And  wearied,  at  Thy  feet  I  lay 
My  wares  ere  I  go  forth  to  sell. 
The  long  bazaar  will  praise,  —  but  Thou  — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  have  I  done  well  ?  " 

"Why  do  you  like  it?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Because  it  makes  me  want  to  do  my 
work  well,"  she  replied.  Is  not  this 
why  we  all  like  it  ? 

Two  boys  whom  I  met  at  the  settle- 
ment read  Kipling.  One  of  them  de- 
lighted in  The  'Eathen;  but  his  favor- 
ite ballad  he  mentioned  quite  by  chance. 
"Whenever  I  go  to  the  beach,  I  al- 
ways say  over  a  poem  that  begins  *  Rol) 
on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean, '  ' 
a  girl  said  one  evening  when  he  was  pre' 
sent. 

"I  say,  - 
'  Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea !  '  " 

another  girl  confided. 

The  boy  appeared  interested,  but  h<» 


The  Book  in  the   Tenement. 


593 


was  silent.  "Do  you  say  either  of  those 
poems  when  you  are  at  the  seashore  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  don't;  but 
there  is  some  poetry  I  always  think  of. 
It  commences  like  this :  — 

'  The  Injian  Ocean  sets  an'  smiles 
So  sof ',  so  bright,  so  bloomin'  blue  ;  ' 

I  like  it  better  than  them  other  two 
ocean  poems.  It 's  so  friendly-like  with 
everything. " 

The  other  boy,  who  was  a  Pole,  came 
to  see  me  one  afternoon  when  I  was 
rejoicing  in  an  exquisite  edition  of  the 
Recessional  which  one  of  my  friends  had 
just  given  me.  My  pleasure  in  it 
aroused  his  interest,  and  I  read  it  to 
him,  and  together  we  admired  the  illus- 
trations. "Will  you  lend  it  to  me?  " 
he  asked;  "I  'd  like  to  learn  it." 

He  came  the  next  week  to  return  the 
book,  which  he  had  carefully  protected 
with  a  cover  made  of  a  Hebrew  news- 
paper. 

"Kipling,  did  he  ever  write  anything 
else  ?  "  were  almost  his  first  words.  I 
lent  him  another  volume,  and  in  the 
months  that  followed  he  read  many  of 
Kipling's  poems.  He  said  very  little 
about  them ;  and  it  was  in  the  most 
striking  way  that  I  discovered  how 
deeply  he  had  been  impressed. 

The  night  after  President  McKin- 
ley's  assassination,  I  was  belated  in  the 
tenement  district,  and  in  rather  a  dark 
alley  through  which  I  was  going  in  or- 
der to  gain  time,  I  met  my  Polish  boy 
friend ;  he  silently  left  his  companions 
and  accompanied  me.  "  A  terrible  thing 
has  happened  to  our  country,"  I  said 
presently. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  boy  in  a  low 
voice.      "All  day,"  he   continued,    "a 
piece  of  the  poem  in  your  little  red  book 
goes  over  and  over  in  my  head  "  — 
' '  The  tumult  and  the  shouting1  dies  — 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart !  '"  — 

He  interrupted.  "  Ah  no, not  that !  " 
he  said  sadly.  "  You  can  think  of  that, 
but  not  I !  The  man  who  did  this  thing, 
he  iss  a  Pole,  and  I,  I  am  a  Pole !  And 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  38 


it  hurts  me  hard.     This  piece  iss  what 
cries  in  my  head :  — 

'  For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord  ! '  " 

He  was  a  young  boy,  but  he  repeat- 
ed the  lines  with  a  passionate  fervor; 
they  voiced  the  most  intense  feeling  he 
had  ever  had,  the  feeling  of  kinship  with 
his  own  people,  even  in  their  shame. 

I  had  a  very  lovely  experience  once  in 
connection  with  one  of  Kipling's  most 
familiar  poems.  A  woman  living  in  a 
tenement  attic,  whom  I  had  known  for 
several  years,  asked  me  if  I  knew  any 
"friendship  verses,"  meaning  rhymes 
such  as  she  had  read  in  an  autograph 
album  in  a  house  in  which  she  had  been 
a  servant. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "and  this  is  my 
favorite :  — 

'  I  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine, 
The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  beside, 
And  the  lives  that  ye  led  were  mine.'  " 

She  desired  me  to  write  it  down  for 
her.  The  next  time  I  called,  she  re- 
quested me  somewhat  mysteriously  to 
come  again  on  a  certain  day  at  a  given 
hour.  When  I  went,  I  found  the  table 
spread  with  a  white  cloth  which  had 
been  a  window  curtain.  The  cracked 
cups  and  pewter  spoons  were  arranged 
on  it  with  careful  precision,  and  the 
teapot  was  boiling  on  the  stove.  "Will 
ye  be  havin'  a  cup  o'  tay  wid  me?  "she 
asked,  beaming  with  hospitality. 

I  was  surprised.  She  had  never  be- 
fore invited  me  to  tea.  I  wondered 
greatly  what  had  prompted  the  invita- 
tion, but  my  wonder  was  not  of  long 
duration.  As  she  filled  my  cup  with  the 
rather  bitter  beverage,  my  hostess  looked 
at  me  with  gentle,  affectionate  eyes,  and 
said:  "You've  knowed  whin  good 
things  happened  to  me,  an'  sorrows. 
You  was  glad  whin  me  baby  was  born, 
an'  you  stayed  by  whin  me  boy  died. 


594 


The  Book  in  the  Tenement. 


But  ye  ain't  never  eat  anything  wid  me, 
—  an'  I  want  you  ter  now." 

Nothing  more  beautiful  than  this  has 
ever  happened  to  me ;  nor,  I  am  sure, 
to  any  one  else. 

A  book  which  created  much  discus- 
sion among  several  of  my  friends  in  the 
tenements  was  The  Christian.  Their 
attention,  in  every  instance,  had  been 
drawn  to  it  by  the  appearance  of  Miss 
Viola  Allen  in  the  dramatization.  Even 
those  who  did  not  see  the  play  heard 
about  it,  and  saw  Miss  Allen's  pictures 
as  Glory  Quayle.  My  copy  of  the  book 
was  in  constant  demand. 

It  was  interesting  in  the  extreme  to 
listen  to  the  various  opinions  of  the 
story.  Usually  the  reader  was  in  vio- 
lent sympathy  with  the  hero,  and  en- 
raged against  the  heroine ;  or  the  re- 
verse. "Poor  John  Storm,  he  was  so 
noble  and  good;  and  Glory  brought  so 
much  trouble  on  him !  "  one  girl  ex- 
claimed. 

"John  Storm!"  dissented  another; 
"I  didn't  find  him  so  noble!  He 
wanted  his  own  way  too  much.  I  felt 
sorry  for  poor  Glory ;  she  had  the  worse 
time." 

Another  girl  told  me  that  she  thought 
it  an  unhealthy  story.  She  was  a  most 
thoughtful  reader  of  books ;  and  her  ver- 
dict of  The  Christian  admits  of  but  slight 
amendment.  "Why  do  you  think  it  un- 
healthy ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Because  it  is  so  exaggerated, "  she 
began. 

"That  does  not  necessarily  make  a 
book  unhealthy, "  I  demurred. 

"Not  when  it's  straight,"  she  said 
slowly,  "but  The  Christian  is  twisted; 
it  calls  things  what  they  aren't,  and 
does  n't  call  them  what  they  are.  And 
then  it  makes  them  bigger,  —  till,  alto- 
gether, you  get  so  mixed  up,  you  can't 
tell  one  thing  from  another."  This 
statement  is  broad,  but  is  it  too  broad  ? 

The  girl  who  thus  succinctly  described 
The  Christian  had  a  less  clear-seeing 
friend,  who  when  I  met  her  was  being 
injured  by  books  which  she  read  because 


she  saw  them  advertised,  or  heard  them 
discussed.  "I  've  been  reading  a  book 
called  Red  Pottage,"  she  began  one 
evening  at  the  settlement.  Her  man- 
ner suggested  that  she  had  been  advised 
against  the  novel,  and  that  she  expected 
me  to  be  shocked  or  astonished  to  hear 
that  she  had  read  it ;  to  her  evident  sur- 
prise, I  merely  said,  "  It  is  an  interest- 
ing book. " 

"Oh,  —  do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  cried. 

"Didn't  you?  "  I  returned  quietly. 

She  flushed.  "Yes,  —  oh  yes, "  she 
said.  The  sense  of  importance  in  her 
own  daring  in  reading  it  forsook  her 
when  she  found  that  it  did  not  espe- 
cially excite  my  interest. 

"And  what  do  you  really  think  of 
it  ?  "  I  asked  her  seriously. 

"I  liked  Rachel,"  she  replied.  "I 
thought  the  way  she  loved  Hugh  was 
beautiful,  — and  he  was  bad,  too." 

"  That  was  not  why  she  loved  him, " 
I  answered  to  her  unspoken  thought. 

"Was  n't  it  ?  "  the  girl  exclaimed  in 
amazement. 

"No,  — don't  you  remember?  —  it 
was  in  spite  of  that." 

The  next  time  I  saw  her  she  said 
without  preface,  "  You  were  right  about 
Rachel,  in  Red  Pottage ;  I  looked  over 
it  again." 

Even  though  she  had,  the  book  had 
harmed  her,  and  harmed  her  beyond  im- 
mediate help.  From  the  power  of  books 
there  is  no  protection ;  for  the  great  ill 
done  by  them  there  is  small  remedy. 
That  girl,  living  in  a  tenement,  needing 
all  the  good  influences  possible  or  ob- 
tainable, had  been  hurt  as  only  the  un- 
sophisticated and  uncultured  can  be  hurt 
by  a  morbid  novel.  To  the  present  mo- 
ment, a  mere  casual  mention  of  that  par- 
ticular book  causes  in  her  an  instant 
self -consciousness. 

Vanity  Fair  opened  a  new  world  for 
one  of  my  settlement  friends,  who,  as 
she  herself  said,  had  never  been  very 
fond  of  reading.  "It 's  the  best  book 
I  ever  read, "  she  declared.  "I  liked  it 
so  much ;  the  man  who  wrote  it  did  n't 


The  Book  m  the  Tenement. 


595 


hurry ;  he  took  time  to  tell  every  little 
thing,  and  I  enjoyed  that.  And  then, 
the  people  in  it  are  so  interesting!  " 

"Which  of  them  do  you  like  best  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"Becky,"  said  the  girl;  "she  had 
the  most  to  her.  Of  course  Amelia  was 
good,  and  Becky  was  n't,  — but  I  sorter 
think  Amelia  just  happened  to  be  good ; 
she  didn't  decide  to  be.  Becky  would 
er  been  a  hundred  times  better  than 
Amelia  if  she  'd  been  brought  up  dif  '- 
rent." 

While  she  was  still  absorbed  in  Van- 
ity Fair,  one  of  my  friends  gave  me  Mrs. 
Fiske's  edition  of  the  book,  so  copiously 
illustrated  with  photographs  of  the  play ; 
I  took  it  to  the  settlement,  and  the  girl 
hailed  it  with  gratifying  delight.  Af- 
terward, I  lent  her  a  magazine  contain- 
ing several  of  the  original  pictures  for 
Vanity  Fair.  She  regarded  them  doubt- 
fully ;  "  I  think  Thackeray  writes  better 
than  he  draws, "  she  observed. 

Later  she  read  Pendennis  and  The 
Newcomes ;  and  more  than  before  she 
enjoyed  Thackeray  because  he  took  time 
"to  tell  every  little  thing."  I  there- 
fore recommended  Anthony  Trollope; 
and  she  followed  Eleanor  Harding  and 
the  Grantlys  through  many  volumes. 
She  also  read  Evelina ;  and  some  of  Jane 
Austen's  novels. 

One  day  when  she  called  I  was  read- 
ing the  second  volume  of  The  Tragic 
Muse.  She  questioned  me  about  it,  and 
finally  accepted  my  offer  of  the  first  vol- 
ume. The  next  evening  she  returned  it. 
"  Have  you  finished  it  ?  "  I  said  in  sur- 
prise. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  didn't  like 
it.  The  people  in  it  seem  to  do  nothing 
but  talk." 

I  suggested  that  she  take  one  of  Mr. 
Howells's  books,  and  she  selected  The 
Lady  of  the  Aroostook.  "  I  read  it  all, " 
she  said,  "but  I  didn't  get  much  en- 
joyment out  of  it.  It  was  like  sitting 
and  looking  out  of  a  window." 

"But  that  is  a  very  interesting  thing 
to  do, "  I  ventured. 


She  reflected.  "  Not  when  nothing  is 
happening, "  she  said  with  decision. 

The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  read- 
ing The  Mill  on  the  Floss.    "And  there 
are  a  lot  more  by  the  same  author, " 
she  exclaimed  joyously ;  "enough  to  last 
me  a  long  time!  " 

Even  longer  have  the  legends  of  King 
Arthur  and  the  Table  Round  lasted  an- 
other girl  whom  I  met  first  on  the  set- 
tlement doorsteps.  She  came  with  other 
children  one  summer  evening  several 
years  ago  to  hear  fairy  tales.  "Tell 
some  new  ones, "  delicately  suggested  a 
child  who  had  been  a  listener  on  other 
evenings ;  and  so  I  told  them  about  the 
Coming  of  Arthur,  and  the  woe  of  Elaine 
the  Lily  Maid  of  Astolat,  and  the  sac- 
rifice of  Percivale's  Sister. 

The  new  little  girl  heard  with  parted 
lips.  When  the  last  story  was  finished, 
she  lingered :  "  Who  told  you  them  sto- 
ries 'bout  the  sword  in  the  stone,  an'  the 
good  knight  Galahad,  an'  the  maiden 
that  floated  down  the  river  ?  " 

"I  read  them  in  a  book,"  I  began. 

She  grasped  my  hand.  "Oh,  can  I 
borrow  that  book  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

She  was  only  eleven  years  old,  and  I 
lent  her  The  Boy's  King  Arthur.  As 
soon  as  she  had  read  it,  she  came  again 
to  me.  "Are  there  anymore?"  she 
asked  fervidly.  I  gave  her  Le  Morte 
D' Arthur;  and  for  a  time  she  was  ab- 
sorbed in  it  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
books.  Somewhat  later  she  read  The 
Idylls  of  the  King.  So  familiar  did 
she  become  with  the  history  of  Arthur's 
court,  that  once,  when,  after  searching 
in  vain  for  a  passage  in  Malory,  I  ap- 
pealed to  her,  she  immediately  opened 
the  book  and  found  it  for  me.  Her  de- 
light in  the  annals  of  chivalry,  of  that 
"fair  beginning  of  a  time,"  has  been 
boundless. 

One  spring  day,  not  very  long  ago,  I 
met  her  near  the  Museum  of  Fine  Arts. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  with  a  dreamy 
pleasure.  She  looked  at  me  with  happy 
mysteriousness.  "What  lovely  thing 
has  happened  to  you?  "  I  asked. 


596 


The  Book  in  the   Tenement. 


"Have  you  time  to  come  with  me  a 
minute?  "  she  replied  excitedly. 

The  moment  I  said  that  I  had,  she 
took  my  hand,  led  me  across  the  street 
to  the  Public  Library,  and  up  into  the 
Receiving  -  Room.  She  pointed  com- 
prehensively to  Mr.  Abbey's  glorious 
work.  "See !  "  she  whispered,  her  face 
shining. 

Another  little  girl  to  whom  I  told 
fairy  tales  had,  even  at  the  age  of  five, 
a  particular  fondness  for  Greek  myths. 
One  day,  finding  her  watching  with 
friendly  interest  a  spider  spinning  a 
web,  I  told  her  the  story  of  the  pre- 
sumptuous Arachne.  She  listened  with 
wide  eyes.  "I  like  that  better  than 
Cinderella,"  she  said;  "'cause  I  can 
see  'Rachny  spinnin'  her  web  to  get 
'head  o'  'Theny;  there  is  spiders  an' 
webs.  But  I  can't  see  no  fairy  god- 
mothers; there  ain't  none  to  see." 

After  she  learned  to  read,  I  lent  her 
that  charming  little  book,  prepared  for 
kindergarten  children  by  Miss  M.  Helen 
Beckwith  and  Miss  Susanne  Lathrop, 
In  Mythland.  Considerably  later  she 
was  taking  a  trolley  ride  with  me,  and 
we  went  past  a  garden  in  which  there 
was  a  gorgeous  mass  of  sunflowers  in 
full  bloom.  My  small  friend  had  hith- 
erto seen  sunflowers  only  in  pictures, 
but  she  recognized  the  originals.  "  Jes' 
look, "  she  cried  before  I  could  call  her 
attention  to  the  garden,  "jes'  look  at 
all  them  Clyties !  " 

From  earliest  days,  women  have 
named  their  children  for  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  fiction.  In  the  tenements, 
as  elsewhere,  there  are  many  small  boys 
and  girls  whose  only  claim  to  splendor 
rests  in  an  elaborately  picturesque  or 
regally  long  name.  I  know  a  child  who 
has  finally  learned  to  sign  herself  Gwen- 
dolyn Margherita  Camille.  But  even 
her  name  pales  beside  that  of  another 
acquaintance,  a  little  boy  with  very  red 
hair,  who  is  the  namesake  of  the  famous 
hero  of  Zenda. 

He  came  with  his  mother  one  day  to 
a  picnic  held  in  a  serene  and  dignified 


suburb ;  and  though  several  years  have 
since  passed,  more  than  one  resident  viv- 
idly remembers  his  daring  exploits  on 
that  occasion,  when  he  was  yet  but  three 
years  old.  The  other  children  looked 
at  the  brook ;  Rudolph,  with  a  shout  of 
glee,  walked  right  into  it,  and  straight 
up  the  current.  When  he  had  been  sum- 
marily returned  to  dry  land,  he  rushed 
whooping  and  howling  upon  the  tender- 
ly kept  pansy  bed  of  a  horror-stricken 
neighbor. 

"  Rudolph  is  so  adventurous !  "  I  said 
to  his  mother,  as  I  sought  out  dry  shoes 
for  him,  and  meditated  an  apology  to  the 
owner  of  the  pansy  bed. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  mother  with  a 
sigh.  "Sometimes  I  get  real  worried 
over  him,  wonderin'  how  he  '11  turn  out. 
Then,  I  remember  the  other  Rudolph 
was  adventurous  too,  an'  he  turned  out 
all  right ;  so  I  tries  to  be  patient,  an'  to 
hope  for  the  best." 

Very  often  persons  in  the  tenements 
and  at  the  settlement  asked  me  to  re- 
commend books,  and  to  lend  them ;  and 
when  they  were  ill  and  I  called,  they 
sometimes  asked  me  to  read  aloud.  One 
day  I  went  to  see  a  woman  who  had  been 
on  her  sick  bed  for  many  weeks ;  and 
instead  of  desiring  me  to  read  as  I  had 
been  led  to  expect,  she  said,  "Do  you 
know  any  poetry  to  say  off  by  heart  ?  " 

When  I  replied  that  I  did,  her  plea- 
sure was  great.  "Please  say  some,  — 
won't  you?  "  she  asked. 

During  the  frequent  visits  I  made  to 
her  after  that  day  she  invariably  re- 
newed the  request.  Several  poems  that 
especially  appealed  to  her  I  repeated, 
until  she  knew  them  almost  word  for 
word.  I  thought  that  she  would  tire  of 
the  fancy,  but  she  did  not;  it  seemed 
to  fill  some  unexplained  want. 

One  day  she  died.  After  the  funeral, 
her  husband,  his  four  bereaved  little 
children  clinging  to  him,  followed  me 
to  the  door.  He  appeared  to  have 
something  further  to  say,  and  I  waited. 
"Ye  —  ust  to  say  po'try  to  her, "he 
began. 


The  Book  in  the  Tenement. 


597 


"Yes,"  I  said,  "she  loved  poetry." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  assented,  "she  got 
real  comfort  outer  it. "  He  paused.  "  I 
was  wonderin'  would  ye  jes'  say  over 
some  now,  to  me  and  the  childern, "  he 
added  hesitatingly. 

"  Will  ye  ?  "  urged  the  eldest  girl; 
and  I  went  back  with  them  to  the  room, 
now  so  sadly  desolate,  in  which  the  mo- 
ther had  lain  so  long,  and  said  The  Psalm 
of  Life. 

"Your  wife  liked  that  best  of  all, "  I 
told  the  man.  "But,"  I  continued,  as 
I  again  stood  at  the  door,  "I  wish  I 
could  do  something  else;  poetry  is  not 
much  comfort  when  one  is  sorrowful." 

"No,"  agreed  the  man,  "no;  but 
what  it  says  is."  Who  can  give  a  truer 
explanation  of  the  greater  love  we  have 
always  for  poetry  ? 

A  habit  of  economizing  time  by  car- 
rying books  about  with  me  and  reading 
them  in  unexpectedly  free  moments  once 
put  me  in  the  way  of  discovering  a  wo- 
man of  a  rare  fineness  of  feeling.  Call- 
ing one  morning  at  her  tenement,  I  left 
my  books,  which  chanced  to  be  a  small 
pamphlet  copy  of  The  Vampire,  a  vol- 
ume of  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  and  If  I 
Were  King.  When  I  went  for  them, 
my  friend  said,  "I  've  been  readin'  your 
books.  You  don't  mind?  " 

"  Oh  no, "  I  assured  her.  "  What  did 
you  read  ?  " 

"That,"  she  answered,  pointing  to 
The  Vampire.  "But  I  did  n't  like  it ; 
I  think  it  's  too  hard  on  the  woman." 

"And  what  else  did  you  read  ?  "  I  in- 
quired. 

"This,'  she  said,  opening  If  I  Were 
King,  and  with  perceptible  irony  going 
over  the  lines :  — 

"  '  If  I  were  king  —  ah  love,  if  I  were  king  ! 
What  tributary  nations  would  I  bring 

To  stoop  before  your  sceptre  and  to  swear 

Allegiance  to  your  lips  and  eyes  and  hair. 

Beneath  your  feet  what  treasures  I  would  fling  : 

The  stars  should  be  your  pearls  upon  a  string, 

The  world  a  ruby  for  your  finger  ring, 

And  you  should  have  the  sun  and  moon  to 
wear 

If  I  were  king. 


"  '  Let  these  wild  dreams  and  wilder  words  take 

wing, 

Deep  in  the  woods  I  hear  a  shepherd  sing 
A  simple  ballad  to  a  sylvan  air, 
Of  love  that  ever  finds  your  face  more  fair. 
I  could  not  give  you  any  godlier  thing 
If  I  were  king.'  " 

She  concluded  with  genuine  scorn. 
"You  don't  like  that  either?  "  I  sug- 
gested. 

"No,"  she  said  emphatically;  "it 
makes  a  woman  out  to  be  so  silly !  " 

"And  my  other  book?  "  I  queried. 

Her  face  brightened.  "Oh,  that  is 
grand!  "  she  exclaimed.  "I  only  read 
one  piece  in  it ;  but  it  was  beautiful !  " 
She  showed  it  to  me ;  it  was  The  Venus 
of  Milo.  "It 's  lovely,"  she  continued, 
"  'specially  this  part ;  "  and  with  shy 
pleasure  she  read:  — 

"  '  Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form  ;  the  serene  will ; 
The  wisdom,  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream ; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they 

roU; 

The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a  homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven.'  " 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad  you  like 
that !  "  I  said  involuntarily. 

"Is  n't  it  grand  ?  "  she  agreed  eager- 
ly. "It  don't  say  nothin'  'bout  lips  an' 
eyes  an'  hair ;  it  makes  out  that  the  way 
women  is  is  what  counts;  an'  it  don't 
talk  'bout  givin'  things,  —  which  don't 
count  either.  It  cares  'bout  what  's 
best,  an'  lasts  longest,  an'  I  think  it 's 
beautiful."  She  lived  in  a  poor  tene- 
ment ;  she  lacked  incalculably  much ;  but 
she  had  divined;  and  her  intuitive  ap- 
preciations were  flawless. 

Most  of  the  girls  and  boys  who  were 
connected  with  the  settlement  read 
Shakespeare,  usually  through  their  in- 
terest in  the  theatre.  A  girl  who  had 
kept  my  copy  of  Hamlet  for  more  than 
a  month  said  by  way  of  apology  when 
she  returned  it :  "I  could  n't  get  enough 
of  reading  it ;  the  more  times  I  read  it, 
the  more  times  I  wanted  to  read  it  again  I 
It  got  hold  of  me  so." 


598 


The  Book  in  the   Tenement. 


This  same  girl  came  to  me  one  even- 
ing with  a  very  meditative  face.  "Do 
you  like  poems  written  by  a  man  named 
Browning  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

I  told  her  that  I  did  indeed ;  and  then 
she  said,  "Are  they  hard  to  under- 
stand ?  " 

"You  might  try  them,  and  see,"  I 
advised.  She  accepted  the  suggestion 
with  avidity;  but  she  came  in  a  few 
days  to  say  that  she  thought  them  very 
hard  to  understand.  "I  can't  keep  up 
with  them,"  she  said  in  a  discouraged 
tone. 

"You  haven't  been  trying  for  very 
long,"  I  reminded  her.  "What  did 
you  read  ?  " 

"  Saul, "  she  replied ;  "  and  In  a  Bal- 
cony. " 

I  lent  her  Pippa  Passes ;  and,  to  her 
delight,  she  found  that  she  could  "keep 
up "  with  that.  Her  enthusiasm  for 
Browning  grew  slowly,  but  steadily. 
When  Mrs.  Le  Moyne,  with  Miss  Elea- 
nor Robson  and  Mr.  Otis  Skinner,  pre- 
sented In  a  Balcony,  she  saw  the  pro- 
duction ;  and  not  long  ago  she  said  to 
me,  "I  don't  always  understand  Brown- 
ing; but  there  's  something  about  his 
poetry  that  makes  me  want  to  keep  on 
reading  it  any  way."  We  all  have  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  Browning  and 
his  poetry ;  but  does  not  all  our  wisdom 
eventually  resolve  itself  into  just  exact- 
ly this? 

These  simple  readers  are  unerring 
critics  of  what  they  read.  They  take 
the  author  with  a  complete  and  effectual 
literalness. 

One  of  the  girls  whom  I  knew  sent 
me  on  several  occasions  Christmas  book- 
lets and  fancy  valentines.  Then,  hav- 
ing read  Emerson's  Essay  on  Gifts,  she 
gave  me  nothing  excepting  some  piece  of 
her  own  handiwork ;  and,  one  night,  an 
orange.  "He  thought  fruits  were  all 


right  for  presents, "  she  said  as  she  of- 
fered it. 

She  had  a  friend,  an  older  woman, 
who  came  to  the  settlement  to  see  me  one 
evening.  I  was  alone ;  and  after  a  few 
preliminary  remarks,  she  asked  me  to 
read  to  her.  When  I  had  finished  a 
short  story,  she  suggested  some  poetry, 
and  I  read  the  songs  from  The  Princess. 
Many  months  later,  her  husband  died  •, 
and  when  I  went  to  her,  she  was  sitting, 
holding  her  child  in  her  arms. 

"You  still  have  your  baby,"  I  said; 
there  was,  as  there  always  is,  so  inade- 
quately little  to  say. 

A  sudden  light  of  recollection  came 
into  her  eyes.  "Yes,  I  have, "  she  said, 
"just  like  the  wife  in  one  o'  the  poems 
you  read.  I  remember  she  said,  '  My 
sweet  child,  I  live  for  you!  '  She 
held  her  little  girl  closer.  "  It  do  make 
a  dif'rence  —  havin'  a  baby  left,"  she 
whispered. 

Books  are  so  countless,  and  readers 
are  so  much  more  innumerable ;  accus- 
tomed as  we  are  to  the  thought,  do  we 
ever  quite  realize  it  ?  With  all  our  books 
about  the  influence  of  books,  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  we  succeed  in  appreciating  even 
in  comparatively  small  proportion  the 
greatness  of  that  influence. 

"The  Writer  of  a  Book,  is  not  he  a 
Preacher  preaching  not  to  this  parish  or 
that,  on  this  day  or  that,  but  to  all  men 
in  all  times  and  places  ?  Surely  it  is  of 
the  last  importance  that  he  do  his  work 
right,  whoever  do  it  wrong. "  Very  often 
do  these  words  of  Carlyle's  come  into 
our  thoughts  if  we  have  friends  among 
the  people  of  the  tenements,  the  untaught 
people  who  take  the  preaching  so  deep- 
ly to  heart,  not  only  when  it  is  strong 
and  good,  but  also  when  it  is  weak  and 
bad.  To  them  it  is  indeed  of  the  last 
importance  that  the  maker  of  the  book 
do  his  work  right. 

Elizabeth  McCracken. 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


599 


TO-MORROW'S  CHILD. 


I. 


OLD  Doctor  Jourd£  was  rowing  home 
from  Pontomoc,  — down  Bayou  Porto 
and  up  Bayou  Marie,  —  a  queer,  squat, 
barefooted  figure  under  a  broad  Pana- 
ma. He  stood  half  upright  and  used  a 
contrivance  of '  oars  by  which  he  could 
face  toward  the  bow,  for,  long  ago  when 
he  first  came  up  the  Marie,  he  had  de- 
termined never  to  run  another  risk.  In 
fact  Jourd£  was  a  man  with  a  story,  and 
when  his  neighbors  learned  what  it  was 
they  shook  their  heads.  It  was  sad, 
they  said,  assuredly  it  was  sad  about  that 
death  on  the  operating- table,  —  but  ? 
What  was  a  death  to  a  doctor  ?  Did 
they  not  kill  their  hundreds  ?  This  poor 
Jourde'  was  too  tender.  One  death,  and 
he  had  thrown  away  his  profession  and 
come  up  the  Marie  to  live  like  a  her- 
mit. 

Plainly  the  good  doctor  wore  such  a 
broad  Panama  that  it  might  shed  re- 
sponsibilities, yet  a  responsibility  was 
confronting  him  as  he  rowed  home.  An 
unopened  letter  lay  in  the  bow  of  his 
boat,  held  in  place  by  an  oyster  shell,  but 
capable  of  anything  when  freed  from 
shell  and  envelope.  He  eyed  it  with 
uneasiness  and  rowed  slowly,  having 
agreed  with  himself  not  to  open  it  until 
he  reached  his  cabin. 

An  hour  after  Jourd^  had  landed, 
young  Doctor  Willis,  of  Pontomoc,  came 
up  the  bayou  and  found  him  sitting  in 
his  doorway  and  blinking  at  the  letter. 
He  looked  up,  and  the  protest  in  him 
directed  itself  toward  Willis. 

"  Eh,  docteur  ?  "  he  said  appealingly. 

Willis  sat  down.  He  had  one  of  those 
faces  which  are  good  for  irresolute  eyes ; 
years  ago  he  and  the  old  physician  who 
dared  not  practice  had  become  close 
friends  ;  Willis  dared  and  blundered  and 
dared  again,  learning  much  from  Jourde'. 
He  said  nothing,  but  Jourde' 's  oddly  cast 


eyes  cleared  a  little  of  their  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Eh,  docteur?  "  he  said  again,  hold- 
ing out  the  letter. 

Willis  read  it  and  folded  the  pages 
slowly.  The  old  doctor  had  had  a 
niece,  it  seemed,  and  she  had  just  died, 
leaving  him  an  inheritance  which  would 
have  tested  the  courage  of  a  braver  man. 

"A  little  girl!"  Willis  said. 

"  Eet  ees  not  posseeb' !  "  Jourd£  broke 
out  with  pathetic  sharpness.  "Eet  ees 
a  life  I  'aye  h- abandon  —  ze  care  of 
people.  And  a  child  to  be  educate  — 
to  be  intr-roduce  —  to  be  marry !  Eet 
ees  not  posseeb',  docteur." 

"  When  do  you  go  for  her  ?  "  asked 
Willis. 

"In  ze  morning,"  Jourd^  answered. 
He  looked  round  the  cabin  as  if  to  think 
how  to  install  a  new  inmate.  The  floor 
was  of  hardened  earth;  his  bed  was  a 
cheap  cot ;  his  clothing  hung  on  pegs  in 
the  walls ;  his  blackened  cooking  uten- 
sils were  scattered  over  a  bench  which 
served  him  as  dining-table ;  in  place  of 
a  window  were  solid  wooden  shutters, 
open  now  to  the  fading  color  and  soft  air 
of  sunset.  But  out  of  this  barren  liv- 
ing-room a  door  led  into  a  tiny  lean-to 
shelved  from  floor  to  ceiling  for  books 
and  pamphlets,  and  lighted  from  the 
north  by  a  glass  window  near  which  was 
a  study-table.  This  lean-to  had  been 
an  afterthought,  a  concession  to  his  un- 
changed need  of  mental  opportunity, 
and  it  suggested  a  similar  concession  for 
the  child. 

"A  boudoir,"  he  said  plaintively,  — 
"a  boudoir  can  be  build  on  for  ze  little 
Violette  —  eh,  docteur  ?  Eet  ees  not 
posseeb'  zat  I  take  care  of  a  child,  but 
since  eet  ees  true  "  —  he  sighed  and 
looked  out  at  the  Marie  glistening  in  the 
twilight. 

"  But  you  will  not  bring  her  here,  — 
that  is,  not  to  stay,"  Willis  protested. 


600 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


"You  will  go  where  she  can  have  advan- 


"She  mus'  be  educate  —  she  mus'  be 
intr-roduce  —  she  mus'  be  marry, " 
Jourdd  admitted,  "but  not  to-day,  eh, 
docteur  ?  To-day  —  while  she  has  such 
youth  —  she  shall  'ave  ze  air-fresh.  Ze 
air-fresh  ees  ze  most  great  advantage  for 
ze  young." 

Willis  shook  his  head  in  the  dusk. 
"She's  old  enough  to  be  in  school," 
he  urged. 

Jourdd  sighed  again.  "Eef  she  ees 
strong,"  he  said. 

Violette  could  scarcely  have  been 
called  a  strong  child  or  a  frail  one.  She 
was  thin  and  dark  and  animated,  and, 
though  never  ill,  she  gave  an  impression 
of  mental  rather  than  physical  vitality. 
Even  Willis  could  not  deny  that  it  might 
be  better  for  her  to  be  kept  out  of  school 
for  a  year  or  two,  but  he  feared  that  the 
isolation  of  the  cabin  on  the  Marie  might 
offset  its  abundance  of  fresh  air ;  for  at 
first  she  was  pitifully  lonesome. 

When  Jourd£  brought  her  home,  her 
first  question  was,  "And  with  whom 
shall  I  play  ?  " 

"  Play  ?  "  Jourde'  repeated.  "  Have 
you  no  dolls  ?  "  He  spoke  in  the  per- 
fect French  which  most  Creoles  have  at 
their  command,  even  though  their  or- 
dinary speech  is  soft  and  slurred,  and 
something  in  his  manner  revealed  an 
inherent  punctiliousness  in  him  which 
Violette  was  to  learn  well  as  the  years 


"I  mean  children,"  she  said  timid- 
ly. "I  saw  many  children  watching  us 
out  of  the  door  of  a  little  house  as  we 
came  up  the  bayou.  Shall  I  play  with 
them?" 

"The  children  of  Antoinefils  ?  "  cried 
Jourde'.  Pride  of  birth,  of  education, 
of  station,  leaped  into  every  line  of  his 
short  plump  figure,  which  was  already 
barefooted  and  coatless.  He  stooped 
and  took  Violette 's  eager  little  face  be- 
tween his  hands.  "Never,  my  child," 
he  said.  "If  they  come  here  you  must 


be  most  polite,  most  considerate,  but  you 
must  hold  yourself  quite  apart.  You 
are  of  a  different  world." 

"  But  with  whom  shall  I  play  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"A  dog?  "  Jourd£  suggested.  "What 
would  you  say  to  a  dog  ?  " 

For  answer  she  burst  into  tears. 
The  good  doctor  was  distressed.  He 
gathered  her  into  a  somewhat  stiff  em- 
brace, and  was  amazed  when  she  flung 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  clung  to 
him,  stifling  her  sobs  against  his  shoul- 
der. He  carried  her  out  to  the  bench 
under  the  fig  trees  and  held  her  patient- 
ly, and  when  she  lifted  her  head,  brushed 
away  her  tears,  and  kissed  him  on  both 
cheeks,  he  was  too  abashed  for  words. 
They  were  still  under  the  fig  trees,  and 
she  was  still  clinging  to  him,  when  Wil- 
lis came  up  the  slope  from  the  boat  land- 
ing. Jourd^  had  had  time  for  many  new 
thoughts.  He  was  only  half  grateful  for 
the  vigor  with  which  her  little  arms  held 
him.  She  was  too  impulsive,  too  femi- 
nine, for  the  reckonings  of  a  hermit,  one 
half  of  whose  mind  had  gone  to  rust.  He 
looked  at  Willis  over  the  tangle  of  her 
brown  hair. 

"Eet  would  be  more  simple  eef  she 
were  a  boy,"  he  said. 

"But  she  's  not  a  boy,  and  she  '11  not 
be  a  boy  to  -  morrow,  either, "  Willis 
answered. 

Jourde' 's  lightly  penciled  brows  drew 
together.  "She  asks  wiz  whom  shall 
she  play,"  he  went  on.  "She  'as  see 
ze  children  of  Antoine  fils,  but !  —  Im- 
posseeb' !  " 

"They  '11  not  hurt  her, "  Willis  said, 
looking  grave.  "Better  let  her  play 
with  any  children  that  come  along." 

"ImposseeV !  "  •Jourde'  repeated, 
"they  are  of  a  different  world."  He 
sat  for  a  time  frowning  up  into  the  thick 
leaves.  "Eet  weell  not  be  long,"  he 
said  finally.  "When  she  ees  strong  she 
shall  be  placed  in  school  wiz  many 
charming  young  girls.  Meanwhile, "  — 
the  shadow  of  his  own  defeated  life  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  to  hide  it  from  Willis 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


601 


he  looked  at  the  child  and  stroked  her 
hair,  —  "meanwhile,  eet  ees  well,  per- 
haps, for  a  soul  to  know  eetself  —  even 
ze  soul  of  a  child." 

In  the  time  which  followed,  Willis 
often  wondered  how  far  the  soul  of  Vio- 
lette  had  progressed  in  its  task  of  self- 
knowledge.  She  roamed  the  woods  and 
haunted  the  banks  of  the  Marie  like  a 
wistful  ghost,  and,  if  she  were  not  on  the 
knoll  watching  for  him  when  he  came, 
she  was  there  to  gaze  after  his  boat  as 
he  rowed  away ;  for  she  had  taken  him 
into  her  heart  at  once,  just  as  she  had 
taken  her  uncle.  At  first  her  greetings 
embarrassed  him  with  their  ecstasy,  but 
gradually  her  manner  changed.  Both 
men  were  exquisitely  gentle  with  her, 
but  quite  incapable  of  returning  her  af- 
fection in  kind.  She  was  used  to  feel- 
ing herself  gathered  into  her  mother's 
arms,  and  kissed  and  held  close  and  kissed 
again  with  a  fervor  like  her  own. 
Jourd£  thought  he  was  doing  well  when 
he  smoothed  back  her  hair  and  touched 
her  forehead  with  his  lips.  Willis,  be- 
ing younger  and  realizing  her  loneliness 
more  keenly,  went  so  far  sometimes  as 
to  salute  her  cheek;  but  as  neither  of 
them  had  the  gift  of  warmth  and  spon- 
taneity she  was  thrown  back  upon  her- 
self;  she  became  grave  and  older  than 
her  years.  She  wore  black,  for  Jourd£ 
proved  to  be  a  stickler  for  the  full  eti- 
quette of  mourning,  and,  as  briers  tore 
and  marsh  mud  stained  her  dresses,  she 
became  a  more  and  more  pathetic  sight. 
When  Willis  was  far  from  the  Marie  he 
was  often  haunted  by  a  vision  of  her  as 
she  stood  on  the  knoll  watching  for  him, 
but  watching  still  more  eagerly,  he 
thought,  for  something  young  or  some- 
thing feminine,  —  something  which  did 
not  come. 

"She  mus'  'ave  playmates,"  Jourde" 
would  say  resolutely  as  the  two  men  sat 
under  the  fig  trees,  "she  mus'  be  edu- 
cate—  intr-roduce  —  marry.  Zis  life 
of  solitude  mus'  be  h-abandon  "  —  the 
bright  loneliness  of  the  Marie  would 
catch  his  eye,  and  he  would  hesitate  — 


"eet  mus'  be  h-abandon,  but  not  until 
she  ees  quite  strong,  eh,  docteur  ?  " 


II. 


Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  the  Marie 
itself  had  grown  interested  in  the  case 
of  Violette.  The  doctor  was  slow  in 
taking  her  out  to  the  world  where  she 
could  have  playmates,  but  the  bayou 
brought  her  playthings  and  tokens  from 
the  world.  There  were  days  when  whole 
fleets  of  cypress  chips,  rudely  shaped  into 
boats  by  the  children  of  Antoine  fils, 
came  up  on  the  tide,  and  sometimes  more 
elaborate  toy-boats,  carved  by  older 
hands,  drifted  by  and  required  to  be 
caught  and  anchored.  Then  the  children 
of  Antoine  fils  would  paddle  up,  a  whole 
row  of  them  in  one  unsteady  pirogue,  to 
reclaim  their  treasures  and  be  treated 
with  politeness  by  Violette.  Or,  in  the 
place  of  wooden  boats,  the  tide  as  it 
flowed  out  would  bring  fleets  of  azaleas 
and  jasmine  bells  in  the  spring,  or  the 
red  leaves  of  swamp  maples  in  the  fall. 
And  on  all  days  the  tide  brought  her  a 
message,  whispering  it  around  the  reeds 
that  fringed  the  knoll.  Violette  could 
never  quite  catch  the  words,  but  she  lis- 
tened hour  after  hour  to  the  whispering 
voice  with  a  feeling  that  soon  —  to-mor- 
row, perhaps,  or  the  next  day  —  its 
meaning  would  grow  plain.  It  told  her 
to  wait,  she  was  sure  of  that,  for  every- 
thing said  "Wait  "  to  her,  but  there 
were  other,  sweeter  words  which  she 
could  not  understand.  Often  she  waded 
barefooted  into  the  soft  mud  to  listen, 
and  stood  among  the  reeds,  seeming  to 
sway  in  the  breeze  as  they  swayed,  while 
her  wistful,  abstracted  gaze  told  the 
story  of  her  life  on  the  Marie,  —  a  life 
that  had  fitted  itself  to  waiting  and  to 
dreams.  Often  the  children  of  Antoine 
fils  passed  by  and  she  scarcely  saw  them, 
having  accepted  the  fact  that  they  were 
of  a  different  world. 

They  resented  her,  those  children  of 
Antoine  fils.  The  thought  of  her  fell 


602 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


on  them  like  a  shadow  as  they  plastered 
up  miniature  charcoal  kilns  and  fired 
them  on  shore,  or  did  valiant  feats  of 
logging,  wading  in  a  drift  of  twig  and 
branches  in  some  shoal.  They  had  names 
for  her  to  express  how  proud  she  was  and 
how  unsociable,  and  even  when  she  res- 
cued their  boats  they  believed  that  she 
did  it  to  have  an  opportunity  of  show- 
ing her  politeness  —  her  politeness  and 
nothing  more.  Yet  it  was  the  children 
of  Antoine  fils  who  sent  to  her  the  first 
interpreters  of  the  voice  in  the  reeds. 

One  day  a  boat  came  upstream  bring- 
ing two  children  from  the  outer  world, 
which  in  this  case  was  Pontomoc.  One 
of  them  wa  -i  a  boy  named  Page,  who  was 
just  boy  and  nothing  else,  — brown  and 
careless  and  open-eyed,  with  a  remark- 
able look  of  knowing  what  he  wanted  and 
did  not  want.  It  was  his  daring  which 
had  planned  this  venture  into  forbidden 
waters,  but  he  had  planned  to  come 
alone.  Then  the  little  girl,  whose  name 
was  Dorothy,  had  found  out  and  had 
bought  her  passage  —  girl -like  —  by  the 
threat  of  "  telling  "  if  he  left  her  behind. 
And  so  Page  was  dour,  while  Dorothy 
had  a  fluttering  triumph  in  her  blue  eyes. 
There  was  a  story  she  had  heard  about 
this  bayou,  a  most  fascinating  and  ro- 
mantic story,  and  the  boy  was  too  glum 
to  say  if  it  were  true. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  children  of 
Antoine  fils  who  were  dealing  animated- 
ly with  rafts  of  mimic  logs.  Page  would 
have  passed  them  with  far  less  interest 
than  if  they  had  been  a  school  of  play- 
ful mullet,  but  Dorothy  was  of  a  differ- 
ent mind. 

"They  could  tell  us,"  she  said. 

"Who  cares?  "  asked  Page. 

His  sister  wrinkled  up  her  shcrt  nose 
at  him  and  then  turned  to  the  children. 
"  Is  it  up  this  bayou  that  the  little  girl 
lives  with  the  doctor  who  killed  some- 
body ?  "  she  asked. 

Part  of  the  children  only  stared,  but 
one  of  the  boys  nodded  and  pointed  sul- 
lenly upstream.  "She  won'  play  wid 
you.  She  plays  wid  nobody, "  he  said. 


Page  rowed  on,  leaving  the  logging 
force  unthanked,  while  Dorothy  began 
piling  vague  image  on  image,  after  the 
way  of  a  child.  A  little  girl  in  a  place 
so  remote  that  one  had  to  run  away  to 
reach  it  was  like  a  princess  in  a  story- 
book ;  a  little  girl  who  played  with  no- 
body was  unnatural  —  like  an  enchanted 
princess ;  and  a  little  girl  who  lived  with 
a  doctor  who  had  killed  somebody  was 
an  enchanted  princess  with  an  ogre 
standing  guard.  And  so  the  Marie  be- 
came an  enchanted  stream,  and  Doro- 
thy's big  blue  eyes  grew  wide,  and  even 
Page  was  touched  by  the  prevailing  gla- 
mour and  regenerated  into  the  prince 
which  she  still  lacked. 

"What  you  bugging  out  your  eyes  at 
me  for?  "  asked  Page. 

There  are  thingb  which  we  cannot 
quite  explain  to  boys. 

"  Oh,  Page,  think  of  living  with  a  man 
that  had  killed  somebody !  "  Dorothy 
said,  coming  out  of  dreamland  with  a 
little  gasp.  "Wouldn't  you  just  be 
scared  to  death !  " 

"Hoh !  I  don't  s'pose  he  did  it  a-pur- 
pose.  Anybody  might  happen  to  kill 
somebody. " 

"But  s'pose  he  was  to  happen  to  kill 
her!" 

"Hoh!  "  he  said  again. 

One  by  one  the  green  knolls  and  the 
low  interludes  of  marsh  slipped  by. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  dip  of  oars. 

Dorothy  caught  her  breath.  "Oh, 
Page,  look !  Do  you  s'pose  she  lives  in 
that  little  house  ?  " 

"What  do  I  know  about  it?"  he 
asked  without  turning  to  look  at  Jourde^s 
whitewashed  cabin  standing  in  showy  re- 
lief against  his  fig  trees.  "I  tell  you, 
I  'm  not  interested  in  girls." 

Violette  in  her  black  dress  came  out 
of  the  cabin  door  and  down  a  path  to- 
ward the  bayou .  "  Oh,  Page !  "  Dorothy 
murmured.  She  forgot  to  steer,  and  as 
her  brother  still  refused  to  turn  his  head 
it  happened  that  their  boat  swung  inland 
a  few  rods  below  the  doctor's  landing- 
place. 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


603 


Violette's  gait  changed  to  a  run. 
Her  heart  beat  fast,  seeming  to  cry  out 
to  her,  "  Children !  Children  who  look 
as  if  they  belonged  to  your  world !  " 
"Not  there, "  she  called.  "Row  to  this 
tree !  " 

Her  voice  surprised  Page  into  looking 
round.  "We  don't  want  to  land,"  he 


"But  I  should  be  so  happy,"  she 
begged  wistfully.  "It  is  so  long  that 
I  have  played  with  no  children." 

Her  English  was  well  pronounced,  but 
with  a  quaintness  of  accent  and  wording 
which  Dorothy  thought  just  the  thing  for 
an  enchanted  princess,  but  Page  had 
come  up  the  bayou  by  a  different  men- 
tal route,  and  it  meant  nothing  to  him, 
apparently. 

He  stirred  the  water  with  an  oar. 
"I  suppose  you  know  that  I  don't  play 
with  girls, "  he  proclaimed. 

It  seemed  brutally  final.  Vidlette 
turned  away,  and  Dorothy  was  on  the 
verge  of  tears,  when  the  boy,  having 
made  his  own  position  clear,  relented 
somewhat.  "That  needn't  stop  you, 
though,"  he  said  to  his  sister.  "You 
can  land  if  you  want,  and  I  '11  row  on 
and  come  back  for  you.  I  did  n't  want 
you  along  when  I  was  tryin'  for  green 
trout,  any  way." 

So  Dorothy  landed,  and  the  two  little 
girls  started  up  the  path.  A  tremulous 
shyness  possessed  Violette,  while  Dor- 
othy was  tremulous  with  bravery.  It 
took  courage  to  go  ashore  alone  to  play 
with  a  little  girl  who  lived  with  a  man 
who  had  killed  somebody.  Her  won- 
dering glance  was  everywhere,  —  on  the 
little  cabin  and  on  the  fig  trees,  but  most 
of  all  on  Violette's  face. 

"You're  just  like  a  princess, "  she 
said  in  an  adoring  voice,  —  "a  princess 
shut  up  in  a  castle !  And  when  Page  is 
big  he  '11  be  the  prince,  and  he  '11  steal 
you  out.  Mamma  says  he  '11  like  girls 
when  he  's  big.  I  like  you  now."  She 
gave  Violette  a  quick  sweet  kiss  upon 
her  cheek. 

It  was  an  awakening  kiss,  setting  free 


all  the  older  child's  repressed  hunger  for 
love.  She  clasped  Dorothy  close  and 
pressed  kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  face ; 
her  breath  came  in  sobs.  "  It  is  so  long 
that  I  have  waited,"  she  whispered. 
"It  is  so  long  that  I  have  played  with 
nobody !  But  now  I  shall  keep  you.  I 
shall  never  let  you  go  away. " 

Dorothy  pulled  herself  free  and  burst 
into  tears.  "Page!  "  she  called,  run- 
ning back  down  the  path,  —  "  Page ! 
Page!" 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done?  "  Violette 
cried,  following  her.  "I  love  you,  that 
is  all." 

The  little  girl  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears.  "I  want  to  go  home, "  she  wailed. 
"  I  want  to  go  home.  Oh,  Page !  Page !  " 

He  was  only  a  few  rods  upstream. 
He  turned  and  rowed  leisurely  back. 
Violette  hated  him  for  the  look  of  dis- 
gusted triumph  in  his  face.  "I  thought 
you  'd  stay  about  that  long,"  he  said. 

His  sister  bounded  down  the  path  and 
into  the  boat,  and  he  pushed  off.  There 
was  nothing  more  that  Violette  could  do 
to  keep  them ;  they  did  not  even  say 
good-by.  She  threw  her  arms  round  a 
tree  and  clung  to  it  and  sobbed;  she 
could  hear  the  dip  of  the  boy's  oars, 
and  the  girl's  voice  saying,  — 

"I  did  n't  want  to  stay  there  always, 
but  when  you  are  big  you  can  go  back 
and  steal  her.  You  've  got  to,  'cause  I 
told  her  so." 

He  laughed  derisively.  "Catch  me 
stealing  a  girl !  "  he  said. 

The  oar  strokes  grew  fainter.  The 
vision  and  the  hope  had  passed.  There 
was  no  sound  but  the  bayou  whispering 
"Wait,"  in  the  marsh. 

Then  some  one  touched  her  arm.  She 
looked  up  and  there  stood  the  boy, — 
his  face  very  red  and  his  eyes  very  kind. 
"Say,  don't  cry,"  he  urged.  "I'll 
steal  you,  or  anything. " 

She  turned  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder.  "It  is  so  long,"  she  said, 
"so  long  that  I  have  played  with  no- 
body. Where  is  she  ?  " 

He  put  his  arm  very  stiffly  round  her 


604 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


waist,  and  laid  his  cheek  against  hers. 
"  She  treated  you  the  worst  kind,  back- 
ing out  like  that, "  he  said.  "I  tied  the 
boat  a  ways  upstream  and  told  her  to 
stay  in  it.  She  began  to  yowl  again, 
but  I  did  n't  care.  She  's  always  like 
that.  That 's  why  I  hate  girls." 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  her  brown  eyes 
looked  into  his  gray  ones  with  a  question. 

"You're  different,"  he  explained, 
flushing  more  deeply.  "  I  knew  it  first 
thing.  You  wouldn't  live  up  here  if 
you  was  scarey.  You  "  —  He  broke  off 
in  confusion  and  began  on  a  different 
line.  "We  're  going  away  from  Pon- 
tomoc  to-morrow,  and  I  don't  s'pose 
we  '11  ever  come  back.  I  did  n't  want 
you  to  feel  that  way." 

"Going  away?" 

He  nodded. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  again. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  begged.  "I  came 
back  to  tell  you  it  was  just  her  way, 
and  now  I  must  be  going.  Don't  cry, 
please." 

She  brushed  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 
"I  love  you  for  coming  back, "  she  said. 

He  kicked  the  pine  needles  in  embar- 
rassed pleasure.  Their  eyes  met  again. 
A  moment  later  he  was  running  away 
without  looking  back,  for  he  had  whis- 
pered good-by  and  left  a  kiss  on  her 
cheek. 

That  evening,  the  old  doctor  drew 
Violette  to  his  side.  "You  have  grown 
to  like  the  Bayou  Marie,  is  it  not  ?  "  he 
asked.  "I  see  the  look  of  contentment 
for  the  first  time  in  your  face." 

Sometimes  a  child  has  no  words.  She 
crept  close  and  laid  her  hand  in  his. 

He  smiled  and  looked  across  at  Willis 
who  was  sitting  by,  and  there  was  a 
gentle  exultation  in  his  glance. 

"Eh,  docteur?  "  he  said. 


III. 

"I  should  like  to  see  it,"  Violette 
said  to  Willis.  "May  I  ask  the  doctor 
to  take  me  to  see  it,  mon  oncle  ?  " 


Old  Jourde'  lifted  his  gray  head  from 
his  medical  journal.  Years  had  passed 
on  the  Marie,  altering  little  except  the 
color  of  his  head  and  the  height  of  hers. 
She  was  a  young  woman  now ;  luminous 
shadows  had  fallen  into  her  eyes  as  into 
calm  water,  but  she  was  still  pale  and 
slender,  still  waiting  for  the  fresh  air  to 
complete  its  work  before  she  was  taken 
into  the  world. 

"See  eet  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  W'at  ees 
so  beautiful  zat  you  wish  to  look  away 
from  ze  Marie,  —  eh,  docteur  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  daughters  of  Antoine  fils 
is  to  be  married  to-night,"  Violette 
said,  "and  I  have  curiosity  to  see  a 
wedding. " 

The  old  doctor  looked  at  his  friend. 
"  Eh,  Weellis,  ze  feminine  —  ze  tou jours 
feminine !  "  he  commented,  with  lifted 
brows.  "W'at  do  you  say,  docteur? 
Shall  eet  be  gratify  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Willis.  "  Sights 
are  few  enough." 

Jourde'  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "As  you  say,"  he  agreed.  "Vio- 
lette 'as  gratitude  to  you  for  many  plea- 
sures,"  he  turned  to  the  girl,  "ees  eet 
not?" 

Violette  put  one  hand  on  her  uncle's 
shoulder  and  one  on  that  of  Willis.  A 
soft  color  stole  over  her  face.  "I  have 
gratitude  to  you  both  for  many  plea- 
sures,"  she  told  them.  She  kissed  her 
uncle,  and  lifted  her  face  to  Willis. 

Willis  was  middle-aged  and  grizzled 
now,  and  since  she  came  to  the  Marie 
there  had  never  been  a  time  when  she 
had  failed  to  greet  his  visits  with  a  kiss, 
yet  his  face  stirred  slightly  as  he  bent 
to  salute  her,  as  if  her  action  had  inter- 
preted some  controlled  impulse  of  his 
own. 

Jourde'  saw  the  look,  wondered  at  it, 
and  fell  to  musing.  "Ze  toujours  fem- 
inine," he  repeated,  "and  ze  toujours 
masculin  also,  eh,  docteur?  Eef  not, 
who  would  marry  ?  " 

The  younger  man  met  his  glance 
laughingly  over  the  girl's  shoulder. 
"Not  we  old  doctors,  surely,"  he  an- 


To-Morroiv's   Child. 


605 


swered,  out  of  the  same  quiet  poise  which 
made  his  nerves  steady  in  his  profession 
and  his  judgment  balanced.  "Come, 
Violette." 

As  he  helped  her  into  the  boat  he  no- 
ticed that  her  hands  were  cold ;  he  gath- 
ered them  into  both  of  his  and  held  them 
for  a  moment. 

"Is  it  so  exciting,  then?  "  he  asked. 
"One  would  think  your  dearest  friend 
was  to  marry,  —  or  you,  yourself. " 

"  It  is  true,  Justine  is  not  a  very  close 
friend  of  mine, "  she  admitted,  "but  can 
you  tell  me  of  any  closer  friend  I  have  ? 
And  I  am  curious  to  see  a  marriage. 
Justine  has  lived  here  beside  me  always ; 
she  has  seen  no  more  of  the  world  than 
I  have,  except  that  she  has  had  play- 
mates. Perhaps  she  has  been  lonely,  as 
I  have,  —  I  have  never  talked  with  her 
enough  to  know,  —  and  now  I  want  to 
see  if  she  looks  happy." 

They  had  taken  their  places  in  the 
boat.  Willis  began  to  row  with  the 
long,  easy  stroke  which  he  had  learned 
from  many  journeys  up  and  down  the 
Marie.  Bands  of  fading  light  lay  on 
the  water,  for  the  sun  was  down.  The 
girl's  figure  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  rose 
white  against  the  darkened  shore,  —  she 
wore  white  now,  and  some  of  her  own 
ideas  went  into  the  forming  of  her 
gowns.  Little  as  she  had  changed,  Wil- 
lis had  a  sudden  feeling  that  the  child 
he  had  helped  to  care  for  had  been  the 
mere  chrysalis  of  this  Violette,  who  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  was  speaking 
to  him  of  her  loneliness. 

"Do  you  remember  what  mon  oncle 
used  to  say  about  me  ?  "  she  went  on. 
"It 's  a  long  time  now  since  I  've  heard 
it,  —  *  She  mus'  be  educate  —  intr-ro- 
duce  —  marry !  '  If  he  had  really  done 
it,  I  suppose  we  should  be  at  the  last  of 
the  list  by  this  time.  It  is  for  that  I 
wish  to  see  the  face  of  Justine.  I  wish 
to  see  if  I  have  lost  or  gained." 

"  I  have  begged  him  to  go  away  with 
you, "  Willis  said.  "  Don't  you  suppose 
I  've  felt  what  it  was  for  you  to  have 
no  friends  but  two  old  men  ?  " 


She  dropped  her  chin  into  her  hand. 
A  bit  of  cloud  above  her  flushed  unsea- 
sonably, sending  its  glow  on  to  her  face. 
"I  have  been  happy,"  she  said.  "A 
long  time  ago  I  learned  how  to  wait. 
Shall  I  tell  you  how  foolish  I  have  been  ? 
Don't  you  think  girls  are  always  fool- 
ish —  romantic  ?  " 

"' Ze  toujours  feminine,'"  Willis 
answered  softly. 

"Yes,  I  was  that.  I  thought  some- 
body would  come  some  time  —  up  the 
bayou,  you  know  —  come  looking  for 
me  just  as  if  we  had  known  each  other 
always,  as  if  it  had  been  settled  long 
ago  that  —  that  we  loved  each  other. 
That  passed  the  time  for  me.  Was  it 
very  foolish?  " 

"  We  all  have  dreams, "  he  told  her. 
"It  does  no  harm." 

"  But  I  dreamed  all  the  time.  What 
else  could  I  do  ?  I  could  see  his  face 
even  —  sunburned,  with  gray  eyes,  very 
true  and  kind,  but  very  sure  of  what 
they  liked  and  didn't  like  —  the  kind 
of  eyes  that  would  understand  all  the 
things  I  could  never  tell  to  mon  oncle, 
nor  even  to  you.  I  was  so  sure  he 
would  come  that  only  one  thing  troubled 
me.  I  knew  I  should  be  afraid  to  tell 
mon  oncle.  I  knew  what  he  would  say. 
He  would  n't  want  us  to  love  each  other 
just  then.  He  would  want  me  to  breathe 
a  little  more  fresh  air  first,  or  wait 
until  I  knew  my  own  soul." 

"And  so  we  have  spoiled  even  your 
dreams  for  you  —  we  two  old  men." 

"Oh  no,  not  you.  I  have  always 
counted  that  you  would  be  on  my  side 
if  he  came.  You  are  not  old,  like  mon 
oncle. " 

"Of  course,  I'm  always  on  your 
side,"  Willis  said,  but  in  spite  of  her 
protest  he  felt  himself  incrusted  with 
years.  The  soft  light  glowed  and  paled 
across  the  dusk,  but  she  was  talking  to 
him  as  she  might  have  talked  to  a  wo- 
man or  to  a  priest. 

"Can  you  see  any  end  to  it  all?  " 
she  asked  suddenly. 

Willis  rowed  a  while  in  silence.    "It 


606 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


is  a  question  that  is  seldom  out  of  my 
mind, "  he  said  at  last. 

She  laughed  with  soft  bitterness. 
"It  has  been  in  your  mind  ever  since  I 
came  up  the  Marie,  has  n't  it  ?  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done  with  mon  oncle. 
He  grows  older  and  less  likely  to  risk 
anything  each  year." 

Willis  smiled  at  her  whimsically.  It 
was  the  most  intimate  hour  of  their 
friendship,  and  yet  he  had  never  felt  so 
far  from  her,  so  bound  to  respect  their 
disparity  of  age.  "Now  if  your  uncle 
and  I  had  only  been  growing  younger, 
—  if  we  could  meet  you  halfway,  — 
the  thing  would  be  simpler,"  he  de- 
clared. 

She  agreed,  missing  his  idea  with  a 
completeness  which  cut  him  in  some  hid- 
den region  of  self-love.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  "  if  mon  oncle  were  only  young  he 
could  be  reasoned  with,  but  to  reason 
with  him  now  would  be  wasted  breath. " 

She  leaned  forward  watching  the 
shore ;  for  after  rounding  the  next  curve 
they  would  be  within  sight  of  the  house 
of  Antoine  fils.  In  their  talk,  Willis 
had  almost  forgotten  where  they  were 
going  and  what  for,  but  she  had  not. 
Night  settled  between  them,  but  he  could 
still  feel  the  wistfulness  of  her  face. 
They  rounded  the  curve ;  a  ray  from  the 
lights  on  shore  fell  across  her,  and  her 
expression  changed  as  if  the  future  were 
about  to  be  opened,  through  some  magic 
glass.  They  passed  into  the  dark  again. 
Willis  drew  in  his  oars  and  eased  the 
boat  against  the  landing.  As  he  helped 
Violette  out  he  found  that  her  hands 
were  still  cold,  —  colder  than  before. 
He  drew  her  very  close  and  she  clung 
to  him  for  a  moment  trembling,  but  with 
no  intuition  of  a  new  meaning  in  his 
touch.  The  words  that  had  come  to  his 
lips  gave  place  to  some  folly  about  look- 
ing for  gray-eyed  young  men  and  send- 
ing them  to  her.  Then  they  started  on 
to  the  wedding  of  the  daughter  of  An- 
toine fils. 

Jourde'  sat  where  they  had  left  him, 


watching  the  Marie  in  the  twilight,  and 
thinking  of  all  the  years  in  which  he  had 
watched  it,  —  not  because  he  had  hoped 
it  would  bring  some  one  to  him,  but  be- 
cause he  trusted  it  to  bring  nobody ;  they 
had  been  strangely  quiet,  strangely  fu- 
tile years.  Life  and  ability  had  been 
given  to  him,  —  wonderful  tools  to  work 
or  to  play  with,  —  but  he  had  chosen  to 
lay  them  down  on  the  bank  of  the  Marie 
and  fold  his  hands.  It  was  such  a  se- 
cluded place  that  they  had  lain  there  for 
a  long  time,  but  word  had  come  that 
they  were  to  be  called  for  soon.  He 
had  not  been  well  of  late.  Willis  had 
seen  the  change,  and  had  plied  him  with 
questions,  and  he  had  denied  every 
symptom.  There  could  have  been  no 
subterfuges  with  Willis  if  he  had  admit- 
ted this  and  that,  and  he  had  been  post- 
poning everything  too  long  not  to  post- 
pone the  acknowledgment  of  acute  ill 
health.  There  would  be  many  things 
to  decide  on  the  day  when  he  told  them 
that  he  was  to  leave  the  Marie,  —  and 
not  for  the  world  which  he  had  pro- 
mised Violette.  The  child's  future  was 
too  hard  a  problem  for  him,  as  it  had 
been  from  the  first.  Of  course  there 
was  Willis  always.  What  he  left  un- 
done Willis  would  attend  to  in  some 
way,  yet  it  was  a  graceless  thing  to  an- 
nounce, "I  am  going  to  step  out  and 
leave  this  task  for  you,  my  friend." 
No  number  of  words  could  make  the 
burden  lighter ;  he  would  speak  before 
the  end,  but  as  long  as  he  could  hold  up 
his  head,  like  a  man  with  years  to  live 
instead  of  months,  there  was  no  haste. 
So  he  had  reasoned  until  the  expres- 
sion on  Willis's  face  that  night  had  of- 
fered him  a  gracious  plan.  If  Willis 
loved  Violette  everything  was  simple 
and  could  be  decided  without  delay. 
All  his  postponements  in  the  past  had 
been  accomplished  under  the  veil  of 
something  so  near  to  self-deception  that 
his  regret  and  shame  for  them  had  been 
veiled  also.  He  had  never  fully  de- 
ceived himself,  but  he  had  postponed 
calling  himself  to  account.  Yet  now 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


607 


that  an  easy  way  opened,  he  was  zealous 
to  start  on  it.  The  matter  must  be  ar- 
ranged at  once.  He  would  speak  to 
Willis  that  night  and  give  his  approval. 
Violette's  opinion  he  questioned  little. 
Willis  was  far  older  than  she,  but  she  was 
fond  of  him.  It  would  be  a  suitable 
marriage.  It  would  settle  everything. 
He  had  reached  a  decision  at  last. 

There  was  little  for  him  to  consider 
after  that.  It  was  restful  to  sit  under 
the  fig  trees  knowing  definitely  what  the 
end  would  be.  He  was  conscious  of 
the  world  around  him  as  a  vague  calm 
breadth,  stretching  out  to  the  infinite, 
and  dark  save  for  the  glimmering  of 
stars  in  the  Marie.  Perhaps  he  slept  a 
little,  his  sense  of  ease  merging  gently 
into  dreams.  It  seemed  but  a  short 
time  before  he  heard  the  sound  of  re- 
turning oar  strokes;  then  Violette's 
white  dress,  with  a  tall  shadow  behind 
it,  came  up  the  path  from  the  landing. 
The  old  man  spoke  out  of  the  obscure 
shelter  of  the  trees. 

"Eh,  so  soon?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered,  "and  the 
face  of  Justine  was  beautiful.  So  hap- 
py, so  much  at  peace." 

"Then  you  may  tell  us  good-night," 
Jourd£  suggested.  As  she  left  them 
he  turned  to  Willis,  still  speaking  in 
French :  "  You  have  sacrificed  your  even- 
ing to  the  whim  of  Violette,  and  now  I 
have  my  little  whim.  I  beg  to  detain 
you  a  quarter  hour." 

Willis  sat  down.  There  was  a  dream- 
like quality  in  the  way  his  life  was  in- 
terwoven with  the  lives  of  Jourd£  and  the 
child.  When  he  came  up  the  Marie  he 
was  no  longer  the  wholly  staid  and  prac- 
tical man  whom  people  knew  in  Ponto- 
moc ;  he  was  more  flexible,  more  ready 
to  follow  the  lead  of  circumstance  or 
caprice. 

"I'm  in  no  hurry,"  he  said. 
"Sometimes  when  I  've  stayed  up  this 
bayou  longer  than  usual,  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand why  people  who  live  here  do 
not  go  away." 

"Ah,"  Jourde  answered,    "I  think 


you  could  never  understand  that,  my 
friend."  He  was  silent  a  moment, 
wondering  whether  to  begin  by  confess- 
ing his  own  ill  health,  or  by  giving 
Willis  a  chance  for  confession.  From 
Violette's  window,  through  its  white 
curtain,  came  the  glow  of  a  candle, 
making  a  faint  path  of  light  from  the 
house  to  the  fig  trees.  A  breath  of  air 
stirred  the  leaves  overhead.  Then  the 
night  was  so  still  that  younger  men 
would  have  felt  it  laying  an  immaterial 
finger  on  their  lips. 

Willis  leaned  back  and  sighed. 
Jourd£  bent  forward.  There  was  in  his 
face  a  pathetic  understanding  of  himself 
that  warded  off  reproach. 

"There  has  come  an  end  to  futility, 
to  postponement,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
remember  the  questions  you  asked  me 
some  time  ago  ?  " 

Willis  nodded,  looking  keenly  into 
his  friend's  face. 

The  old  man  lifted  his  shoulders. 
"You  were  right,  but  what  could  you 
expect  of  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  postponed 
admitting  it.  To  admit  it  would  have 
been  to  face  the  future  of  Violette." 

"The  future  of  Violette,"  Willis  re- 
peated. "  Do  you  mean  "  —  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  put  the  crucial 
questions  as  to  Jourde' 's  malady.  The 
old  man  nodded  gravely  at  each  one,  un- 
til his  secret  lay  quite  bare  between 
them. 

"  It  is  the  end  of  futility,  of  post- 
ponement, is  it  not  ?  "  he  said. 

Willis  could  make  no  answering  com- 
ment. A  great  desolation  confronted 
him.  He  could  better  spare  the  whole 
of  Pontomoc  than  the  comradeship  of 
this  old  hermit ;  arid  when  Jourde'  died 
Violette  would  be  lost  to  him,  as  well. 
She  should  go  out  into  the  world,  he 
would  arrange  for  that,  but  his  life 
would  be  left  like  the  bed  of  the  Marie 
if  the  stream  dried  away. 

"And  thus,"  Jourd^  went  on,  "I  am 
at  last  ready  to  make  arrangements  for 
the  child." 

"You  can  trust  me  for  that, "  Willis 


608 


To-Morrow's    Child. 


said.      "  You  will  advise  me,  but  I  will 
take  all  the  steps." 

"  You  will  do  as  I  advise  ?  You  pro- 
mise it  ?  "  Jourde'  asked,  laying  a  hand 
on  the  younger  man's  knee. 

Willis  found  something  intensely  pa- 
thetic in  the  question  and  the  touch. 
"I  will  do  whatever  you  think  best, "  he 
said. 

"Then  you  will  marry  Violette. 
Marriage  is  the  only  safe  way  by  which 
a  girl  can  enter  the  world." 

It  seemed  to  Willis  that  from  the 
spot  where  Jourde' 's  hand  rested  a  thrill 
passed  over  him.  He  thought  intensely 
for  a  time,  weighing  his  own  desire 
against  the  unconsciousness  with  which 
she  had  clung  to  him  on  tlie  landing  of 
Antoine  fils.  Finally  he  shook  his 
head.  "The  difference  in  our  ages  is 
too  great.  You  have  forgotten  that 
girls  have  dreams." 

"And  the  centre  of  the  dream  must 
be  a  good  man,  if  a  girl  is  to  have  hap- 
piness, "  Jourde'  answered.  "  She  is  fond 
of  you,  it  would  be  safe  and  suitable.  I 
should  not  ask  it  if  it  would  be  a  sacri- 
fice to  you,  but  I  saw  in  your  face  to- 
night that  you  loved  her.  Is  it  not 
true?" 

Willis  could  only  plead  the  unfair- 
ness of  pressing  his  suit  upon  a  child 
who  longed  for  broader  life  and  free- 
dom, yet  had  grown  up  with  the  habit 
of  accepting  all  decrees. 

Jourde'  had  never  imagined  that  a  girl 
could  do  otherwise  than  accept  life  as  it 
was  arranged  for  her.  Willis  loved  her, 
and  she  would  not  refuse  him.  "And 
how  can  we  know  her  feeling  if  we  do 
not  ask?  "  he  argued.  "At  least  give 
me  the  permission  to  speak  to  her  — 
give  her  this  opportunity  for  a  settle- 
ment, for  the  assurance  that  she  will  not 
be  left  alone  at  my  death." 

The  younger  man  had  risen  and  was 
pacing  to  and  fro,  into  the  path  of  her 
candle-light  and  out  again.  Violette 
could  scarcely  feel  herself  alone  as  long 
as  she  had  his  friendship  and  protection, 
he  thought,  yet  how  could  he  know? 


And  perhaps,  if  a  man  loved  a  woman, 
he  owed  her  the  expression  of  his  love, 
that  she  might  accept  it  or  refuse.  He 
came  back  to  Jourde*. 

"It  is  for  me  to  ask  permission  to 
speak  to  her,"  he  said.  "I  must  make 
that  stipulation  with  you.  I  will  ask 
her  to  marry  me  if  you  will  leave  the 
matter  all  in  my  hands." 

The  old  doctor  looked  at  the  filmy 
bridge  which  she  had  thrown  across  the 
dark  from  her  youth  to  their  age.  "  She 
has  not  retired,"  he  began  in  a  tone 
which  deprecated  its  own  eagerness.  "I 
could  ask  her  to  come  out  to  you  a  mo- 
ment "  - 

Willis  smiled,  though  his  feeling  for 
Violette  had  never  seemed  so  hopeless 
an  audacity  before.  "She  will  think 
it  a  strange  afterthought,  but  go  if  you 
think  best, "  he  said. 

Jourde' 's  bare  feet  padded  silently 
along  the  path  which  they  had  long  ago 
worn  to  a  hollow. 

"My  child, "  he  said,  tapping  at  Vio- 
lette's  door. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound. 
Then  the  door  opened,  showing  a  white, 
nervous  face.  "What  is  it,  mon  on- 
cle  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  have  not  undressed  ?  " 

"No,  mon  oncle." 

"  Then  Docteur  Weellis  begs  a  word 
with  you  under  the  fig  trees." 

The  girl  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  into  the  room.  He  followed 
her,  surprised  but  docile. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  chair  where 
she  had  been  sitting  by  her  table.  The 
sheets  of  a  freshly  written  letter  lay 
outspread. 

"  Mon  oncle,  this  is  for  you  to  read, " 
she  told  him,  and  he  noticed  that  her 
voice  trembled. 

"I  shall  read  it  while  you  go  out- 
side? "  he  asked. 

She  stooped  and  put  her  arms  round 
him,  kissing  him  as  she  had  kissed  him 
on  the  day  when  he  tried  to  comfort  her 
after  forbidding  her  to  play  with  the 
children  of  Antoine  fils. 


To-Morrow's   Child. 


609 


"Yes,  mon  oncle,  read  it  while  I  go 
outside,"  she  said. 

His  glance  followed  her  to  the  door 
and  returned  slowly  to  the  letter.  What 
fantasy  had  inspired  her  to  write  to  him  ? 
He  gathered  the  sheets  together  but  did 
not  read  them  at  once;  he  was  aware, 
as  he  had  been  at  the  first,  that  she  was 
too  impulsive,  too  intensely  feminine  for 
the  reckonings  of  a  hermit,  and  it  was 
peaceful  to  sit  idle  while  Willis  was  ar- 
ranging her  future  out  there  under  the 
trees.  His  hand  relaxed  on  the  sheets 
of  her  letter,  but  tightened  again. 

"Another  postponement,"  he  told 
himself,  and  began  to  read.  Suddenly 
he  rose  and  hurried  to  the  door. 

"Weellis!"  he  called,  —  "Weel- 
lis!" 

The  younger  man  came  quickly  out 
of  the  dark. 

"  She  is  not  with  you  ? "  Jourde' 
asked.  "She  did  not  go  to  you?  " 

Willis  looked  round  her  room.  He 
had  thought  that  he  was  called  because 
she  refused  to  come  out ;  he  had  expect- 
ed to  see  her  there,  half  frightened,  per- 
haps, by  some  imprudent  hint  of  Jour- 
de''s.  A  glimmer  of  the  truth  came  to 
him  before  the  facts,  and  a  determina- 
tion to  be  on  her  side,  no  matter  where 
she  was.  followed  it,  though  something 
seemed  to  stand  still  in  him,  dreading 
what  he  might  hear. 

"No,  I  've  been  waiting,"  he  said  in 
a  guarded  tone. 

Jourde',  too,  stared  round  him  as  if 
he  had  not  quite  understood,  — he  was 
confronting  something  which  was  hard 
to  understand  after  the  years  in  which 
Violette  had  waited  and  obeyed.  "She 
went  direct  from  under  my  eyes,"  he 
said,  with  a  choked  sob  that  was  heart- 
breaking from  a  man.  "It  is  an  incon- 
ceivable boldness  —  an  effrontery  "  — • 
He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
gathering  his  thoughts  with  an  effort  out 
of  the  limbo  of  pain.  "Come!"  he 
cried,  plucking  at  Willis.  "We  must 
follo^r  her." 

Willis  laid  a  calm  hand  on  him.     In 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  39 


his  own  mind  the  idle,  undirected  years 
took  form  like  a  procession  leading  for- 
ward inevitably  to  some  such  night  as 
this  when  he  and  Jourde'  should  meet 
each  other  in  Violette 's  empty  room. 
"  May  I  see  the  letter  you  have  there  ?  " 
he  asked  quietly. 

Jourde'  held  it  out  and  relapsed  into 
a  daze.  "  Inconceivable, "  he  said  again. 

The  younger  man  sat  down  at  the 
table,  spreading  out  the  pages  in  the 
candle-light.  They  blurred  at  times, 
giving  way  to  the  face  of  Violette  in  the 
boat.  He  shaded  his  eyes  from  his 
friend's  sight.  Violette 's  voice  spoke 
the  words  of  the  letter  into  his  ears,  and 
to  their  girlish  poverty  of  expression  he 
added  the  richness  of  his  love  for  her, 
trying  to  control  his  sense  of  having 
been  wronged  and  deceived,  trying  to 
think  only  of  the  child  who  had  been 
denied  companionship  and  had  learned 
to  wait  by  learning  to  dream. 

At  last,  love  had  taken  the  place  of 
dreams.  In  a  few  words  she  told  the 
idyl  of  her  meeting  with  the  boy.  She 
had  longed  to  speak  of  him,  but  had  been 
afraid.  Now  his  name  dotted  the  pages. 
She  had  never  forgotten  him,  she  had  al- 
ways been  looking  for  him  to  come  up 
the  Marie,  and  now  that  he  had  come, 
and  that  they  loved  each  other,  she  had 
been  trying  for  weeks  to  say  so,  and  she 
had  still  lacked  the  courage.  Finally 
she  had  promised  to  meet  him  and  go  to 
Pontomoc  to  be  married.  She  loved  her 
uncle,  she  loved  Willis,  she  begged  their 
forgiveness  —  The  end  was  a  broken 
sentence  where  Jourde'  had  come  in. 

Willis  still  shaded  his  eyes.  Through 
his  sharp  heartache  the  sense  that  it  was 
all  foreordained  by  the  life  she  had 
lived  increased  until  he  almost  felt  as  if 
he  had  been  prepared  for  just  this  thing. 
His  eyes  were  wet  as  he  thought  of  how 
she  had  hidden  her  joy  for  fear  that  two 
cautious  old  men  should  shatter  it,  and 
yet  had  taken  pathetic  precaution  her- 
self by  going  to  see  if  Justine  looked 
happy  and  assured. 

"Oh, poor  child !  "  he  said  half  aloud. 


610 


A  Song. 


Jourde'  was  standing  in  the  shadow, 
sobbing.  "  We  must  follow  her  at  once, " 
he  said.  "She  went  from  under  my 
eyes  —  it  was  a  deception  —  an  effront- 
ery —  but  we  must  prevent  the  dis- 
honor "  —  He  broke  down  again  and 
came  close  to  Willis  with  frank  admis- 
sion of  his  grief  and  weakness.  "And 
what  a  treatment  for  you, "  he  added. 
"Ah,  letters  always  bring  trouble.  I 
have  foreseen  trouble  from  the  first." 

Willis  rose.  "Do  you  know  what  we 
shall  do  ?  "  he  said.  "  We  shall  follow 
them,  but  not  to  bring  them  back.  We 
shall  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  It 
shall  not  be  a  runaway  marriage." 

The  old  man  drew  himself  together, 
and  the  whiteness  of  his  face  took  stern 
lines.  "You  wish  me  to  consent  to  her 
marriage  with  a  stranger  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  know  him  very  well  in  Ponto- 
moc,"  the  younger  man  answered.  "He 
is  a  suitable  parti.  It  will  be  a  good 
settlement  for  her." 

Jourd£  inclined  his  head  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  worldly  note.  It  put 
him  on  familiar  ground,  as  Willis  had 
hoped,  yet  it  reminded  him  that  his  own 
plans  for  her  settlement  were  now  added 
to  his  list  of  unaccomplished  things. 
He  sighed  tremulously.  Excitement 
and  emotion  had  spent  his  strength,  and 


excitement  was  ebbing;  the  journey  to 
Pontomoc  merely  to  give  an  approval 
that  had  not  been  asked  for  seemed  a 
monstrous  tax  on  him.  There  was  too 
little  of  his  life  left  now  to  waste. 

"If  it  is  a  good  settlement,  there  is 
no  need  that  I  should  go,"  he  said.  "I 
find  myself  very  weak.  It  will  be  quite 
sufficient  if  you  follow  them  and  see  the 
marriage." 

Willis  turned  to  go.  He  was  used 
to  lonely  duties,  and  on  such  an  errand 
he  was  thankful  to  be  without  company, 
yet  he  paused  near  the  open  door. 
"  Come,  to  show  that  you  have  no  hard 
feeling, "  he  urged. 

"To-morrow,"  Jourd£  answered. 
"I  can  bear  nothing  more  to-night. 
To-morrow  will  be  soon  enough." 

He  sank  into  a  chair  near  the  door- 
way and  watched  the  erect  figure  of  his 
friend  fade  into  vagueness  down  the  hill. 
The  stars  in  the  Marie  twinkled,  and  an 
incoming  tide  was  whispering  in  the 
reeds.  They  were  older  friends  to  him 
than  Willis  and  Violette. 

"To-morrow,"  he  repeated,  and 
smiled  slightly ;  a  waft  of  coolness  from 
the  water  lifted  the  gray  locks  from  his 
forehead.  The  problem  of  Violette  was 
solved ;  it  drifted  from  his  mind,  and 
he  fell  asleep. 

Mary  Tracy  Earle. 


A    SONG. 

AH,    say    "  to-morrow "    softly,    lest  thou  wake 

Some  sleeping  sorrow! 
How  knowest  thou  what   drowsing  fates  attend 

That  unborn  morrow? 

Ah,    dream  not  dreams   too  splendid,    lest 

They  mock  thy  care; 
Ah,  Hope,  burn  not  too  brightly,  lest  thy  torch 

Should  light  despair! 

Arthur  Ketchum. 


The  End  of  an  Economic   Cycle. 


611 


THE  END  OF  AN  ECONOMIC  CYCLE. 


To  Adam  Smith,  writing  in  the  year 
of  our  Independence,  1776,  the  real 
significance  of  America  to  the  Old  World 
was  the  fact  of  the  opening  up  of  a  "  new 
and  inexhaustible  market  to  all  the  com- 
modities of  Europe."  This  was  the 
opinion  of  the  most  prescient  political 
economist  of  possibly  all  time.  And  yet 
how  fateful  to  his  prophecy  were  the 
next  few  years !  In  much  the  same  way, 
the  merchant  princes  of  the  mediasval 
Italian  cities  must  have  seen  in  the 
emergent  northern  towns  of  Germany 
and  France  assurances  of  a  developing 
commerce  for  their  wares.  But  trade 
is  capricious,  and  civilization  takes  a 
restless  delight  in  the  process  by  which 
the  colonies  of  to-day  become  self-suf- 
ficient, then  dominant,  on  the  morrow. 
Thus  Venice  stealthily  appropriated 
from  Constantinople  the  hegemony  of 
the  commercial  world,  while  her  out- 
posts in  turn  became  the  centres  of  the 
world's  industry,  and  eventually  trans- 
ferred the  control  of  exchanges  from 
Italy  to  Germany,  Spain,  and  the 
Netherlands.  By  this  same  resistless 
process,  the  centre  of  commercial  gravi- 
ty shifted  across  the  English  Channel 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  took  up 
its  abode  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, 
and  with  it  went  the  culture,  refinement, 
and  power  which  inevitably  follow  the 
world's  exchanges. 

Then  London  became  the  clearing- 
house of  the  world.  But  little  more 
than  a  century  after  the  obviously  true 
comment  of  the  author  of  The  Wealth 
of  Nations,  we  see  the  centre  of  the 
world's  business  again  shifting  and  Eu- 
rope confronted  with  a  commercial  in- 
vasion by  the  surplus  products  of  Amer- 
ica. This  bouleversement  of  the  world's 
commercial  preconceptions  is  much  too 
recent  for  its  effects  to  be  appreciated ; 
it  is  much  too  close  at  hand  for  the  re- 
sults even  to  be  conjectured.  The  di- 


version of  trade  from  English  and  Ger- 
man counters  to  our  own  is  one  of  the 
least  momentous  of  the  forces  which 
have  been  set  in  motion.  Of  itself,  this 
is  merely  a  matter  of  national  bookkeep- 
ing. The  ultimate  political  influence  of 
this  shifting  of  trade  balances  can  be 
compared  in  its  consequences  only  to 
the  great  world  movements  of  trade  and 
commerce,  by  which  the  centre  of  ex- 
changes has  shifted  ever  westward  from 
the  beginnings  of  civilization  about  the 
rivers  of  Mesopotamia  to  the  rivers  of 
Great  Britain,  by  way  of  temporary 
halting  -  places  in  Phoenicia,  Greece, 
Constantinople,  Venice,  Florence,  and 
the  Netherland  cities.  Wall  Street  is 
probably  within  the  mark  in  anticipat- 
ing that  New  York  will  be  the  clearing- 
house of  the  world  within  a  comparative- 
ly few  years,  and  with  that  once  estab- 
lished, the  supremacy  of  Great  Britain 
will  depart  as  has  the  supremacy  of  her 
predecessors,  only  the  period  of  the  pass- 
ing will  be  more  brief,  and  the  imme- 
diate consequences  more  momentous. 

The  influence  of  this  trade  readjust- 
ment (a  readjustment  which  is  not  un- 
like a  revolution  in  its  consequences) 
has  already  made  itself  felt  in  our  poli- 
tics. The  external  manifestations  of 
the  change  are  too  patent  for  comment. 
It  was  one  of  the  unconscious  forces 
that  precipitated  the  Spanish-American 
war;  and  in  a  subconscious  way  it  af- 
fects our  Philippine  policy,  our  rela- 
tions with  the  Orient,  and  the  demand 
for  a  trans-Isthmian  canal.  It  is,  in 
fact,  the  potential  justification  for  the 
present  colonial  policy  of  America,  and, 
in  its  ultimate  relations,  of  our  internal 
policy  as  well. 

All  great  political  and  social  changes 
are  subconscious.  They  are  psycholo- 
gical. But  we  never  admit  this  to  be 
true  of  changes  which  are  contemporary. 
And  yet,  by  the  formula  of  Professor 


612 


The  End  of  an  Economic   Cycle. 


Edward  A.  Freeman,  "Politics  is  pre- 
sent history  and  history  is  past  politics. " 
The  Protestant  Reformation  was  a  Kul- 
turkampf  rather  than  a  succession  of 
battles  and  councils.  Rousseau,  Vol- 
taire, Diderot,  and  the  Philosophers 
were  the  French  Revolution.  The  As- 
sembly and  the  Terror  were  but  explo- 
sions. Lincoln  had  a  ground  wire  by 
which  he  communicated  with  the  coun- 
try, and  it  was  the  latent,  unexpressed, 
and  unappreciated  conscience  of  the 
American  people  that  abolished  slavery. 
To-day  the  political  forces  at  work  with- 
in us,  while  not  so  patent,  are  scarcely 
less  potent. 

A  long  perspective  is  required  pro- 
perly to  estimate  social  forces.  A  half 
century  passed  before  the  French  Revo- 
lution presented  anything  save  chaos  and 
anarchy  to  the  conservative,  and  a  fer- 
tilizing stream  of  beneficence  to  the  rad- 
ical. Only  recently  have  its  true  pro- 
portions come  into  full  view.  While 
such  historical  perspective  is  denied  as  to 
the  contemporary  phenomena  of  Amer- 
ica, still  the  changes  which  took  place 
in  Great  Britain  during  the  years  that 
followed  the  Napoleonic  wars  offer  some 
parallel  to  our  own  situation.  During 
these  years,  English  trade  sought  out 
the  markets  of  the  world.  The  expand- 
ing energies  of  the  nation  broke  by  force 
the  mediaeval  restraints  and  eighteenth- 
century  barriers  which  chained  her  com- 
merce to  local  exchanges.  On  the  re- 
peal of  the  Corn  Laws,  men  freely 
predicted  that  Parliament  had  brought 
down  a  catastrophe  upon  England's  in- 
dustrial system.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
with  the  abolition  of  the  archaic  protec- 
tive duties,  her  trade  became  world 
wide.  Great  Britain  had  reached  a 
point  where  her  energy  demanded  to  be 
free.  It  was  strong  enough  to  enter  the 
struggle  unaided,  and  the  development 
which  ensued  was  due  to  its  release. 
Many  signs  appear  to  indicate  that  we 
have  now  reached  a  position  not  unlike 
that  which  confronted  Sir  Robert  Peel 
at  that  time.  Changed  conditions  have 


brought  new  needs,  and  certain  things 
may  be  necessary  now  that  would  not 
have  been  advisable  a  few  years  ago. 
With  the  greater  fluidity  of  American 
thought,  the  expression  of  our  national 
convictions  will  certainly  be  much  more 
ready  than  was  that  of  Great  Britain 
under  the  leadership  of  Cobden  and 
Bright. 

Historically  considered,  the  protec- 
tive tariff  has  ever  been  looked  upon  by 
a  large  body  of  voters  as  an  expedient 
rather  than  as  a  principle.  It  had  its 
birth  in  necessity, —  the  hard  necessity 
of  the  Civil  War.  But  such  a  consid- 
eration does  not  require  its  maintenance 
now,  for  America  stands  unique  among 
the  nations  of  the  world  in  the  pleni- 
tude of  her  financial  resources.  In 
truth,  the  events  of  the  past  few  years 
have  brought  such  an  alteration  in  our 
conditions  and  commercial  perspective 
that  considerations  which  called  for  state 
aid  to  industry  a  generation  ago,  and 
urged  its  long  continuance,  now  require 
a  readjustment  to  new  conditions  and 
changed  needs. 

The  press  bears  constant  witness  to 
the  fact  that  internationalism  is  the 
keynote  of  present  day  politics.  We 
have  come  to  think  on  a  world  scale. 
But  little  over  three  generations  ago  the 
local  fair  was  the  horizon  of  trade.  Only 
in  the  matter  of  luxuries  were  national 
boundaries  crossed.  The  Orient  meant 
the  land  of  silks,  spices,  and  precious 
gems.  The  formulas  of  the  early  econ- 
omists were  those  of  the  hand  loom  and 
the  charcoal  furnace.  Man's  life  began 
and  ended  with  his  family  and  immedi- 
ate neighbors.  To-day,  the  commercial 
arena  is  that  of  the  world  itself.  It  has 
passed  national  boundaries.  And  the 
future  tariff  policy  of  the  United  States 
must  be  governed  by  the  size  of  the  bar- 
gain table;  not  more  by  home  than  by 
foreign  conditions.  From  this  time  on 
it  is  probable  that  home  labor  and  do- 
mestic industry  will  suffer  more  from 
an  inadequate  market  than  from  the 
competition  of  foreign  makers.  Wisely 


The  End  of  an  Economic   Cycle. 


613 


or  unwisely,  we  have  broken  the  shell 
of  nationalism,  and  only  unwise  re- 
straints can  impair  our  trade  growth. 
And  we  cannot  trade  with  impoverished 
peoples.  The  "balance  of  trade"  doc- 
trine, if  ever  true,  has  no  application 
to-day,  for  we  cannot  long  drain  our 
customers  of  their  gold,  and  we  dare 
not  permit  them  to  become  impover- 
ished or  their  industries  to  languish. 
"A  poor  nation,  a  poor  king  "  was  the 
pregnant  saying  of  a  French  finance 
minister,  and  in  a  like  manner  the  mod- 
ern Secretary  of  Commerce  may  say, 
"An  impoverished  market,  an  impover- 
ished producer."  We  have  come  to 
know  that  domestic  trade  exists  only 
because  the  producer  of  finished  steel 
takes  his  pay  in  coal  and  iron.  The 
prairies  of  the  great  West  supply  New 
England  with  food  products  because  the 
Kansas  farmer  accepts  his  pay  in  kind. 
If  he  refused  commodities  in  exchange, 
he  would  soon  be  without  a  market  for 
his  food  stuffs.  In  much  the  same  way, 
it  is  the  fires  under  the  English  boilers 
that  drive  the  threshing  machines  of  the 
far  West,  and,  to  the  extent  of  our  for- 
eign trade,  clothe  the  miners  and  mill 
operators  of  the  East.  We  were  able 
to  ignore  this  trade  truism  so  long  as 
our  horizon  was  limited  by  national 
boundaries.  But  the  time  has  come 
when  a  sound  and  permanent  policy  con- 
cerning trade  relations  must  be  solicit- 
ous of  the  industries  of  England,  Ger- 
many, and  France,  just  as  the  common- 
wealths beyond  the  Mississippi  are  now 
dependent  upon  the  prosperity  of  the 
mill  hands  in  the  East. 

Never  before  were  people  so  depen- 
dent as  they  are  to-day.  It  is  conceiv- 
able that  we  may  fry  all  the  fat  out  of 
our  consumers  or  bring  about  a  retalia- 
tory tariff  war.  And  it  would  seem 
that  a  tariff  readjustment  designed  to 
awaken  more  cordial  trade  relations 
with  European  countries  would  benefit 
not  only  the  American  consumer,  but  the 
producer  as  well. 


Moreover,  never  since  the  Civil  War 
have  we  been  in  a  position  to  take  up 
the  problem  of  scientific  tariff  revision 
so  well  as  now.  This  is  true  for  vari- 
ous reasons.  The  national  revenues  are 
abundant  and  are  growing  rapidly.  Dur- 
ing the  fiscal  year  ending  June  30, 
1901,  the  income  of  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment from  taxation  alone  reached  the 
extraordinary  sum  of  $545,700,000, 
with  a  surplus  of  receipts  over  disburse- 
ments of  $78, 000, 000.  This  surplus, 
it  is  true,  has  been  abated  by  the  rev- 
enue reduction  act  of  the  present  Con- 
gress. At  the  same  time,  the  currency 
question  has  passed  into  history,  while 
the  relation  of  industry  and  capital  has 
become  most  close,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  industrial  combinations  are  in- 
timately allied  with  the  banking  in- 
terests of  the  country.  No  longer  is 
the  manufacturer  dependent  upon  local 
banking  aid.  He  does  his  own  bank- 
ing. Consumption  and  production  are 
likewise  susceptible  of  more  accurate  ad- 
justment to  each  other,  so  that  periods  of 
over-production  or  under-consumption 
are  less  likely  to  recur  than  heretofore. 
For  upwards  of  a  generation,  owing  to 
persistent  currency  agitation,  specula- 
tive railroad  construction,  and  an  indus- 
trial competition  which  was  little  less 
than  war,  the  world  of  finance  was  so 
delicately  adjusted  that  the  slightest 
disturbance  threw  it  put  of  balance,  and 
whatever  evil  results  may  have  followed 
from  business  consolidation,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  by  it  the  industrial  world 
has  been  rendered  stronger  and  more 
stable  than  it  has  ever  been  before. 

For  these  reasons,  it  would  seem  that 
tariff  readjustment  along  scientific  lines 
might  be  safely  undertaken  without  dis- 
turbing the  business  situation.  The 
interest  of  American  expanding  trade 
may  be  joined  with  that  of  the  great 
body  of  the  people  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  a  reform  which  will  prove  a 
blessing  to  those  most  inclined  to  resist 
its  coming. 

Frederic  C.  Howe. 


614 


The   Care  of  the  Eyes. 


THE  CARE  OF  THE  EYES. 


EVERT  observant  person  has  recog- 
nized the  recent  striking  increase  in  the 
number  of  people  wearing  glasses,  and 
while  this  fact  can  be  considered  a  sign 
of  our  advancing  civilization,  the  ques- 
tion may  be  asked,  What  it  will  lead  to 
and  is  it  a  necessity  ?  The  answer  must 
be  that  while  our  environment,  our  pro- 
fessions and  trades,  compel  a  constantly 
increasing  demand  upon  one  of  the  most 
delicate  and  complex  organs  of  our  sys- 
tem, it  is  necessary,  in  order  to  preserve 
the  function  of  the  eyes  in  their  highest 
possible  state,  that  concerted  action  be 
taken  to  that  end.  The  writer  firmly 
believes  that  neglect  of  the  eyes  and  the 
injudicious  use  of  glasses  are  great  con- 
tributing factors  in  the  general  deteri- 
oration that  is  taking  place  in  these 
organs. 

Very  few  realize  the  number  of  blind 
persons  in  every  civilized  community. 
Statistics  are  uninteresting,  but  a  few 
figures  are  necessary  to  demonstrate  the 
truth  of  the  foregoing  statement.  The 
United  States  Census  Reports  for  1890 
show  that  out  of  a  total  population  of 
62,622,250  the  total  number  of  per- 
sons returned  as  blind  in  both  eyes  was 
50,568,  or  808  to  each  million  of  pop- 
ulation, which  is  in  the  proportion  of 
one  blind  to  every  1238  inhabitants. 
This  proportion  while  less  than  in  1880, 
when  there  was  one  blind  to  every  1032 
inhabitants,  is  still  enormous.  The 
proportion  of  blind  to  the  entire  popu- 
lation varies  greatly  in  different  coun- 
tries, from  that  in  Holland  of  445  to 
one  million  of  inhabitants,  to  that  in 
Iceland  where  there  are  3400  to  one 
million  of  inhabitants;  the  percentage 
for  the  United  States  being  slightly  be- 
low the  world's  average. 

A  further  study  of  the  United  States 
Census  Reports  for  1890  shows  that  the 
proportion  of  blind  rapidly  increases  up 
to  the  age  of  twenty,  remains  stationary 


from  twenty  to  thirty,  increases  again 
gradually  until  forty -five  is  reached,  and 
then  increases  rapidly  to  the  age  of  sev- 
enty-five. These  figures  show  that  the 
period  when  blindness  increases  most 
rapidly  is  during  school  life  and  in  old 
age.  Statistics  from  reliable  observ- 
ers covering  many  thousands  of  cases 
show  that  33.35  per  cent  of  blindness 
could  certainly  have  been  avoided,  and 
that  38.75  per  cent  were  possibly  avoid- 
able. Thus  we  see. that  a  large  propor- 
tion of  cases  of  blindness  are  unques- 
tionably preventable. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  paper  to 
enter  into  the  study  of  the  causes  of 
blindness,  or  exhaustively  to  consider  its 
prevention.  Before  studying  the  care 
of  the  eyes  let  us  glance  for  a  moment 
at  the  far  more  important  subject,  — 
the  relation  of  the  eyes  to  the  general 
health.  While  but  very  few  realize  the 
extent  of  blindness  in  the  world,  I  think 
I  may  say  that  no  one  but  the  oculist 
appreciates  the  amount  of  suffering  and 
ill  health  caused  by  defective  eyes. 
During  the  past  few  years  the  public 
have  become  somewhat  educated  to  the 
fact  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  head- 
aches of  school-children,  and  oftentimes 
of  adults  as  well,  are  solely  the  result 
of  some  strain  upon  the  eyes.  Not 
many  years  ago  the  oculist  would  have 
been  greatly  surprised  to  have  a  patient 
come  to  him  for  headaches  unless  re- 
ferred to  him  by  the  family  physician ; 
while  to-day  patients  frequently  consult 
the  oculist  first.  The  same  procedure 
is  followed  in  various  nervous  disturb- 
ances. The  medical  profession  have 
learned  that  many  cases  of  mental  de- 
pression, irritability  of  temper,  and  in- 
ability to  apply  the  mind  have  resulted 
from  eye-strain  ;  and  that  insomnia, 
spinal  irritation,  general  nervous  pros- 
tration, and  even  choreic  symptoms  may 
be  due  to  the  same  cause.  Epilepsy, 


The  Care  of  the  Eyes. 


615 


nervous  dyspepsia,  and  other  reflex  ner- 
vous disturbances  have  undoubtedly,  in 
many  cases,  been  caused  by  some  ocular 
defect  and  cured  by  its  correction. 

That  such  a  series  of  conditions  may 
result  from  the  eyes  is  explained  by  the 
intimate  connection  existing  between  the 
eye  and  the  brain  by  means  of  a  nerve 
of  special  sense,  nerves  of  sensation  and 
motion,  the  sympathetic  nervous  system 
and  the  blood  supply,  which  renders  the 
transmission  of  an  irritation  or  inflam- 
mation in  one  organ  to  the  other  a  not 
unlocked  for  consequence.  The  nerve 
connections,  motor,  sensory,  and  sympa- 
thetic, between  the  muscles  of  the  eyes 
and  the  nerve  centres,  are  abundant  and 
intimate.  Is  it,  therefore,  at  all  surpris- 
ing that  a  constant  regular  or  irregular 
strain  on  the  ocular  muscles,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  and  year  af- 
ter year,  will  in  time  produce  headaches 
and  various  other  nervous  disturbances 
by  communication  of  the  irritation  to 
other  nerve  origins  ?  No ;  it  is  more 
astonishing  that  we  do  not  observe  more 
frequent  and  more  varied  complications 
from  eye-strain,  when  we  consider  the 
great  frequency  of  anomalies  in  refrac- 
tion and  the  outrageous  abuse  of  the 
eyes  in  this  intellectual  age  in  which  we 
live. 

Every  oculist  has  seen  case  after  case 
of  these  various  conditions  promptly  re- 
lieved by  the  correction  of  the  ocular 
defect.  He  has  seen  cases  where  the 
child  pronounced  by  the  parents  and 
teachers  dull  and  backward  becomes  the 
brightest  in  his  class  after  wearing 
glasses  that  give  him  normal  vision  with- 
out the  effort  that  has  caused  a  condi- 
tion of  brain  fag.  He  has  seen  many 
a  nervous,  weakened,  ill-nourished  child 
become  as  robust  and  healthy  as  his  play- 
mates after  the  removal  of  some  eye- 
strain. 

The  mechanism  of  the  eye  is  perhaps 
the  most  delicate  apparatus  in  our  entire 
body.  For  the  perfect  performance  of 
its  function  every  part  must  work  in 
perfect  harmony.  To  secure  this  har- 


mony both  the  refraction  and  the  mus- 
cular balance  of  the  eyes  must  be  per- 
fect. It  is  a  fact  that  an  absolutely 
emmetropic,  or  normal,  eye  is  but  rare- 
ly found. 

An  abnormal  eye  may  have  any  one 
of  eight  different  refractive  errors.  To 
secure  perfect  vision,  rays  of  light  must 
be  brought  to  an  exact  focus  upon  the 
retina  of  each  eye.  If  any  refractive 
error  exists,  these  rays  will  either  not  be 
focused  upon  the  retina,  or  the  focusing 
will  be  done  by  an  undue  effort  of  the 
ciliary  muscle,  or  some  one,  or  more,  of 
the  twelve  extrinsic  muscles  of  the  eye- 
balls. Furthermore,  to  have  single  bin- 
ocular vision,  it  is  necessary  that  both 
eyes  should  be  so  directed  at  the  object 
viewed  that  the  image  shall  be  received 
upon  identical  points  of  the  two  retina, 
and  for  a  perfect  image  must  fall  upon 
the  macula  lutea,  or  central  point  of 
distinct  vision,  of  each  eye.  This  is 
accomplished  by  six  muscles  attached 
externally  to  each  eyeball.  These  mus- 
cles work  in  pairs,  one  practically  an- 
tagonizing another,  and  at  the  same  time 
working  together  with  their  fellows  of 
the  other  eye.  Therefore,  to  hold  both 
eyes  perfectly  straight,  without  any  un- 
due strain,  each  one  of  these  twelve 
muscles  must  possess  and  exert  a  given 
definite  strength.  As  to  the  relative 
normal  power  of  these  muscles  we  find 
that  they  vary  greatly ;  one  muscle  may 
normally  have  twenty  to  thirty  times  the 
power  of  another  in  order  to  perform  its 
function,  and  the  normal  power  of  each 
muscle  may  also  vary  greatly  in  differ- 
ent individuals. 

From  this  very  general  glance  at  the 
mechanism  of  the  eye  it  can  be  readily 
seen  how  easily  a  disturbance  of  the  re- 
fractive or  muscular  equilibrium  may 
occur.  In  order  to  secure  perfect  bin- 
ocular vision  without  undue  strain  or 
effort,  any  of  the  various  forms  of  refrac- 
tive or  muscular  errors  that  may  be  pre- 
sent must  be  corrected  if  causing  strain. 
As  we  usually  find  both  refractive  and 
muscular  errors  existing  in  the  same 


616 


The   Care  of  the  Eyes. 


patient,  the  key  to  the  whole  problem 
rests  in  the  determination  of  the  factor 
that  is  creating  the  mischief. 

Here  let  me  decry  the  too  prevalent 
habit  of  going  to  the  optician,  or  the 
far  greater  evil,  the  bargain  counter  of 
our  large  department  stores.  The  op- 
tician should  be,  and  as  a  rule  is,  a 
skilled  mechanic  whose  sphere  is  the 
careful  grinding  and  adjusting  of  lenses 
upon  the  physician's  prescription.  Un- 
fortunately he  is  too  often  imbued  with 
the  instincts  of  the  tradesman  and  will 
endeavor  to  make  a  sale  to  every  appli- 
cant. Too  much  cannot  be  said  in  con- 
demnation of  the  indiscriminate  sale  of 
glasses  by  stores,  peddlers,  and  the  self- 
styled  professor.  Every  oculist  of  ex- 
perience has  seen  many  an  eye  lost  and 
many  a  patient's  health  ruined  by  the 
use  of  glasses  purchased  from  some  of 
this  class.  In  answer  to  the  reason  so 
often  assigned,  of  inability  to  pay  the 
oculist's  fee,  I  would  simply  say  that 
no  conscientious  physician  ever  refuses 
to  reduce  his  fees  to  those  unable  to  pay 
full  charges,  while  at  the  numerous  eye 
clinics  thorough  and  careful  work  is 
given  gratis  to  all  unable  to  pay  any  fee. 

As  I  have  said,  the  safety  of  the  eye 
as  well  as  the  health  of  the  patient  rests 
in  determining  the  disturbing  element ; 
and  here  again  is  shown  the  necessity  of 
the  physician's  skill  to  decide  between 
cause  and  effect*  If  the  trouble  is  de- 
pendent upon  refractive  errors,  correct 
glasses  must  be  prescribed;  but  if  due 
to  muscular  errors,  glasses  are  frequent- 
ly not  indicated,  and  many  times  when 
worn  do  positive  harm.  In  the  opinion 
of  the  writer,  many  persons,  especially 
children,  are  wearing  glasses  unneces-r 
sarily,  as  by  correcting  their  muscular 
errors  the  eyes  can  be  relieved  without 
such  aid.  The  conclusion  to  be  drawn 
is  that  to  preserve  to  the  eye  its  highest 
function,  the  physician  should  be  con- 
sulted and  not  the  tradesman.  No  one 
would  expect  the  blacksmith,  be  he  ever 
so  skillful,  to  repair  the  delicate  mechan- 
ism of  a  watch  when  out  of  order.  No 


more  should  one  trust  the  most  delicate 
organ  of  the  body  to  the  glass  fitter. 

Let  us  return  to  the  prevention  of 
trouble  by  considering  the  care  of  the 
eyes.  This  should  practically  com- 
mence at  birth,  and  in  order  to  secure 
its  highest  usefulness  must  be  continued 
throughout  the  whole  life.  It  is  esti- 
mated that  at  least  thirty  per  cent  of 
the  blind  in  this  country  have  become 
so  from  purulent  ophthalmia.  The  eye 
is  most  susceptible  to  any  infection,  and 
therefore  the  greatest  care  should  be 
used  that  no  infectious  matter  shall  at 
any  time  come  in  contact  with  the  eye- 
ball. Absolute  cleanliness  is  of  the  ut- 
most value  in  the  treatment  of  inflam- 
matory conditions  of  the  eye,  and  no 
nurse  or  attendant  should  ever  touch 
his  own  or  another's  eye  except  with 
absolutely  clean  hands.  More  cases  of 
blindness  have  resulted  from  this  one 
cause  than  from  any  other.  Many  a 
babe  has  been  rendered  blind  for  life 
through  the  carelessness,  in  this  partic- 
ular, of  the  mother  or  nurse.  Pure, 
clean  water  is  the  only  application  that 
should  be  made  to  the  eyes  of  the  new- 
born child,  except  upon  the  advice  of 
the  physician.  The  moment  the  babe's 
eyes  show  the  slightest  discharge  or  red- 
ness a  competent  physician  should  at 
once  be  called,  as  infants'  eyes  are  espe- 
cially susceptible,  and  oftentimes  within 
twenty -four  hours  the  disease  will  have 
advanced  to  such  a  degree  as  to  render 
hopeless  the  possibility  of  saving  any 
sight.  The  cautious  physician  should 
for  the  first  week  or  two  examine  the 
eyes  of  the  babe  from  day  to  day,  so 
that  the  onset  of  any  trouble  may  be  at 
once  met  by  active  treatment.  The 
eyes  of  infants  should  be  protected  from 
all  glaring  lights  and  especially  the  di- 
rect rays  of  the  sun,  both  indoors  and 
out.  The  babe  should  never  have  its 
attention  attracted  by  objects  held  close 
to  the  eyes,  for  repeated  convergence  at 
near-by  objects  may  predispose  to  or  even 
produce  strabismus.  This  observation 
holds  good  as  the  child  grows  older. 


The   Care  of  the  Eyes. 


617 


From  poring  over  story  and  picture 
books  when  in  too  fine  type  or  Jield 
too  close  to  the  eyes,  myopia  threatens. 
The  fine  worsted  and  bead  work  used  in 
some  of  the  kindergartens  is  for  this 
reason  objectionable.  Give  the  grow- 
ing child  plenty  of  outdoor  amusements, 
where  the  eyes  have  a  long  range  during 
the  developing  period  of  life,  and  we 
shall  see  fewer  little  ones  wearing  glasses 
for  myopia  and  astigmatism. 

One  of  the  most  important  fields  for 
the  exhibition  of  contemporary  know- 
ledge and  interest  in  sanitary  science  is 
presented  in  our  educational  institu- 
tions. When  we  consider  the  total  num- 
ber of  hours  passed  in  the  classroom  dur- 
ing the  child's  school  and  college  life, 
the  additional  hours  required  for  study 
and  preparation  outside  of  the  school- 
room by  the  present  day  system  of  for- 
cing the  child  too  rapidly,  when  we 
compare  these  hours  with  the  time  left 
for  recreation,  exercise,  and  sleep,  and 
recall  that  these  years  are  the  years  of 
physiological  growth,  is  it  any  wonder 
that  we  find  so  many  commencing  their 
active  life  as  physical  wrecks  ?  It  is 
therefore  plainly  a  duty  we  owe  to  pos- 
terity to  consider  carefully  the  hygienic 
environments  of  our  children  as  well  as 
their  mental  and  moral  training.  The 
school  life  of  the  growing  child  should 
be  so  regulated  as  to  secure  the  best 
mental  advancement  and  at  the  same 
time  the  best  physical  development. 
Every  observing  physician  has  seen 
many  children  who  commenced  school 
life  in  apparently  good  health  soon  com- 
plaining of  headache,  nervousness,  loss 
of  appetite,  and  other  symptoms  indica- 
tive of  impaired  general  vigor. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  last  cen- 
tury we  find  attention  first  called  to  the 
relations  existing  between  the  myopic 
eye  and  the  demands  of  civilized  life. 
Within  a  comparatively  few  years  more 
complete  and  systematic  examinations 
of  the  eyes  of  school-children  have  been 
made,  so  that  to-day  we  have  as  a  basis 
for  our  statistics  the  examination  of  the 


eyes  of  over  200,000  pupils  of  all 
grades.  An  analysis  of  these  examina- 
tions shows  that  in  the  primary  schools 
nearly  all  the  children  enter  with  nor- 
mal eyes.  In  the  higher  grades  twen- 
ty-five per  cent  have  become  myopic, 
while  in  university  life  the  percentage 
of  myopia  has  increased  to  from  sixty 
to  seven ty  per  cent,  which  shows  that 
the  number  of  near-sighted  pupils  in- 
crease from  the  lowest  to  the  highest 
schools,  and  that  the  increase  is  in  di- 
rect proportion  to  the  length  of  time 
devoted  to  the  strain  of  school  life. 

In  the  face  of  these  facts  it  seems  the 
imperative  duty  of  the  hour  carefully  to 
investigate  the  cause  of  this  deteriora- 
tion of  the  eyes  of  our  children  during 
school  life.  The  evident  relationship 
of  this  increasing  near-sightedness  to 
school  work  seems  to  indicate  some  fault 
in  our  educational  methods.  Owing  to 
the  fact  that  myopia  is  often  hereditary 
it  is  impossible  to  eradicate  the  con- 
dition for  generations  to  come,  but  ac- 
quired myopia  can  be  prevented  or  very 
greatly  decreased  by  careful  and  fre- 
quent examinations  of  the  eyes,  togeth- 
er with  thorough  hygienic  preventive 
methods  during  the  years  of  physical 
growth  and  mental  training  of  the  child. 

First,  as  to  the  importance  of  fre- 
quent examinations  of  the  eyes  of  chil- 
dren. Statistics  prove  that  a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  eyes  of  young  children 
are  hypermetropic.  So  great  is  this 
preponderance  that  many  authorities 
claim  that  the  normal  eye  is  a  hyper- 
metropic one.  Careful  observations  have 
shown  that  in  almost  every  instance  the 
change  from  far  to  near  sight  is  through 
the  turnstile  of  astigmatism.  That  this 
change  does  take  place  has  been  proven 
by  the  progressive  increase  in  the  per- 
centage of  myopia  during  school  life. 
By  repeated  examinations  from  year  to 
year,  the  first  change  can  be  detected 
and  suitable  treatment  taken  to  check 
its  progress.  I  believe  that  the  eyes 
of  every  child  should  be  carefully  exam- 
ined at  the  commencement  of  school  life, 


618 


The  Care  of  the  Eyes. 


and  that  the  examination  should  be  re- 
peated at  least  every  year  until  the  time 
of  full  development  of  both  mind  and 
body.  The  care  of  the  teeth  commences 
even  earlier  than  this,  and  is  continued 
throughout  the  whole  life.  We  have 
become  educated  to  the  importance  and 
necessity  of  sending  our  children  to  the 
dentist  every  six  months  or  year  for  ex- 
amination whether  disease  is  suspected 
or  not.  The  far  more  precious  and  deli- 
cate organ,  the  eye,  is  almost  univer- 
sally left  to  do  its  work  unaided  and 
uncared  for,  until  often  serious  and  ir- 
reparable damage  has  been  done,  and 
the  innocent  victims  of  our  ignorance 
and  neglect  are  deprived  of  the  full 
realization  of  God's  greatest  gift,  that 
of  sight.  It  is  not  the  vision  alone  that 
pays  the  penalty  of  this  criminal  neglect, 
but  a  long  train  of  physical  wrecks 
brought  about  through  reflex  action  from 
eye-strain.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go 
into  the  details  as  to  how  or  what  gen- 
eral conditions  may  result  from  defec- 
tive eyes,  but  merely  to  sound  a  warning 
as  to  the  danger  from  neglect  of  the  eyes 
in  early  life.  To  continue  the  com- 
parison with  the  teeth,  we  can  get  very 
acceptable  false  teeth,  but  artificial  eyes 
have  not  proven  of  much  practical  ser- 
vice. 

Every  school  should  possess  a  series 
of  test  letters,  and  each  scholar  at  the 
commencement  of  each  term  should  have 
the  eyes  examined  by  the  teacher.  This 
examination  is  so  simple  that  any  teach- 
er can  be  instructed  in  a  few  minutes, 
so  that  she  can  determine  if  any  defect 
exists.  All  that  is  essential  is  a  set  of 
Snellen's  test  types  placed  in  a  good 
light,  the  letters  of  which  should  then 
be  read  with  each  eye  separately  at  a 
given  distance.  The  child  should  then 
be  examined  with  the  astigmatic  card, 
and  the  lines  running  in  all  directions 
should  appear  to  each  eye  alone  equal- 
ly clear  and  distinct.  Then  a  small  card 
plainly  printed  in  four  and  one  half 
point  (diamond) 1  type  should  be  read  by 

1  This  line  is  printed  in  diamond. 


the  child  while  the  teacher  measures 
with  a  rule  the  nearest  point  at  which 
it  can  be  easily  read.  This  distance 
should  correspond  with  the  normal  near- 
point  from  an  emmetropic  eye,  which 
should  be  recorded  on  the  back  of  the 
card  for  the  different  ages  from  six  to 
twenty  years.  If  these  tests  show  no 
defects,  the  child  may  be  admitted  to 
the  school,  but  if  a  defect  be  found  in 
any  of  these  tests,  particularly  the  first, 
the  parents  of  the  child  should  be  at 
once  informed  of  the  existing  defect  of 
vision  and  the  consequent  need  of  pro- 
fessional advice.  Further  than  this, 
during  the  school  year,  if  the  child  com- 
plains frequently  of  headaches  while 
studying,  or  seems  to  be  getting  nervous, 
anaemic,  etc.,  the  teacher's  duty  is  to 
suggest  again  to  the  parents  the  wisdom 
of  seeking  a  physician's  advice. 

The  examination  as  suggested  would 
at  once  detect  imperfect  vision  from 
any  cause ;  if  due  to  refractive  errors,  it 
could  be  corrected ;  if  to  intraocular  dis- 
ease, treatment  might  save  the  sight 
which  otherwise  would  possibly  be  lost. 

In  all  cases  of  children  with  inflamed 
eyes,  they  should  be  required  to  present  a 
physician's  certificate  of  the  non-infec- 
tious nature  of  the  disease  before  being 
permitted  to  enter  the  schools.  Our 
orphan  asylums,  public  homes,  and  in- 
stitutions of  all  kinds  require  a  physi- 
cian's certificate  before  admitting  chil- 
dren with  any  redness  or  inflammation 
of  the  eyes.  Should  we  be  any  less 
strict  before  permitting  these  children 
to  associate  with  the  healthy  ones  in 
our  schools? 

Let  us  now  consider  the  faulty  con- 
ditions of  school  life  which  bear  more 
or  less  directly  on  the  eye  as  well  as  on 
the  general  health  of  the  child.  The 
curriculum  of  study  in  the  majority  of 
public  schools  is  a  hard  and  fast  one, 
which  all  students  are  expected  to  fol- 
low. I  believe  that  a  more  elastic  cur- 
riculum should  be  adopted,  whereby  chil- 
dren with  defective  eyes,  or  a  more 
or  less  feeble  health,  shall  be  required 


The   Care  of  the  Eyes. 


619 


to  take  only  as  many  and  such  studies  as 
they  may  master  in  safety.  Such  a  mod- 
ified course,  while  it  would  lengthen  the 
student  life  by  one  or  more  years,  would 
do  much  toward  preserving  the  eyes  and 
general  health. 

A  decided  reform  should  also  be  made 
in  the  system  of  requiring  study  at 
home.  The  average  school  session  of 
five  or  six  hours  a  day  should  be  suffi- 
cient to  prepare  for  college  by  the  time 
pupils  are  sixteen  or  eighteen  without  re- 
quiring nearly  as  many  additional  hours 
of  home  study,  which  robs  the  students 
of  the  recreation  and  sleep  they  should 
have.  The  work  at  home  is  usually  ac- 
complished when  the  body  is  tired,  and 
the  brain  sluggish,  generally  by  artifi- 
cial light  (which  is  too  often  an  im- 
proper one),  and  frequently  with  a  faulty 
position  of  the  body.  I  believe  that 
with  a  proper  regulation  of  recitation 
and  study  during  school  hours  alone,  the 
brain,  made  more  active  by  sufficient 
recreation,  exercise,  and  sleep,  will  ac- 
complish far  more  than  by  the  present 
system. 

The  paper  and  type  used  in  school- 
books  have  in  recent  years  been  vastly 
improved,  yet  there  is  room  for  still 
further  improvement.  In  selecting 
books  for  children  the  type  should  al- 
ways be  large,  bold,  and  clear.  Cohn 
and  Webber  claim  that  type  at  least  one 
and  a  half  millimetres  in  height  (equal 
to  long  primer)  is  the  smallest  that 
should  be  used  in  schoolbooks,  and  the 
distance  between  the  lines,  or  leading 
as  it  is  called,  should  be  two  and  a  half 
millimetres.  The  paper  should  be  of  a 
dull  finish,  instead  of  the  highly  glazed 
finish  of  many  books,  and  of  a  dead  white 
or  a  cream  color.  In  many  of  the  books 
used  by  children  the  print  is  too  small 
and  of  a  poor  impression,  which  is  very 
injurious  to  the  eyes.  This  perhaps  ap- 
plies more  particularly  to  the  interest- 
ing books  and  periodicals  prepared  for 
the  young,  and  especially  to  newspa- 
pers. The  character  and  amount  of 
reading  are  too  often  not  properly  regu- 


lated at  home.  The  reading  of  sensa- 
tional papers  and  novels  at  hours  when 
the  child  should  be  asleep  is  a  habit 
too  freely  indulged,  at  the  expense 
of  both  mental  and  physical  develop- 
ment. 

There  should  also  be  frequent  breaks 
in  the  application  of  the  eyes  at  close 
work.  This  frequent  interval  of  rest 
for  both  the  brain  and  the  eyes  can 
easily  be  secured  in  the  schoolroom  by 
a  change  from  the  book  to  the  black- 
board, to  oral  instructions,  lectures, 
etc.  The  school  session  should  be 
broken  by  short  recesses  in  the  open  air 
and  gymnastic  exercises. 

A  consideration  of  the  eyes  and 
health  of  our  school-children  must  ne- 
cessarily involve  the  location  of  the 
building,  as  to  surroundings,  light, 
etc.,  and  the  school  furniture.  The  lo- 
cation in  cities  should  avoid  narrow 
streets  and  high  surrounding  buildings 
which  interfere  both  with  light  and 
air ;  and  away  from  noises,  exhalations, 
smoke,  and  dust  from  factories,  stables, 
markets,  etc.  Playgrounds  in  the  open 
air,  either  in  ample  grounds  or  on  the 
roof  of  the  building,  should  be  provided 
for  intermission  of  the  sessions.  The 
building  should  be  so  constructed  as  to 
avoid  dampness,  and  should  furnish 
ample  ventilation  without  drafts.  In 
the  country,  especially,  care  should  be 
taken  that  the  location  be  well  drained, 
and  away  from  malarial  and  other  inju- 
rious environments. 

Sufficient  light  is  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance, and  should  be  first  considered 
in  the  architectual  plan  of  all  school- 
houses.  The  quantity  of  light,  Cohn 
says,  cannot  be  too  much;  while  Javal 
says  that  every  portion  of  the  room 
should  be  so  flooded  with  light  that  the 
darkest  place  will  have  sufficient  illu- 
mination on  a  dark  day.  To  secure  this 
Javal  believes  that  the  distance  of  sur- 
rounding structures  should  be  twice  their 
height.  The  necessity  of  sufficient  light 
is  shown  by  an  attempt  to  read  in  the 
twilight  or  in  a  dimly  lighted  room.  A 


620 


The   Care  of  the  Eyes.- 


test  as  to  the  amount  of  light  required 
is  the  ability  of  a  normal  eye  to  read 
diamond  type  readily  at  twelve  inches. 
According  to  Risley  the  window  sur- 
face should  never  fall  below  one  square 
foot  of  glass  for  every  five  square  feet 
of  floor  space,  and  this  should  be  ex- 
ceeded in  many  locations,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  building,  and  on  the  ground 
floors.  The  quality  of  light  is,  of  course, 
modified  by  the  color  of  the  walls  in  the 
schoolroom.  The  light  shades  of  green, 
yellow,  blue,  or  gray  should  be  used  in 
the  coloring  of  the  walls,  and  also  the 
furniture  and  wood -work.  The  loss  of 
light  caused  by  large  surfaces  of  black- 
boards can  be  saved  by  roller  shades  of 
the  same  color  as  the  walls,  to  be  low- 
ered when  not  in  use. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  quantity 
of  light  in  the  schoolrooms  is  its  direc- 
tion. The  ideal  light  of  the  school- 
room is  that  from  the  left  side,  or  the 
left  and  rear  of  the  pupils.  Lighting 
of  the  room  from  two  opposite  sides 
should  be  avoided  if  possible,  yet  when 
necessary  to  secure  the  requisite  amount 
of  light,  that  from  the  right  should  be 
high  up  in  the  room.  In  this  way  we 
secure  a  diffused  light  in  the  room  from 
the  illumination  of  the  ceiling  and  avoid 
the  objectionable  cross-lights.  This  ar- 
rangement at  the  same  time  affords 
means  of  ventilation. 

In  the  most  excellent  and  thorough 
article  upon  school  hygiene  by  Dr.  S.  D. 
Risley, *  to  which  I  am  greatly  indebted 
in  the  preparation  of  this  paper,  much 
space  has  been  devoted  to  the  considera- 
tion of  the  school  furniture.  While  the 
faulty  construction  of  the  school  desk 
and  seat  is  a  very  important  factor,  ac- 
cording to  orthopaedic  physicians,  in  the 
causation  of  spinal  curvature,  it  has 
been,  and  undoubtedly  still  is,  a  no  small 
factor  in  the  increasing  myopia  of  school 
life.  Vast  improvements  have  been 
made  in  the  average  schoolrooms  of  to- 
day in  this  respect;  still  a  visit  to  al- 

1  System  of  Diseases  of  the  Eye,  Norris  and 
Oliver,  vol.  ii.  1897. 


most  any  school  will  show  more  or  less 
of  the  pupils  in  an  improper  position. 
The  great  danger  to  the  eyes  lies  in  the 
pupil  bending  over  his  desk  and  thus 
bringing  the  eyes  too  close  to  the  work. 
This  abnormal  near-point  adds  largely 
to  the  strain  upon  the  accommodation 
and  convergence,  and  at  the  same  time 
causes  an  increased  congestion  of  the 
coats  of  the  eye,  all  of  which  serve  to 
increase  the  tendency  to  near-sighted- 
ness. The  proper  arrangement  of  the 
seat  and  desk  is  such  that  the  child  will 
find  it  easier  to  sit  upright  at  his  work 
than  in  any  other  position  he  can  as- 
sume. The  direction  and  measurements 
for  securing  such  a  position  by  means 
of  a  correct  seat  and  desk  are  fully 
given  in  many  articles  upon  this  sub- 
ject. 

The  blackboard  forms  an  important 
adjunct  to  school  life,  and  its  more  gen- 
eral and  extended  use  should  be  encour- 
aged. The  strain  upon  the  eyes  is  much 
less  when  looking  at  a  relatively  distant 
object  like  the  blackboard  than  it  is  at 
the  near-point,  as  in  reading  and  writ- 
ing. Hence  instruction  by  board  exer- 
cise is  much  less  fatiguing  than  work 
done  with  the  pencil  or  pen.  The  sur- 
face of  the  board  should  be  kept  black 
and  clear  by  frequent  washing,  and  the 
crayons  used  should  be  either  white 
or  yellow.  Wall  maps  and  charts  are 
also  useful  for  the  same  reason  as  the 
blackboard,  in  that  they  permit  of  in- 
struction at  a  greater  distance.  In  all 
children  who  have  already  developed 
near-sightedness,  to  avoid  the  increasing 
tendency  to  draw  the  work  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  eyes  some  of  the  many 
forms  of  head-rests  which  hold  the  head 
erect  and  at  a  proper  distance  from  the 
work  should  be  used. 

I  have  dwelt  at  length  upon  the 
care  of  the  eyes  in  childhood,  because 
it  is  at  this  time  of  life  that  there  is 
the  greatest  danger  to  vision.  Fur- 
thermore, when  proper  care  has  been 
given  to  the  eyes  in  early  life,  we  enter 
adult  life  with  better  eyes  and  a  better 


The   Care  of  the  Jtfyes. 


621 


understanding  of  their  requirements. 
In  all  classes  —  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren —  there  is  an  inherent  prejudice 
to  the  use  of  glasses,  but  to  those  suf- 
fering from  refractive  errors  the  use  of 
the  correct  glass  is  one  of  the  greatest 
boons.  I  acknowledge  that  the  preva- 
lent error  of  oculists  is  the  too  early 
and  frequent  prescribing  of  glasses.  In 
many  instances  the  use  of  glasses  can 
be  avoided  by  the  correction  of  some 
deficiency  in  the  balance  of  the  extrin- 
sic muscles  of  the  eye,  which  may  be  the 
cause  of  the  asthenopic  or  reflex  symp- 
toms. In  all  cases  of  decided  refrac- 
tive errors,  however,  the  use  of  correct- 
ing lenses  is  a  necessity.  When  glasses 
are  required  they  should  be  given 
proper  care  by  the  wearer.  We  have 
often  seen  patients  wearing  glasses  so 
scratched  and  dirty  that  a  great  effort 
must  necessarily  be  made  to  see  through 
them.  Eyeglasses  should  never  be  fold- 
ed, as  they  soon  become  misshapen  and 
scratched.  For  the  same  reason  glasses 
should  not  be  thrown  carelessly  upon  ta- 
bles, stands,  etc. ,  and  when  out  of  shape, 
nicked,  and  scratched,  they  should  be  re- 
paired or  new  ones  purchased.  After 
the  correct  lens  has  been  selected,  care 
should  be  taken  that  the  frames  are 
skillfully  adjusted  by  a  competent  opti- 
cian, as  oftentimes  improperly  fitted 
frames  destroy  all  the  benefit  that  would 
have  resulted  from  the  glasses. 

The  prevalent  habit  of  going  without 
glasses  for  reading  as  long  as  possible 
is  also  a  bad  one.  The  public  should 
be  taught  that  all  normal  eyes  require 
glasses  for  near  vision  about  the  age  of 
forty  or  forty -five ;  that  postponing  their 
use  later  than  this  age  causes  an  effort 
of  the  accommodation  which  does  harm. 
The  prejudice  to  the  use  of  glasses  seems 
to  be  dying  out,  and  the  laity  are  real- 
izing more  and  more  the  necessity  of 
paying  attention  to  the  eyes. 


One  of  the  most  important  questions 
relating  to  the  general  care  of  the  eyes 
is  What  is  the  best  light  ?  This  should 
always  be  answered,  the  diffuse  natural 
light  of  day;  and  the  next  best,  that 
which  most  nearly  approaches  daylight. 
Artificial  light  should  be  profuse,  white, 
and  steady,  and  that  which  most  nearly 
meets  these  requirements  is  that  known 
as  the  Welsbach  light.  The  incandes- 
cent light  when  protected  by  translucent 
globes  is  also  an  excellent  light.  Gas 
and  kerosene  are  also  good,  but  should 
be  shaded  with  globes  colored  white  on 
the  inside  and  tinted  green  on  the  out- 
side. The  solar  light  when  reflected 
from  white  surfaces  has  often  been  in- 
jurious. It  is  therefore  wise  to  protect 
the  eyes  with  a  slightly  smoked  glass  if 
they  are  to  be  exposed  for  too  long  a 
time  to  the  glare  of  the  sun  upon  snow, 
water,  or  the  bright  sand  of  the  sea- 
shore. What  has  been  said  in  regard 
to  children  in  school  applies  as  well  to 
the  adult,  that  the  eyes  should  be  used 
only  when  the  body  is  in  an  erect  po- 
sition, and  that  the  light  should  fall 
upon  the  book  or  paper  from  the  left 
side.  It  hardly  seems  necessary  to  cau- 
tion against  the  use  of  the  eyes  in  read- 
ing after  twilight,  when  riding  on  the 
cars,  while  lying  down,  etc.,  but  as  all 
these  things  are  being  done  daily  we 
cannot  cry  "don't"  too  often. 

In  conclusion  let  me  remind  the  read- 
er that  the  health  of  the  eye  depends  to 
a  great  measure  upon  the  condition  of 
the  general  system.  The  eye  is  not  a 
separate  and  distinct  organ  to  be  treated 
wholly  independent  of  the  bodily  health. 
While  the  eye  can  undoubtedly  cause 
abnormal  conditions  of  other  organs,  it 
can  at  the  same  time  suffer  from  oth- 
er diseased  conditions.  Therefore,  by 
obeying  the  common  laws  of  health  the 
usefulness  of  the  eyes  will  be  best  main- 
tained. 

A.  B.  Norton. 


622 


A  Possible   Glimpse  of  /Samuel  Johnson. 


A  POSSIBLE  GLIMPSE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


READERS  of  Boswell's  Johnson  are 
aware  of  a  strange  gap  in  the  life,  extend- 
ing over  the  whole  of  the  years  1745  and 
1746.  Johnson's  "  Proposals  for  a  New 
Edition  of  Shakespear  "  appeared  at  the 
beginning  of  1745,  and  with  that  excep- 
tion, no  single  event  is  known,  no  anec- 
dote recorded,  no  publication  mentioned, 
no  letter  preserved.  Yet  those  years  were 
full  of  material  for  an  author  and  a 
talker.  Boswell  reminds  us  —  as  who 
would  not  ?  —  that  in  those  years  Charles 
Edward  raised  the  Stewart  flag  in  Scot- 
land, invaded  England,  eluded  two  ar- 
mies of  King  George,  marched  to  a  point 
only,  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  miles 
from  London,  won  two  pitched  battles 
over  the  royal  forces,  and  was  defeated 
only  after  keeping  the  whole  country  in 
anxiety  for  eight  months. 

The  author  of  the  article  on  Johnson 
in  the  National  Dictionary  of  Biography 
sneers  at  the  suggestion  of  Boswell  that 
his  hero  might  have  been  connected  with 
the  Pretender's  expedition.  But  where 
is  the  absurdity  ?  Johnson  was  notori- 
ously a  passionate  partisan  of  the  Stew- 
arts. Lichfield,  his  birthplace,  his  mo- 
ther's residence,  the  home  that  never  lost 
his  affection,  was  a  chief  station  of  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland's  army,  and  the 
Pretender's  line  of  march  came  within 
twenty  miles  of  it ;  while  all  around  it 
the  Staffordshire  folk  were  considered 
the  most  intensely  Jacobite  part  of  the 
English  people.  If  Johnson  had  visited 
his  native  town,  or  even  had  letters  from 
his  mother  and  his  stepdaughter  in  those 
years,  he  must  have  had  his  thoughts  full 
of  the  invasion.  Preston,  Falkirk,  and 
Culloden  must  have  interested  him  as 
much  as  any  man  in  England.  Did  he 
really  know  nothing  about  it  all?  Or 
did  he  know  too  much,  that  we  find  no 
more  mention  of  "  the  '45  "  in  his  life 
than  if  he  had  been  six  years  old  instead 


of  thirty-six  ?  For  all  that  those  years 
with  their  events  and  memories  show  us 
of  him,  he  might  have  been  on  the  Conti- 
nent, in  prison,  or  confined  with  a  broken 
leg. 

Johnson  himself  was  so  very  obscure 
in  these  years,  his  talents  slowly  strug- 
gling into  recognition,  that  it  is  not 
strange  that  his  name  appears  so  seldom 
in  correspondence ;  yet  as  one  repository 
after  another  of  family  papers  becomes 
unlocked,  the  key  to  his  more  than  ob- 
scurity in  these  eventful  years  may  yet 
be  disclosed.  Whether  the  notes  now 
offered  to  the  reader  really  afford  that 
key  may  be  questioned ;  they  are  frag- 
mentary, and  I  have  no  right,  if  I  had  the 
power,  to  expand  them.  Such  as  they  are 
they  may  at  least  give  shape  to  interest- 
ing conjecture  as  to  the  whereabouts  of 
a  man,  every  incident  of  whose  career  is 
more  studied,  now  that  he  has  been  for 
more  than  a  century  in  his  grave,  than 
ever  it  was  while  he  walked  the  earth. 

A  short  time  ago  a  noble  family,  which 
had  long  maintained  a  spacious  residence 
in  one  of  the  older  but  still  aristocratic 
quarters  of  London,  determined  to  let 
that  house,  and  live  exclusively  in  the 
country.  Such  a  move,  after  long  years 
of  occupation,  is  almost  sure  to  bring  to 
light  papers,  hastily  stored,  never  exam- 
ined, and  all  but  forgotten.  That  inter- 
esting old  letters  should  be  found  in  un- 
suspected repositories  of  a  family  man- 
sion such  as  I  mention  was  every  way  to 
be  expected.  Through  an  old  and  plea- 
sant acquaintance  with  several  members 
of  this  family,  amounting  to  close  inti- 
macy with  one  honored  and  loved  by  all 
who  knew  him,  —  now,  alas  !  deceased, 
—  I  feel  justified  in  laying  before  the 
public  a  copy  of  some  bits  of  correspon- 
dence. Nothing,  however,  has  been  pub- 
lished by  the  owners  of  the  papers,  and 
perhaps  never  will  be.  I  have  no  right 


A  Possible   Glimpse  of  Samuel  Johnson. 


623 


to  mention  their  name,  nor  to  present 
any  portions  of  the  letters  beyond  what 
have  a  purely  literary  and  historical  in- 
terest. That  name  has  been  known  and 
respected  in  England  for  many  centuries. 

I  am  not  able  even  to  present  these 
extracts  with  the  garniture  of  eighteenth- 
century  spelling  and  capitals.  The  copy- 
ist has  not  seen  fit  to  reproduce  those 
quaintnesses  of  dress ;  and,  after  all,  I  do 
not  know  that  we  enter  into  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  Chesterfield  or  of  John- 
son any  better  by  seeing  that  they  wrote 
"  Cloaths  "  and  not  "  clothes." 

Many  of  the  letters  from  which  I  pre- 
sent extracts  appear  to  be  from  members 
of  the  family  of  the  Drummonds,  the 
great  banking  house,  several  of  whom 
intermarried  with  the  nobility,  and  es- 
pecially with  the  family  to  which  I  al- 
lude. If  a  conjecture  were  allowable  as 
to  how  the  papers  I  have  mentioned 
came  to  their  recent  place  of  deposit,  it 
would  be  that  in  some  of  the  not  very 
remote  London  riots,  which  raged  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  Drummonds' 
bank,  the  family  papers  were  hastily  re- 
moved to  the  house  I  have  mentioned, 
which  was  at  no  very  great  distance,  yet 
out  of  rioters'  range,  and  in  which  they 
would  be  sure  of  being  preserved  with 
care  and  interest. 

The  family  of  Drummond  is  one  of 
the  most  ancient  in  the  nobility  of  Scot- 
land. It  gave  a  queen  to  one  of  the 
early  Stewart  kings,  and  its  members 
have  always  stood  by  that  royal  line.  In 
the  time  of  James  II.,  the  heads  of  the 
house  were  devoted  to  the  king's  interest, 
and  shared  his  exile  to  the  utter  wreck 
of  their  estates  at  home.  But  a  cadet 
of  the  family  had  the  shrewdness  to  re- 
trieve his  fortunes  by  a  process  unfa- 
miliar to  the  Scottish  feudal  aristocracy. 
He  came  to  London  and  founded  the 
great  banking  house  of  "  Drummonds  " 
still  flourishing.  It  would  appear  from 
the  correspondence  given  here  that  the 
Scotch  fidelity  to  "  kith  "  kept  the  Lon- 
don Drummonds  in  communication  with 


their  exiled  cousins.  One  letter  appears 
to  be  from  Lord  John  Drummond,  son 
of  the  (titular)  Duke  of  Perth,  who 
joined  the  Chevalier's  army  in  Scotland, 
and  was  with  it  in  the  march  to  Derby :  — 

"  You  were  right,  my  dear  kinsman, 
in  your  warning  that  our  forces  would  re- 
ceive no  accession  from  the  king's  friends 
in  England.  We  have  been  wholly  de- 
ceived in  this  matter.  Lancashire,  re- 
ported so  full  of  loyal  gentlemen,  has 
sent  us  hardly  a  soldier,  and  the  like  is 
true  of  Staffordshire.  We  were,  how- 
ever, Cameron  tells  me,  joined  by  one 
recruit  last  night  from  Lichfield.  He  is 
devotedly  loyal,  and  full  of  valuable  in- 
formation about  the  well-disposed,  both 
hereabouts  and  in  London ;  but  apart 
from  this,  I  know  not  what  we  can  do 
with  him.  He  is  of  herculean  stature, 
but  entirely  without  use  of  arms,  and  it 
is  hard  to  make  a  soldier  of  a  raw  re- 
cruit, who  appears  nearer  forty  than  thir- 
ty. Besides,  he  is  most  averse  to  dis- 
cipline, and  although  he  has  been  but 
eighteen  hours  in  camp,  has  already  con- 
tradicted everybody  he  has  met.  Yet  I 
am  desirous  to  see  him,  for  Cameron  says 
he  is  an  Oxford  scholar,  a  perfect  mine  of 
learning.  I  asked  his  name,  and  Cam- 
eron said  he  certainly  understood  it  to  be 
Johnstone,  but  when  he  asked  the  mon- 
ster if  he  was  of  Lord  Annand ale's  family, 
he  pretended  not  to  understand  ;  but  on 
being  called  '  Mr.  Johnstone,'  replied, 
'  Sir,  that  is  not  my  name '  so  savagely 
that  Cameron  inquired  no  further." 

The  next  fragment  is  from  a  letter 
from  the  Marquis  of  Granby,  afterwards 
so  renowned  as  a  general,  in  1745  a 
young  regimental  officer  in  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland's  army.  His  grandson,  the 
Duke  of  Rutland,  had  a  very  severe  fire 
at  Belvoir  Castle  some  seventy  years 
later.  One  might  guess  that  this  and 
other  family  letters  were  hastily  rescued, 
and  sent,  while  the  castle  was  rebuilding, 
to  the  Drummonds,  between  whom  and 
the  house  of  Manners  there  was  a  family 
connection :  — 


624 


A  Possible   Glimpse  of  Samuel  Johnson. 


"You  may  perhaps  have  heard  that 
we  had  a  skirmish  with  the  Pretender's 
rear-guard  at  Penrith,  in  which,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  several  officers  were  killed, 
wounded,  or  taken.  Among  the  latter 
was  a  captain  in  my  regiment.  He  was 
not  held  long  among  them,  for  they  are 
marching  northwards  so  hurriedly  that 
they  do  not  keep  a  very  close  guard  over 
their  prisoners.  On  his  return  he  told 
a  curious  story  of  his  experiences  among 
them.  It  was  so  lively  that  I  can  write 
it  down  for  you  almost  exactly  in  his 
own  words :  — 

"  They  treated  me  very  civilly,  and  I 
dined  with  the  Pretender's  chief  engineer 
officer,  a  Frenchman.  He  did  his  best 
to  give  his  table,  which  was  scarcely 
luxurious,  something  of  a  French  air. 
The  Scotch  officers  were  thorough  gen- 
tlemen, if  they  did  wear  petticoats  ;  so 
was  the  host ;  not  so  an  odd  creature,  in 
a  nondescript  dress,  neither  soldier  nor 
bourgeois.  He  ate  very  coarsely,  drank 
deep,  and  strove  to  engross  the  entire 
talk,  hardly  giving  anybody  else  a  chance, 
except  when  gorging  himself.  I  first  no- 
ticed him  growling  out,  '  Ariosto  gives 
a  strange  account  of  the  Scotch ;  he 
makes  them  allies  of  a  king  of  England 
and  Charlemagne  against  the  Saracens,' 
and  then  down  went  his  monstrous  head 
over  his  plate  again.  I  have  dipped  into 
Ariosto,  but  I  cannot  recall  his  Scotch- 
men, and  the  queer  mixture  of  learning 
and  grossness  made  me  look  at  this  per- 
son again.  I  seemed  to  remember  him. 
Presently  he  was  in  a  full  French  talk 
with  our  host ;  the  accent  was  extraor- 
dinary, sounding  to  me  somewhat  Irish  ; 
the  words  so  slowly  uttered,  that  they 
could  easily  be  followed,  and  as  regular 
and  correct  as  if  printed.  I  cannot  un- 
dertake to  give  the  French,  but  the  sense 
was  plain ;  he  declaimed  against  the 
Scotch,  declared  they  had  neither  re- 
ligion nor  cleanliness  (he  had  nothing  to 
boast  of  on  that  article  himself),  neither 
breeches  nor  loyalty.  The  French  of- 
ficer very  civilly  suggested  they  were 


proving  their  loyalty  to  their  rightful 
king.  '  Monsieur,'  said  the  oddity,  firing 
the  word  out  of  his  great  jaws  ;  '  they 
may  seem  loyal  to  his  Royal  Highness 
now,  but  they  only  want  him  as  a  cat's 
paw  to  pull  off  their  own  land  of  beg- 
gars '  — pays  de  gueux,  he  called  it  — 
*  from  ours,  and  have  a  king  of  their  own ; 
they  forced  him  back  when  he  was  on 
the  high  road  to  victory  ;  they  sold  his 
great-grandfather,  and  they  would  sell 
him,  if  the  Elector  were  not  too  stingy 
to  offer  them  their  price.'  " 

All  students  of  history  know  how  bit- 
terly unjust  this  insinuation  was ;  a  re- 
ward of  thirty  thousand  pounds  could  not 
allure  a  single  Scotchman  to  reveal 
Charles  Edward's  hiding-place,  after  his 
hopeless  defeat.  The  extract  goes  on : 

"  Knowing  that  Scotch  gentlemen  were 
often  familiar  with  French,  I  was  on 
thorns  for  fear  of  an  outbreak,  and 
thought  it  best  to  turn  the  talk  if  I  could. 
'  Pardon  me,  sir,'  I  cried,  '  is  not  your 
name  Jackson  ?  I  fancy  I  have  seen  you 
at  the  table  of  my  kinsman,  the  Earl  of 
Chesterfield.'  '  Sir,'  said  the  ogre,  turn- 
ing on  me,  'my  name  is  not  Jackson.' 
'I  ask  pardon  again,'  said  I.  'I  saw 
many  guests  there,  and  have  not  always 
retained  their  names  ;  but  I  could  hard- 
ly forget  your  person,  as  I  saw  few  so 
learned  as  yourself.'  *  Sir,  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  saw  more  learned  men  or 
more  fools  at  the  table  of  my  Lord 
Chesterfield,  —  I  suppose  you  expect  me 
to  say  his  Excellency,  as  he  now  repre- 
sents the  Elector  of  Hanover  at  Dublin ; 
but,  I  assure  you,  I  remember  neither 
your  name  nor  your  person.' 

"  '  I  could  not  have  supposed,  sir,  that 
you  would  recall  either  ;  but  being  Lord 
Chesterfield's  kinsman,  and  privileged  to 
meet  his  guests  '  — 

"  '  Sir,  it  is  a  privilege  which  in  my  case 
you  could  have  had  but  once  ;  my  Lord 
has  obviously  forgotten  both  my  name 
and  my  person,  and  has  never  repeated 
his  invitation.'  You  may  conceive  I  did 
not  obtrude  myself  on  him  farther." 


A  Possible   Glimpse  of  Samuel  Johnson. 


625 


The  last  extract  is  from  a  member  of 
the  family  in  whose  house  this  correspon- 
dence is  understood  to  have  been  found  ; 
known,  however,  in  1746  by  the  name  he 
had  assumed  on  marrying  an  heiress  :  — 

"  You  know  that  Oxford  and  the 
Church  have  not  destroyed  my  interest 
in  all  that  relates  to  my  former  profes- 
sion, so  learning  that  my  old  regiment 
was  in  the  Duke's  army,  I  determined 
to  see  what  a  rebellion  is  like.  I  found 
them  at  Carlisle.  They  had  just  re- 
duced the  unhappy  garrison  which  the 
Pretender  left  behind  as  he  retreated 
into  Scotland.  The  Colonel  and  officers 
all  received  me  with  open  arms  ;  wished 
I  would  drop  my  gown  and  sport  the 
cockade  again.  The  Colonel  told  me 
his  plans,  and  added  :  — 

"  '  You  're  the  very  man  I  want,  Har- 
ry. We  have  captured  a  mob  of  poor 
devils  here  —  Oh,  I  keep  forgetting 
you're  a  parson  now — whom  I  think 
that  d — d  —  saving  your  reverence  — 
Pretender  left  on  purpose,  knowing  we 
should  take  the  place.  I  suppose  no- 
thing can  save  the  fighting  men  ;  but 
there  are  some  non-combatants  that  it 
would  be  a  shame  to  hang.  I  'm  a  hu- 
mane man .  myself  ;  but  the  Duke  — 
Well ! '  Here  he  paused,  and  hemmed. 
'  Now  I  do  wish  you  would  talk  to  some 
of  them,  and  find  out  something  in  their 
favor.  There  is  one  particular  big  fel- 
low I  '11  send  in  to  you  directly,  for  the 
Scots  tell  me  he  is  an  Englishman,  who 
has  been  wrangling  ever  since  he  joined 
them  ;  a  scholar  and  no  soldier.' 

"  He  left  me,  and  there  was  brought 
in  almost  immediately  a  big  fellow  in- 
deed, very  shabbily  clothed,  but  with  a 
strange  look  of  defiance.  When  he  saw 
me,  he  flushed  suddenly  up  to  his  eyes.  I 
knew  him  !  It  was  —  But  on  the  whole, 
I  won't  tell  you  his  name,  and  you  will 
see  why.  I  knew  him  at  Lichfield,  when 
my  regiment  was  quartered  there,  and 
he  has  been  in  my  house  in  London. 

"  '  I  see  you  remember  me,  Mr. ,' 

said  I,  '  we  are  old  friends.' 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  40 


" '  You  were  indeed  my  friend,  Mr. 
Aston,  when  you  bore  another  name  and 
another  coat.  I  suppose  you  expect  my 
compliments  on  your  present  circum- 
stances.' 

"  '  I  expect  nothing,'  said  I,  « but  that 
you  shall  tell  me,  for  old  friendship's 
sake,  how  you  came  into  this  position.' 

"  '  I  know  well,  sir,  that  one  who  has 
served  in  the  forces  of  the  Elector  of 
Hanover  will  despise  the  call  of  loyalty 
to  his  rightful  king.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  and  I  have  fought  out  that 
battle  long  ago  ;  but  your  Scottish  friends 
seem  to  have  taken  their  Prince,  and 
left  you  to  perform  what  you  believe  a 
loyal  subject's  duty  by  yourself.' 

"  You  should  have  seen  the  strange 
convulsion  that  passed  over  his  whole 
frame  as  I  spoke;  it  seemed  as  if  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  would  burst.  '  Sir, 
the  Scots  '  —  he  broke  out,  and  then  his 
voice  subsided  into  a  strange  grumble. 

"  '  Never  mind  the  Scots/  I  said, '  but 
whether  they  are  here  or  there,  you 
know  the  destiny  that  awaits  you  ? ' 

"  '  I  shall  be  hanged,'  he  said  in  a 
terribly  calm  voice. 

'"I  intend  you  shall  not,'  I  replied  ; 
'  you  have,  I  know,  a  mother  and  a  wife 
who  need  you.  The  Colonel  tells  me  he 
means  to  send  a  recruiting  party  to  the 
Midlands.  You  will  be  put  in  their 
hands  as  a  prisoner.  They  will  go  through 
Lichfield,  and  there  they  will  lose  sight 
of  you.  I  know  every  man  in  my  old 
regiment,  and  can  make  my  word  good. 
You  will,  for  your  mother's  and  your 
wife's  sake,  and  for  mine,'  I  added, 
looking  him  fixedly  in  the  face,  '  remain 
absolutely  quiet  till  this  rising  is  over, 
and  in  all  your  after  life  never  mention 
this  excursion  of  yours.  In  this  way  I 
can  save  you  ;  if  you  do  not  do  as  I  say, 
you  will  indeed  meet  the  fate  you  have 
named.' 

"  '  Sir,'  he  said  in  another  uncouth 
convulsion,  '  I  shall  give  no  pledge  '  — 

u  '  I  ask  none,'  said  I,  '  but  I  am  sure 
you  will  do  as  I  say  all  the  same.' 


626 


Sally. 


"  He  was  removed ;  the  Colonel  agreed 
to  get  him  a  decent  suit,  —  no  easy  mat- 
ter for  so  enormous  a  frame, — and  I 
saw  him  no  more.  You  see  at  once  that 
it  would  be  a  risk  to  name  him." 

And  these  are  all  the  notes  there  are 
to  offer.  It  would  be  going  too  far  to 
say  they  certainly  point  to  Samuel  John- 
son. That  name  is  not  actually  given  ; 
Lord  John  Drummond  and  Lord  Granby 
only  report  what  others  told  them ;  the 
Irish  accent  is  most  unlike  Johnson,  nor 
do  we  know  definitely  of  any  dealings 
he  had  with  Lord  Chesterfield  before 
1747,  though  the  celebrated  letter  does 
not  absolutely  preclude  an  earlier  ac- 
quaintance. Mr.  Aston  says  he  saw  a 


person  whose  description  tallies  with 
Johnson's ;  but  he  does  not  name  him ; 
nor  is  there  any  evidence  that  the  three 
writers,  or  any  two,  meant  the  same 
man.  The  utmost  we  can  venture  to  say 
is,  that  these  scattered  notes  may  give  a 
hint  to  clear  up  the  Egyptian  darkness 
which  now  covers  two  years  in  the  life 
of  one  who  has  since  become  one  of  the 
world's  heroes,  but  who  was  riot  in  the 
least  such  to  the  two  noblemen,  and  a 
long  way  from  such  distinction  even  to 
his  friend  Mr.  Aston.  They  would  cer- 
tainly have  formed  quite  enough  basis 
of  fact  for  Stevenson  to  work  up  into  a 
novel  portraying  Johnson  in  the  Jacobite 
army. 

William  Everett. 

i 


SALLY. 


THE  woman  who  told  me  this  had  no 
more  idea  that  she  was  telling  a  story  — 
a  story  with  a  plot  and  climax  —  than 
she  had  an  idea  that  her  bonnet,  a  won- 
derful creation  of  red  feathers  and  black 
lace,  was  crooked ;  and  any  one  who  saw 
her  complacent  round  face  saw  at  the 
same  time  that  she  was  totally  uncon- 
scious of  that  angular  fact.  Had  she 
been  told  of  the  bonnet,  or  gotten  sight 
of  it  in  any  available  window  or  mirror, 
it  is  reasonably  certain  the  story  would 
never  have  been  finished.  Women  of 
her  class  are  easily  plunged  into  self- 
consciousness,  and  are  more  readily  con- 
fused by  it  than  those  of  classes  above 
them  who  have  learned  to  hide  their 
feelings.  This  woman,  it  was  very  evi- 
dent, knew  nothing  whatever  of  this  art. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  with  a  lively, 
happy  face.  She  wore  her  dress  cut 
away  a  little,  a  bit  V,  though  it  was  in 
the  street  car  that  I  saw  her.  Her  neck, 
burned  almost  as  red  as  her  face,  which 
was  a  shade  off  the  red  feathers,  had 
creases  in  it  like  that  of  a  man  who 
works  in  the  sun.  At  the  back  of  her 


neck  a  few  hairs  were  gathered  tightly 
around  a  brown  kid  curler,  conscious- 
ness of  which,  had  it  come  to  her,  would 
also  very  certainly  have  stopped  the 
story.  Such  things  are  trivial.  In  an- 
other type  of  woman  I  should  not  have 
cared,  but  I  felt  sorry  as  I  thought  of 
her  finding  out  about  that  brown  kid 
curler  at  night  when  she  took  her  hair 
down.  I  knew  it  would  spoil  the  whole 
day  for  her.  Children  are  like  that. 
They  imagine  when  they  find  out  such 
a  tragedy  about  themselves  that  every- 
body has  been  conscious  of  it,  that  they 
have  been  a  laughing  -  stock  to  every 
one ;  but  not  many  women  of  this  wo- 
man's age,  who  have  gone  through  a 
woman's  experience,  — love,  marriage, 
child-bearing,  child-losing,  and  the  rest, 
—  retain  any  such  childlikeness.  I 
knew  she  had  it,  though.  This  was  not 
instinctive  either;  anybody  could  have 
seen  it.  It  might  have  been  suggested 
to  even  a  very  poor  student  of  human 
nature  by  the  round  lines  of  her  eyes, 
by  the  plump  look  about  her  wrists,  and 
the  complacent  way  her  fat,  freckled 


Sally. 


627 


hands  —  crossing  each  other  at  the  wrist 
over  her  stomach  —  fell  loose  and  good- 
natured,  —  the  hand  with  a  big  seal 
ring  on  its  second  finger  being  very  natu- 
rally on  top.  I  had  the  feeling  that 
when  she  found  that  curler  at  night  she 
was  going  to  look  frightened  first,  then 
dismayed;  then  I  felt  sure  she  would 
say,  "  Oh,  my  sakes !  "  Just  as  I  was 
thinking  this,  she  jolted  over  against 
me  with  the  jolting  of  the  street  car, 
and  said  rather  apologetically,  "Oh, 
my  sakes!  Ain't  these  cars  a  caution! 

—  The  way  they  do  take  on !  " 

That  was  the  end  of  it,  and  she  set- 
tled herself  again  somewhat  closer  to  a 
thin,  sour-visaged  little  man  who  sat 
next  her  and  wore  a  G.  A.  R.  hat  with 
a  cord  about  it.  We  were  on  the  front 
seat  of  an  open  car.  It  stopped  a  mo- 
ment, and  I  moved  closer  to  the  wo- 
man to  let  some  one  take  the  place  next 
me.  Then  the  bell  rang,  the  brass 
brake  ripped  with  the  sound  of  tearing 
a  brass  seam  open,  and  this  time  I  jolt- 
ed a  bit  toward  her.  I  had  no  time  to 
apologize,  for  she  said  quickly,  — 

"That 's  all  right !  Don't  they  take 
on,  though!  My  sakes!"  Then,  as 
though  to  make  me  more  comfortable, 
"Do  you  live  out  this  way?  " 

"No,"  I  said,  instinctively  putting 
affability  into  the  word. 

"Oh,  you  don't!  "  as  if  she  perhaps 
ought  not  to  have  supposed  so.  I  don't 
know  why  she  should  have  seemed  to 
me  hurt,  but  she  did,  and  I  said,  — 

"No,  I  don't  live  out  this  way  at 
all ;  I  live  in  quite  the  other  direction 

—  way  across  the  river  in  Kentucky." 
I  said  this  exactly  as  one  would  talk  to 
a  child  whose  approbation  one  covets. 

"You  do!  Well  now!  Why,  you 're 
a  Southerner  then!  "  She  turned  a  lit- 
tle and  looked  at  me  with  genuine  ad- 
miration. 

I  nodded  and  smiled.  I  think  that 
smile  really  got  me  the  story. 

"Well  now!  Jim!  this  lady's  a 
Southerner !  "  She  turned  to  the  soured 
little  man  beside  her,  but  he  made  no 


motion  to  show  he  had  heard.  "Well 
now!  Why,  Jim's  first  wife  was  a 
Southerner.  Yas  she  was.  She  was 
from  Virginia.  And  you  're  a  South- 
erner! Well  now!  I'm  that  tired! 
But  I  just  love  the  G.  A.  R.  meetin's. 
We  always  go.  Jim  ain't  strong.  I 
alms  tell  'im  it  does  him  a  sight  o'  good. 
Jim  got  wounded  at  Chickamauga.  He 
got  wounded  twice,  onct  in  his  shoul- 
der, onct  through  his  arm  —  there ;  " 
she  felt  of  her  own  fat  elbow.  "He 
was  carried  off  fer  dead,  Jim  was. 
He  'd  a-holt  o'  the  flag,  you  know.  Aw- 
ful dangerous !  My,  yes !  I  allus  told 
him  ef  he  's  ever  went  into  another  fight 
he  's  t'  let  the  flag  be.  But  then  I  don't 
guess  he  would.  Most  like  as  not  he  'd 
go  carryin'  it  again,  — Jim  's  got  his 
own  notions,  —  an'  get  his  other  arm  hit 
so  he  couldn't  shet  up  the  shutters  at 
night  fer  me.  He  can't  carry  coal 
now.  It 's  awful  bein'  wounded  like 
that.  Jim  's  had  his  share.  It  'uz  fer 
the  country  o'  course,  an'  they  allus  give 
us  a  good  time  at  the  G.  A.  R.  They 
allus  show  they  're  obliged  fer  what  Jim 
an'  the  rest  o'  the  boys  did." 

Here  she  paused  to  look  at  a  big  float 
of  the  "  Union  Forever  "  from  which  a 
rather  bedraggled  Columbia  was  get- 
ting down  into  the  street.  She  watched 
it  with  the  keen  interest  of  a  child  as 
long  as  it  was  visible,  then  she  turned 
to  me :  — 

"I  can't  help  thinkin'  of  you  bein' 
a  Southerner.  There  ain't  many  here. 
I  allus  kind  o'  liked  Southerners.  The 
girls  is  some  of  um  awful  pretty  and 
sweet.  Some  of  um  ain't,  of  course, 
but  some  of  um  is.  Law  sakes!  I  've 
heard  o'  them  Southern  girls  till  you 
can't  see.  There  ain't  hardly  one  o' 
the  G.  A.  R.  boys  but  as  is  got  a  story 
of  'em  to  tell.  Yas,  Jim's  first  wife 
was  a  Southern  girl.  She  was  livin' 
in  Virginia  durin'  the  war,  and  Jim  he 
was  a-fightin'  an'  a-raidin'  an'  a-tear- 
in'  up  gener'ly  in  Virginia.  He  an' 
some  other  fellus  went  out  one  day 
a-raidin'  to  get  somethin'  to  eat,  that 's 


628 


Sally. 


how  come  Jim  first  saw  her.  Say, 
Jim, "  —  she  turned  again  to  the  little 
man  beside  her,  —  "tell  the  lady  how 
it  was  you  first  come  to  see  Sally." 

"Jim"  might  have  been  stone  deaf, 
for  he  made  no  sign  of  having  heard. 
The  hollows  about  his  eyes  and  temples 
were  unpleasant,  and  his  mouth  showed 
lines  of  petty  ill  temper  and  illness. 
Yet  it  was  unmistakable  that  he  had 
been  handsome  in  his  own  way.  His 
features  were  clear,  and  his  eyes,  al- 
though not  kind,  must  have  at  one  time 
held  a  certain  attraction.  Though  a 
little  man,  he  had  sharp,  almost  aggres- 
sively square  shoulders.  His  wife  was 
evidently  used  to  his  dogged  silence. 
She  did  not  urge  him,  but  began  quite 
brightly :  — 

"Well,  they  got  into  Sally's  house, 
you  see,  like  they  used  to  do  a-raidin', 
and  they  said  they  wanted  somethin'  to 
eat.  An'  Sally  —  Jim  did  n't  know  her 
then  —  she  up  an'  says,  her  eyes  a-flash- 
in'  —  Sally  she  had  lovely  eyes  —  she 
up  an'  says,  she  says,  *  You  're  a  set 
o'  sneakin'  cowards.  Yas,  a  set  of 
damned  sneakin'  cowards  '  (this  in  lip 
pantomime,  with  eyebrows  raised)  ; '  you 
ain't  worth,'  she  says,  '  the  powder  to 
blow  you  up, '  she  says,  '  else  I  'd  get 
it  an'  blow  you  up !  '  she  says.  Sally 
was  terrible  sperited.  Well,  they  went 
on  a-takin'  things  like  as  if  she  had  n't 
'a'  spoke.  Jim  he  was  sargent  or  some- 
thin,  '  an'  he  jest  tol'  um  to  go  on  like 
as  if  there  warn't  a  woman  within  gun- 
shootin'.  Jim  allus  was  kind  o'  com- 
mandin',  an  allus  did  know  how  to  treat 
high- sperited  folks.  Y'  ought  to  see 
Jim  with  our  boy  Willy !  Tommy  's  a 
good  boy,  but  Willy  got  to  takin'  notions 
in  his  head  here  not  long  ago,  an'  Jim 
he  just  settled  him,  he  did,  in  just  about 
two  shakes,  so  that  I  reckon  Willy  ain't 
had  a  notion  sence.  I  let  Jim  do  all 
the  managin'.  Jim  says  I  ain't  got  no 
command  at  all;  no  more  I  have,  I 
reckon.  Well,  Sally  she  watched  um 
jest  white,  like  things  get  when  they  're 
boilin',  then  she  lef '  um  an'  lit  out  up- 


stairs. Jim  he  kind  o'  suspicioned  she 
was  up  to  somethin',  so  he  lef  the  rest 
haulin'  over  the  cupboard,  and  follered 
her.  When  he  got  up  there  she  'd  gone 
into  her  bedroom,  Sally  had.  Jim  he 
opened  the  door.  There  was  an  old  four- 
poster  with  cretonne  ruffles  on  it  top  and 
bottom.  I  never  did  like  um,  did  you? 
They  hoi'  the  dust,  an'  they  do  say  dust 
is  terrible  unhealthy.  I  dunno  how  we 
lived  to  get  here,  no  way,  with  all  them 
unhealthy  old  folks'  notions;  I  used  to 
sleep  in  one  of  um  myself.  Sally  was 
a-settin'  on  the  bed,  an'  Jim  he  —  Aw, 
Jim, "  —  she  turned  again  to  the  soured 
little  man,  pleadingly  this  time,  "you 
tell  the  lady  how  you  got  the  saddle." 

"You  'd  think,  Carrie, "  said  the  man 
fretfully,  "it  was  somethin'  big  I 
done. "  And  he  relapsed  into  his  dogged 
silence. 

"  Well,  so  it  was, "  said  the  woman 
proudly;  then  quite  cheerfully,  despite 
this  damper :  "  Well,  Jim  he  says  to  her, 
he  says,  '  Wot  you  got  under  that  bed  ?  ' 
An'  Sally  she  says,  clinchin'  her  han', 
1  There  ain't  no  thin'  under  it !'  an'  Jim 
he  says  cool,  you  know,  '  Then  you 
don't  mind  my  lookin',  I  reckon.'  He 
come  and  took  a-holt  o'  the  cretonne 
ruffle,  an'  Lordy !  ef  she  did  n't  up  and 
swing  her  foot  out  an'  fetch  him  a  lick 
right  in  his  breast.  Jim  's  awful  quick ; 
he  's  got  a  temper,  but  he  's  cool.  The 
general  complimented  him  high  on  it 
once.  Sally  was  awful  pretty  then. 
And  then  them  Union  boys  they  kind 
o'  liked  the  way. them  Southern  girls 
helt  out.  Well,  Jim  he  caught  a-holt 
of  her  foot,  —  that 's  one  thing  Jim 
allus  did  say  f er  Sally,  she  did  have  lit- 
tle feet,  —  an'  he  says,  Them  ain't 
made  to  kick  Union  soldiers  with, '  he 
says,  —  Jim  's  got  a  awful  cute  tongue, 
—  *  an'  they  ain't  made  to  stand  on 
Union  soldiers'  necks  with,  neither,'  he 
says.  'The  thing  they  're  best  a-doin' 
is  runnin'  to  fetch  Union  soldiers  water 
and  things  to  eat.  Now  while  I  holt  um 
I'll  just  look  under  here  a  minute.' 
Sally  was  terrible  hot,  but  Jim  he  just 


Sally. 


kep'  cool  an'  kep'  a-holt  of  her  ankles 
tight,  an'  he  dragged  out  from  under  the 
bed  a  side-saddle.  It  's  a  beaut,  too; 
all  little  red  tassels  around  the  flap. 
Sally's  paw  had  give  it  to  her.  Then 
Sally  she  screamed  an'  twisted  away 
from  him  an'  run  an'  stood  in  the  door, 
her  eyes  a-lookin'  like  they  'd  strike 
fire,  an'  she  says  —  Aw,  Jim,  tell 
the  lady  what  Sally  says  about  the  sad- 
dle." 

The  man  made  no  answer.  She 
turned  again  and  took  up  the  narrative 
cheerfully:  "Well,  she  says,  says  she, 
'  If  you  take  that  saddle,  yas, '  she  says, 
'  if  you  take  that  saddle  out  o'  here  it 's 
goin'  to  be  acrost  my  dead  body.  Yas 
it  is!  '  she  says,  just  a-ehokin'  with 
mad.  Jim  he  looked  at  it  careful. 
It 's  a  fine  saddle,  but  it  warn't  no  par- 
ticular use  to  Jim.  Course  he  could  'a' 
solt  it,  I  guess,  but  'twas  a  side-saddle, 
you  know,  no  good  to  him.  But  it  just 
kind  o'  riled  him  to  see  her  a-holtin'  out 
like  that,  like  she  wasn't  afraid  o' 
him  ner  no  devil,  Union  ner  Reb,  that 
she  'd  ever  saw;  an'  I  don't  guess  she 
was  then,  neither.  He  just  thought 
he  'd  kind  o'  like  to  tame  her;  Jim  he 
alms  likes  to  do  anythin'  he  sets  his 
head  to ;  an'  he  says  to  her,  say  she,  '  Ef 
I  'd  a  mind  to  holt  yer  wrists  like  I  did 
yer  feet,  I  reckon  I  'd  get  out  over  your 
live  body,  but  it  ain't  the  use  o'  doin' 
it,  I  guess.  You  're  too  pretty  a  little 
thing, '  he  says,  '  an'  I  would  n't  hurt 
you  'less  the  general  commanded  it. 
Ain't  there  no  back  stairs  ?  '  There  was 
a  door  an'  a  hall  an'  some  stairs  at  the 
other  side  o'  the  room.  '  I  won't  trou- 
ble you, '  Jim  says,  says  he ; '  I  '11  go  out 
this  way  with  it. ' 

"When  Jim  got  to  the  other  fellus, 
they  laughed  at  him  a-carryin'  away  a 
side-saddle,  an'  when  he  toP  um  about 
it,  one  of  um  heard  a  chipmunk  scrapin' 
a  nut,  an'  he  says,  '  That 's  her  grindin' 
her  teeth,  I  guess.'  '  No,'  says  Jim, 
'  she  's  likelier  cry  in', '  says  he.  '  Naw, 
she  ain't,'  says  Dick  Brady,  — you 
don't  know  Dick  Brady,  —  well, 


629 

she  's 


'Naw,    she  ain't,'   says  Dick, 
too  high-sperited  to  cry.'  ' 

The  woman  looked  a  moment  into  my 
face  with  a  childlikeness  of  dawning 
thought,  —  a  something  she  had  over- 
looked ;  then  she  said  soberly  and  very 
kindly :  — > 

"I  'd  not  tell  you  this,  an'  you  a 
Southerner,  'cep'n'  o'  course  Sally  she 
loved  Jim  afterward,  you  know,  an' 
married  him,  an'  then  there  ain't  no 
hard  feelin'  now  'twixt  the  North  an' 
the  South  any  way ;  they  're  all  brothers 
an'  sisters  now,  an*  we  've  long  time  ago 
furgot  an'  furgive  yer  fight  in'  against 
the  Union.  Besides  —  Shall  I  tell  you 
about  afterward?  Well,  the  boys  put 
up  a  bet  on  her  a-cryin',  an'  Jim  an' 
Dick  Brady,  when  it  got  a  little  darker, 
they  went  back  just  to  see  what  she  was 
a-doin'.  They  snuck  up  to  the  house 

—  there  was  a  light  in  the  kitchen  — 
an'  there  she  was.     You  bet  she  was  n't 
cryin' !     There  was  a  grea'  big,  tower- 
in',  big-boned  Reb,  like  them  Virginians 
is,  you  know,  a-standin'    up  by  her,  an' 
maybe  she  wasn't  lightin'   in  to  him! 
My  sakes!  she  was  just  a  lambastin' 
him  like  a  tea-kittle  boilin'  over  on  a 
hot  stove.     Sometimes  he  'd  say,  '  But 
Sally  '  —  an'   law,    she  would  n'    even 
let  him  speak  fer  himself.      You   see, 
she  'd  put  him  to  hide  in  the  cupboard 
in  her  room,  when  she  seen  the  Union 
soldiers  a-comin',  an'  Sally  she  thought 
when  Jim  had  a-holt  o'  her  ankles  an' 
was  a-talkin'  to  her  so  commandin',  an* 
takin'  the  saddle,  Sally  thought  this  man 

—  Bob  Tracy  his  name  was  —  ought 
'a'  had  'a'  come  out  an'  stood  by  her. 
Them  Southern  girls  expects  so  much 
o'  men !    My  sakes !    Why,  he  'd  'a'  bin 
took  so  quick  it  ud  'a'  made  his  head 
swim.     Besides,  didn't  she  put  him  in 
the  cupboard  herself,  when  she  seen  the 
Union  men  a-comin '  ?  an'  he  says  now, 
'  Sally, '  he  says,  big  an'  patient,  '  when 
you  put  me  there, '  he  says,  '  you  kissed 
me  an'  says  to  me,  you  says,   "Oh,  Bob, 
honey,  don't  come  out  fer  nothin',  not 
fer  nothin',  ner  let  um  take  you  pris- 


630 


Sally. 


'ner ;  Jt  ud  break  my  heart  ef  they  was 
to  get  you."  I  was  thinkin'  o'  that, 
Sally, '  he  says.  An'  Sally  fired  up, 
an'  she  says,  '  When  I  said  that  I  did 
n't  reckon  no  low-down  despectable 
damned  sneakin'  coward  was  goin'  to 
take  a-holt  o'  me!  '  When  Sally  says 
this,  Jim  says  he  snickered  out  there  in 
the  yard  without  meanin'  to,  but  Lordy ! 
Sally  wouldn't  'a'  heard  a  cannon,  I 
guess,  then ;  an'  Bob  Tracy  he  says  to 
her,  he  says,  *  Sally,  it  may  seem  queer 
to  you, '  he  says,  '  but  if  you  think  I  was 
a  coward  —  well  then  I  was  a  coward, ' 
he  says,  '  because  of  love  f er  you, '  he 
says,  '  an'  I'd  have  you  to  know  it  took 
courage  to  be  a  coward,  too, '  he  says, 

*  an'  if  I  hadn't   'a'  loved  you  so  an' 
thought  o'  you  breakin'  your  heart  if  I 
was  took  pris'ner,  if  I  hadn't  'a'  give 
you  my  word,  I  'd  'a'  done  like  I  felt 
like  doin',  an'  I  'd  'a'  come  out  no  mat- 
ter if  I  had  tol'  you  I  would  n't,  and 
I  'd  'a'  smashed  that  feller's  head  right 
wide  open, '  he  says,  '  when  I  saw  him 
take  a-holt  of  you.' 

"  That  was  the  end.  Law  sakes !  Sally 
she  got  quiet  then,  an'  she  says,  '  You 
seen  him  take  a-holt  o'  me,  then !  '  An' 
the  big  feller  he  says,  '  Yes,  Sally, '  he 
says,  '  I  seen  'im  through  the  keyhole, 
and  I  dunno  how  I  stayed  there  in  the 
cupboard!  '  he  says;  t  if  it  hadn't  'a* 
bin  you  'd  tol'  me  to,  an'  I  loved  you 
so,  the  Lord  hisself  could  n'  'a'  kep'  me 
there.  I  dunno  how  I  stayed, '  he  says ; 
an'  Sally  she  says  quiet,  '  I  dunno 
neither  how  you  stayed.  I  reckon, '  she 
says,  l  you  'd  better  go  off  an'  study 
over  it,  as  long  as  you  've  a  min'  to, 
an'  you  needn't  come  back,'  she  says, 

*  when  you've  found  it  out,  neither.' 
He  went  over  to  her  an'  tried  to  take 
a-holt  of  her  'cause  he  was  a  big  feller 
and  he  was  white  an'  he  wanted  to  make 
up,  an'  he  says  to  her,  *  Sally, '  he  says, 
6  you  ain't  meanin'  that,  'cause  you  love 
me,    you  've    told    me   so.      I  've    bin 
brought  up  an'  raised  with  you,  Sally, ' 
he  says,  '  an'  I  ain't  ever  loved  nobody 
else,  ner  ever  will. '     Sally  pushed  him 


away.  *  When  I  loved  you, '  she  says, 
'  I  didn't  know  I  was  lovin'  nobody 
that  ud  let  a  damned  sneaking  low- 
down  coward  take  a-holt  o'  the  girl  he 
loved.  No,  I  did  n't, '  she  says.  *  You 
can  go  off, '  she  says,  '  an'  not  come 
back, '  she  says.  He  looked  at  her  steady 
a  minute  an'  says,  '  Sally,  do  you  mean 
that  ?  '  and  she  says  quiet,  *  Yes,  I  mean 
it.  You  can  go.'  Then  he  got  hisself 
together,  an'  looked  back  at  her  onct, 
an'  then  he  opened  the  door  and  went 
out  and  shet  it,  an'  went  down  the  path 
right  clost  to  Jim  and  Dick  Brady, 
without  ever  a-knowin'  it.  He  was  a 
slimpsy,  towerin',  big-boned  Reb,  but 
Jim  ain't  afeard  o'  nobody,  an'  he 
was  in  fer  capturin'  him,  but  Dick 
Brady  he  got  a-holt  o'  Jim's  gun-arm, 
an'  he  says,  4  Let  him  go, '  he  says,  l  an* 
watch  the  girl !  'T  ain't  done  yet!  '  So 
the  big  Reb  went  on  out  the  gate,  never 
knowin',  an'  Jim  an'  Dick  they  watched 
Sally.  She  stood  right  still  fer  a  right 
smart  time  a-lookin'  at  the  door,  an' 
then  she  went  to  the  table  an'  put  her 
head  down  an'  just  began  a-sobbin'  an' 
a-sobbin', —  an'  a-sobbin'  fit  to  kill. 
Jim  says  to  Dick,  <  What  did  I  tell 
you!  Ain't  I  won  my  bet?  There  ain't 
no  doubt, '  he  says,  '  about  her  cry  in', 
I  guess,  is  there  ?  '  he  says ;  but  Dick 
Brady  wouldn't  allow  it  was  so,  an' 
would  n't  allow  Jim  had  won  his  bet. 
1  She  ain't  a-cryin'  fer  the  saddle, '  Dick 
says,  '  ner  fer  you, '  he  says.  '  She  's 
cry  in'  fer  that  big-boned,  slimpsy  Reb, 
'cause  she  loves  him, '  Dick  says.  *  She  's 
cry  in'  fer  that,  an'  'cause  she  's  too 
proud  to  go  an'  call  him  back,  an'  she 
knows  it, '  he  says.  An'  he  never  would 
pay  Jim  his  bet,  neither.  I  guess  that 
was  kind  o'  the  beginnin'  o'  the  split 
up  atwixt  um.  They  ain't  bin  right 
good  frien's  sence. 

"Jim  never  did  see  Sally  after  that  till 
after  the  war  was  over,  an'  the  niggers 
all  free,  an'  he  'd  got  well  o'  the  fever 
that  well-nigh  killed  him.  It  was  up 
here  in  Ohio ;  she  'd  gone  up  there  after 
the  war  to  teach  school.  The  South 


Sally. 


631 


was  too  poor  to  raise  a  disturbance, 
much  less  a  livin',  an'  Sally's  folks  was 
dead  and  buried.  Well,  Jim  met  Sally 
one  night  up  here  in  Ohio  at  a  choir 
meetin'.  She  sang,  Sally  did,  and  Jim 
he 's  got  a  lovely  big  bellerin'  bass 
voice.  The  minister  heard  him  that 
first  night  Jim  ever  come  there  an'  went 
to  that  church,  an'  asked  him  would  n't 
he  stay  and  join  the  choir,  an'  come 
nex'  Friday  to  choir  practice.  Well, 
that  nex'  Friday  did  n't  they  come  right 
spang  up  face  to  face,  Jim  an'  her. " 

Here  she  turned  to  the  soured  little 
man,  but  decided  otherwise,  and  contin- 
ued with  an  almost  childlike  delight  in 
the  situation.  "Well,  Sally  says,  says 
she,  bristlin'  an'  gettin'  mad  an'  hot 
an'  white,  '  Ain't  you  the  man  as  car- 
ried off  my  side-saddle  ?  '  " 

The  woman  chuckled  a  little. 

"'  Well  I  '11  be  damned  if  I  ain't,' 
Jim  says,  says  he,  lookin'  her  kind  o' 
square  in  the  eye,  an'  kind  o'  twin- 
klin' .  Jim  he  thought  then  she  was  the 
prettiest  thing  that  he  most  ever  saw, 
an'  he  looked  at  her  kind  o'  quizzy  an' 
cool.  '  An'  ef  you  ain ' t  a-mindin'  out, ' 
he  says,  '  I  '11  come  an'  carry  you  off 
too.  You  mind  what  I  say.  I  'm 
brave, '  Jim  says,  '  if  yer  big  bony  Reb 
wasn't.' 

"Jim  says  she  got  just  the  color  o'  the 
big  red  piony  we  've  got  in  our  back 
yard  in  Marietta.  It 's  one  of  Sally's 
plants.  She  allus  was  a  good  hand  at 
flowers;  I  ain't  much  hand  at  um,  but 
I  allus  took  care  o'  that  one  partickler. 
It  's  just  the  color  o'  the  shades  we  've 
got  in  the  sittin'-room,  an'  it  looks  so 
pretty  having  the  flowers  on  the  table. 
I  allus  put  the  pionies  under  Sally's 
crayon.  It 's  a  lovely  crayon  I  had  done 
of  her  by  one  o'  these  men  that  come 
around.  He  said  he  'd  do  it  fer  nothin' . 
My  sakes,  ain't  they  cheats,  though!  " 
—  this  in  a  whisper  —  "he  charged  me 
six  dollars  fer  the  frame.  I  ain't  never 
let  Jim  know." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  she 
seemed  to  be  regretting  the  six  dollars. 


Then    in   answer   to    my   question   she 
went  on :  — 

"  Oh,  well,  it  come  about  easy  enough 
in  time;  most  things  do.  Jim  he  jus' 
kep'  cool  an'  jus'  kep'  on  steady  makin' 
up  his  mind  to  get  her.  Jim  allus  gets 
what  he  sets  out  to  get.  There  is  them 
kind  o'  folks  you  know.  I  tell  him 
—  kind  o'  teasin'  him  —  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  loved  Sally  at  all  at  first. 
Course  she  was  awful  pretty,  but  I  tell 
Jim  he  just  set  in  to  get  her  like  he  did 
the  saddle,  'cause  he  knew  she  was  dead 
set  against  it.  There  's  a  heap  of 
matches  made  that  way.  Jim  wanted 
maybe  at  first  to  show  her  he  could 
manage  her,  like  he  showed  her  he 
could  carry  off  the  saddle.  What  use 
had  Jim  got  fer  a  side-saddle  with  lit- 
tle red  tassels  on  it,  no  way!  I  wish 
you  could  hear  Jim  tell  it,  but  he  's 
bin  marchin'.  'T  was  jus'  little  by  lit- 
tle, he  jus'  set  steady,  Jim  did,  an'  he 
kind  o'  fixed  her  steady  with  his  eyes 
each  choir  practice,  now  an'  again 
a-walkin'  home  with  her,  till  Jim  said 
he  noticed  she  did  n't  grow  red  all  in  a 
flash,  you  know,  like  she  was  angry,  but 
kind  o'  colored  up  slow  when  he  spoke 
to  her.  Once  when  he  s^poke  kind  o' 
sharp  about  her  singin'  off  the  key  she 
got  dead  white,  an'  he  noticed  her  hand 
shake  holdin'  the  music.  Jim  's  got  a 
funny  way  with  him  (don't  I  remember 
how  I  collapsed  right  quick  when  he  was 
a-courtin'  me);  he  turned  to  her  an' 
he  says  kind  o'  gentle  an'  sweet,  '  The 
sweet  birds  when  they  get  tamed  sings 
sweeter, '  says  he,  kind  o'  to  make  up. 
That  night  she  tried  to  stay  away  from 
him  an'  kind  o'  slipped  out  ahead  o'  the 
rest,  but  Jim  he  follered  her  like  he  did 
when  she  slipped  upstairs,  you  know, 
an'  on  the  way  home  he  got  his  arm 
around  her,  an'  toF  her  she  was  goin' 
to  marry  him ;  he  tol'  her  she  loved  him 
an'  that  she  couldn't  help  it  no  mor'ii 
she  helped  the  saddle." 

"And  they  lived  in  the  North?  " 
"Right  up  here  in  Marietta,  that 's 
where  we  live.      I  kind  o'  think  maybe 


632 


Sally. 


she  oughtn't  have  been  in  the  North; 
it  was  colder  than  she  was  used  to. 
She  died  of  a  kind  o'  consumption  like. 
Then,  besides,  I  guess  she  got  sort  o' 
takin'  notions.  Them  Southern  girls 
do  take  notions,  you  know.  They  're 
terrible  proud,  an'  Sally  had  mor'n  her 
share  o'  sperit.  They  ain't  used  to 
servin'  nobody.  They  expect  the  men 
to  keep  fussin'  round  an'  crawlin'  an' 
doin'  what  they  say,  like  it  was  gospel 
law.  But  my  sakes!  Jim  ain't  that 
kind.  If  he  comes  in  an'  finds  his  sup- 
per late  he  thinks  he  's  got  the  right  to 
scold,  and  so  he  has  o'  course,  an'  he 
does  it.  Ef  there  's  one  thing  on  earth 
Jim  does  know,  it 's  how  to  manage 
people  like  he  likes.  He  's  a  born  sol- 
dier, Jim  is."  She  lowered  her  voice. 
"I  never  did  ask  Jim;  he  jus'  tells  me 
little  things  onct  in  a  while,  but  I  reckon 
Sally  was  the  kind  as  like  to  be  loved 
every  minute,  you  know,  an'  if  they 
ain't  they  go  a-declinin'  an'  fadin'  an' 
weepin'.  It 's  awful  foolish  to  go  de- 
clinin'  an'  fadin',  partickler  with  a  man 
like  Jim.  Then  Jim  he  kind  o'  took 
an'  taught  her  that  he  did  n't  have  time 
to  fool  round  her  always;  he  made  her 
understand  little  by  little,  I  guess,  that 
now  they  was  married  they  wasn't  to 
waste  time  spoonin',  when  there  was 
dishes  to  wash,  an'  him  elected  one  o' 
the  council  too,  an'  busy. 

"  Fer  a  while  I  guess  she  gave  him  a 
good  deal  o'  worry  with  her  ways  an* 
expectin's  o'  bein'  served  an'  fooled  an' 
played  with.  Then  after  a  while  I 
guess  she  begun  to  understand.  She 
learned,  I  guess,  that  you  could  n't  keep 
up  love  an'  foolin'  an'  sweet  things  like 
that  allus.  An'  o'  course  you  can't. 
You  had  n't  ought  to  marry  a  man  if 
you  ain't  goin'  to  mind  him  an'  take 
care  of  him,  an'  obey  him  like  it  says. 
Some  women  ain't  the  least  idy  wot  the 
marriage  service  means.  It 's  mostly 
mendin'  shirts  an'  stockin's,  an'  gettin' 
dinners  on  time, an'  havin'  children,  an' 
givin'  up  your  own  notions.  Women 
ain't  all  alike,  you  know.  It 's  a  pity. 


Now  I  'm  the  kind  that  can  be  sort  o' 
reasonin'  about  everything,  an'  I  don't 
fret  myself.  My  sister  always  says, 
'  Well,  Carrie, '  she  says,  '  you  've  got  a 
kind  o'  easy  way  o'  takin'  things,  like 
a  wagon  that 's  got  lots  o'  axle  grease, ' 
she  says.  But  Sally  —  well,  Sally  got 
kind  o'  sick,  you  know.  I  reckon  it  was 
a  good  bit  of  it  just  imaginin' ;  they  do"" 
say  now,  these  here  modern  doctors, 
that  most  of  our  ailin's  is  just  imagin- 
in's.  WTell,  she  got  so  she  said  she 
did  n'  have  the  strenth  even  to  go  down 
the  street ;  she  just  stayed  there  in  the 
garden.  She  just  loved  them  flowers, 
partickler  that  —  you  know  —  that 
piony.  She  'd  brought  it  from  her 
front  yard  in  Virginia  when  she  first 
come  North;  she  'd  most  kilt  it,  I 
guess,  carryin'  it  around.  Well,  you  see, 
when  she  got  the  notion  about  not  goin' 
nowhurs,  I  guess  it  kind  o'  riled  Jim. 
Men  don't  marry  a  girl,  you  know, 
that 's  tired  all  the  time,  an'  then  it, 
maybe,  just  imaginin'  too.  Jim  he 
says  to  me  the  other  day  when  I  thought 
I  'd  got  the  lumbago  in  my  back,  an* 
lef '  my  dishes  stand,  Jim  says,  says  he, 

*  See  here,  Carrie,  don't  you  go  gettin' 
imaginin's  an'  superstitions  an'  things 
like  the  Southern  girls  gets, '  says  he ; 
1  I  've  had  enough  in  my  time, '  says  he. 

*  You  're  too  old  to  begin  that  kind  o' 
foolin', '  Jim  says.    Jim  has  had  a  sight 
o'   trouble  in  his  time.      I  guess  Sally 
was  awful  superstitious.      I  don't  like 
to  start  nowhurs  on  Friday,  ner  break  a 
lookin' -glass,  but  I  ain't  a  bit  supersti- 
tious; but  Sally  was,  an'  kind  of  im- 
aginin' ;  they  get  it  from  them  darkies, 
you  know.     An'  'twas  n't  long  'fore  it 
seemed    like    she    thought    she   wasn' 
goin'  to  get  well.     She  just  got  so  she 
went  into  the  garden  attendin'  to  the 
flowers  an'  nowhurs  else.     An'  one  day 
she  was  pickin'    dead    leaves   off    the 
piony,  an'   all  of  a  sudden  she  leaned 
down  and  kissed  one  o'  the  flowers  like 
it  might  'a'   bin  a  baby:    '  I  'm  goin' 
away, '  she  says,  *  an'  it  '11  be  like  goin' 
back  to  where  we  was  raised  together !  ' 


Sally. 


633 


Jim  he  was  right  nigh  her,  and  she  did 
n't  know  it,  and  she  kissed  the  flowers 
again.  An'  Jim  he  says  to  her,  says 
he  —  I  don't  know  whether  Jim  was 
maybe  kind  o'  scared,  or  only  just  mad 
—  says  he,  4  Sally, '  he  says,  l  you  're 
foolin'  just  beyond  my  style.  You  're 
goin'  to  get  yourself  sick  with  your  fool- 
in'  an'  imaginin's,  you  an'  your  piony 
you  've  bin  raised  with!  Now  I  want 
ye  to  stop  it,  ye  hear !  '  —  kind  o'  com- 
mandin'. 

"Jim  says  it  allus  kind  o'  puzzled  him 
the  way  she  took  it.  I  guess  he  thought 
he  'd  got  her  sperit  beat  a  long  while  be- 
fore ;  but  lawzy !  did  n't  she  look  at  him 
a  minute  just  like  she  had  on  the  bed 
with  the  cretonne  ruffles  —  terrible 
white  an'  sperited.  'T  ain't  a  bit  o'  use 
to  be  sperited  with  Jim,  —  she  ought  to 
'a'  knowed  it  by  this,  — an'  I  reckon 
she  did,  'cause  she  lost  sperit  all  of  a 
sudden,  an'  she  says  to  him,  '  Do  you 
want  the  potatoes  fried  to-night  f er  your 
supper,  er  baked  ?  '  —  just  as  meek.  She 
kind  o'  lost  her  sperit  steady  after 
that.  Jim's  sister  'Mandy  had  to  come 
over  an'  help  Sally  with  the  work.  An' 
one  day,  'Mandy  says,  Sally  was  at  the 
gate,  an'  somebody  come  by  on  horse- 
back —  an'  my  meezy !  who  you  guess 
it  was,  but  that  big  slimpsy  Reb  as 
Sally  fired  up  at  when  she  was  a  girl ! 
He  'd  come  from  her  home  in  Virginia 
to  a  big  convention  o'  farmers  helt  here 
in  Ohio,  an'  he  didn't  have  no  idy  she 
was  there.  Just  come  acrost  her,  like 
you  do  sometimes.  An'  he  just  stopped 
his  horse  there  by  the  gate  an'  talked 
with  her  a  long  while.  I  reckon  even 
if  she  was  mad  with  him  it  was  kind  o' 
nice  to  see  somebody  from  where  she 
used  to  live.  When  he  went  away  she 
come  back  to  the  kitchen  where  'Mandy 
was,  and  set  down,  and  'Mandy  says  she 
looked  so  peaked,  an'  just  set  there  not 
say  in'  a  word.  Bimeby  the  tears  be- 
gun rollin'  down  her  cheeks,  an'  she 
says,  ;  'Mandy, '  she  says,  '  I  wonder  ef 
it 's  wicked  to  be  glad  I  ain't  goin'  to 
get  well,  an'  to  wisht  the  baby  was 


goin'  away  with  me  too?  I'd  hate,' 
she  says,  '  to  have  the  baby  stay,  an' 
grow  up,  an'  learn, '  she  says. 

"'Mandy  liked  Sally  right  well,  but 
she  fired  up,  an'  says,'  Sally,  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  o'  yourself,'  'Mandy 
says,  *  you  with  all  your  blessin's  and 
plenty  o'  good  food  to  put  in  your 
mouth.  It 's  shameful, '  she  says,  '  fer 
you  to  take  on  so.' 

"From  that  day,  'Mandy  says,  Sally 
just  kind  o'  drooped,  an*  onct  or  twict 
when  she  was  a-sleepin'  she  'd  git  talkin' 
soft  about  goin'  back  to  where  they  was 
raised  together  —  her  and  the  piony. 
'T  was  awful  fer  Jim.  'Mandy  had  to 
stay  right  on  then  an'  do  all  the  work. 
After  a  little,  when  the  baby  come,  it 
come  too  soon;  an'  Sally  died,  an'  the 
baby  died.  Jim  's  had  a  avvful  sight  o' 
trouble.  Them  Southern  girls  ain't  al- 
lus right  strong  ner  sensible,  you  know. 
Jim  hadn't  ought  ha'  married  one  of 
'em.  I  allus  did  tease  him  an'  say  ef 
it  had  n't  bin  fer  that  there  saddle  — 
you  see  Sally  was  so  sperited  at  the 
start  —  my  sakes !  She  was  awful  pret- 
ty, though.  That  crayon  's  just  lovely ! 
I  wisht  you  could  see  it.  An'  that  piony 
—  now  if  you  ever  was  to  come  to  Ma- 
rietta I  'd  give  you  a  slip  off  of  it. 
There  ain't  to  my  mind  nothin'  prettier 
than  a  right  red  piony.  Jim  he  don't 
hanker  after  it,  but  then  he  ain't  no 
hand  at  flowers,  no  way !  Land  sakes ! 
you  can't  expect  a  man  to  think  o'  them 
things,  er  care." 

At  this  juncture  the  car  stopped. 
The  sour-faced  little  man,  without  a 
word  of  warning,  got  out,  thus  throwing 
his  wife  into  a  flutter  of  very  pardon- 
able astonishment. 

"  Law  sakes !  "  she  said,  gathering  up 
a  little  leather  hand-bag  and  making 
precipitately  for  the  side  of  the  car,  "  is 
this  where  you  get  out  ?  "  Her  husband 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  only  long 
enough  to  make  sure  that  she  was  fol- 
lowing him,  and  then  went  on  several 
feet  in  advance  of  her.  Once  she  turned 
to  look  at  me,  and  nodded  energetically 


634 


Mozart:  A  Fantasy. 


the  good-by  of  which  the  alarming  sud- 
denness of  her  departure  had  deprived 
This  seemed  to  make  her  stumble 


me. 


very  badly,  however,  and  set  her  bonnet 


even  more  crooked,  —  after  which,  as 
long  as  I  could  see  her,  she  devoted  her 
attention  to  following  the  sour-faced, 
sharp- shouldered  little  man. 

Laura  Spencer  Portor. 


MOZART:   A   FANTASY. 


WHEN  the  winds  of  the  morning  were 
first  loosed  by  God,  they  leaped  like 
hounds  from  the  leash,  harking  through 
the  spaces  between  the  worlds  in  search 
of  the  Things  That  Are.  In  their  ad- 
venturings  they  came  upon  All  Things, 
—  stars  that  were  blue  as  forged  steel, 
those  red  as  blood,  the  ringed  worlds, 
the  crimson  and  the  yellow  suns  in  their 
solitudes,  scintillant  seas  of  star  dust, 
the  reservoirs  of  man's  knowledge ;  the 
amazing  chaos  of  the  Things  That  Were 
Yet  to  Be. 

Also  they  came  upon  the  place  of  the 
Birth  of  Waters ;  and  a  very  strange 
place  of  great  dimness,  where  was  only 
the  Silence  of  Nothingness.  There,  hud- 
dling in  the  chill  was  a  lair  of  monstrous 
creatures,  Discords,  waiting  for  the  chid- 
ing of  human  beings  that  they  might 
find  a  medium  for  their  voices.  They 
writhed  there,  through  the  seons,  torn 
and  tortured  for  lack  of  outcry. 

A  comet's  journey  from  this  place, 
drifting  in  long  shafts  from  the  centre- 
most  sun,  were  other  creatures,  very  won- 
derful and  of  potential  loveliness,  known 
to  all  the  stars  as  Harmonies.  They, 
likewise,  waited  for  the  lifting  of  the 
stillness.  They  watched  with  holy  eager- 
ness for  souls  to  voice  that  which  broke 
from  them  against  the  Walls  of  Silence 
in  impetuous  waves. 

Not  a  spirit  hurried  from  the  Place 
of  Souls  through  the  white  Vast  toward 
the  habitations  of  men,  but  all  the  band 
set  on  it,  struggling  for  the  mastery. 
The  Harmonies  went  with  the  swiftness 
of  light;  but  the  Discords  had  within 


them  the  strength  of  the  Powers  of  Dark- 
ness, and  only  once  in  a  full  round  of 
time  did  a  Harmony  break  through  their 
black  band  and  merge  into  Life.  The 
victory  was  with  the  Discord  for  a  time 
and  times. 

So  it  came  about  that  soul  after  soul 
sped  to  the  body  which  was  to  house  it, 
hectored  with  a  dinning  Discord  which 
clung  to  it  as  tentacled  creatures  of  the 
nether  deep  cling  to  drowned  men.  The 
spirits  in  this  abject  case  were  doomed 
to  the  deliberate  and  cruel  sins,  to  quar- 
relings,  to  narrowness  of  vision,  to  greed 
and  doubt ;  their  faces  grew  craven,  their 
eyes  were  accursed  with  the  evasive 
glance. 

When,  by  the  chance  of  a  chance,  a 
Harmony  gained  the  mastery,  it  made 
life  lovely  for  the  being  it  inhabited,  and 
men  found  fair  names  by  which  to  de- 
nominate such  an  one,  —  poet,  or  libera- 
tor, or  maker  of  songs. 

The  winds  learned  all  this  in  their 
excursions,  —  they  learned  all  things,  — 
and  they  came  in  time  to  take  their  part  in 
this  mystic  war.  The  black  winds  of  de- 
struction and  of  night  leagued  themselves 
with  the  Discords  ;  the  blossom-bursting 
winds,  the  white  and  perfumed  servitors 
of  the  dawn,  the  gallant  winds  from 
mountains  and  from  mesas,  enlisted  with 
the  Harmonies. 

A  century  and  half  a  century  of  yes- 
terdays, a  swift  soul,  dropping  between 
the  spheres  toward  Earth,  was  set  upon 
by  these  contending  spirits.  In  the  Vast, 
among  the  stellar  solitudes  they  fought, 
and  in  the  scorching  nebula  of  a  yet 


Mozart:  A  Fantasy. 


635 


unrounded  star  the  conflict  reached  its 
height.  Then  came  a  great  white  wind 
from  the  farthest  chamber  of  the  East 
and  smote  the  Discords,  till  they  min- 
gled with  that  molten  world ;  and  from 
the  confusion  of  the  warring  creatures 
the  gentle  soul  went  on  its  way  trem- 
blingly toward  Earth. 

Seven  Harmonies  swept  after  it,  — 
seven  Harmonies,  wild  with  impatience 
for  utterance.  One  Harmony  was  for 
song  and  one  for  reeds,  one  for  horns,  one 
for  instruments  of  the  drawn  strings,  and 
one  for  keys  of  ivory  on  resonant  boards 
of  brass ;  one  for  harmony  of  thought ; 
and  one,  serene,  past  man's  divinest 
dreams,  for  harmony  of  life.  All  these 
swung  downward  with  the  gentle  soul, 
and  made  such  sweetness  in  their  going 
that  men,  a-toiling  on  the  Earth,  listened, 
amazed,  thinking  that  after  years  of 
yearning  they  heard  the  spheres. 

The  seven  Harmonies,  the  gentle  soul, 
and  a  delicate  fresh-born  body  became 
as  one,  —  a  vibrating  entity,  a  man-child 
with  a  mystic  power,  a  lyric  babe,  smil- 
ing at  unheard  melodies. 

"  This  little  child,"  the  old  nurse  said, 
"  seems  to  be  in  the  company  of  angels. 
It  cannot  be  that  he  has  long  to  live." 

The  Harmonies  within  him  were  too 
eager  for  articulation  to  wait  in  patience 
for  his  body  to  grow.  Five  years  of 
dreams  made  him  a  master  of  the  instru- 
ments. But  if  he  was  spared  the  need 
of  study,  he  was  refused  the  meed  of 
rest.  He  was  scourged  with  beauty  ;  the 
thongs  of  his  spirit  goaded  him  day  and 
night.  He  was  the  servitor  of  the  crea- 
tures that  had  come  from  the  shafts  of 
the  central  sun  ;  and  they,  knowing  that 
in  the  brief  term  of  a  man's  life  there 
was  not  a  tithe  of  the  time  required  to 
express  their  intent ;  knowing,  too,  that 
it  might  be  cycles  before  they  would 
again  have  domination  over  a  willing 
soul,  clamored — as  with  the  sonorous 
clamoring  of  many  high-swung  bells  — 
for  the  use  of  his  hands,  his  eyes,  his 
voice,  his  brain  and  heart. 


"  I  have  such  a  sense  of  religion,"  he 
wrote,  "  that  I  shall  never  do  anything 
I  would  not  do  before  the  whole  world." 

Poverty  was  with  him,  if  he  had  no- 
ticed it.  Love  was  his,  for  his  sanctifying. 
Riches  he  passed  by,  absently  smiling. 
Loyalty  was  his,  because  he  was  without 
cognizance  of  treason. 

By  reason  that  the  Harmonies  loved 
order,  sequence,  and  technique  as  much 
as  ecstasy,  it  was  a  part  of  his  toil  to  de- 
velop the  science  as  well  as  the  emotion 
of  his  art.  Praise,  happiness,  concord, 
these  he  knew  for  forms  of  law,  which 
he  formulated  into  a  code.  To  express 
and  illustrate  it,  he  worked  when  others 
slept,  —  when  others  danced.  He  for- 
got the  material  necessities  of  the  body. 
He  sung  out  his  soul  in  masses  ;  he  whis- 
pered of  love  in  lyrics ;  he  expressed  the 
storm  and  stress  of  his  spirit  in  operas, 
sonatas,  symphonies.  He  had  no  choice 
but  to  write  as  if  each  line  were  to  be 
dedicated  to  the  Most  High.  Always, 
the  fair  Harmony  of  beautiful  living 
kept  him  unspotted  from  the  world. 

He  was  a  monarch,  with  no  need  for 
sceptre  or  for  crown.  Lesser  kings  were 
forgotten  when  his  name  was  mentioned. 
Others  enriched  themselves  by  means  of 
his  genius ;  but  as  for  him,  he  often 
went  from  his  bare  lodgings  to  pawn  for 
bread  the  jewels  which  had  been  flung 
at  him  in  idle  appreciation.  It  was  not 
permitted  him  to  take  thought  of  wealth, 
or  place,  or  peace.  He  was  an  instru- 
ment, fashioned  for  the  playing  ;  he  was 
the  vehicle  of  -holy  passions  ;  he  bent 
his  will  and  did  not  question. 

Whatever  is  most  exquisite  is  most 
sad.  It  is  the  law  of  nature  that  rap- 
ture, vibrating  round  its  perfect  circle, 
shall  meet  with  pain.  Love,  at  its  best, 
melts  in  tears  ;  tears  at  their  bitterest 
find  God's  pure  joy.  Thus  it  came 
about  that  the  Harmonies,  ever  striving 
through  this  body  for  their  ultimate  ut- 
terance, reached  at  the  climax  the  great 
moan  called  Mozart's  Requiem  Mass. 

It  is  the  processional  to  which  souls, 


636 


Things  Human. 


cassocked  for  Death,  march  forth  into 
the  Presence.  It  is  a  ladder  of  song  by 
which  the  sorrowful  may  climb  from  the 
grief  of  the  grave  to  the  peace  of  it. 

One  night  came  a  stranger,  knocking, 
and  commanded :  — 

"  Write  me  a  mass  for  the  dead." 

"  Surely  my  hour  is  almost  come," 
said  the  musician.  "  I  must  write." 

And  again  came  the  stranger  in  the 
night  and  asked  :  — 

"  Is  the  mass  for  the  dead  ready  for 
the  playing  ?  " 

The  tension  of  toil  was  tightened. 
The  Harmonies,  filled  with  such  rapture 
as  only  immortal  spirits  know,  did  their 
utmost.  The  musician  lay  dead,  with 
the  Requiem  Mass  in  his  hand. 

The  next  night  came  the  stranger 
querying :  — 

"  Is  the  mass  for  the  dead  complete  ?  " 


In  the  wonder  and  majesty  of  the 
stars  the  seven  Harmonies  went  their 
way.  Their  flight  left  a  quiver  of  light 
like  that  a  burning  meteor  streaks  across 
the  affrighted  sky.  The  soul  of  Wolf- 
gang Amadeus  Mozart  winged  back  to 
the  Place  of  Souls,  and  the  body  was 
tumbled  in  a  pauper's  grave,  —  a  grave 
in  which  two  others  rested,  very  humble 
and  much  worn  with  toil.  No  stone 
marks  the  spot.  The  place  has  been  for- 
gotten. 

But  the  labors  of  the  Harmonies  are 
among  the  deathless  things.  And  when- 
ever a  man  can  fittingly  reproduce  them, 
all  discord  dies  in  the  air  and  in  the 
soul,  and  those  who  listen  are  as  little 
children  lifted  into  a  world  where  sin 
and  greed  are  not,  and  where  Harmony  is 
perfect,  —  the  Harmony  which  includes 
all  things. 

Mia  W.  Peattie. 


THINGS  HUMAN. 


MAN  is  unquestionably  a  highly  ra- 
tional being.  Still,  if  you  travel  and 
observe,  from  the  mouth  of  the  Danube 
to  the  Golden  Gate,  you  will  find  most 
men  wearing  a  coat  with  a  useless  col- 
lar marked  with  a  useless  "V  "-shaped 
slash,  and  decorated  with  two  useless 
buttons  at  the  small  of  the  back,  and 
one  or  more  useless  buttons  at  the  cuffs. 
The  collar,  the  slash,  and  the  buttons 
are  there  in  answer  to  no*  rational  need ; 
it  is  not  a  common  climate  nor  a  com- 
mon racial  need  of  protection  against 
climate  that  they  represent,  but  a  com- 
mon civilization  whose  form  and  ritual 
they  mutely  confess.  Over  this  entire 
area  those  who  aspire  to  be  of  the  Brah- 
min caste  deck  their  heads  for  wedding, 
funeral,  and  feast  with  a  black  cylin- 
drical covering,  suited,  so  far  as  we  can 
discern,  neither  to  avert  the  weapon  of 
the  adversary  or  the  dart  of  the  rain, 
nor  to  provide  a  seat  whereon  man  may 


sit  and  rest  himself.  And  as  for  the 
women  contained  within  this  same  area 
we  behold  that  the  amplitude  of  the 
sleeve,  the  disposition  of  the  belt,  and 
the  outline  of  the  skirt  all  obey  the  rise 
and  fall  of  one  resistless  tide  which 
neither  moon  nor  seasons  control. 

Wherever  civilization  and  education 
have  done  the  most  to  make  individual- 
ity self-conscious  and  rational,  there  it 
is  that  individuality  seeks  most  earnest- 
ly to  merge  itself  in  the  external  con- 
fessions of  membership  in  the  body  of 
the  whole.  What  it  openly  seeks  in  the 
matter  of  external  confession  it  however 
unconsciously  assumes  in  all  the  inner 
frame-work  and  mould-forms  of  man- 
ners, customs,  morals,  law,  art,  and 
faith.  The  statement  of  creeds,  the 
standards  of  morals,  the  forms  of  art 
men  adopt  without  regard  to  race  and 
blood,  or  to  climate  and  natural  envi- 
ronment. They  have  them  and  hold 


Things  Human. 


637 


them  as  historical  endowment,  and  their 
lives,  no  matter  how  they  may  struggle 
to  make  them  otherwise,  no  matter  how 
they  may  think  they  succeed,  are  formal 
more  than  they  are  rational,  are  histor- 
ical more  than  they  are  begotten  of  the 
day. 

It  is  because  man  is  a  social  being 
that  he  is  an  historical  being,  and  a  so- 
cial being  he  surely  is  first  and  fore- 
most. Individualism  and  the  theory  of 
individual  rights  are  late  discoveries. 
The  "  Individual  "  is  scarcely  more  than 
a  dried  Praparat,  an  isolation  devel- 
oped in  the  glycerine  and  perserved 
with  the  alcohol  of  the  philosophico- 
legal  laboratories.  Some  very  wise 
people  assume  to  have  found  out  a  cen- 
tury or  so  ago  that  society  and  the  so- 
cial compact  were  created  out  of  a  vol- 
untary surrender  of  individual  rights. 
This  holds  good  much  after  the  manner 
of  Mr.  O'Toole's  interpretation  of  the 
power  house  at  Niagara,  —  "  The  ma- 
chinery what  pumps  the  water  for  the 
Falls." 

It  is  because  man  is  a  social  being 
that  he  is  an  historical  being.  This 
does  not  mean  that  by  nature  he  main- 
tains a  family  tree  or  revels  in  histori- 
cal research.  The  very  social  order,  in 
which  as  the  inseparable  condition  of 
his  existence  he  finds  himself,  is  an  his- 
torical deposit,  an  historical  resultant. 
It  is  indeed  history  itself,  —  history 
pressed  flat,  if  he  only  knew  it,  —  or 
rather,  history  itself  is  the  attempt  to 
raise  the  flat  pictures  into  relief  and 
give  them  depth. 

The  historical  interpretation  consti- 
tutes the  only  genuine  explanation  of 
those  complexities  of  condition  and 
usage  which  characterize  the  social  fab- 
ric, and  in  default  of  historical  per- 
spective most  men  at  all  times  and  all 
men  at  most  times  simply  marvel  and 
conform.  This  elaborate  and  unac- 
countable structure  of  laws,  usages,  and 
religion  impresses  the  normal,  untaught 
mind  as  a  thing  too  solid,  too  intricate, 
and  too  vast  to  have  been  fashioned  by 


the  minds  and  hands  of  men  such  as 
those  of  the  day.  Only  gods  or  heroes 
could  have  devised  it.  Hence  it  is  that 
the  age  of  heroes  always  precedes  the 
age  of  history.  But  Homer  prepared 
the  way  for  Herodotus,  in  that  the  ex- 
planation by  way  of  the  gods  and  the 
heroes  offers  a  first  satisfaction  to  the 
first  groping  quest  as  to  how  this  mar- 
vel of  society  and  state  could  have  come 
to  be.  And  yet  neither  of  the  two 
methods  —  that  by  the  heroes  or  that 
by  history  —  does  more  than  skim  the 
surface.  For  most  purposes,  and  for 
the  great  mass'  of  the  matter,  we  sim- 
ply, with  more  or  less  protest,  conform, 
and  are  content  to  restrict  that  individ- 
ual inquiry  and  origination  which  we 
like  to  call  freedom  to  the  close  limits 
of  some  snug  private  domain  well  fenced 
from  the  common  and  the  street.  The 
labor  is  too  vast,  the  hope  of  remuner- 
ation too  doubtful,  the  ultimate  benefit 
too  questionable,  for  us  to  assail  the 
well-established  conventional  orthogra- 
phy of  society. 

It  is  evidently  more  rational  to  spell 
the  word  could  with  a  c  o  o  d.  It  may 
be  that  some  will  find  it  a  moral  duty  to 
truth  or  to  the  rising  generation  so  to 
do,  and  perhaps  they  will  do  it  merely 
for  the  purpose  of  setting  a  good  exam- 
ple. But  with  all  the  complexity  of 
interests  attaching  to  the  use  of  written 
English  as  a  social  vehicle  over  the  great 
English-speaking  domain,  it  looks  veri- 
tably as  if  the  good  example  were  like 
to  be  seed  sown  by  the  wayside.  And 
even  if  it  should  take  root  and  bear  its 
ample  fruit  of  phonetic  spellings,  would 
it  yet  represent  a  gain  to  have  shut  the 
language  of  the  present  off  from  the 
past,  and  made  the  English  of  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  a  dead  language  to 
the  readers  of  the  next  generation? 
We  live  in  a  great  society  with  all  the 
centuries  of  English  thought  since  the 
days  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  written  Eng- 
lish in  the  form  of  a  more  or  less  estab- 
lished conventional  orthography  is  the 
bond  thereof.  It  is  very  irrational; 


638 


Things  Human. 


it  is  very  illogical,  so  the  reformer  and 
radical  tell  us,  and  they  are  undoubt- 
edly correct.  But  the  interesting  fea- 
ture of  the  matter  is  that  for  these  per- 
sons the  question  is  herewith  settled, 
and  orthography  is  sentenced  forthwith 
to  violent  death.  If  orthography  is  il- 
logical they  esteem  it  competent  for 
them  to  say,  "So  much  the  worse  for 
orthography, "  but  if  orthography  serves 
a  high  and  necessary  purpose  and  still 
is  illogical,  may  it  not  be  competent  for 
us  to  say,  "  So  much  the  worse  for  log- 
ic "  ?  We  may  indeed  suspect  that  all 
this  logic  has  been  far  too  shallowly 
conceived. 

I  have  not  introduced  this  allusion  to 
spelling  and  spelling  reform  with  any 
desire  to  stir  the  peaceful  minds  of  my 
readers  unto  strife,  nor  is  it  my  pur- 
pose to  embroil  myself  with  the  Spell- 
ing Reform  Association  in  this  or  in  any 
other  connection.  The  fact  is,  nothing 
furnishes  a  better  illustration  of  the 
human- social  institutions  such  as  we  are 
discussing  than  does  language,  and  es- 
pecially in  those  features  of  its  life 
which  reveal  the  processes  of  standard- 
izing, and  the  tendency  toward  coop- 
eration and  uniformity.  The  forces 
which  make  toward  establishing  the  uni- 
formity of  the  so-called  laws  of  sound 
are  ultimately,  as  social  forces,  the  same 
as  those  which  create  the  standard  liter- 
ary idioms  or  Schriftsprachen  and  the 
conventional  orthographies.  They  are 
all  one  also  with  those  social  instincts 
that  develop  the  standard  formulas  of 
courtesy,  the  usages  of  etiquette,  fash- 
ions in  dress,  standards  of  taste  in  lit- 
erature and  art,  the  conventions  of  man- 
ners and  morals,  the  formal  adherences 
of  religion,  and  the  established  law  and 
order  of  the  state.  These  are  all  of 
them  the  "  things  human  "  that  go  with 
man  as  a  social,  historical  being,  and, 
of  them  all,  language  as  an  institution 
utterly  human,  utterly  social,  utterly 
historical  affords  the  clearest  illustra- 
tions of  those  principles  which  hold  sway 
in  this  field  of  humanity  pure  and  un- 


defiled ;  and  so  it  is  that  the  speech-re- 
former in  .every  guise  from  the  Vola- 
pukist  to  the  phonetic  speller  is  typical 
in  general  outlook,  method  of  thought, 
and  plan  of  procedure  for  all  the  theorist- 
reformers  who  have  ever  hung  in  the 
basket  of  &phrontisterion.  We  hold  no 
brief  for  Toryism,  or  against  the  re- 
formers but  to  the  end  that  that  social- 
mindedness  which  we  incline  to  stamp 
as  historical-mindedness  may  be  suffi- 
ciently set  forth  and  characterized ;  we 
are  constrained  to  point  a  contrast  and 
isolate  for  use  as  a  foil  the  extreme  op- 
posing type  of  mind  and  attitude  of  life. 
It  is  seldom  that  we  find  a  man  who  is 
all  one,  or  all  the  other.  The  concept 
theorist  and  doctrinaire  is  ordinarily 
obtained  as  an  abstraction  from  many 
men's  actions  in  many  different  fields, 
and  yet  single  specimens  have  been 
found  of  almost  typical  purity.  I  im- 
agine, for  instance,  that  the  somewhat 
ill-defined  term  "crank"  represents  a 
struggle  of  the  language  to  label  an  ar- 
ticle of  humankind  which  has  been  ab- 
solutely sterilized  from  the  taint  of 
historical-mindedness.  The  name  crank 
is,  I  believe,  a  title  we  reserve  for  other 
people  than  ourselves,  and  in  the  exer- 
cise of  our  own  peculiar  forms  of  crank- 
hood  we  prefer  to  allude  to  what  we  call 
"our  principles."  It  becomes  there- 
fore a  somewhat  dangerous  task,  to  deal 
with  the  concept  crank,  lest  we  seem  to 
be  laying  profane  hand  upon  the  sacred 
ark  of  principle,  even  though  it  be  only 
to  steady  it  along  the  rough  way  of  hu- 
man life. 

I  presume  there  is  nothing  of  which 
we  are  more  weakly  proud,  especially 
we  men,  than  our  logic.  And  yet  it  is 
our  logic  that  too  often  makes  fools  of 
us.  In  fact,  plain  logic  is  usually  too 
simple  an  apparatus  for  the  need.  The 
data  for  the  construction  of  a  perfect 
syllogism  can  only  be  obtained  from 
an  artificially  prepared  cross-section  of 
life,  —  which  never  does  it  justice.  To 
operate  with  plane  geometry  and  neglect 
the  third  dimension  on  the  axis  of  his- 


Things  Human. 


639 


toric  order  is  to  do  offense  unto  the  con- 
stitutive principle  of  human  social  life. 
To  be  human  is  to  be  social,  to  be  so- 
cial is  to  be  historical,  and  human  judg- 
ments, to  be  sound,  must  be  historical 
judgments.  Those  judgments  which, 
in  life  affairs,  appear  to  be  the  sound- 
est, and  which  betray  that  priceless 
thing  termed  in  common  parlance  com- 
mon sense,  are  based  on  a  contingent 
reasoning  that  frankly  confesses  the  in- 
completeness of  its  syllogisms.  The 
leap  across  the  gap  in  the  syllogistic 
structure  is  akin  to  that  the  spark  of 
wit  and  humor  takes,  and  the  direct  in- 
tuitions in  which  women  are  believed  to 
deal  with  such  success  are  much  the 
same,  though  the  syllogistic  structure  is 
only  sketched  in  dotted  lines. 

Pure  reason  and  plain  logic  have  been 
always  much  commended  to  us  as  a 
guide  of  life.  They  level  the  rough 
places  and  make  the  crooked  paths 
straight.  For  the  sorest  problems  they 
furnish  the  easiest  solutions.  Their 
prophets  are  such  as  have  withdrawn 
from  the  world,  and  in  the  quiet  of  their 
bedchambers  have  thought  out  the  for- 
mulas of  life.  The  clearest  visions  that 
are  vouchsafed  to  living  men  concern- 
ing the  great  problems  of  international 
finance  are  shown  unto  these  men  in  the 
breezy  freedom  of  the  prairie,  far  from 
the  stifling  bustle  of  Wall  Street  and 
its  confusion  of  established  facts. 

Inasmuch  as  life  is  not  logical,  these 
men  generally  find  that  most  things  in 
life  are  to  be  disapproved  of,  and  in- 
cline to  be  pessimists.  For  the  same 
reason  they  are  unlikely  to  be  coopera- 
tively inclined,  and  criticise  more  than 
they  create.  As  it  is  much  easier,  by 
reason  of  its  shallow  rationality,  to  for- 
mulate pessimistic  discourse  than  opti- 
mistic, it  follows  that  these  people,  and 
people  who  temporarily  assume  their 
role,  are  more  in  evidence  in  the  public 
press  and  on  the  public  platform  than 
their  relative  numbers  or  importance 
would  really  justify. 

It  certainly  would  be  an  unwarranted 


generalization  if  I  should  assume  to  find 
the  source  of  all  pessimism  in  this  pseu- 
do-logic of  life,  —  much  of  it  having  of 
course  a  physical  and  indeed  specifically 
hepatic  source,  —  but  it  is  well  to  mark 
the  genetic  relation  between  the  two, 
for  pessimism  is  as  false  to  life  as  logic 
is.  In  human  life,  and  in  all  things 
human,  the  inspiring,  life-giving,  crea- 
tive forces  are  the  inseparable  three, 
—  hope  and  confidence  and  sympathy. 
They  are  positive ;  they  draw  materials 
and  men  together,  and  scatter  not  asun- 
der; they  construct  and  not  destroy. 
For  human  use  it  is  evident  that  criti- 
cism was  intended  by  Providence  as  a 
purgative,  not  as  a  food. 

Our  occupation  with  the  phonetic- 
spelling  reformer  as  type  of  the  logical 
or  pseudo-logical  doctrinaire  has  for  the 
time  carried  us  away  from  the  charac- 
terization of  that  historical  order  in  hu- 
man life  with  which  this  discourse  on 
things  human  had  its  beginning,  and 
which  we  had  ventured  to  call  the  or- 
thography of  human  society. 

Every  year  of  our  swiftly  unfolding 
national  history  brings  to  our  view  with 
startling  emphasis  some  illustration  of 
the  great  fact  that  our  national  life  is 
composed  out  of  social  conditions  intri- 
cately dovetailed  and  interlaced,  which 
have  their  roots  in  a  history  too  com- 
plex for  the  easy  analysis  of  the  politi- 
cal theorist.  On  every  hand  a  warning 
comes  for  political  sobriety  and  pa- 
tience. It  is  now  about  a  quarter  of  a 
century  since  an  amendment  to  the  Con- 
stitution extended  the  ballot  to  the  ne- 
gro of  the  South.  The  action  was  taken 
in  deference  to  the  evidently  logical  ap- 
plication of  certain  principles  of  human 
right  believed  to  be  well  established. 
Those  who  aggressively  favored  the  ac- 
tion were  men  of  noblest  purposes,  of 
undoubted  patriotism,  and  of  positive 
moral  enthusiasm.  The  case  was  to 
them  so  clear  as  to  leave  no  room  for 
hesitation  or  doubt.  The  logic  of  war 
had  enforced  the  logic  of  reason.  Time 
however  has  now  done  its  clarifying 


640 


Things  Human. 


work,  and  behold,  in  spite  of  all  the 
logics,  the  social  facts  that  were  there, 
lying  in  wait,  have  reasserted  them- 
selves. In  the  name  of  consistency  a 
violence  had  been  done.  Despite  all 
our  aversion  to  the  evasion  of  the  writ- 
ten law,  the  people  of  the  North,  so  far 
as  one  may  infer  from  public  expres- 
sions, have  quietly,  slowly  withdrawn 
from  the  field  of  protest,  leaving  the 
historical  facts  to  do  their  own  sweet 
will  and  work,  community  by  commu- 
nity, state  by  state.  War  and  logic 
prevailed  at  the  first,  the  historical  facts 
prevail  at  the  end. 

We  as  a  people  are  said  to  come  of 
a  practical-minded  stock,  and  that  prac- 
tical-mindedness  which  made  the  Eng- 
lish Constitution  asserts  itself  continu- 
ously in  our  national  life,  as  we  show 
over  and  over  again  our  capacity  flexi- 
bly to  adjust  ourselves  both  as  people 
and  as  government  to  the  changing  con- 
ditions which  arise  about  us  and  re- 
shape our  duty  and  our  opportunity. 
The  recent  decisions  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  tangled  as  they  seemed  at  first 
report,  resolve  themselves  into  a  plain 
significance  as  regards  their  main  bent. 
The  letter  of  the  law  written  in  view 
of  distinctly  different  conditions  and 
for  radically  different  purposes  and 
safeguards  cannot  restrain  the  people 
through  their  representatives  in  Parlia- 
ment or  Congress  from  devising  means 
of  procedure  that  shall  satisfy  existing 
needs.  Whether  we  assume  to  live  by 
written  or  unwritten  Constitution,  it  will 
always  be,  with  a  people  such  as  we  by 
spirit  and  tradition  are,  the  Constitu- 
tion written  in  the  people's  life  and 
work  that  holds  the  sway  supreme. 
There  must  be  after  all  some  deep 
philosophy  in  Mr.  Dooley's  apprehen- 
sion that  whether  the  flag  follows  the 
Constitution  or  the  Constitution  the 
flag,  the  decisions  of  the  Court  follow 
the  election  returns. 

Five  years  ago  we  were  in  the  midst 
of  a  frenzy  of  popular  logic  on  the  cur- 
rency question  which  has  now  so  far 


abated,  leaving  so  few  traces  that  it  can- 
not be  considered  unsuited  for  mention 
under  the  far-famed  shelter  of  the  aca- 
demic freedom.  The  supporters  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  free  coinage  of  silver 
were,  I  believe,  in  the  main  sincere. 
The  doctrine  was  easier  to  understand 
and  advocate  than  its  opposite.  Its 
simple,  crystalline  logic  appealed  par- 
ticularly to  large  masses  of  people  who 
are  impatient  of  complicated  historical 
instruction,  but  to  whom,  as  to  all  of 
us  humans,  it  is  a  high  satisfaction  to 
think  they  are  thinking.  The  opposing 
doctrine  labored  under  the  embarrass- 
ment of  being  founded  in  the  historical 
facts  of  established  international  usage, 
but  in  its  good  time  the  historical  logic 
prevailed  over  its  shallower  counterpart, 
as  it  must  needs  always  do. 

It  is  always  a  prolific  source  of  dan- 
ger in  a  government  such  as  ours  that 
parties  are  tempted  to  set  forth  in  plat- 
forms far-reaching  policies  which  seek 
their  grounding  in  smoothly  stated 
a  priori  principles  of  right  and  govern- 
ment. These  strokes  of  radicalism, 
like  the  French  radicalism  and  its  ar- 
gument from  the  state  of  nature,  serve 
to  clear  the  air,  though  usually  at  high 
cost,  and  we  should  not  like  to  see  them 
utterly  withheld  from  the  people,  and 
a  politics  of  organizational  and  personal 
struggles  utterly  displace  them.  The 
safer  and  more  veracious  use  of  the 
party  platform  will  be  that  which  deals 
with  questions  within  practical  range 
and  proposes  policies  in  reference  to 
existing  actual  conditions.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  explore  the  ultimate  prob- 
lem of  the  origin  of  evil  and  original 
sin  every  time  a  hen-roost  is  robbed. 

The  manners  and  morals  of  any  so- 
cial community  at  any  given  time  con- 
stitute a  firm  historical  deposit,  with 
sanctions  and  guarantees  so  strong  that 
the  hammer  and  acids  of  analyzing  rea- 
son find  it  an  ill-paid  task  to  stir  them. 
There  are  men  who  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  raise  persistent  protest 
against  that  gentle  convention  which 


Things  Human. 


641 


garbs  us  in  the  dress  coat.  It  would 
be  an  easy  matter  doubtless  to  prove 
after  reflection  its  unworthiness  as  pro- 
tection for  the  lungs  or  thighs,  and  it 
might  be  difficult  to  defend  it  against 
a  proposition  to  redispose  its  material 
by  transfer  from  back  to  front,  but  the 
dress  coat  is  there,  and  convenience  uses 
it  rather  than  serves  it.  This  is  far 
easier  than  to  think  out  a  new  coat  on 
eternal  principles  every  year.  In  gen- 
eral the  issue  does  not  appeal  to  the  in- 
terest of  the  great  public,  and  no  one 
is  likely  to  find  his  political  fortunes 
advanced  by  any  manipulation  thereof. 

That  institution  of  civilized  society, 
the  family,  framed  through  the  uniting 
of  one  man  and  one  wife  until  death  do 
them  part,  is  an  institution  confirmed 
in  the  >es tings  and  pains  and  joys  of 
centuries  of  human  experience.  It  is 
anchored  and  framed  and  jointed  into 
the  very  fabric  of  society,  until  socie- 
ty is  unthinkable  without  it.  In  the 
presence  of  a  social  structure  so  estab- 
lished, and  whose  existence  and  purity 
are  bound  up  with  the  very  life  of  so- 
ciety, there  is  no  place  for  the  small 
queryings  of  the  theorist.  If  he  abides 
among  us  he  will  conform.  Society 
cannot  tolerate,  and  will  not,  that  one 
family  be  dissolved  and  another  "an- 
nounced "  at  the  instance  of  some  per- 
sonal convenience  or  some  shallow  logic 
of  affinities. 

There  is  a  certain  law  and  order 
which  human  society  must  insist  upon 
as  a  prior  condition  to  all  discussion  re- 
garding forms  and  mechanism  of  gov- 
ernment and  distribution  of  rights  and 
privileges.  The  first  thing  to  do  with 
a  debating  society  is  to  call  it  to  order. 
The  first  thing  to  teach  a  child  is  to  do 
what  it  is  told  to  do,  and  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  told  to.  Other  reasons  await 
the  more  placid  opportunity  afforded  by 
complete  pacification.  We  have  of  late, 
in  educational  matters,  been  traversing 
a  period  of  much  experimenting  and 
much  unsettling  of  views  and  aims  and 
methods.  One  may  not  therefore  with 

VOL.  xc.  —  xo.  541.  41 


any  confidence  expect  a  general  agree- 
ment upon  any  proposition,  however  ele- 
mentary. It  has  seemed  to  me  never- 
theless that  there  ought  to  be  agreement, 
even  if  there  is  not,  concerning  one  thing, 
namely,  that  our  aim  in  educating  is  to 
make  the  individual  more  effective  as  a 
member  of  human  society,  —  I  would 
indeed  venture  to  make  it  read,  "effec- 
tive for  good."  If  education  addressed 
itself  simply  to  the  development  of  the 
individual  as  an  unclothed  immortal 
soul,  the  mundane  state  would  scarcely 
be  justified  in  its  present  interest.  It 
is  as  a  prospective  member  of  society 
and  a  citizen  that  the  pupil  claims  the 
interest  of  a  school-supporting  state. 
An  education  which  now  accepts  this 
definition  of  its  aim  cannot  admit  itself 
to  be  in  first  line  a  branch  or  depen- 
dency of  biology.  Children  are  little 
animals  surely  enough,  but  it  is  for  our 
practical  purposes  immeasurably  more 
important  that  they  are  incipient  social 
beings.  That  the  biological  theory  of 
education  has  exercised  in  many  a  de- 
tail an  injurious  influence  on  the  prac- 
tice of  the  schools  I  believe  has  not  es- 
caped the  attention  of  many  of  us.  One 
leading  result  has  been  a  groping  vague- 
ness that  has  possessed  the  minds  of 
teachers  and  professors  of  teaching 
themselves,  a  vagueness  which  has  arisen 
through  cutting  loose  from  the  solid 
piers  of  the  historical  facts,  close  akin 
to  that  which  we  mark  in  the  vagrant 
discipline  which  seeks  to  deal  with  so- 
ciety apart  from  history  and  decorates 
itself"  with  the  name  of  sociology. 

The  education  that  educates  remains 
in  spite  of  all  the  vivisections  and  post- 
mortems a  training,  —  a  training  that 
adapts  and  fits  the  little  barbarian  to  his 
civilized  environment,  an  environment 
in  part  natural,  to  be  sure,  but  preemi- 
nently social  and  historical,  a  training 
that  makes  him  punctual,  dutiful,  obedi- 
ent, conscientious,  courteous,  and  observ- 
ant, self-controlled,  law-abiding,  and 
moral,  and  gives  him  sobriety  of  judg- 
ment, and  encourages  health  to  abound, 


642 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


health  of  body  and  mind,  which  is  no 
more  nor  less  than  sanity. 

In  the  attitude  toward  human  life 
there  abide  the  two  contrasted  types. 
One  is  the  voice  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness, the  man  clad  in  skins,  ascetic, 
teetotaler,  radical,  reformer,  agitator; 
and  of  him  they  say  he  hath  a  devil,  he 
is  a  crank.  His  mission  is  to  awake 
with  a  ringing  "  Repent  "  the  dormant 
public  mind  and  stir  the  public  con- 
science, but  in  him  is  no  safe  uplifting 
and  upbuilding  power.  His  errand  is 
fulfilled  in  a  day,  and  after  him  there 
cometh  one  whose  shoe  latchet  he  is  un- 
worthy to  loose,  —  the  man  among  men, 


the  Man-Son,  living  the  normal  life  of 
men,  accepting  the  standing  order,  pay- 
ing tribute  unto  Caesar,  touching  elbows 
with  men  of  the  world,  respecting  the 
conventions  of  society,  healing  and  help- 
ing men  from  the  common  standing- 
ground  of  human  life. 

The  call  which  comes  to  the  Univer- 
sity from  the  need  of  the  day  is  a  call 
for  trained  men;  not  extraordinary 
specimens  of  men,  but  normal  men ;  not 
eccentrics,  but  gentlemen ;  not  stubborn 
Tories  or  furious  radicals,  but  men  of 
sobriety  and  good  sense,  men  of  good 
health  and  sanity,  —  men  trained  in  the 
school  of  historical-mindedness. 

Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler. 


OLD  TIMES  AT  THE  LAW  SCHOOL. 


IN  the  middle  of  the  line  of  pictures 
Hanging  between  the  delivery  desks  in 
the  reading-room  of  the  Harvard  Law 
School  is  a  striking  group  of  three-quar- 
ter length  figures  that  suggests  a  Cop- 
ley, but  is  in  reality  the  work  of  Feake, 
a  young  Newport  Quaker  of  about  a 
century  ago.  A  stiff,  red-coated  gen- 
tleman stands  at  a  table  surrounded  by 
admiring  female  relatives.  He  is  Isaac 
Royall,  Brigadier-General  of  the  Prov- 
ince of  Massachusetts  Bay,  member  of 
the  Council,  stanch  upholder  of  King 
George.  His  magnificent  old  mansion 
in  Medford  is  still  standing,  and  of  its 
owner  it  is  comfortably  recorded  that 
"no  gentleman  of  his  time  gave  better 
dinners  or  drank  costlier  wines."  But 
after  the  battle  of  Lexington,  like  a 
good  Tory,  he  followed  the  British  to 
Halifax,  and  thence  to  England,  where 
he  died. 

By  his  will,  executed  in  1778,  it  ap- 
peared that  he  cherished  no  animosity 
against  the  rebellious  subjects  of  his 
king ;  that  on  the  contrary  he  had  left 
a  number  of  charitable  and  educational 
bequests  for  their  benefit.  Harvard 


College  did  not  fail  to  receive  his  due 
consideration.  His  attitude  toward  it, 
moreover,  was  of  an  oddly  modern  type. 
He  was  evidently  a  believer  in  the  pro- 
fessional schools,  or  would  have  been 
had  they  existed.  At  least  he  did  what 
he  could  to  broaden  the  college  into  a 
university,  for  he  left  two  thousand  acres 
of  his  land  in  Granby  and  Royalston, 
"to  be  appropriated  towards  the  en- 
dowing a  Professor  of  Laws  in  said  Col- 
ledge,  or  a  Professor  of  Physick  and 
Anatomy,  which  ever  the  said  Overseers 
and  Corporation  shall  judge  to  be  best 
for  the  benefit  of  said  Colledge. "  This 
gift  was  allowed  to  lie  idle  until  1815. 
Then  the  Corporation  roused  itself,  se- 
lected the  first  alternative  of  the  gift, 
and  appointed  Isaac  Parker,  Chief  Jus- 
tice of  Massachusetts,  first  Royall  Pro- 
fessor of  Law.  This  chair  he  held  till 
1827,  but  owing  to  his  duties  on  the 
bench,  was  able  to  lecture  only  during 
the  summer  term  of  college.  In  the 
words  of  good  Dr.  Peabody,  "The  in- 
come of  the  Royall  Professorship  was 
barely  sufficient  to  pay  for  a  course  of 
twelve  or  more  lectures  to  each  succes- 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


643 


sive  senior  college  class.  Judge  Par- 
ker's course  comprised  such  facts  and 
features  of  the  common  and  statute  law 
as  a  well-educated  man  ought  to  know, 
together  with  an  analysis  and  exposition 
of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 
His  lectures  were  clear,  strong,  and  im- 
pressive; were  listened  to  with  great 
satisfaction,  and  were  full  of  materials 
of  practical  interest  and  value.  He  bore 
a  reputation  worthy  of  his  place  in  the 
line  of  Massachusetts  chief  justices ;  and 
the  students,  I  think,  fully  appreciated 
the  privilege  of  having  for  one  of  their 
teachers  a  man  who  had  no  recognized 
superior  at  the  bar  or  on  the  bench." 

Now  it  is  to  Chief  Justice  Parker 
that  we  should  look  with  especial  ven- 
eration, as  the  following  extracts,  ver- 
batim, from  the  College  Records  will 
show :  — 

"At  a  meeting  of  the  President  and 
Fellows  of  Harvard  College,  May  14th. 
1817.  Present.  1  The  President  2 
Mr.  Gore  3  Judge  Davis  (Treas.)  4  Mr. 
Lowell  5  Judge  Phillips.  .  .  . 

"The  Royall  Professor  of  Law  hav- 
ing represented  to  this  Board,  that  in 
his  opinion  and  in  that  of  many  friends 
of  the  University  and  of  the  improve- 
ment of  our  youth,  the  establishment  of 
a  School,  for  the  instruction  of  Students 
at  Law  at  Cambridge,  under  the  Patron- 
age of  the  University,  will  tend  much 
to  the  better  education  of  young  men 
destined  to  that  profession,  and  will  in- 
crease the  reputation  and  usefulness  of 
this  seminary ;  and  the  Corporation  con- 
curring in  these  views,  it  was  voted  as 
follows.  — 

"  1 .  That  some  Counsellor,  learned  in 
the  Law,  be  elected  to  be  denominated 
UNIVERSITY  PROFESSOR  OF  LAW;  who 
shall  reside  in  Cambridge,  and  open  and 
keep  a  school  for  the  Instruction  of 
Graduates  of  this  or  any  other  Univer- 
sity, and  of  such  others,  as,  according  to 
the  rules  of  admission  as  Attorneys,  may 
be  admitted  after  five  years  study  in  the 
office  of  some  Counsellor. 

"2.   That  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  this 


Officer  with  the  advice  of  the  Royall 
Professor  of  Law,  to  prescribe  a  course 
of  study,  to  examine  and  confer  with 
the  Students  upon  the  subjects  of  their 
studies,  and  to  read  lectures  to  them 
appropriate  to  the  course  of  their  stud- 
ies, and  their  advancement  in  the  sci- 
ence, and  generally  to  act  the  part  of  a 
Tutor  to  them  in  such  manner  as  will 
best  improve  their  minds  and  assist  their 
requisitions.  .  .  . 

"6.  As  an  excitement  to  diligence 
and  good  conduct,  a  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Laws  shall  be  instituted  at  the  Uni- 
versity, to  be  conferred  on  such  Students 
as  shall  have  remained  at  least  eighteen 
months  at  the  University  School,  and 
passed  the  residue  of  their  noviciate  in 
the  office  of  some  Counsellor  of  the  Su- 
preme Court  of  the  Commonwealth,  or 
who  shall  have  remained  three  years,  or 
if  not  graduates  of  any  College,  five 
years,  in  the  School,  providing  the  Pro- 
fessor having  charge  of  the  same  shall 
continue  to  be  a  practitioner  in  the  Su- 
preme Judicial  Court. 

"7.  The  Students  shall  have  the 
privilege  of  attending  the  lectures  of  the 
Royall  Professor  of  Law  free  of  ex- 
pense, and  shall  have  access  to  the  other 
Lectures  of  the  University  usually  al- 
lowed to  be  attended  by  Resident  Grad- 
uates, without  charge,  or  for  such  rea- 
sonable Compensation  as  the  Corpora- 
tion, with  the  assent  of  the  Overseers, 
shall  determine. 

"Voted  That  the  foregoing  votes 
instituting  a  new  department  at  the 
University  be  laid  before  the  Overseers 
that  they  may  approve  the  same  if  they 
see  fit." 

Note  the  timid  pride  of  the  last  vote. 
"A  new  department  at  the  University  " 
had  indeed  been  "instituted,"  with  a 
considerable  future  before  it.  At  the 
same  meeting  the  Hon.  Asahel  Stearns 
was  voted  first  University  Professor,  and 
a  committee  duly  appointed  to  apprise 
him  of  the  honor. 

Stearns  was  a  Harvard  graduate,  a 
former  member  of  Congress,  and  en- 


644 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


joyed  the  highest  professional  reputa- 
tion. With  Chief  Justice  Shaw  he  re- 
vised the  Massachusetts  Statutes,  and 
his  work  on  Real  Actions  was  long  the 
standard  text  on  the  subject.  "He  was 
warmly  interested  in  the  public  chari- 
ties of  his  day,  exercised  a  generous 
hospitality,  and  was  equally  respected 
and  beloved.  He  was  a  man  of  grave 
and  serious  aspect  and  demeanor,  but 
by  no  means  devoid  of  humor,  and  was 
a  favorite  in  society.  His  wife  was  a 
lovely  woman, "  says  Dr.  Peabody,  "full 
of  good  works;  and  there  was  never  a 
sick  student  in  college  whom  she  did  not 
take  under  special  charge." 

Professor  Stearns  was  much  more 
than  first  University  Professor  of  Law 
in  the  new  school.  He  was  the  entire 
faculty.  His  office,  in  Harvard  Square, 
was  the  school;  and,  as  good  Dr.  Pea- 
body  sententiously  remarks,  "a  build- 
ing, a  library,  and  an  organized  faculty 
were  essential  to  make  the  School  attrac- 
tive." Some  apologies  for  the  first  two 
were  presently  provided  in  a  very  old, 
low-studded  building  on  the  site  of  the 
present  College  House,  where  a  so-called 
lecture-room  and  an  equally  dubious  li- 
brary were  fitted  up.  But  the  number 
of  law  students  rarely  rose  above  eight 
or  ten,  and  in  1829  had  actually  run 
down  to  one.  At  this  stage  Mr.  Stearns 
naturally  resigned.  Parker  had  already 
done  so,  and  the  existence  of  the  Law 
School  was  about  to  terminate  of  mere 
inanition  when  the  author  of  Dane's 
Abridgment  took  it  into  his  head  to 
follow  the  example  of  his  English  fore- 
runner, Viner,  and  endow  a  Professor- 
ship of  Law  with  the  profits  of  his  book. 
His  aim  was  to  get  some  one  who  should 
teach  the  principles  of  jurisprudence 
systematically  and  scientifically.  To 
that  end  he  offered  the  college  $1000 
for  the  foundation,  stipulating  that  the 
first  professor  should  be  Joseph  Story 
of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court. 
Judge  Story  had  already  declined  the 
Royall  Professorship,  _and  was  far  from 
willing  to  accept  this  new  one;  but  as 


its  founder  stoutly  insisted  on  withdraw- 
ing the  gift  unless  the  chair  was  filled 
in  accordance  with  his  wishes,  Story 
finally  consented. 

At  the  same  time  the  Royall  Profes- 
sorship was  filled  by  John  H.  Ashmun, 
and  the  real  history  of  the  Law  School 
began.  Story's  fame  was  already  world 
wide,  and  the  public  interest  in  the  Su- 
preme Court  and  its  members  was  at 
a  pitch  never  equaled  before  or  since. 
The  school  broadened  into  national  repu- 
tation. The  library  rapidly  increased. 
The  number  of  students  in  the  very  first 
year  of  the  new  era  was  no  less  than 
thirty,  and  rose  by  leaps  and  bounds  to 
one  hundred  and  fifty.  In  spite  of  the 
liberal  expenditures  for  the  library  there 
was  a  handsome  surplus  of  funds.  In 
three  years  the  need  of  better  quarters 
became  imperative,  and  again  Mr.  Dane 
came  forward  with  a  large  contribution, 
and  a  temporary  loan  of  more.  In  1832 
Sumner  wrote :  "  Dane  Law  College  (sit- 
uated just  north  of  Rev.  Mr.  Newell' s 
church),  a  beautiful  Grecian  temple,  with 
four  Ionic  pillars  in  front,  —  the  most 
architectural  and  the  best  built  edifice 
belonging  to  the  college,  —  was  dedicat- 
ed to  the  law.  Quincy  delivered  a  most 
proper  address  of  an  hour,  full  of  his 
strong  sense  and  strong  language.  Web- 
ster, J.  Q.  Adams,  Dr.  Bowditch,  Ed- 
ward Everett,  Jeremiah  Mason,  Judge 
Story,  Ticknor,  leaders  in  the  eloquence, 
statesmanship,  mathematics,  scholar- 
ship, and  law  of  our  good  land,  were  all 
present,  —  a  glorious  company. " 

Mr.  Ashmun,  whose  mental  powers 
had  always  been  far  in  advance  of  his 
physical,  died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty- 
two.  He  is  perhaps  the  most  brilliant 
figure  in  the  whole  history  of  the  school. 
Though  so  young  he  had  already  "gath- 
ered about  him  all  the  honors,  which  are 
usually  the  harvest  of  the  ripest  life." 
At  the  bar,  where  he  was  admitted  at 
an  early  age,  "  he  stood  in  the  very  first 
rank  of  his  profession,  without  any  ac- 
knowledged superior."  He  filled  the 
Royall  Professorship  with  distinguished 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


645 


ability.  His  advanced  position  as  an 
educator,  as  well  as  the  quality  of  his 
work,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  in  the  curriculum  of  those  early 
days  he  included  a  course  of  lectures  on 
Medical  Jurisprudence  of  such  value  that 
they  were  published  after  his  death.  To 
quote  further  from  Professor  Story,  "Al- 
though his  learning  was  exceedingly  va- 
rious, as  well  as  deep,  he  never  assumed 
the  air  of  authority.  On  the  contrary, 
whenever  a  question  occurred,  which  he 
was  not  ready  to  answer,  he  had  no  re- 
serves, and  no  concealments.  With  the 
modesty,  as  well  as  the  tranquil  confi- 
dence, of  a  great  mind,  he  would  candid- 
ly say,  '  I  am  not  lawyer  enough  to  an- 
swer that.'  In  truth,  his  very  doubts, 
like  the  doubts  of  Lord  Eldon,  and  the 
queries  of  Plowden,  let  you  at  once  into 
the  vast  reach  of  his  inquiries  and  at- 
tainments. There  is  not,  and  there 
cannot  be,  a  higher  tribute  to  his  mem- 
ory than  this,  that  while  his  scrutiny 
was  severely  close,  he  was  most  cordial- 
ly beloved  by  all  his  pupils.  He  lived 
with  them  upon  terms  of  the  most  fa- 
miliar intimacy ;  and  he  has  sometimes 
with  a  delightful  modesty  and  elegance 
said  to  me,  'I  am  but  the  eldest  Boy 
upon  the  form.'  Owing  to  ill  health, 
he  could  not  be  said  to  have  attained 
either  grace  of  person  or  ease  of  action. 
His  voice  was  feeble ;  his  utterance, 
though  clear,  was  labored;  and  his 
manner,  though  appropriate,  was  not 
inviting.  .  .  .  He  felt  another  disad- 
vantage from  the  infirmity  of  a  slight 
deafness,  with  which  he  had  been  long 
afflicted.  His  professional  success  seems 
truly  marvelous.  It  is  as  proud  an 
example  of  genius  subduing  to  its  own 
purposes  every  obstacle,  opposed  to  its 
career,  and  working  out  its  own  lofty 
destiny,  as  could  well  be  presented  to 
the  notice  of  any  ingenuous  youth."  In 
May,  1833,  his  long  consuming  illness 
took  a  suddenly  fatal  turn,  and  he  ex- 
pired peacefully  in  the  night,  the  only 
person  at  his  bedside  being  one  of  his 
devoted  pupils,  young  Charles  Sumner. 


The  Royall  Professorship,  thus  sadly 
vacated,  was  accepted  by  Simon  Green- 
leaf,  Reporter  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Maine.  Then  were  the  days  of  the 
giants.  For  twelve  years  those  twin 
kings  of  American  jurisprudence,  Story 
and  Greenleaf,  held  absolute  dominion,- 
and  moulded  a  whole  generation  of  law- 
yers. More  than  eleven  hundred  stu- 
dents sat  under  their  instruction.  Good 
textbooks  were  seriously  needed,  and 
both  Story  and  Greenleaf  addressed 
themselves  to  the  task  of  producing 
them.  Greenleaf  published  his  famous 
Evidence,  and  a  number  of  other  works, 
but  was  quite  eclipsed  by  the  labors  of  his 
energetic  colleague.  For  Mr.  Dane's 
scheme  of  systematic  teaching  had  in- 
cluded the  stipulation  that  the  occu- 
pant of  his  professorship  should  deliver 
and  publish  a  series  of  lectures  on  the 
following  five  subjects:  Federal  Law, 
Federal  Equity,  Commercial  and  Mari- 
time Law,  the  Law  of  Nations,  and  the 
Law  of  Nature.  Story  at  once  began 
on  this  list,  but  found  it  ramified  so  fast 
that  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  had  be- 
come the  author  of  no  less  than  thirteen 
volumes  of  treatises,  all  of  international 
authority.  He  seems  to  have  been  a 
writer  by  nature,  one  of  those  men  to 
whom  the  sight  of  a  quire  of  foolscap 
and  the  feel  of  a  pen  between  the  fin- 
gers are  all  that  is  necessary  to  crystal- 
lize thought  into  a  form  to  be  seen  of 
all  men.  In  court  he  was  constantly 
writing  poetry.  Here  is  a  sample,  found 
in  one  of  his  notebooks,  doubtless  set 
down  with  a  grave  face  and  every  ap- 
pearance of  interest  in  the  case  before 
him :  — • 

LINES    WRITTEN    ON    HEARING   AN 
ARGUMENT  IN  COURT. 

SPARE  me  quotations,  which  tho'  learned,  are 

long, 

On  points  remote  at  best,  and  rarely  strong. 
How  sad  to  find  our  time  consumed  by  speech 
Feeble  in  logic,  feebler  still  in  reach, 
Yet  urged  in  words  of  high  and  bold  pretense 
As  if  the  sound  made  up  the  lack  of  sense. 
O  could  but  lawyers  know  the  great  relief, 


646 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


When  reasoning   comes,  close,  pointed,  clean 

and  brief, 

When  every  sentence  tells,  and  as  it  falls 
With    ponderous    weight,    renewed    attention 

calls. 

Grave  and  more  grave  each  topic,  and  its  force 
Exhausted  not  till  ends  the  destined  course. 
Sure  is  the  victory  if  the  cause  be  right, 
If  not,  enough  the  glory  of  the  fight. 

When  not  writing,  the  judge  was  talk- 
ing. He  was  one  of  the  most  tremen- 
dous talkers  that  long  suffering  Cam- 
bridge has  ever  heard.  It  is  still  re- 
membered how,  on  his  trips  into  Boston 
by  the  daily  omnibus  (fare  twenty-five 
cents),  he  entertained  friends  and  stran- 
gers alike  by  his  unquenchable  stream 
of  pleasantries,  anecdotes,  and  sage  ob- 
servations. His  lectures  at  the  school 
carried  away  his  listeners  with  the  pure 
enthusiasm  of  the  speaker.  His  extra- 
ordinary memory,  copious  learning,  and 
long  practical  experience,  combined  with 
his  ready  invention  of  illustration,  and 
wonderful  fluency  of  expression,  often 
caused  him  to  wander  widely  from  the 
starting-topic,  and  sweep  with  amazing 
facility  over  far-distant  regions  of  the- 
ory or  practice,  or  even  personal  remin- 
iscence. Alas  that  a  veracious  chroni- 
cler must  set  down  that  in  those  bygone 
times  the  young  idea  in  process  of  being 
taught  was  no  more  scrupulous  in  evad- 
ing that  process  than  are  the  earnest  dis- 
ciples of  the  present.  "It  was  easy," 
says  a  student  of  that  day,  "  to  draw  the 
old  judge  from  the  point  under  consid- 
eration to  a  lengthy  account  of  Chief 
Justice  Marshall  and  his  fellows  .  .  . 
and  this  was  apt  to  be  done  every  day." 
Professor  Ashmun  apparently  tried  to 
restrain  and  even  counteract  this  ten- 
dency of  the  judge,  and  there  is  a  tale 
to  the  effect  that  Story  once  remarked 
somewhat  testily,  "Now  Ashmun,  don't 
you  contradict  what  I  say.  I  believe 
you  would  try  to  correct  me  if  I  told 
you  that  two  and  two  make  four."  "Of 
course  I  should,*  retorted  Ashmun  in- 
stantly, "they  mak^  twenty-two." 

Story's   interest   in   the   school  was 
wonderful.      It  was  his  pet  and  pride. 


He  was  continually  devising  new  and 
delightful  plans  for  its  improvement. 
He  doggedly  refused  any  addition  to  his 
original  salary  of  $1000  a  year,  insisting 
instead  that  whatever  more  was  offered 
him  should  be  expended  in  increasing 
the  Law  Library,  improving  Dane  Hall, 
or  accumulating  the  fund  which  now 
forms  the  foundation  for  the  Story  Pro- 
fessorship. It  is  estimated  that  his  gifts 
to  the  school,  in  this  way  alone,  amount- 
ed to  $32,000.  His  lectures  were  pe- 
riodically interrupted  by  attendance  on 
the  court  at  Washington,  but  he  always 
returned  at  the  earliest  moment,  and 
with  the  greatest  enthusiasm.  After 
each  absence  he  would  enter  the  library 
and  hold  a  regular  reception,  shaking 
hands  with  each  student,  and  making 
affectionate  inquiries  after  his  success. 
His  personal  interest  in  every  pupil  was 
as  extraordinary  as  it  was  unflagging, 
and  created  the  most  intimate  and  con- 
fidential relationships.  The  following 
incident  is  told  by  the  author  of  Two 
Years  before  the  Mast,  and  well  illus- 
trates the  general  tone  of  the  school  and 
the  kindly  nature  of  the  Dane  Professor : 
"  Soon  after  I  had  left  the  School  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  I  had  occasion 
to  argue  a  motion  for  an  injunction  be- 
fore him  in  chambers,  ex  parte.  The 
case  involved  some  points  of  general  in- 
terest in  equity  practice  and  principles, 
as  it  related  to  the  deceptive  use  of 
trademarks,  but  the  granting  of  the  in- 
junction was  matter  of  little  doubt.  The 
judge  appointed  the  library  of  the  Law 
School  as  the  place  for  hearing  the  mo- 
tion, gave  notice  to  the  students,  and  had 
them  nearly  all  present.  This  was  part- 
ly as  an  exercise  for  the  school,  but  in 
a  great  degree  —  as  I  know  from  the 
direction  which  he  gave  the  hearing, 
requiring  me  to  develop  the  principles 
and  facts,  and  from  his  previous  intro- 
duction of  the  case  to  the  school  —  to 
afford  me  an  opportunity  of  appearing  to 
advantage  before  so  good  an  audience, 
some  of  whom  had  been  my  fellow  stu- 
dents." 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


647 


G.  W.  Huston,  L.  S.  1843,  gives 
another  glimpse  of  Story  in  the  lecture- 
room  :  "In  the  winter  of  '42,  Mr.  Web- 
ster and  Lord  Ashburton,  accompanied 
by  Lord  Morpeth,  were  at  Cambridge  a 
length  of  time  settling  the  Maine  boun- 
dary question.  These  three  men  were 
in  the  habit  of  attending  Judge  Story's 
lectures,  —  access  to  the  library  being 
what  brought  them  to  Cambridge.  Af- 
ter an  exhaustive  consideration  of  some 
point,  when  Judge  Story  had  told  what 
Lord  Mansfield  thought  about  it,  and 
Chief  Justice  Marshall's  opinion,  and 
when  Lord  Morpeth  had  listened  with 
his  lips  open  and  his  heavy  eyelids  closed 
in  a  negative  attitude,  for  he  had  inher- 
ited gout  of  many  generations,  Story 
would  suddenly  turn  to  the  old  Lord  sit- 
ting on  a  bench  with  the  students,  and 
inquire, 'And  what  is  your  opinion,  my 
lord  ?  '  Morpeth  would  suddenly  change 
his  whole  countenance,  gather  up  his  lips 
and  his  eyebrows,  his  eyes  sparkling, 
and  would  deliver  an  exceedingly  inter- 
esting opinion  on  the  point  under  con- 
sideration." 

Two  portraits  of  Story  hang  in  the 
school,  both  noticeable  for  the  moon- 
like  red  face  and  its  aspect  of  extraor- 
dinary benevolence.  Huston  says :  — 

"  Story  was  a  low,  heavy-set  man,  — 
very  fair  skin,  blue  eyes,  with  but  lit- 
tle hair  on  his  head,  being  very  bald 
save  a  little  tuft  on  the  top  of  his  fore- 
head, which  he  often  combed  during  lec- 
tures with  a  tine  comb  carried  in  his  vest 
pocket.  He  was  easy  of  access  and  be- 
loved by  the  young  men.  .  .  .  He  kept 
up  constant  letter-writing  to  and  with 
many  of  the  great  men  of  Europe.  Pro- 
fessor Greenleaf  was  taller,  black  hair 
in  profusion,  and  keen  black  eyes.  I 
have  heard  him  say,  I  believe,  he  was 
forty  years  old  before  he  began  studying 
law  in  Maine  where  he  was  raised.  He 
was  not  popular  with  the  boys,  being 
sometimes  sarcastic.  His  mind  was 
acute  and  his  reasoning  hair-splitting. " 

Greenleaf,  indeed,  was  in  many  re- 
spects the  exact  opposite  of  his  col- 


In  the  words  of  Professor 
Parsons:  "Judge  Story  and  Professor 
Greenleaf  worked  together  harmonious- 
ly and  successfully,  and  perhaps  the 
more  harmoniously  because  they  were 
so  entirely  different.  With  much  in 
common,  for  both  were  able,  learned, 
and  of  the  most  devoted  industry,  there 
were  other  traits  that  belonged  to  one 
or  the  other  of  them  exclusively.  Green- 
leaf  was  singularly  calm,  finding 
strength  in  his  very  stillness;  always 
cautious,  and  therefore  always  exact. 
Story  was  as  vivid  and  impulsive  as  man 
could  be.  His  words  flowed  like  a  flood ; 
but  it  was  because  his  emotions  and  his 
thoughts  demanded  a  flood  as  their  ex- 
ponent. .  .  .  Story's  manner  was  most 
peculiar;  everybody  listened  when  he 
spoke,  for  he  carried  one  away  with  the 
irresistible  attraction  of  his  own  swift 
motion.  And  Greenleaf ,  somewhat  slow 
and  measured  in  his  enunciation,  by  the 
charm  of  his  silver  voice,  the  singular 
felicity  of  his  expressions,  and  the  smooth 
flow  of  his  untroubled  stream  of  thought, 
caught  and  held  the  attention  of  every 
listener  as  few  men  can." 

Charles  Sumner,  who  served  as  as- 
sistant instructor  for  a  time  before  his 
trip  to  England,  makes  the  following 
interesting  comparison  in  a  letter  from 
London  written  to  Judge  Story  in  1838 : 

"You  know  Lord  Denman  intellec- 
tually better  than  I;  but  you  do  not 
know  his  person,  his  voice,  his  manner, 
his  tone,  —  all,  every  inch,  the  judge. 
He  sits  the  admired  impersonation  of  the 
law.  He  is  tall  and  well-made,  with 
a  justice-like  countenance :  his  voice  and 
the  gravity  of  his  manner,  and  the  gen- 
erous feeling  with  which  he  castigates 
everything  departing  from  the  strictest 
line  of  right  conduct,  remind  me  of 
Greenleaf  more  than  of  any  other  man 
I  have  ever  known." 

Again,  in  1844:  "Greenleaf  takes 
the  deepest  interest  in  the  unfortunate 
church  controversy,  uniting  to  his  great 
judicial  attainments  the  learning  of  a 
divine. " 


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Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


There  was  indeed  a  strong  Puritani- 
cal cast  about  the  author  of  the  Treatise 
on  Evidence.  This  is  observable  in  his 
portrait  in  the  reading-room.  He  used 
to  annotate  a  portion  of  the  Bible  every 
day;  and  he  published  an  attempt  to 
apply  the  rules  of  evidence  to  the  writ- 
ings of  the  Evangelists,  which  proved 
more  of  a  curiosity  than  a  success.  In 
one  of  his  letters  he  describes  himself 
as  cultivating  cheerfulness  as  a  religious 
duty.  What  few  specimens  of  his  wit 
remain,  however,  lean  toward  the  pon- 
derous, and  would  tend  to  prove  that  his 
cultivation  was  carried  on  upon  a  some- 
what barren  soil.  In  his  sitting-room 
he  would  write  or  study  for  hours,  sur- 
rounded by  his  family  and  their  friends, 
conversation,  games,  music,  and  the  thou- 
sand distractions  of  a  household  that  was 
distinctly  a  "going  concern,"  yet  ab- 
solutely serene  and  undisturbed,  so  great 
were  his  powers  of  concentration. 

Thus  under  these  two  great  masters, 
occasionally  assisted  by  lesser  lights,  the 
school  grew  and  prospered  exceedingly, 
till  the  increase  of  students  and  library 
demanded  an  addition  to  Dane  Hall. 
Accordingly  the  long  transverse  portion 
of  the  present  fabric  was  built,  and 
opened  in  1845  with  brilliant  ceremo- 
nies. Judge  Story,  in  presiding  at  this 
occasion,  was  unconsciously  performing 
one  of  his  last  good  offices  for  the 
school.  His  health  had  been  worn  away 
by  his  triple  exertions  as  teacher,  author, 
and  judge.  For  thirty- three  years  he 
had  missed  but  one  term  of  court  at 
Washington,  yet  when  he  realized  he 
must  give  up  some  of  his  work  he  pre- 
ferred to  keep  that  at  Cambridge,  and 
was  just  arranging  his  resignation  from 
the  bench  when  he  was  stricken  with  his 
last  sickness.  For  over  two  years  Pro- 
fessor Greenleaf,  having  been  promoted 
to  the  Dane  Professorship,  performed 
almost  all  the  work  of  the  school,  when 
he,  too,  felt  his  health  giving  way,  and 
resigned  his  chair.  The  Dane  Profes- 
sorship was  then  accepted  by  Theophilus 
Parsons,  of  Brookline.  He  was  at  that 


time  in  a  large  Boston  practice,  espe- 
cially in  Admiralty  and  Marine  Insur- 
ance, his  favorite  subjects,  daily  leav- 
ing his  house  so  early  and  returning  so 
late  that  he  had  hardly  any  home  or 
family  life  at  all ;  and  he  used  to  tell 
how  his  young  son  one  day  inquired, 
"Mother,  who  is  that  nice  gentleman 
that  sometimes  spends  Sundays  here, 
and  seems  so  fond  of  me  ?  " 

The  Royall  Professorship,  left  vacant 
by  Greenleaf 's  promotion,  had  mean- 
time been  held  for  a  year  by  the  son 
of  Chancellor  Kent,  and  was  then  filled 
by  Joel  Parker,  Chief  Justice  of  New 
Hampshire.  Under  him  and  Parsons 
the  main  work  of  the  school  went  on  for 
nearly  a  decade.  The  University  Pro- 
fessorship was  revived  for  a  year,  with 
F.  H.  Allen  as  incumbent,  but  he  re- 
signed in  1850.  Other  well-known 
names  are  associated  with  this  period  as 
instructors  or  assistants,  among  them 
R.  H.  Dana,  Sr . ,  George  Ticknor  Curtis, 
and  the  author  of  Gushing 's  Manual. 
The  eminent  Wheaton,  appointed  to 
lecture  on  the  Law  of  Nations,  died  im- 
mediately afterwards,  and  Edward  Ev- 
erett, appointed  some  years  later,  never 
took  the  chair. 

Again,  as  in  the  previous  era,  the  two 
principal  figures  claim  our  attention. 
Each  curiously  resembled  the  former 
occupant  of  his  chair.  Parsons  was  a 
fascinating  lecturer,  a  most  genial  and 
social  man.  I  am  indebted  to  Profes- 
sor Langdell  for  the  following  charac- 
teristic reminiscence  of  him :  "  It  was 
the  custom  in  the  old  days,  on  the  first 
day  of  each  term,  for  the  students  to 
assemble  in  the  library  for  the  purpose 
of  meeting  the  professors,  and  listening 
to  an  address  from  one  of  them.  .  .  . 
On  one  occasion,  when  Professor  Parsons 
delivered  the  address,  he  explained  to 
the  new  students  that  .  .  .  they  had 
to  study  English  decisions  very  diligent- 
ly. '  Do  you  ask  me, '  said  he,  '  if  we 
have  not  achieved  our  independence,  if 
we  are  still  governed  by  England  ?  No, 
gentlemen,  we  have .  not  achieved  our 


Old  Times  at  the  Laiv  School. 


649 


independence.  England  governs  us  still, 
not  by  reason  of  force  but  by  force  of 
reason. '  '  Parsons  was  really  more  of 
a  litterateur  than  a  lawyer.  He  openly 
expressed  his  dislike  of,  and  inability 
for,  the  more  technical  parts  of  the  law, 
such  as  Pleading  and  Property.  He  had 
a  certain  poetic  dreaminess  of  tempera- 
ment that,  while  apparently  not  inter- 
fering with  his  professional  success,  did 
seriously  affect  his  financial  affairs,  which 
constantly  suffered  from  his  credulity 
and  over-sanguine  expectations.  An  in- 
defatigable writer  of  textbooks,  he  pos- 
sessed that  unusual  legal  accomplish- 
ment, —  a  charming  literary  style.  He 
clothed  his  propositions  in  such  a  pleas- 
ing form  that,  like  sugar  coated  pills 
of  legal  lore,  they  were  swallowed  and 
assimilated  with  the  minimum  of  effort 
and  the  maximum  of  enjoyment.  His 
works  were  even  more  popular  than 
Story's.  It  is  said  that  his  Contracts 
achieved  the  largest  sale  of  any  law  book 
ever  published.  Seven  other  treatises 
stand  to  his  credit,  on  one  of  which 
alone  he  is  reported  to  have  netted  a 
profit  of  $40,000.  His  lectures,  for 
clearness,  scope,  and  literary  excellence, 
have  often  been  compared  to  those  of 
Blackstone.  He  delighted  in  laying 
down  broad  views  of  the  subject,  some- 
times carrying  his  generalizing  to  an 
extreme. 

Chief  Justice  Parker,  on  the  other 
hand,  though  deeply  respected  for  his 
thoroughness,  was  precise,  minute,  and 
involved  to  the  point  of  obscurity.  If 
a  single  step  of  his  logic  was  lost  by  the 
listener,  farewell  to  all  hope  of  follow- 
ing to  the  conclusion.  His  law  on  any 
given  question  was  sound,  absolutely  and 
exasperatingly  sound;  but  he  could  no 
more  give  a  comprehensive  view  of  a 
whole  topic  than  an  oyster,  busy  in  per- 
fecting its  single  pearl,  can  range  over 
the  ocean  floor.  In  private  life,  how- 
ever, the  Chief  Justice  was  always  in- 
teresting and  often  witty.  It  is  worth 
while  to  quote  his  account  of  his  tribu- 
lations after  having  been  prevailed  upon 


to  leave  the  New  Hampshire  court  and 
accept  the  chair  of  Royall  Professor  at 
Cambridge:  "I  had  no  experience,  nor 
even  knowledge  of  the  details  of  the  ser- 
vice to  be  performed,  as  the  President 
well  understood ;  and  on  taking  my  seat, 
at  the  March  term,  1848,  having  had 
no  leisure  for  any  preparation  whatever, 
I  encountered  difficulties  which  seemed 
formidable,  and  were  certainly  embar- 
rassing. I  found  that,  ...  to  my  dis- 
may, Shipping  and  Admiralty  was  upon 
my  list  for  that  term.  My  residence 
in  the  interior  of  a  state  which  had  had 
but  one  port,  the  business  of  which  was 
nearly  all  transacted  in  Boston,  had 
given  me  no  occasion  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  that  branch  of  the  law, 
and  I  tried  in  vain  to  escape  by  an  ex- 
change. Professor  Greenleaf 's  answer, 
that  he  was  then  in  the  middle  of  his 
topics  for  the  course,  showed  that  he 
could  not  comply  with  my  request.  So, 
frankly  stating  the  difficulty,  I  told  the 
students  I  would  study  the  textbook 
with  them.  ...  In  June,  Professor 
Greenleaf 's  health  failed,  and  he  left 
the  School  .  .  .  thus  wholly  on  my 
hands  for  the  remainder  of  the  term, 
with  an  experience  of  something  more 
than  three  months  to  direct  me. 

"Upon  a  new  division  of  topics  in  the 
course  of  the  vacation,  with  Professor 
Parsons,  who  succeeded  Professor  Green- 
leaf,  I  was  desmms  of  retaining  Ship- 
ping on  my  list/ in  the  hope  that  my 
studies  on  that  subject,  during  the  last 
term,  might  avail  me  somewhat  in  an- 
other course  of  lectures ;  but  the  answer 
that  his  practice  had  been  in  Boston, 
and  that  branch  of  the  law  a  specialty, 
could  not  but  be  admitted  as  a  conclu- 
sive reason  why  I  should  give  it  up ;  as 
I  did  also  the  other  textbook  which 
had  served  as  the  basis  for  my  other 
course  of  lectures  ;  so  that  I  entered 
upon  my  second  term  with  the  necessity 
of  entire  new  preparation  so  far  as  lec- 
tures were  concerned." 

In  appearance  and  character  Parker 
was  a  type  of  the  best  of  the  New  Eng- 


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land  country  gentlemen  of  his  day.  He 
was  of  so  dignified  and  commanding  a 
figure  that  a  stranger,  even  passing  him 
on  the  street,  instinctively  felt  the  pre- 
sence of  a  great  man.  His  portrait  in 
the  Law  School,  like  those  of  Parsons 
and  Washburn,  is  vouched  for  by  men 
who  sat  under  him  as  an  excellent  like- 
ness. He  was  of  high  breeding,  con- 
stant hospitality,  strong  religious  convic- 
tions, and  sometimes  confessed  in  pri- 
vate to  a  passionate  love  for  the  British 
poets.  He  was  a  man  of  inflexible  in- 
tegrity, and  a  blunt,  outspoken  sincerity 
rivaling  that  of  President  Lord,  of  Dart- 
mouth College  fame,  to  whom  it  is  said 
he  once  exclaimed,  in  the  heat  of  an  ar- 
gument, "  Sir,  this  modern  education  is 
all  a  humbug, "  and  who  instantly  re- 
plied, with  great  heartiness,  "Judge 
Parker,  I  know  it  is." 

If  Parsons  was  suaviter  in  modo,  Par- 
ker was  fortiter  in  re.  Polemics  were 
his  delight.  A  good  stand-up  fight  was 
meat  and  drink  to  him,  and  he  entered 
it  with  a  genuine  "neck  or  nothing," 
"never  say  die  "  relish.  For  spicy  read- 
ing, and  at  the  same  time  for  an  excel- 
lent history  of  the  Law  School,  there 
are  few  articles  better  than  a  pamphlet 
he  published  in  reply  to  some  criticisms 
on  the  school,  which  appeared  in  one  of 
the  law  reviews  of  the  time.  His  in- 
tense conservatism,  which  brought  him 
into  unpopularity  during  the  Civil  War, 
is  seen  in  the  following  anecdote  by  Gov- 
ernor Chamberlain,  of  South  Carolina : 
"  About  the  beginning  of  the  war,  Judge 
Parker  was  lecturing  on  the  suspension 
of  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus,  express- 
ing himself  very  strongly  against  it. 
One  of  the  students  interrupted  him  by 
stating  (what  he  thought  to  be)  a  very 
strong  case  of  treasonable  acts  against 
the  government,  and  asked  him  if  he 
would  not  suspend  the  writ  of  habeas 
corpus  in  such  a  case.  '  No,  sir, '  said 
the  judge,  '  I  would  not  suspend  the 
writ  of  habeas  corpus,  but  I  would  sus- 
pend the  corpus.'  ' 

In  1855  the  University  Professorship 


was  again  revived  by  the  exertions  of 
Parsons,  who  carried  the  appointment 
of  Emory  Washburn,  of  Worcester,  at 
that  time  just  quitting  the  governorship 
of  Massachusetts.  This  chair  he  held 
till  1876, although  its  name  was  changed 
to  the  Bussey  Professorship,  in  conse- 
quence of  large  additions  to  its  founda- 
tion by  Benjamin  Bussey,  of  Roxbury. 
Washburn  had  been  a  student  at  the 
school  in  the  old  "one-man  corporation  " 
days  of  Asahel  Stearns,  and  had  built 
up  an  enviable  practice  in  the  heart  of 
the  Commonwealth.  His  success,  sin- 
gle-mindedness,  and  high  integrity  had 
won  for  him  a  notable  degree  of  public 
confidence.  He  was  promoted  from  the 
bar  to  the  bench.  He  was  elected  suc- 
cessively to  both  branches  of  the  legis- 
lature. He  was  actually  nominated  for 
the  governorship,  the  last  successful  can- 
didate of  the  old  Whig  party,  during 
an  absence  in  Europe,  and  —  incredible 
as  it  sounds  to-day  —  without  his  own 
knowledge. 

His  interests  were  broad  and  varied. 
He  was  foremost  in  prison  reform  and 
in  the  direction  of  various  benevolent 
institutions.  He  was  an  enthusiastic 
antiquarian,  especially  in  New  England 
town  history.  He  was  a  copious  writer 
for  the  press,  and  was  in  constant  de- 
mand as  a  speaker.  His  public  spirit 
was  unflagging  and  direct.  Governor 
Bullock  tells  of  seeing  him,  during  war- 
time, marching  as  a  private  in  the 
"home  guard"  at  a  military  funeral. 
When  Bullock  expressed  his  surprise  at 
the  humble  part  taken  by  a  former 
chief  executive,  Washburn,  at  that  time 
considerably  over  sixty  years  old,  re- 
plied quite  simply,  "Oh  yes,  I  have 
done  this  often,  sometimes  at  night.  I 
like  to  help  along  when  I  can." 

Washburn  had  an  enormous  capacity 
for  work.  He  seemed  to  have  mas- 
tered the  art  of  living  without  sleep. 
From  an  early  morning  hour  till  far 
into  the  night  he  was  to  be  found  at  the 
school  in  his  "private  "  office.  Never 
was  there  a  more  delicious  misnomer, 


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651 


for  he  was  deluged  with  an  unending 
stream  of  callers,  friends,  strangers, 
students,  politicians,  and  clients.  De- 
spite them  all,  however,  and  the  de- 
mands of  his  teaching  and  practice,  he 
managed  to  produce  a  number  of  pro- 
fessional works  of  the  highest  excel- 
lence, notably  those  on  Easements  and 
on  Real  Property,  which,  in  constantly 
appearing  new  editions,  continue  to  be 
the  standards  of  to-day. 

As  a  lecturer  he  was  delightful.  Mr. 
Justice  Brown,  who  sat  under  his  in- 
struction, characterizes  him  as  "  a  strik- 
ingly handsome  man,  an  intellectual 
man,  whose  eloquence  made  even  the 
law  of  contingent  remainders  interest- 
ing, and  the  statute  of  uses  and  trusts 
to  read  like  a  novel."  So  great  was 
his  popularity  that  it  was  not  uncom- 
mon for  undergraduates  and  members 
of  other  departments  to  stroll  over  to 
the  law  lectures  "just  to  hear  Wash- 
burn  awhile."  His  prodigious  power 
of  throwing  himself  body  and  soul  into 
the  case  before  him,  be  it  that  of  actual 
client  or  academic  problem,  joined  to 
his  long  experience  and  public  promi- 
nence, gave  assured  weight  to  his  words ; 
while  his  wonderfully  winning  personal- 
ity, his  genial  spirit  and  his  well-re- 
membered hearty  laugh  gained  him  the 
love  and  esteem  of  every  listener. 

Indeed,  Professor  Washburn  will  go 
down  in  the  history  of  the  school,  above 
all  his  professional  excellences,  as  pre- 
eminent for  his  humanity.  Mr.  Bran- 
deis,  in  his  sketch  of  the  school,  epito- 
mizes him  as  the  most  beloved  instructor 
in  its  annals.  Every  student  seemed 
the  especial  object  of  his  solicitous  in- 
terest. He  not  only  acted  as  director, 
confessor,  and  inspirer  of  his  pupils 
during  their  stay  in  Cambridge,  but 
somehow  found  time  to  correspond  with 
them,  often  for  years,  after  they  had 
scattered  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land.  The  spirit  of  the 
man  speaks  in  every  line  of  the  follow- 
ing extract  from  his  final  address  to 
the  students.  He  is  talking  of  the 


young  LL.  B.'s    icy  plunge    into    the 
actual  work  of  the  profession :  — 

"  In  the  first  place,  he  finds  himself, 
upon  entering  it,  alone.  Friends  may 
cheer  him  and  encourage  him  at  start- 
ing by  their  good  wishes,  but  they  can- 
not divide  with  him  the  feeling  of  re- 
sponsibility which  weighs  upon  him, 
or  the  sense  of  mortification  at  defeat, 
if  he  fails.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
soon  finds  that  the  field  is  an  open  and 
a  fair  one,  and  that  nothing  stands  be- 
tween him  and  success  but  his  own  want 
of  preparation  for  the  struggle.  Birth 
and  family  can  neither  help  nor  hinder 
him  in  the  manly  contests  in  which  he 
is  to  engage.  What  a  client  looks  for 
in  a  lawyer  is,  not  the  pedigree  of  his 
ancestors,  but  fidelity  in  himself,  an 
ability  and  a  knowing  what  to  do  and 
how  to  do  it,  and  without  these  he  will 
not  trust  his  own  son  with  his  cause. 
In  the  next  place,  there  is  that  dread- 
ful waiting  for  business,  through  which 
almost  every  one  has  to  pass,  before 
he  can  feel  sure  that  he  is  ever  to  get 
a  foothold  in  the  profession.  Every 
client  seems  to  be  forestalled,  and  every 
spot  of  ground  to  be  crowded  as  he 
looks  around  him,  and  listens  in  vain 
for  a  welcome  knock  at  his  office  door. 
It  was  wittily  said  by  Mr.  Ashmun, 
formerly  a  professor  in  this  school,  that 
a  young  lawyer's  prospects  were  like  a 
contingent  remainder  which  requires  a 
particular  estate  to  support  it.  But 
let  him  not  lose  heart,  death,  discour- 
agement, temptation  to  office,  and  now 
and  then  the  allurements  of  a  rich 
man's  daughter  are  constantly  thin- 
ning the  ranks  of  the  profession,  and, 
before  he  is  aware  of  it,  he  finds  new 
aspirants  waiting  for  his  place,  and  en- 
joying the  progress  he  has  made.  The 
changes  which  are  wrought  in  this  way 
in  the  body  of  the  profession  are  won- 
derfully rapid.  It  has  been  estimated 
that  it  is  [  ?  they  are],  upon  an  aver- 
age, entire  every  fifteen  years.  And 
if,  while  thus  waiting,  the  young  law- 
yer will  fill  up  his  involuntary  leisure 


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Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


with  well-directed  study,  he  may  con- 
fidently look  for  the  reward  which  he 
will  be  sure  to  reap  in  the  growing  con- 
fidence and  respect  of  those  around 
him." 

But  enough  of  the  instructors  of  those 
days.  What  of  the  students  themselves, 
the  embryonic  LL.  B.'s  who  filled  the 
corridors  of  Dane  Hall  and  assisted  in 
holding  down  its  benches  ?  Then  as  now 
a  large  proportion  of  every  class  gradu- 
ating from  the  college  flocked  somewhat 
blindly  to  the  Law  School.  But  most 
members  of  the  school  were  not  colle- 
gians. The  national  reputation  it  early 
attained  drew  recruits,  some  entirely 
raw,  some  with  a  little  office  training, 
from  even  the  most  remote  parts  of  the 
country.  Aspirants  from  the  middle 
West  elbowed  ambitious  lads  from  far- 
away California,  and  up  to  the  Civil 
War  the  catalogues  were  full  of  fine  old 
family  names  from  the  South.  Require- 
ments for  admission  there  were  none; 
for  a  degree  the  sole  stipulation  was 
enrollment  as  a  member  of  the  school 
for  eighteen  months.  Happy  days  of 
lightly  won  degrees !  In  the  college  it- 
self the  M.  A.  was  merely  a  premium 
awarded  to  any  one  who  survived  his 
A.  B.  for  five  years.  Many  graduates 
refused  to  take  it  on  account  of  its  utter 
worthlessness,  and  B.  R.  Curtis,  of  '32, 
described  by  a  contemporary  as  "  by  far 
the  first  man  of  his  class,  with  the  high- 
est legal  prospects  before  him, "  stirred 
up  a  regular  revolution  on  the  subject. 

Short  as  was  the  school  course  in  those 
days,  even  shorter  periods  of  residence 
were  common ;  there  was  a  regular  ar- 
rangement by  which  a  man  on  payment 
of  twenty-five  dollars  could  enroll  in  the 
school  for  half  of  one  term.  As  may  be 
easily  imagined,  such  a  brief  exposure 
to  the  classic  Cambridge  influences  pro- 
duced little  effect  on  the  more  erratic 
spirits  of  the  school ;  and  the  quaint  le- 
gend of  the  manner  in  which  a  poor  but 
ingenious  candidate  from  "  down  East  " 
managed  to  save  all  expense  for  light, 
while  preparing  himself  for  college,  by 


studying  in  a  lighthouse  is  not  more  in- 
credible than  that  of  the  newly  fledged 
LL.  B.  who  was  discovered  setting  out 
for  legal  conquests  in  the  far  West 
equipped  solely  with  an  axe  and  a  demi- 
john of  ink. 

Once  fairly  started  on  the  legal  path, 
the  student  of  those  days  found  the  life 
by  no  means  hard.  His  textbooks  were 
lent  to  him  by  the  school,  the  library 
having  a  vast  stock  of  duplicates  of  the 
standard  treatises.  These  he  studied, 
or  not,  as  he  felt  inclined.  One  of  the 
instructors  of  that  golden  age  admits  in 
his  memoirs  that  though  "  a  list  of  books 
was  made  up,  for  a  course  of  study  and 
reading,  which  was  enlarged  from  time 
to  time,  it  cannot  be  strictly  said  that 
this  course  was  prescribed,  for  nothing 
was  exacted. "  Lectures  began  at  eleven 
and  ended  at  one.  Usually  the  same  pro- 
fessor occupied  the  chair  for  both  hours, 
changing  his  subject  at  noon.  Satur- 
day was  then  dies  non.  Of  the  lectures 
themselves  there  were  but  two  notable 
differences  from  those  of  to-day,  —  a 
charming  tendency,  especially  in  the 
reign  of  Story,  to  wander  from  the  sub- 
ject in  hand  into  fields  of  reminiscence 
and  general  theory  as  pleasant  and  al- 
most as  instructive,  and  the  fact  that  a 
textbook  formed  the  basis  of  the  work. 
But  this  was  often  lost  sight  of  and 
overlaid  with  a  colloquial  expanding  of 
general  rules,  putting  questions  on  paral- 
lel cases,  hypothetical  or  actual,  queries 
from  the  students,  and  expressions  of 
opinion,  which  must  have  been  surpris- 
ingly like  a  lecture  of  to-day.  Thus 
Professor  Parker  gives  a  lively  account 
of  his  first  experience  as  lecturer :  — 

"I  was  to  deliver  a  lecture  upon  a 
certain  topic,  but  there  was  a  textbook 
which  furnished  the  foundation.  ...  It 
was  not  expedient  for  me  to  state  the 
propositions  in  the  words  of  the  text. 
The  students  were  acquainted  with  them 
already.  It  would  be  of  little  advan- 
tage to  vary  the  phraseology.  If  the 
textbook  was  a  good  one,  how  was  I  to 
deliver  a  lecture  without  a  *  departure, ' 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


653 


which  lawyers  well  know  is,  in  plead- 
ing, obnoxious  to  a  special  demurrer? 
I  availed  myself  largely  of  my  privilege, 
however,  and  having  made  an  earnest 
request  to  the  students  to  ask  me  any 
questions  on  their  part,  they  availed 
themselves  of  their  privilege.  The 
School  was  at  that  time  a  very  strong 
one,  and  so  we  had  for  some  time  a 
lively  interchange  of  interrogatories.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  the 
students  were  disposed  to  try  the  new 
Professor,  and  I  enjoyed  it,  for,  having 
been  fifteen  years  upon  the  Bench,  I  felt 
much  more  at  home  in  answering  ques- 
tions than  I  did  in  delivering  Law  lec- 
tures, properly  so  called." 

The  conversational  method,  indeed, 
seems  to  have  been  coeval  with  the  very 
beginnings  of  legal  instruction  in  this 
country.  It  was  used  in  Reeve's  pri- 
vate Law  School,  begun  in  1795,  at 
Litchfield,Conn.,  and  lasting  till  1833. 
This  school  attained  a  very  high  stan- 
dard of  excellence,  and  over  one  thou- 
sand pupils  attended  it.  Much  the  same 
method  was  also  used  in  Judge  Howe's 
short  -  lived  school  at  Northampton, 
Mass.,  begun  in  1823,  and  of  very  high 
character,  but  collapsing  when  its  ablest 
lecturer,  Ashmun,  on  whom  the  instruc- 
tion devolved  almost  entirely,  accepted 
the  Royall  Professorship  at  Cambridge 
in  1829.  His  lectures  are  remembered 
for  their  clear  grasp  of  the  subject  and 
the  care  with  which  he  frequently  put 
his  classes  through  exact  and  searching 
oral  examinations. 

Despite  such  individual  points  of  ex- 
cellence, the  general  scheme  of  instruc- 
tion at  the  Law  School  was  for  many 
years  in  amazing  confusion.  The  courses 
were  designed  to  cover  two  years'  work ; 
but,  apparently  on  the  principle  that  the 
law  has  neither  beginning  nor  ending, 
only  half  of  them  were  given  in  any  one 
year,  so  that  it  was  entirely  luck  whether 
on  entering  the  school  you  found  your- 
self at  the  beginning  of  the  course  or 
plunged  into  the  middle  of  it. 

A  considerable  offset  to  this  disjointed 


state  of  theory  was  the  attention  paid 
to  practice  in  the  moot  courts.  These, 
if  not  invented,  were  certainly  brought 
into  great  prominence  by  Judge  Story. 
One  was  held  at  least  every  week,  and 
in  the  height  of  the  system  on  Monday, 
Wednesday,  and  Friday  afternoons. 
One  of  the  professors  presided,  and  all 
the  students  were  expected  to  attend  and 
take  notes ;  though  this  operation  usually 
consisted  in  copying  down  verbatim  both 
the  briefs,  which,  in  those  days  of  ex- 
pensive printing,  the  counsel  slowly  read 
aloud  from  manuscript.  The  cases  were 
always  on  agreed  facts,  often  drawn  from 
the  actual  experience  of  the  presiding 
justice.  Twice  a  year  there  were  regu- 
lar trials  before  a  jury  drawn  from  the 
undergraduates,  or  sometimes,  with  a 
delicate  humor,  from  the  divinity  stu- 
dents. These  affairs  were  made  the 
occasion  for  a  sort  of  solemn  festival, 
and  the  court-room  was  crowded  to  its 
utmost  capacity.  Many  a  great  name 
in  the  history  of  the  bench  and  the  bar 
won  its  first  recognition  in  these  mimic 
combats.  In  point  of  fact,  noisy  ap- 
plause and  uproarious  expressions  of  ap- 
proval rather  spoiled  the  sought-for  dig- 
nified effect  of  a  real  court,  and  were 
sometimes  excessive. 

The  law  clubs,  too,  were  an  impor- 
tant element  in  the  work  of  the  school. 
They  were  named  for  great  legal  writ- 
ers, —  the  Fleta,  the  Marshall,  etc. 
The  Coke  Club  was  of  immemorial  an- 
tiquity, and  usually  contained  the  most 
brilliant  members  of  the  school.  The 
average  number  of  students  in  a  club 
was  from  fifteen  to  twenty.  They  met 
in  some  of  the  smaller  rooms  in  Dane 
Hall.  On  any  case  there  was  but  one 
counsel  for  each  side  and  one  judge. 
The  cases  were  usually  those  which  had 
been  announced  for  approaching  moot 
courts;  so  interest  and  attendance  on 
the  latter  were  always  kept  at  a  high 
level. 

Besides  these  there  was  a  Parliament 
or  debating  society,  which  met  once  a 
week.  Political  interest,  especially  just 


654 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


before  the  war,  ran  very  high;  and  the 
Southern  students,  ever  craving  for  so- 
cial and  political  leadership,  particu- 
larly delighted  in  public  speaking  and 
argument.  With  the  outbreak  of  hos- 
tilities this  large  element  in  the  classes 
disappeared,  never  to  return,  and  the 
attendance  fell,  at  its  minimum  in  1862, 
to  sixty-nine  students.  After  the  war 
it  rose  again  to  a  maximum  slightly 
above  the  former,  augmented  by  a  very 
different  class,  —  older  men,  dislodged 
from  their  expected  vocations  by  the 
general  upheaval,  and  turning  to  law  as 
a  possible  means  of  improving  their  con- 
dition. 

Before  leaving  this  side  of  the  sub- 
ject, something  should  be  said  of  Dane 
Hall  itself,  the  legal  crucible  where  so 
much  bright  gold  has  been  refined  and 
"uttered."  The  stately  colonnade  of 
the  front  was  replaced  by  the  present 
ugly  vestibule  when  the  building  was 
moved  a  few  feet  in  1871.  The  old  or 
forward  portion  of  the  building  was  di- 
vided on  both  floors  into  small  rooms, 
each  lighted  by  one  of  the  huge  windows 
still  in  position.  Three  of  the  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  were  appropriated 
to  the  trio  of  professors,  and  used  much 
more  constantly  than  their  types  in  Aus- 
tin Hall.  The  fourth  was  the  library 
office.  One  of  the  second  story  front 
rooms  was  occupied  as  an  abode  by  the 
student  to  whom  the  duties  of  librarian 
were  from  time  to  time  entrusted.  An- 
other room  was  set  aside  for  the  meet- 
ings of  the  law-club  courts,  another  for 
a  general  sitting-room  and  study,  and 
the  remaining  one  for  a  reading-room. 
In  the  transverse  addition  at  the  rear  of 
the  original  building  were  the  library  on 
the  first  floor  and  the  lecture-room  on 
the  second.  I  believe  the  old  mahogany 
desk  now  in  the  East  Lecture-Room  of 
Austin  Hall  was  that  used  in  the  original 
lecture-room. 

In  the  library,  half  the  space  was 
taken  up  with  bookshelves,  the  rest 
with  tables  and  settees.  In  various  cor- 
ners and  alcoves  were  some  half-dozen 


high  desks  with  stools,  which'were  rent- 
ed by  the  janitor  at  five  dollars  a  term 
to  the  few  men  who  knew  enough  and 
cared  enough  to  use  the  library  in  a  con- 
tinuous and  systematic  way.  Outside 
this  handful  of  enthusiasts  there  was  but 
little  work  done  in  the  library.  The  text- 
books were  read  by  each  man  in  his  own 
rooms,  and  there  was  not  much  exanli- 
nation  of  the  treatises  or  reports.  Be- 
sides, there  was  difficulty  in  finding  any- 
thing among  the  shelves.  If  you  wanted 
a  book  you  hunted  for  it  yourself  till  you 
found  it  or  got  tired.  But  the  greatest 
obstacle  to  work  in  the  library  was  its 
use  by  the  moot  courts  on  several  af- 
ternoons of  each  week,  and  even  by  real 
courts ;  for  Judge  Story,  conceiving  it 
would  be  an  inspiration  to  members  of 
the  bar  to  be  surrounded  with  the  works 
of  their  great  forerunners,  and  an  equal 
inspiration  to  the  students  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  actual  court  work,  inaugu- 
rated the  practice  of  bodily  transporting 
the  then  pliable  forum  in  "  jury-waived  " 
cases  from  Boston  to  Cambridge,  and 
planting  it,  totam  curiam,  in  the  Law 
School  library,  as  already  illustrated  by 
Mr.  Dana's  description  of  an  argument 
there.  The  library  must  have  been  in- 
deed a  decidedly  uncomfortable  work- 
room. The  greatest  indecorum  of  our 
modern  reading-room  is  to  work  in  shirt- 
sleeves, but  the  simplicity  of  those  days 
thought  nothing  of  the  almost  universal 
"  chaw  "  of  tobacco,  and  what  is  worse, 
if  I  may  be  pardoned  a  legal  phrase, 
provided  no  receivers  "for  the  ensuing 
liquidation. 

Cleaning  anything  was  apparently  the 
last  idea  of  the  janitor.  This  function- 
ary, for  a  generation  or  more,  was  an 
original  genius  named  Sweetman.  Born 
and  bred  for  a  parish  priest  in  Ireland, 
he  had  come  to  this  country  and  fallen 
upon  evil  days,  being  glad  to  get  a  job 
at  street  digging.  President  Quincy, 
passing  one  day,  was  amazed  at  a  red 
head  emerging  from  a  trench  and  quot- 
ing, in  excellent  Latin,  the  lines  from  the 
Bucolics  concerning  the  pleasures  of  the 


Old  Times  at  the  Law  School. 


655 


husbandmln.  He  took  the  orator  into 
his  own  service,  but  finding  him  perhaps 
too  much  of  a  handful,  turned  him  over 
to  the  Law  School.  Here  he  became  an 
autocrat.  His  professional  duties,  as 
popularly  understood,  he  limited  to  open- 
ing the  doors  in  the  morning  and  lock- 
ing them  at  night.  He  was  deeply  ag- 
grieved if  asked  even  to  replace  library 
books  left  on  the  tables,  and  seizing  on 
the  maxim  so  frequently  used  in  Torts, 
modified  it  to  suit  his  own  purposes  thus : 
"Sic  utere  libris  ut  me  non  laedas." 
But  he  invented  other  and  higher  duties. 
He  attended  all  the  lectures,  and  subse- 
quently gave  the  speaker  the  benefit  of 
his  criticism,  on  both  delivery  and  doc- 
trine. He  exercised  a  general  supervi- 
sion over  all  matters  connected  with  the 
school,  and  in  his  later  years  became  a 
terror  to  every  one  in  or  near  it.  But 
he  was  at  last  displaced  by  the  wave  of 
reform  that  swept  over  the  school  about 
1870.  The  keynote  of  this  great  series 
of  changes  may  be  given  in  the  words  of 
President  Eliot :  — 

"  Formerly  it  was  not  the  custom  for 
the  President  of  Harvard  College  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  professional 
schools.  I  remember  the  first  time  I 
went  into  Dane  Hall  after  I  was  elected 
President.  It  was  in  the  autumn  of 
1869,  a  few  weeks  after  the  term  began. 
I  knocked  at  a  door  which  many  of  us 
remember,  the  first  door  on  the  right 
after  going  through  the  outside  door  of 
the  Hall,  and,  entering,  received  the 
usual  salutation  of  the  ever  genial  Gov- 
ernor Washburn,  *  Oh,  how  are  you? 
Take  a  chair, '  —  this  without  looking  at 


me  at  all.  When  he  saw  who  it  was,  he 
held  up  both  his  hands  with  his  favorite 
gesture,  and  said,  *  I  declare,  I  never 
before  saw  a  President  of  Harvard  Col- 
lege in  this  building !  '  Then  and  there 
I  took  a  lesson  under  one  of  the  kindest 
and  most  sympathetic  of  teachers." 

Well  might  the  old  professor  raise  his 
hands  to  heaven,  for  stranger  things  yet 
were  to  happen.  It  is  said  that  he  al- 
most fainted  when  the  first  blue-books 
made  their  unwelcome  appearance,  and 
he  realized  that  regular  written  exami- 
nations, with  all  the  labor  they  imply, 
were  to  be  required  for  a  degree.  The 
old  eighteen-months  term  of  residence 
became  two  years.  Changes  of  this  sort 
paved  the  way  for  the  next  great  change. 
The  old  staff  of  instructors,  oppressed 
with  new  burdens  and  trammeled  by 
unaccustomed  supervision,  felt  that  their 
places  should  be  taken  by  younger  men, 
more  conversant  with  modern  conditions. 
Within  a  few  years  of  each  other  they 
all  quietly  and  gracefully  resigned,  and 
a  new  and  enlarged  corps  of  teachers 
took  up  their  work.  Of  these  incum- 
bents, quorum  mayna  pars  supersunt,  of 
the  epoch-making  publication  of  Cases 
on  Contracts,  of  the  phcenix-like  rein- 
carnation of  old  Nathan  Dane's  idea, 
"the  systematic  and  scientific  study  of 
the  Law, "  of  the  building  of  Austin 
Hall,  and  of  the  increase  of  the  term  to 
three  years,  I  do  not  propose  to  speak. 
I  have  merely  endeavored  to  rescue  some 
old  stories  from  oblivion,  and  to  collect 
and  present,  however  imperfectly,  a  few 
memories  of  the  Old  Times  at  the  Law 
School. 

Samuel  F.  Batchelder. 


656  A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


"THE  ONLY  GOOD  INDIAN  IS  A  DEAD  INDIAN." 

So  there  he  lies,   redeemed  at  last! 

His  knees  drawn   tense,    just  as 'he  fell 

And  shrieked  out  his  soul  in  a  battle-yell; 
One  hand  with  the  rifle  still  clutched  fast; 
One  stretched  straight  out,    the  fingers  clenched 

In  the  knotted  roots  of  the  sun-bleached  grass; 

His  head  flung  back  on  the  tangled  mass 
Of  raven  mane,   with  war-plume  wrenched 
Awry  and  torn;   the  painted  face 

Still  foewards  turned,    the  white  teeth  bare 

'Twixt  the  livid  lips,    the  wide-eyed  glare, 
The  bronze  cheek  gaped  by  battle-trace 
In  dying  rage  rent  fresh  apart :  — 

A  strange   expression  for  one  all  good!  — 

On  his  naked  breast  a  splotch  of  blood 
Where  the  lead  Evangel  cleft  his  heart. 

So  there  he  lies,    at  last  made  whole, 
Regenerate!      Christ  rest  his  soul! 

Hartley  Alexander. 


A  QUARTER  CENTURY  OF  STRIKES. 

v 

[The  first  of  three  articles  dealing  with  the  history  and  character  of  American  Labor  Organi- 
zations, prepared  at  the  request  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  by  Mr.  Ambrose  P.  Winston. 

THE  EDITORS.] 

THE  fact  has  commonly  escaped  no-  flowed  into  education,  and  made  possi- 
tice  that  about  twenty-five  years  ago  ble  that  rapid  growth  of  independent 
the  economic  development  of  the  United  American  scholarship  which  had  its  well- 
States  (to-day  so  often  proclaimed)  had  marked  beginning  about  1876  in  uni- 
already  and  suddenly  attained  a  certain  versities  newly  enlarged  or  newly  found- 
approximate  maturity.  A  strange  va-  ed.  Capital  now  gathered  in  lakes  where 
riety  of  events,  in  swift  concurrence,  before  it  flowed  in  rivulets,  and  with 
gave  evidence  of  revolutionary  changes,  increasing  swiftness  the  small  shop  and 
The  patient  industry  of  generations,  wayside  mill  were  replaced  by  great 
exerting  itself  in  infinite  repetition, had  apparatus  of  machinery  and  buildings, 
been  so  abundantly  rewarded,  that  the  This  redundancy  manifested  itself  also 
national  wealth  seemed  now  to  overflow  in  a  sudden  growth  of  outdoor  sports 
old  uses  for  enjoyment  and  capital  to  and  other  employments  of  leisure.  By 
burst  the  limitations  of  old  industrial  the  early  seventies  the  system  of  rail- 
methods.  The  swelling  volume  found  ways,  extending  with  the  extension  of 
an  outlet  in  landownership,  until  about  industry,  had  thoroughly  united  the  At- 
1884  the  last  of  the  fertile  government  lantic  coast  and  the  central  valley,  and 
land  passed  to  private  holders.  It  over-  competition  for  this  developing  trade 


Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


657 


had  provoked  the  first  great  railway 
wars  and  the  first  pooling  arrangements. 
At  the  same  time  the  first  trusts  made 
their  appearance. 

With  all  these  things,  and  not  by 
chance,  but  by  necessity,  came  the  new 
militant  organization  of  labor.  In  1877 
a  multitude  of  strikes  broke  forth  si- 
multaneously from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Missouri  and  beyond  it,  fierce  and  wide- 
spread beyond  precedent,  like  the  up- 
heaval in  England  two  decades  earlier, 
of  which  Henry  Fawcett,  the  blind 
economist,  with  prophetic  vision  had 
declared  that  convulsions  so  violent 
must  signify  the  approach  of  deep  indus- 
trial changes,  — "arrangements  differ- 
ent from  those  existing  at  the  present 
time."  The  railways  were  chiefly  af- 
fected, but  the  railways  touched  all 
industries,  and  the  railway  workmen, 
constantly  in  motion  and  peculiarly  in- 
flammable, carried  the  spark  from  the 
miners  of  the  East  to  the  shop-workers 
of  the  West,  enveloping  in  one  confla- 
gration all  that  part  of  the  continent 
which  was  industrially  most  developed. 
Henceforth  industrial  conflicts  ceased  to 
be  matters  of  local  concern.  In  the 
strikes  of  1877,  labor  organizations 
played  little  part.  Though  this  out- 
burst extended  so  widely,  yet  no  com- 
mon organization  or  deliberate  concert 
brought  it  about.  There  was  concerted 
action  only  of  a  disorderly  sort,  as  when 
employees  of  the  Missouri  Pacific  Rail- 
way at  St.  Louis  were  driven  from  work 
by  strikers,  or  when  a  few  men  in  the 
iron  works  at  Scranton  blew  a  whistle, 
rushed  out  shouting,  "  We  have  struck, " 
and  the  other  men,  at  the  mere  sugges- 
tion, left  their  work.  There  were  at 
that  time  but  few  trade  unions  of  im- 
portance. Their  membership  in  the 
United  States  was  not  more  than  one 
fifth  the  number  of  trade  unionists  to- 
day in  the  state  of  New  York  alone. 
Nevertheless,  in  a  certain  sense  the  or- 
ganization of  labor  was  already  actual. 
There  was  at  least  a  mental  readiness 
for  united  action,  and  in  the  strike  its 

VOL.  xc.  —  xo.  541.  42 


effects  appeared  for  a  moment,  still  fluid 
but  ready  to  congeal  into  permanence. 
The  growth  of  trade  unions  came 
partly  no  doubt  from  the  growing  self- 
assertiveness  of  a  population  well  fed 
and  self-respecting  through  generations, 
and  anxious  to  share  in  the  growing 
national  income,  but  a  powerful  im- 
pulse to  organization  came  also  from  the 
industrial  conditions  increasingly  char- 
acteristic of  the  present  age,  with  its 
new  methods  of  production,  its  devel- 
oped transportation,  and  its  concentra- 
tion of  capital.  The  earlier  system  of 
industry  had  been  relatively  stable,  the 
new  is  as  changeable  and  as  threatening 
to  frail  craft  as  the  shifting  surface  of 
the  half-frozen  polar  sea.  Not  only  by 
migration,  which  brings  new  rivals  to 
the  laborer,  and  the  introduction  of  ma- 
chinery with  its  rivalry  yet  more  to  be 
dreaded,  but  also  by  the  steady  grind- 
ing force  of  competition,  bearing  first 
upon  employers  and  through  them  upon 
workmen,  has  the  new  industrial  system 
subjected  the  wage-earners  to  a  pres- 
sure which  threatens  them  with  destruc- 
tion, and  to  which  they  have  responded 
by  massing  their  units  as  living  tissue 
protects  itself  by  hardening  under  fric- 
tion. It  is  commonplace  that  for  an 
indefinite  time  the  competition  of  rival 
producers  has  been  growing  more  severe, 
and  that  this  tendency  has  recently  been 
accelerated  to  an  astonishing  degree. 
The  widening  of  markets  by  improve- 
ments in  transportation  and  perhaps  a 
growing  acuteness  and  energy  among 
men  of  affairs  have  intensified  the  fierce- 
ness of  competition,  but  it  has  been  in- 
tensified most  of  all  by  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  the  great  industry. 
Capital  employed  in  large  masses  for 
the  supply  of  a  wide  market  exhibits  a 
certain  brutal  aggressiveness  whatever 
may  be  the  wishes  of  the  individual  cap- 
italist. The  master  of  a  small  shop  in 
the  earlier  age  could  produce  only  within 
the  limits  prescribed  by  his  own  labor 
and  capital  and  his  narrow  market.  At 
these  limits  he  could  easily  stop  pro- 


658 


A   Quarter  Century  of  Strikes. 


ducing.  But  the  great  industry  of  to- 
day looks  to  a  market  practically  un- 
limited, toward  which  it  is  not  only 
tempted  with  a  peculiar  allurement,  but 
goaded  by  a  peculiar  necessity.  It  is 
tempted  to  produce  in  excessive  abun- 
dance because  production  on  a  vast  scale 
is  cheaper,  but  even  when  there  is  loss 
in  continuing,  it  is  helplessly  impelled  to 
continue.  Certain  expenses  (for  guard- 
ing property,  for  taxes  and  insurance) 
persist  even  if  work  stops,  and,  if  ear- 
lier managers  have  over-estimated  the 
chances  of  gain,  there  may  be  interest 
to  pay  or  dividends  guaranteed.  These 
must  be  met  and  something  earned  to 
meet  them.  The  policy  of  the  enter- 
prise is  determined  not  by  the  capitalist 
but  by  capital.  The  monster  runs  away 
with  its  master.  It  is  afflicted  with  an 
obligation  to  press  on  as  irresistible  as 
the  curse  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  The 
only  hope  lies  in  defeating  rivals  and 
possessing  the  market  with  the  weapon 
of  low  prices  attained  by  every  effort 
and  every  economy. 

No  method  of  lowering  prices  is  more 
obvious  than  that  of  depressing  wages. 
In  times  of  crisis,  the  impulse  to  reduce 
wages  is  fearfully  strong,  but  at  all 
times,  in  any  establishment  which  feels 
at  all  strongly  the  force  of  competition, 
the  downward  tendency  compelling  a 
reduction  of  wages  or  forbidding  an  in- 
crease is  always  likely  to  assert  itself. 
One  group  of  producers,  by  a  lowering 
of  wages  which  permits  lower  prices, 
may  compel  its  competitors  also  to  force 
down  the  wages  of  their  laborers. 

The  uncontrollability  of  capital,  with 
the  resulting  excess  of  competition,  has 
been  the  most  striking  fact  of  industrial 
history  in  the  past  thirty  years.  It  is 
said  that  vigorous  sugar-refining  com- 
panies, for  years  before  the  formation 
of  the  trust,  sold  usually  at  a  loss,  and 
that  before  the  steel-makers  protected 
themselves  by  combination,  the  influ- 
ence of  competition  upon  prices  in  the 
steel  industry  had  threatened  to  become 
almost  equally  disastrous  (one  company 


preparing  to  increase  its  output  by  some 
tens  of  millions  within  a  few  months, 
for  the  purpose  of  supplanting  its  com- 
petitors in  a  market  already  for  the  most 
part  supplied).  In  the  manufacture  of 
linseed  oil,  the  competition  of  capital 
invested  to  excess  forced  men  ordinarily 
honest  to  adulterate  their  product  as  the 
only  hope  of  solvency.  In  1876  the 
railways  extending  westward  from  the 
Atlantic  seaboard  had  multiplied  until 
their  capacity  far  exceeded  the  traffic 
to  be  divided  among  them.  The  ambi- 
tions or  the  desperate  necessities  of  the 
competitors  drove  them  into  a  struggle 
which  reduced  freight  charges  by  three 
fourths,  until  receipts  from  a  shipment 
were  at  times  less  than  the  specific  cost 
of  its  transportation.  Here,  again,  a 
partly  effective  remedy  was  found  in  an 
agreement  as  to  rates.  In  the  coal- 
mining industry  the  product  increased 
almost  fourfold  in  twenty  years,  with 
the  same  result  in  excessive  supply  and 
prices  unduly  lowered. 

For  the  restraint  of  competition  in 
excess,  the  trust  (or  pool)  and  the  trade 
union  are  the  two  coordinate  and  indis- 
pensable agencies.  As  to  the  trust, 
this  fact  is  admitted  by  a  large  number 
of  observers,  but  it  has  not  so  frequent- 
ly been  recognized  that  the  trade  union 
is  equally  indispensable  to  shield  the 
wage-earner  against  the  same  pressure. 
In  countless  instances  the  reduction  of 
prices  has  been  effected  by  lowering 
wages.  Thus,  while  the  average  price 
of  bituminous  coal  fell  off  by  more  than 
one  fourth  from  1893  to  1897,  wages 
in  some  districts  declined  one  third, 
leaving  less  than  four  dollars  per  week 
as  the  average  weekly  wages  of  Penn- 
sylvania miners  who  struck  in  1897. 
Mine  owners  complained  in  1899  that 
both  wages  and  profits  were  lower  in 
1899  than  they  had  been  ten  years  be- 
fore. The  railway  strike  of  1877  fol- 
lowed a  sweeping  reduction  of  wages 
necessitated  by  the  railway  war.  The 
Pullman  strike  of  1894  resulted  from 
low  wages,  which  were  in  turn  ascribed 


A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


659 


to  low  prices  accepted  by  competing  car- 
builders.  The  aggregate  force  of  the 
tendency  to  depress  wages  seems  stupen- 
dous, and  the  laborer  seems  helpless  un- 
der it.  When  great  manufacturing  or 
mining  companies,  for  example,  are  en- 
gaged in  a  competitive  fight  to  the  death, 
employing  every  resource  of  ingenuity 
and  every  conceivable  economy  to  outdo 
one  another  in  the  market,  what  economy 
could  be  more  obvious  or  more  easy  than 
a  retrenchment  in  the  pay  roll  ?  In  such 
a  case,  how  can  the  miner  or  the  factory 
hand  in  his  weakness  hope  to  survive  ? 
There  is  ready  to  his  hand,  and  he  uses 
it  instinctively,  a  fact  in  sociological 
mechanics  as  wonderful  as  any  of  those 
principles  of  mechanical  physics  by 
which  a  slight  force  rightly  applied  — 
a  touch  on  a  lever,  a  spark  in  an  explo- 
sive —  exerts  a  prodigious  power.  The 
saving  fact  is  this :  the  employer  as  com- 
petitor finds  little  advantage  in  low 
wages,  little  damage  in  high  wages ;  he 
is  concerned  almost  entirely  with  com- 
parative prices  and  wages.  He  is  not 
seriously  reluctant  to  pay  high  wages  if 
his  competitors  are  compelled  to  pay  the 
same,  and  that  compulsion  is  compara- 
tively easy  if  each  one  understands  that 
it  is  universal.  It  is  thus  a  task  of 
the  labor  organization  to  establish  an 
approximate  equality  of  wages,  to  re- 
press in  the  interest  of  labor  and  of  the 
competing  employers  each  effort  to  gain 
a  competitive  advantage  at  the  expense 
of  the  laborer.  The  overhanging  arch 
of  masonry  is  safe  so  long  as  the  sur- 
face remains  even;  it  is  dangerous  if 
one  stone  is  out  of  place.  So  long  as 
equal  wages  are  maintained,  the  task 
of  forcing  them  to  a  higher  level  or 
preventing  a  decline  is  simpler,  not  in- 
considerable, but  immeasurably  easier. 
This  effort  to  raise  wages  by  establish- 
ing uniformity  at  the  highest  attainable 
level  has  been  welcomed  and  actively 
aided  by  many  employers  who  preferred 
to  be  liberal  in  the  matter  of  wages 
when  liberality  involved  no  great  sacri- 
fice to  themselves.  The  long  series  of 


strikes  for  higher  wages  or  better  condi- 
tions of  labor  in  the  New  York  clothing 
industry  has  been  for  this  reason  sub- 
stantially a  conflict  by  the  work-people 
and  certain  liberal  employers  against 
other  employers  more  blindly  selfish  or 
helplessly  necessitous.  Most  of  the 
manufacturers,  it  is  said,  profess  to  fa- 
vor reforms,  but  declare  their  helpless- 
ness so  long  as  a  part  persist  in  the  old 
course.  In  coal  mining,  the  insepara- 
bility of  high  wages  and  equal  wages  is 
especially  evident.  In  fact,  the  whole 
bituminous  coalfield  through  several 
states  was  kept  in  agitation  for  years  by 
the  exceptional  behavior  of  a  few  men 
who  refused  to  keep  in  line.  The  great 
soft  coal  strike  of  1897  might  almost 
be  described  as  an  effort  by  the  union  to 
protect  the  majority  of  the  mine  own- 
ers against  a  few  competitors  who  were 
enabled  to  sell  at  low  prices  through  the 
payment  of  excessively  low  wages.  Be- 
tween the  strikers  and  the  majority  of 
their  employers  whose  service  they  had 
for  the  time  abandoned  there  was  little 
or  no  ill  feeling;  the  miners'  president 
publicly  declared  that  the  mine  opera- 
tors were  in  most  cases  free  from  blame, 
while  the  principal  journal  published  in 
the  mine  owners'  interest  said  that  the 
strike  was  a  proper  revolt  against  a  con- 
dition of  extreme  misery  precipitated 
by  excessive  competition ;  and  one  of  the 
principal  mine  operators  offered  the 
opinion  that  "the  miner  is  getting  too 
small  pay  for  his  toil, "  and  that  most  of 
the  employers  were  willing  to  advance 
wages  if  the  increase  was  made  general. 
Quite  recently  a  Pittsburg  mine  owner 
has  said  that  some  operators  in  his  dis- 
trict are  enabled  by  low  wages  to  mine 
coal  at  less  expense  than  he  can  do  it 
with  machinery,  and  he  lamented  the 
inability  of  the  union  to  control  the  en- 
tire field.  In  a  few  instances  coal  min- 
ers have  undertaken  in  yet  bolder  fash- 
ion to  regulate  the  coal-mining  industry 
when  competition  and  low  prices  threat- 
ened them.  They  have  announced  that 
prices  were  excessively  low  under  the 


660 


A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


pressure  of  over-production,  and  have 
ordered  a  suspension  of  mining  until 
prices  should  advance.  In  one  of  the 
anthracite  coal  strikes  a  certain  com- 
pany settled  with  its  men  by  giving  them 
an  advance  in  wages  under  an  agreement 
that  it  might  recede  to  the  old  rates  of 
wages  if  a  rival  company  resumed  work 
on  terms  unfavorable  to  the  men,  and 
during  the  great  machinists'  strike, 
which  extended  from  one  ocean  to  the 
other  in  1901,  the  employers  repeat- 
edly granted  the  demands  of  the  men 
on  condition  that  their  competitors  also 
yielded. 

It  is  necessary  to  understand  that  the 
uniformity  of  wages  (or  other  conditions 
of  labor)  which  is  a  chief  principle  of 
trade  union  policy  is  only  a  relative  uni- 
formity. No  union  (unless  there  is  some 
rare  exception)  attempts  to  establish 
for  an  entire  industry  in  widely  separate 
places  precisely  the  same  rate  of  wages. 
Their  determination  is  sometimes  left 
to  unions  of  the  locality  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  machinists,  the  building 
trades,  cigar  making  and  printing,  or 
(among  the  miners)  a  standard  rate  is 
fixed  for  one  district,  and  there  is  pro- 
vision for  modifying  it  from  district  to 
district,  or  from  mine  to  mine.  The 
principle,  recognized  distinctly  by  some 
unions,  half  consciously  by  others,  re- 
quires merely  that  wages  in  no  factory 
or  mill  or  mine  must  be  permitted  to 
fall  materially  below  the  rate  prevail- 
ing elsewhere. 

If  a  trade  union  is  to  exercise  an  ef- 
fective restraint  on  competition  it  must 
extend  its  activities  through  the  whole 
industry  with  which  it  concerns  itself. 
It  must  bring  into  its  ranks  the  work- 
men of  every  region  where  competition 
is  at  all  likely  to  appear.  The  fruits 
of  its  efforts  can  be  enjoyed  only  as  they 
are  imparted.  It  must  make  conquests 
like  the  army  of  Mohammed  for  its  own 
salvation.  Mere  physical  remoteness 
of  two  mines  or  two  factories  is  of  no 
consequence  if  their  products  meet  in  one 
market.  A  shoemaker  in  St.  Louis  is 


concerned  with  the  wages  of  a  shoemaker 
in  Lynn ;  for  low  wages  in  the  shoe  fac- 
tories at  Lynn  mean  low  prices  in  Lynn, 
then  low  prices  in  St.  Louis  and  low 
wages  in  St.  Louis ;  so  a  miner  in  Illi- 
nois is  vitally  interested  in  the  wages 
of  a  miner  in  Pennsylvania.  In  recog- 
nition of  this  principle  the  printers  of  a 
New  England  town  spent  time  and  money 
uninvited  to  establish  a  union  in  the  next 
town  because  the  competition  was  strong 
between  the  two  places.  The  lasters  of 
southeastern  Massachusetts  struck  suc- 
cessfully to  establish  one  scale  of  wages 
throughout  their  section  of  the  state. 
The  granite  cutters  of  New  England 
were  locked  out  by  their  employers  in 
1892  because  the  union  was  trying  to 
establish  a  uniformity  of  wages  through- 
out the  country,  and  especially  to  in- 
crease wages  in  New  England  where  they 
were  comparatively  low.  Half  a  dozen 
years  later  the  granite  cutters  renewed 
the  attempt,  demanding  for  work  on 
stone  which  was  meant  for  Chicago  cus- 
tomers the  higher  wages  prevailing  in 
the  West.  The  wages  of  glass  bottle 
blowers  were  lowered  in  the  panic  of 
1893,  but  it  was  impossible  to  increase 
them  with  the  return  of  good  times  be- 
cause of  competition  by  non  -  union 
works.  The  trade  union  becomes  there- 
fore as  a  matter  of  sheer  self-preserva- 
tion the  defender  of  the  ill  paid.  From 
a  motive  stronger  than  benevolence  it 
protests  against  the  employment  in  fac- 
tories of  ill-paid  children,  and  it  exerts 
itself  to  increase  the  wages  of  immigrant 
laborers.  The  labor  problem  in  the  soft 
coal  mines  has  been  especially  a  problem 
of  inordinately  fierce  competition  pre- 
cipitated by  a  few  mine  owners,  but  the 
competitive  weapon  employed  by  these 
exceptional  operators  has  been  cheap 
immigrant  labor,  largely  from  eastern 
Europe,  and  it  has  been  the  obvious 
practical  policy  of  the  miners'  unions  to 
destroy  the  efficacy  of  this  weapon  by 
bringing  the  foreigners  into  the  unions, 
and  thus  extending  to  them  also  the  rule 
of  equal  wages.  In  the  soft  coal  strike 


A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


661 


of  1897  the  centres  of  activity  were  the 
regions  of  West  Virginia  and  Pennsyl- 
vania, where  foreigners  were  most  nu- 
merous. Into  this  territory  came  repre- 
sentatives of  the  union ;  mass  meetings 
were  held,  and  the  miners  by  thousands 
encamped  to  persuade  or  overawe  those 
who  continued  to  work  at  the  lower 
rates.  The  miners  refused  arbitration 
because  it  would  not  have  included  all 
the  mines,  and  could  therefore  by  no 
possibility  have  resulted  in  uniformity ; 
they  finally  consented  to  a  compromise 
because  of  competition  from  coalfields 
which  they  were  unable  to  control. 

The  activity  of  the  unions  in  seeking 
to  establish  through  whole  industries 
and  across  the  continent  a  uniformity 
of  wages  is  exercised  not  only  through 
the  persuasion  of  a  missionary,  but  often 
also  through  compulsion.  Membership 
in  a  union  with  its  privileges  is  offered 
as  a  blessing,  but  a  blessing  which  the 
non-unionist  may  properly  be  compelled 
to  accept.  The  compulsion  is  some- 
times exerted  through  the  ostracism  of 
non-union  fellow  workmen,  but  in  many 
instances  the  union  acts  through  the  em- 
ployers, obliging  them  to  employ  only 
members  of  the  union.  In  a  great  num- 
ber of  towns  and  cities  the  unions  in  the 
printing  and  building  trades  have  main- 
tained by  this  method  a  complete  local 
monopoly.  In  some  instances  the  union 
has  forced  the  dismissal  of  non-union 
workmen  who  would  not  join  a  union, 
and  it  appears  even  that  the  whole  work- 
ing force  in  a  large  factory  who  had  not 
been  previously  members  of  a  union  have 
been  commanded  by  their  foremen  to 
join  the  union  and  compelled  thereafter 
to  maintain  themselves  "  in  good  stand- 
ing." 

The  Flint  Glass  Workers'  Union  has 
within  a  few  years  been  peculiarly  dar- 
ing and  successful  in  extending  its  mem- 
bership by  this  method.  Nineteen  com- 
panies united  to  form  the  National  Glass 
Company  and  the  consolidation  seemed 
certain  to  produce  a  conflict,  as  some  of 
the  works  of  the  constituent  companies 


employed  members  of  the  union  and 
others  employed  non-union  men,  while 
a  rule  of  the  labor  organization  forbade 
its  members  to  serve  a  company  which 
employed  non-unionists  in  any  of  its 
works.  Though  only  about  half  of  the 
men  concerned  were  members  of  the 
union,  the  rule  could  not  safely  be  ig- 
nored by  the  company,  as  this  trade 
employs  workmen  of  great  skill  whose 
position  of  strength  has  not  been  weak- 
ened by  mechanical  substitutes  for  their 
dexterity.  The  directors  of  the  new 
company  decided  to  avoid  the  strike,  and 
it  was  agreed  that  the  company  should 
pay  the  union  scale  and  conform  to 
union  rules,  but  that  it  would  not  co- 
erce men  to  join  the  union.  This  im- 
munity of  the  non-union  men  was,  how- 
ever, merely  formal.  Most  of  the  non- 
union workmen  soon  joined  the  union, 
chiefly  it  seems  because  the  rules  of  the 
union  which  the  company  adopted  under 
its  agreement  gave  a  substantial  prefer- 
ence to  unionist  workmen.  The  great 
but  futile  steel  strike  one  year  ago  was 
avowedly  undertaken  for  the  similar 
purpose  of  compelling  the  steel  trust  to 
sign  the  union  wages  scale  "for  all  the 
mills  in  the  respective  constituent  com- 
panies instead  of  for  part  of  them." 
At  this  moment  it  has  been  charged 
that  the  anthracite  miners'  strike  is 
undertaken  not  merely  to  secure  shorter 
hours  or  better  wages  for  the  miners, 
but  that  it  is  a  covert  attempt  to  secure 
the  recognition  of  the  national  organiza- 
tion as  an  authority  entitled  to  decide 
upon  the  rates  of  wages  and  the  condi- 
tions of  labor  in  the  coalfield  wherever 
situated. 

The  policy  of  compelling  membership 
in  a  union,  or  forcing  the  acceptance  of  a 
union  scale  by  workmen  who  desire  nei- 
ther the  membership  nor  the  scale,  has 
been  generally  denounced  as  a  grave  in- 
fraction of  liberty.  This  protest  cer- 
tainly merits  serious  consideration,  but 
the  matter  in  dispute  is  too  complicated 
to  permit  a  hasty  verdict,  either  in  con- 
demnation of  the  union  or  in  approval. 


662 


A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


Beyond  doubt  it  is  of  itself  a  lam- 
entable thing  if  a  miner  or  a  man  in 
any  other  employment  is  denied  the 
right,  after  taking  account  of  all  his  cir- 
cumstances, his  needs,  and  the  needs  of 
his  dependents  and  the  apparent  re- 
sources of  his  employer,  to  decide  for 
himself  what  offer  of  wages  it  is  his 
pleasure  to  accept.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  an  experience  more  vexatious 
or  humiliating  to  a  man  of  positive  judg- 
ments and  keen  sensibilities  than  dicta- 
tion on  such  a  subject  as  this  by  a  body 
of  strangers.  Certainly  so  far  as  there 
is  any  such  thing  as  an  inalienable  right 
the  privilege  of  freedom  in  this  matter 
is  inalienable.  The  case  is  not  closed 
however  until  we  have  noticed  the  rea- 
sons on  account  of  which  the  members 
of  the  union  interfere.  The  union  ex- 
ists for  the  purpose  of  increasing  or  at 
least  maintaining  wages.  Few  would 
deny  their  right  to  do  this  if  they  can. 
The  welfare  of  themselves  and  their 
families  depends  upon  it  most  vital- 
ly, and  it  too  is  inalienable,  if  indeed 
there  are  rights  sacred  beyond  question. 
But  the  men  who  voluntarily  join  trade 
unions,  if  they  are  but  a  fraction  of 
their  craft,  cannot  alone  protect  them- 
selves against  falling  wages.  If  at  any 
point  in  the  whole  line  of  competing 
producers  a  few  workmen  by  their  sub- 
mission impair  the  equality  of  wages,  it 
is  hopeless  for  others  to  attempt  to  main- 
tain their  standard.  The  effect  is  a  de- 
pression in  prices  where  there  has  come 
a  depression  of  wages,  then  necessarily 
a  general  decline  in  prices  and  a  fall  in 
all  wages.  This  is  the  injury  which 
the  worker  for  low  wages  inflicts  on 
those  who  seek  by  organization  to  in- 
crease wages.  The  pressure  of  compe- 
tition, which  has  in  recent  times  grown 
so  intense,  brings  the  fall  of  prices  and 
of  general  wages  close  after  the  first 
yielding  by  a  body  of  laborers.  One 
may  conceivably  condemn  the  method 
employed  by  workmen  thus  injured  to 
defend  themselves,  but  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  the  injury  is  real;  it  cannot 


be  denied  that  one  is  interested  in  what 
greatly  injures  him,  —  that  one  group 
of  defenders  in  a  beleaguered  city  is 
interested  when  negligence  permits  a 
breach  at  another  part  of  the  same  wall, 
—  that  dwellers  in  far-away  Mediter- 
ranean cities  may  without  impertinence 
interest  themselves  in  the  pestilence- 
breeding  but  holy  wells  of  Bombay, 
which  the  zeal  of  the  faithful  holds  sa- 
cred against  cleansing. 

Here  are  two  rights  in  irrepressible 
contradiction,  the  right  to  "liberty " 
and  to  the  "pursuit  of  happiness, "  both 
of  which  a  great  authority  has  mentioned 
in  one  breath  as  "inalienable."  There 
is  an  alternative  between  these  two; 
one  must  give  way.  An  impartial  ob- 
server must  take  his  choice;  perhaps 
on  reflection  he  will  doubt  whether  there 
is  any  such  thing  as  a  right  inviolable 
without  regard  to  other  rights  which  are 
its  rivals  for  recognition.  It  is  not  im- 
possible that  he  will  look  with  as  much 
favor  upon  the  right  of  energetic  self- 
preservation  as  upon  the  right  to  be 
nerveless  and  poor. 

The  rise  of  labor  unions  means,  then, 
first  of  all,  that  the  determination  of 
wages  for  each  laborer  and  his  condi- 
tions of  work  cease  to  be  primarily  his 
own  affair;  this  in  order  that  wages 
may  be  uniform,  and  that  thus  the  mer- 
ciless downward  pressure  of  present  day 
competition  may  be  checked.  There  are 
recorded  nearly  five  thousand  strikes  in 
the  United  States  during  twenty  years, 
avowedly  directed  to  this  purpose  of 
forcing  the  employer  to  deal  collectively 
with  the  union.  The  responsibility  for 
the  fixing  of  wages  shifts  farther  and 
farther  from  the  individual  workmen, 
not  only  as  the  unions  extend  more 
widely  over  the  nation,  but  also  as  the 
authority  in  one  union  and  another  be- 
comes more  centralized.  The  analogies 
between  trade  union  history  and  the  his- 
tory of  civil  governments  are  numerous 
and  striking ;  it  is  peculiarly  noticeable 
that  in  most  unions,  as  in  the  politics  of 
this  nation,  the  conflict  for  and  against 


A.    Quarter  Century  of  Strikes. 


663 


a  strong  central  government  has  been 
waged  fiercely,  and  that  generally  the 
centralizing  party  has  prevailed.  Where 
once  the  national  officers  or  conven- 
tions had  only  an  advisory  authority,  as 
shadowy  as  that  of  the  Continental  Con- 
gress, they  have  come  in  time  to  ex- 
ercise definite  but  very  wide  powers,  to 
levy  taxes  where  they  could  once  only 
make  requests,  to  give  commands  where 
they  once  expressed  opinions.  Most  im- 
portant of  all,  they  have  gained  in  the 
power  to  permit  or  forbid  strikes;  to 
give  or  withhold  money  or  other  assist- 
ance to  strikers.  This  central  organ- 
ization of  control  implies  of  course  that 
the  principle  of  uniformity  may  be  more 
and  more  thoroughly  applied,  but  the 
tendency  to  centralization  and  uniformi- 
ty has  its  limits.  Each  trade  or  each 
department  of  industry  stands  by  itself. 
The  individualist  spirit  is  too  strong 
to  permit  the  authoritative  control  of 
wages  in  one  trade  by  men  in  another 
trade.  The  socialist  programmes  for 
entire  amalgamation  have  been  fre- 
quently offered,  but  thus  far  always 
rejected. 

As  its  second  revolutionary  task  the 
trade  union,  through  strikes  or  other- 
wise, is  engaged  in  depriving  the  em- 
ployer of  an  important  though  vague 
power,  which  he  exercises  at  discretion, 
of  controlling  the  workmen  in  various 
matters  not  defined  by  the  labor  con- 
tract. For  example,  the  work  of  grain 
shoveling  at  Buffalo  a  few  years  ago  was 
done  by  "bosses  "  who  did  the  work  on 
contract,  employing  their  own  assist- 
ants. These  bosses  also  engaged  in  the 
saloon  business,  and  required  the  shovel- 
ers  to  buy  beer  only  of  a  certain  brew- 
ery and  pay  for  it  promptly  or  lose  their 
places.  The  men  with  the  largest  ac- 
counts at  the  saloons  enjoyed  the  surest 
tenure.  Single  men  were  favored  in 
filling  places  because  they  were  more 
likely  to  "loaf  "  and  drink.  The  men 
remedied  this  by  the  curious  (but  not 
unusual)  method  of  striking  for  some 
other  reason,  and  then  as  an  after- 


thought demanding  redress  of  this  griev- 
ance. The  strike  resulted  in  an  agree- 
ment by  which  the  contract  system  was 
abolished,  and  the  work  done  thereafter 
under  superintendents  employed  by  the 
Lake  Carriers'  Association.  Similarly 
the  brewers  and  the  union  of  beer- 
wagon  drivers  in  New  York  city  made 
a  contract  that  no  driver  should  be  em- 
ployed on  the  recommendation  of  a  sa- 
loon-keeper. The  Jewish  bakers  of  the 
same  city  obtained  release  from  the  ob- 
ligation to  board  with  their  employers. 
Some  years  ago  engineers  of  the  Chi- 
cago, Burlington,  and  Quincy  Railroad 
complained  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
not  paid  for  time  lost  by  occasional  de- 
lays in  their  work.  They  gained  a  con- 
tract allowing  half  pay  for  time  lost  as  a 
result  of  accidents.  The  Miners'  Union 
in  the  district  of  Kansas  secured  from 
the  mine  owners  a  contract  which  re- 
lieved the  miners  from  the  obligation 
to  pay  for  the  services  of  the  company 
physician  if  they  preferred  not  to  em- 
ploy him.  In  coal  mining  the  employers 
have  traditionally  claimed  a  right  of 
"  docking  "  at  discretion  for  an  exces- 
sive proportion  of  inferior  coal,  slate, 
or  stone.  No  question  has  caused  more 
frequent  dispute  in  the  coal  -  mining 
business.  In  the  Kansas  miners'  con- 
tract just  mentioned  it  was  agreed  that 
a  dispute  on  this  subject  should  be  re- 
ferred to  a  board  of  arbitration.  Many 
a  strike,  again,  has  been  waged  against 
the  company  store,  an  institution  par- 
tially good,  chiefly  bad,  but  deriving 
both  its  good  and  bad  qualities  from 
the  fact  that  the  employer  at  his  own 
will  urges  or  forces  his  workmen  to 
use  it. 

Our  National  Department  of  Labor 
has  recorded  strikes  by  workmen  in  near- 
ly seven  hundred  establishments  in  the 
course  of  twenty,  years,  for  purposes 
which  have  it  as  their  common  work  to 
strip  the  labor  contract  bare  of  all  ac- 
cessories but  the  mere  exchange  of  labor 
for  money,  and  particularly  to  cast  aside 
those  accessories  added  by  employers  in 


664 


A   Quarter  Century  of  Strikes. 


the  exercise  of  their  authority  as  in- 
dustrial superiors.  This  enumeration 
does  not,  however,  fully  indicate  the 
extent  of  this  work  by  the  trade  unions, 
as  much  of  it  has  been  done  without 
strikes,  something  by  legislation,  and 
something  by  strikes  undertaken  osten- 
sibly for  other  purposes. 

The  changes  thus  wrought  have  not 
all  been  purely  advantageous.  By  the 
earlier  system  which  is  being  assailed, 
the  employer  is  not  only  vested  with  a 
considerable  discretion,  but  rests  under 
a  peculiar  moral  obligation.  The  work- 
men are  in  a  degree  at  his  mercy,  but 
have  a  claim  to  fairness  and  kindness. 
The  ideal  is  beautiful;  many  employ- 
ers sincerely  endeavor  to  conform  to  it, 
paying  liberally  in  wages  and  assisting 
the  unfortunate,  retaining  old  men 
whose  services  have  lost  their  value, 
and  spending  money  generously  for  the 
comfort  and  improvement  of  their  peo- 
ple. Mr.  Carnegie  provided  a  system 
of  savings  deposits  for  his  men,  and  lent 
them  money  to  build  homes.  Mr.  Pull- 
man constructed  a  model  town  with  a 
library  and  other  provision  for  the  wel- 
fare of  its  inhabitants.  The  owners  of 
a  factory  at  Dayton,  with  the  utmost 
liberality,  furnished  libraries,  schools, 
lectures,  good  lunches  at  a  small  price, 
dressing-rooms  and  restaurants  for  the 
women,  a  working  apron  and  sleeves 
for  each  woman  to  wear  over  the  street 
dress,  elevators,  a  Saturday  half  holi- 
day with  a  full  day's  pay.  Yet  each 
of  these  philanthropies  failed  to  insure 
the  friendliness  of  the  workmen,  and  to 
restrain  the  hostility  of  the  trade  unions, 
which  in  their  thorough-going  work  of 
taking  from  the  employer  all  his  dis- 
cretionary power  to  complicate  the  ex- 
change of  labor  for  cash  have  seemed 
to  resent  his  use  of  that  power  even 
for  benevolent  purposes.  It  seems  evi- 
dent that  the  trade  unions,  so  far  as 
they  gain  strength,  must  terminate  not 
only  the  evil,  but  the  pleasant  incidents 
of  this  discretion.  An  Eastern  manu- 
facturer declared  in  a  public  address 


that  ''there  is  no  chance  and  no  dispo- 
sition to  take  undue  advantage  of  labor. " 
"Every  effort  of  mine  and  my  asso- 
ciates," he  adds,  "is  to  make  the  work 
of  the  laboring  men  easy,  to  improve 
their  condition  in  every  way  we  can, 
and  yet  that  organization  precludes  my 
being  on  intimate  terms  with  those  in 
my  employ. "  This  is  doubtless  sincere ; 
it  represents  the  feeling  of  many  benevo- 
lent employers ;  and  the  opinion  that 
trade  unions  reduce  the  relations  of  em- 
ployer and  workmen  to  pure  "business  " 
is  undoubtedly  correct.  In  the  vanish- 
ing state  of  things  which  this  employer 
prefers  he  is  himself  the  judge  of  what 
is  just  and  fair.  When  a  trade  union 
appears,  there  is  present  a  second  power 
strong  enough  to  demand  a  share  in  the 
decision.  This  new  arrangement  is  not 
thoroughly  satisfactory,  but  the  old  con- 
dition is  questionable  for  more  than  one 
reason :  first,  because  generosity  is  rare 
among  men ;  second,  because  the  com- 
petence to  decide  in  one's  own  case  is 
rare  even  among  generous  men;  third, 
because  in  modern  competitive  industry 
no  employer  with  impulses  good  or  bad 
can  do  as  he  will.  Man  has  ceased  to 
be  a  free  moral  agent.  When  compe- 
tition forces  down  prices  an  employer 
may  be  compelled  to  lower  wages,  as  gen- 
erous impulses  are  insufficient  to  main- 
tain solvency.  The  trade  union  under- 
takes to  prevent  his  competitor  from 
lowering  wages  so  that  the  competition 
may  not  compel  him  also  to  lower  wages. 
If  he  desires  to  be  liberal,  the  trade 
union  is  thus  his  ally  for  that  purpose. 
But  even  when  the  old  ideal  of  bene- 
volent authority  appears  at  its  best  in 
the  model  town  and  the  model  factory, 
its  influence  is  not  beyond  question. 
There  is  great  difficulty  in  distinguish- 
ing that  which  may  be  claimed  by  em- 
ployees as  a  right  (as  essential  to  health 
or  as  part  of  earnings)  and  that  which 
is  conferred  as  a  gift,  but  when  the  line 
has  been  drawn  there  should  be  no  sys- 
tem of  gratuities,  no  free  clubroom, 
libraries,  books,  or  reading-rooms,  no 


A   Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


665 


excessive  interest  on  savings  deposits. 
The  opinion  has  of  late  gained  ground 
rapidly  that  charity  to  persons  able  to 
work  is  debilitating,  that  self-reliance, 
industry,  and  foresight  can  be  strength- 
ened best  by  denying  all  enjoyment 
which  has  not  cost  effort.  Our  whole 
system  of  private  property  and  unequal 
wealth  is  to  be  justified  only  because 
the  hope  of  great  possession  stimulates 
to  great  effort,  while  the  constant  argu- 
ment against  socialism  is  the  correspond- 
ing proposition  that  it  would  weaken 
effort  by  taking  away  the  reward  of 
effort.  By  the  same  argument  most 
intelligent  persons  condemn  indiscrimi- 
nate giving  to  the  poor  or  other  prac- 
tices which  encourage  the  hope  of  un- 
earned acquisition.  It  seems  probable 
that  gratuities  to  workmen  must  have 
somewhat  the  same  effect  upon  self-re- 
liance and  independence  of  spirit  as 
prizes  from  a  lottery,  money  from  gam- 
bling, and  pennies  cast  to  a  sturdy  beg- 
gar. An  employer's  liberality  may  find 
expression  in  additions  to  wages  without 
damage  to  the  spirit  of  self-reliance. 

In  fact,  however,  such  experiments 
as  those  of  Pullman  and  Homestead 
have  certainly  had  very  little  debilitat- 
ing effect,  because  they  have  met  with 
so  poor  a  welcome  from  the  wbrking- 
people  and  have  so  seldom  been  repeat- 
ed. These  favors  have  awakened  re- 
sentment rather  than  gratitude,  and 
their  authors  have,  in  some  instances, 
been  singled  out  by  workingmen  for 
unmerited  execration.  Though  they  are 
commonly  regarded  by  the  public  and 
presumably  by  those  who  establish  them 
as  gratuitous  expressions  of  kindness, 
they  are  at  the  same  time  intended  as 
a  method  of  peace-making.  The  work- 
men are  expected  to  receive  them  as 
the  price  of  abstaining  from  vexatious 
demands  upon  their  employers.  They 
are  gifts,  but  they  are  likewise  pay- 
ment for  a  consideration.  As  an  agen- 
cy for  peace -making  they  are  an  awk- 
ward device.  It  is  a  very  naive  expec- 
tation that  workmen  would  relinquish 


for  this  reason  the  privilege  of  striking 
to  gain,  for  example,  money;  that,  in 
other  words,  they  would  permit  an  em- 
ployer to  purchase  for  them  a  quanti- 
ty of  things  —  books,  papers,  or  the  use 
of  a  clubroom  —  which  the  employer  as- 
sured them  they  ought  to  want,  instead 
of  taking  the  money  and  choosing  for 
themselves.  It  is  curious  that  business 
men  of  shrewdness  unsurpassed  should 
have  imagined  that  their  employees 
would  permit  others  in  effect  to  regulate 
their  expenditure.  These  philanthro- 
pists have  evidently  been  controlled  by  a 
traditional  conception  of  the  relations 
of  employer  and  workmen,  in  which  the 
wage -earners  appear  to  be  essentially 
and  permanently  a  distinct  species,  not 
only  dependent  but  acquiescent  in  their 
dependence,  while  the  employer  exer- 
cises a  superior  discretion,  with  an  ob- 
ligation to  exercise  it  benevolently. 
Though  the  Pullman  strike  and  the 
strike  at  Homestead  were  ascribed  to 
other  provocations,  they  were  at  the 
same  time  very  effectual  pro  tests  against 
this  idea,  and  the  protest  added  to  the 
bitterness  of  feeling  which  attended  both 
those  strikes. 

It  is  a  useful  service  of  labor  organi- 
zations to  destroy  not  only  the  old  con- 
ception of  industrial  over- lordship,  with 
its  harshness,  its  arbitrary  fines,  its 
compulsory  patronage  of  physician,  sa- 
loon, or  store,  but  even  to  destroy  those 
of  its  implications  which  are  attractive 
but  enfeebling,  and  to  leave  in  its  place, 
free  from  all  accessories,  the  naked  con- 
tract of  purchase  and  sale,  unmistakable 
and  even  harsh  in  its  definiteness.  It 
is  not  only  to  the  advantage  of  the  wage- 
earners  that  this  change  should  take 
place,  but  it  is  to  the  advantage  of  all 
industry  and  every  industrial  class,  be- 
cause it  is  an  indispensable  prerequisite 
to  peace.  The  old  inequality  at  its 
best  means  dependence  on  one  side  and 
condescension  on  the  other ;  in  its  usual, 
less  fortunate  manifestation  it  means  a 
certain  degree  of  contempt  in  the  em- 
ployer's mind,  and  resentment  in  that 


666 


A    Quarter   Century  of  Strikes. 


of  the  workman.  The  fruit  of  these 
emotions  is  necessarily  discord.  The 
work  of  mediators  and  arbitrators  will 
be  for  the  most  part  superfluous,  even 
where  it  now  has  value,  when  every  as- 
sumption of  inequality  has  disappeared 
and  the  employer  maintains  a  similar 
attitude  toward  the  dealer  in  labor  and 
toward  the  dealer  in  raw  material,  mak- 
ing the  best  bargain  he  can  with  no  fa- 
vor but  civility.  A  whole  century  of 
change  has  led  from  a  system  in  which 
responsibility  might  be  shirked  (by  the 
master  in  oppression  of  a  servant,  by  the 
servant  in  the  hope  of  charitable  aid 
from  his  master)  to  this  better  system 
of  coordinate  responsibilities  definite- 
ly placed  and  not  to  be  shirked  without 
loss  to  the  delinquent.  The  rise  of  the 
factory  system  with  its  much  lamented 
severance  of  personal  bonds  between 
master  and  worker,  and  the  organization 
of  labor  which  the  factory  system  facili- 
tated, have  contributed  most  to  this  for- 
tunate revolution. 

It  was  inevitable  that  with  the  devel- 
opment of  the  modern  industrial  system 
there  must  be  a  growth  of  labor  unions 
and  an  increase  of  strikes,  both  in  num- 
ber and  magnitude,  yet  curiously  enough 
this  same  complicated  and  delicate  in- 
dustrial organization,  plus  its  product, 
the  labor  union,  implies  a  tendency 
toward  the  cessation  of  strikes.  The 
earlier  less  highly  organized  industrial 
system  was  also  less  sensitive  to  attack. 
The  stoppage  of  work  due  to  a  strike  or 
other  cause  did  no  great  damage,  but 
industry  in  which  capital  plays  an  impor- 
tant part  cannot  endure  interruptions. 
The  earlier  and  later  types  of  indus- 
try, it  has  been  observed,  in  this  respect 
present  a  contrast  like  that  between  the 
lower  and  higher  forms  of  animal  life. 
Certain  inferior  animals  may  endure 
for  some  time  an  almost  complete  sus- 
pension of  vitality,  while  one  of  the 
higher  vertebrates  whose  vital  functions 
have  once  been  interrupted  never  revives. 
So  long  as  labor  organizations  are  still 
relatively  feeble,  the  power  of  capital  is 


sufficient  for  its  protection  against  se- 
rious interruption.  The  laborer  soon 
yields  or  is  replaced.  But  when  the  in- 
come of  the  individual  laborer  grows  so 
that  he  will  not  starve  if  he  has  to  be 
unemployed,  and  when  the  organization 
is  wide  enough  and  compact  enough  so 
that  substitute  workmen  are  not  readily 
found,  then  the  organization  is  able  to 
strike  blows  which  are  fatal. 

Although  the  modern  system  of  in- 
dustry thus  confers  upon  the  workman 
a  grave  power  to  inflict  injury,  it  has 
at  the  same  time  put  a  mighty  weapon 
into  the  hand  of  his  adversary.  Ex- 
cept in  a  few  trades,  the  subdivision  of 
labor  and  the  use  of  machinery  make  it 
easy  to  train  men  to  take  the  places  of 
strikers,  or  even  to  put  in  their  places 
at  once  men  without  special  training. 
The  resulting  situation  is  this :  in  any 
conflict  between  a  vigorous  trade  union 
and  a  strong  corporation,  the  union  may 
inflict  great  loss  upon  the  company,  but 
the  company  can  in  the  long  run,  by  ob- 
stinate sacrifice  of  its  resources,  defeat 
the  union,  supply  its  service  with  other 
men,  and  probably  leave  many  of  the 
strikers  unemployed. 

The  probable  injury  to  both  sides  is 
thus  so  great  that  neither  will  lightly 
enter  upon  such  a  struggle  when  its 
hardships  have  once  been  learned  by 
experience.  Fifteen  years  ago  engi- 
neers and  firemen  on  the  Chicago,  Bur- 
lington, and  Quincy  Railroad  struck. 
The  consequences  were  almost  ruinous 
to  both  contestants.  The  company  em- 
ployed new  men  whose  inexperience  oc- 
casioned numerous  accidents  and  great 
damage  to  engines ;  in  a  few  weeks  these 
men  had  become  familiar  with  their 
work,  and  gradually  the  operation  of 
the  road  resumed  its  normal  course. 
The  president  of  the  company  reported 
to  the  directors  at  the  end  of  the  year 
that  gross  earnings  as  contrasted  with 
those  of  the  previous  year  had  declined 
and  expenses  had  increased  so  that  net 
earnings  were  $4, 906, 707  for  that  year 
against  $11,478,165  the  year  before. 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal    Wars. 


667 


After  the  payment  of  interest  on  debts 
there  was  a  deficit.  The  losses  for  the 
•  year  were  chiefly  (not  entirely)  ascribed 
to  the  strike,  and  the  president  urged 
the  necessity  of  a  system  of  "benefits," 
insurance  against  death  or  injury  in  ser- 
vice, to  attach  the  employees  to  the  com- 
pany, and  prevent  a  repetition  of  this  dis- 
aster. The  engineers  suffered  no  less 
severely.  Men  who  had  earned  nearly 
$2000  a  year  were  in  some  instances 
unable  to  obtain  work  with  railway  com- 
panies and  sank  into  poverty.  Since 
then  the  Railway  Engineers'  Brother- 
hood has  been  singularly  peaceable. 
Many  other  strikes  have  resulted  in 
mutual  disaster.  A  strike  of  printers  in 
a  certain  town  is  said  to  have  ruined 
the  firms  involved,  and  a  cigar  makers' 
strike  brought  bankruptcy  to  the  cigar 
manufacturers  of  another  town.  The 
granite  cutters'  lockout  in  1892  has  been 
followed  by  almost  unbroken  peace  be- 
cause of  the  great  strength  shown  at 
that  time  by  the  union.  Employees  of 
a  street-car  line  in  New  York  city  in 
1887  struck  against  the  employment  of 
non-union  men  and  were  defeated,  but 
the  annual  report  for  that  year  showed 
a  deficit  of  $60,620  against  net  earn- 
ings of  $25,524  the  year  before. 

A  European  writer  has  attempted  to 


show  in  a  well-known  work  that  inter- 
national wars  must  soon  come  to  be  an 
impossibility.  Modern  instruments  of 
warfare  are  so  deadly,  the  expenses  of 
war  so  great,  the  losses  to  commerce 
so  severe,  and  the  nations  so  evenly 
matched,  that  no  European  people  could 
endure  the  injury  inevitable  in  a  great 
Continental  war.  In  much  the  same 
way  the  penalties  of  strikes  tend  strong- 
ly to  become  prohibitive.  The  old  in- 
equality between  the  adversaries  has 
been  in  a  manner  redressed  by  the  or- 
ganization of  labor.  That  they  may 
value  peace  each  has  been  made  vulner- 
able by  unplanned  changes  in  the  indus- 
trial system,  —  the  employer  through 
the  sensitiveness  of  capital,  the  work- 
men through  the  simplification  of  labor 
and  the  introduction  of  machinery  which 
make  it  easy  to  turn  him  adrift.  Many 
persons  have  seriously  attempted  to  find 
an  analogy  between  strikes  and  disease 
with  a  view  to  discovering  a  remedy, 
and  it  seems  not  altogether  fanciful  to 
imagine  that  a  real  and  important  simi- 
larity will  show  itself,  and  that  by  an 
influence  like  the  "curative  power  of 
nature,"  of  which  the  physicians  tell 
us,  and  which  surpasses  all  drugs,  the 
distressed  organism  will  spontaneously 
provide  its  own  corrective. 

Ambrose  P.   Winston. 


AUSTRALASIAN  CURES  FOR  COAL  WARS. 

[Mr.  Henry  D.  Lloyd,  the  writer  of  this  article,  is  a  well-known  student  of  the  labor  question 
in  this  country  and  abroad,  and  is  the  author  of  Wealth  versus  Commonwealth,  Newest  Eng- 


land, etc. 

EVERY  once  in  a  while  the  New  Zea- 
land newspapers  print  paragraphs  of 
labor  news  from  the  American  press. 
These  pictures  of  street-car  passengers 
riding  through  explosions  of  dynamite, 
of  merchants  in  their  doorways  and  chil- 
dren in  the  street  shot  by  soldiers  of  the 
National  Guard,  of  famine  displacing 
industry,  of  mines  run  by  martial  law, 


THE  EDITORS.] 

grown  familiar  to  us,  look  out  with  a 
ghastly  stare  when  viewed  against  the 
tranquil  surfaces  of  Australasian  jour- 
nalism. Such  things  set  in  that  peaceful 
print  regain  by  contrast  the  hue  of  their 
proper  horror.  For  a  moment  the  Amer- 
ican eye,  to  which  the  sight  of  blood  on 
its  daily  bread  has  become  a  daily  matter 
of  course,  realizes  the  nightmare  wherein 


668 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal    Wars. 


it  lives,  and  from  which  the  Australa- 
sians are  escaping. 

Such  a  social,  economic,  political,  and 
moral  peril  as  the  coal  war  that  labor 
and  capital  have  been  fighting  over  the 
bodies  of  the  American  people  has  been 
made  impossible  in  New  Zealand.  That 
country  too  has  its  coal  trust.  It  also 
has  a  democracy  who  know  more  about 
the  powers  of  combination  than  even  a 
trust  does.  The  trust  casting  its  net 
over  the  whole  of  Australasia  charged 
the  New  Zealanders  extravagant  and  er- 
ratic prices  for  the  product  of  their  own 
mines,  and  closed  against  them  the  inex- 
haustible deposits  of  New  South  Wales, 
where  they  could  have  obtained  other- 
wise a  competitive  supply.  But  it  dis- 
covered that  it  was  not  dealing  with  a 
people  incompetent  to  meet  such  an 
attack  on  their  lives  and  their  indus- 
tries. 

As  checkmate,  the  New  Zealanders, 
as  a  people,  have  gone  into  the  coal  busi- 
ness on  their  own  account.  Appropri- 
ations have  been  passed  and  powers 
delegated  to  enable  the  general  govern- 
ment to  establish  state  coal  mines. 
These  will  supply  first  the  needs  of  the 
state,  as  for  its  railroads,  navy,  and 
government  buildings,  and  then  the 
needs  of  the  public.  And  this  political 
economy  of  all  by  all  for  all  puts  it  into 
the  law  that  a's  rapidly  as  the  net  re- 
ceipts increase  above  five  per  cent,  the 
price  of  coal  to  the  public  shall  be  low- 
ered. Here,  as  in  its  railroad  service, 
in  the  loans  of  public  money  to  farmers 
and  artisans,  and  in  the  subdivision 
among  the  landless  of  great  estates  re- 
sumed for  the  people,  this  democracy  es- 
chews profit-mongering,  and  does  busi- 
ness on  the  plane  of  a  social  exchange 
of  service  for  service  at  cost. 

The  state  coal  mines  are  so  new  a  ven- 
ture that  they  have  nothing  as  yet  to 
exhibit  more  tangible  than  the  prompt 
determination  of  the  people  to  use  their 
common  powers  in  this  way  for  their 
common  defense.  Theirs  is  a  public 
opinion  which  knows  how  to  take  to  it- 


self all  it  needs  of  the  public  force,  — 
a  public  opinion  plus  a  public  policy, 
plus  the  public  power.  In  the  financial 
statement  just  submitted  to  the  New 
Zealand  Parliament  by  the  Colonial 
Treasurer  is  the  following  relative  to 
the  state  coal  mines :  — 

"In  accordance  with  the  decision  of 
Parliament  at  its  last  session  to  estab- 
lish state  coal  mines,  prospecting  oper- 
ations have  been  carried  out  on  a  portion 
of  the  land  formerly  held  under  lease 
by  the  late  Westport  Cardiff  Coal  Com- 
pany (Limited)  at  Seddonville.  It  af- 
fords me  pleasure  to  state  that  these 
operations  have  so  far  proved  satisfac- 
tory. The  coal  leases  formerly  held  by 
the  Greymouth  Point  Elizabeth  Railway 
and  Coal  Company,  and  the  partially 
constructed  railway,  have  been  acquired 
by  the  government.  Prospecting  oper- 
ations for  the  purpose  of  furnishing  data 
for  the  development  of  this  property 
have  been  commenced. 

"In  the  laying  out  and  working  of 
the  state  collieries  due  consideration 
will  be  given  to  safety,  economy,  and 
the  efficient  extraction  of  the  coal  with 
the  least  possible  waste.  To  insure  this, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  mines 
to  be  opened  out  on  a  systematic  and 
comprehensive  plan." 

And  in  the  law  itself  the  government 
is  authorized  in  these  sections  to  go 
into  the  coal  business  even  though  it 
involve  competition  with  other  coal  pro- 
ducers :  — 

"It  shall  be  lawful  for  the  minister, 
on  behalf  of  His  Majesty,  to  open  and 
work  coal  mines,  .  .  .  and  generally 
to  carry  on  the  business  of  coal  mining 
in  all  its  branches,  .  .  .  after  state  re- 
quirements have  been  provided  for,  to 
sell,  supply,  and  deliver  coal  and  other 
products  the  result  of  coal  mining  oper- 
ations ;  and  enter  into  and  enforce  con- 
tracts and  engagements ;  and  generally 
...  do  anything  that  the  owner  of  a 
coal  mine  might  lawfully  do  in  the 
working  of  the  mine." 

Our  coal  capitalists  have  found  it  per- 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal    Wars. 


669 


fectly  safe  to  flout  laborers,  consumers, 
dealers,  officials,  press,  clergy,  the  pub- 
lic generally,  and  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  during  these  bitter  weeks 
of  their  manufacture  of  artificial  win- 
ter. Individuals  and  volunteer  commit- 
tees, however  distinguished,  seeking  to 
make  peace  have  been  rebuffed  with  an 
assured  conviction  that  the  public  had 
no  business  with  the  business  of  those 
"to  whom  God  in  his  infinite  wisdom 
has  given  control  of  the  property  inter- 
ests of  the  country." 

But  a  very  weak  imagination  is  pow- 
erful enough  to  picture  what  would  have 
been  the  behavior  of  the  same  gentlemen 
had  there  been  such  sentiments  as  the 
above  in  the  last  report  of  our  Secre- 
tary of  the  Treasury,  and  a  section  in 
some  Federal  law  giving  similar  powers 
to  the  national  government  concerning 
the  public's  coal  on  the  public  lands,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  assumption  of  pri- 
vate mines.  The  coal  companies  of  New 
Zealand  never  say,  "  There  is  nothing  to 
arbitrate." 

The  nervousness  with  which  our  coal 
mine  owners  protest  that  "no  politics  " 
must  be  brought  in  reveals  their  vulner- 
able heel  and  their  consciousness  of  it. 
"  Politics  "  and  the  use  by  the  people  of 
their  irresistible  weapon,  public  coop- 
eration, have  made  lambs  of  the  coal  mo- 
nopolists on  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 

This  is  only  one  of  many  Australa- 
sian cures  for  labor  wars.  That  the 
novel  and  successful  policy  of  Newest 
England  in  finding  work  for  the  work- 
less,  and  land  for  the  landless,  and  cred- 
it for  all  who  have  or  will  create  secu- 
rity must  directly  and  indirectly  les- 
sen labor  wars  goes  without  saying.  A 
country  in  which  the  unemployed  class 
found  everywhere  else  has  practically 
ceased  to  exist  is  not  one  in  which  the 
laborer  can  be  starved  into  a  contract. 

The  demand  for  the  nine  hours  day 
and  the  recognition  of  the  union  of  the 
men  were  among  the  principal  causes  of 
war  in  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania. 
Such  disputes  about  hours  do  not  take 


place  in  New  Zealand.  That  state  first 
enacted  that  its  coal  miners  should  work 
no  more  than  an  average  of  eight  hours 
a  day,  as  Utah  has  done ;  and  then,  at 
the  session  of  the  Colonial  Parliament 
last  year,  passed  a  general  eight  hours  a 
day  law  for  all  working  men  and  a  short- 
er day  for  working  women  and  working 
children,  —  New  Zealand,  like  the  rest 
of  Christendom,  being  still  unchristian 
enough  to  rob  many  of  its  children  to 
enrich  a  few  of  its  men.  New  Zealand 
is  the  first  state  of  modern  times  to  bring 
its  legislative  regulation  of  men's  hours 
of  labor  out  from  its  cowardly  refuge  be- 
hind the  petticoats  and  bibs  and  tuckers 
of  their  women  and  children.  Other 
states  have  furtively  limited  the  hours 
of  men  by  the  device  of  limiting  the 
hours  of  the  women  and  children  who 
are  working  by  their  side.  In  the  in- 
terdependent complexity  of  modern  fac- 
tories when  any  stop  all  must  stop.  But 
our  antipodal  democracy  has  eyes  to  see 
that  adult  men,  too,  are  helpless  to  pro- 
tect themselves  from  the  oppressions  of 
those  who  can  give  or  take  away  that 
opportunity  of  employment  which  is  life. 
First  of  all  states  New  Zealand  has  de- 
creed that  capital  shall  not  exact  more 
than  eight  hours  for  a  day's  work.  The 
coal  miners  of  Pennsylvania  who  struck 
for  a  nine  hours  day,  had  they  been  cit- 
izens of  New  Zealand,  would  have  had 
the  eight  hours  day  without  even  the  ef- 
fort of  asking  their  employers  for  it.  It 
is  the  New  Zealanders'  civic  right. 
They  got  it  by  a  strike,  but  it  was  a 
strike  at  the  ballot  box. 

If  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
apologists  for  the  coal  mine  owners  may 
be  followed,  all  other  causes  of  the  war 
sink  into  nothingness  compared  with  the 
danger  of  recognizing  the  union  of  the 
men.  To  do  this  we  are  told  would 
make  their  leader  so  powerful  that  he 
could  name  the  next  President  of  the 
United  States  and  become  dictator  to 
this  President  and  all  the  rest  of  us. 
The  New  Zealand  democracy  sees  no 
danger  of  dictatorships  from  the  recog- 


670 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal    Wars. 


nition  of  trades  unions.  It  has  made 
the  encouragement  and  recognition  of 
trades  unions  part  of  the  public  policy 
of  the  state.  Indeed,  the  workingmen 
are  bribed  to  organize  themselves  into 
unions.  They  have  been  given  powers 
to  hold  property,  and  to  sue  members, 
not  possessed  by  unions  in  other  coun- 
tries. Greatest  of  all  these  inducements 
is  that  if  so  organized  the  workingman 
gets  as  a  right  that  arbitration  of  dis- 
putes, with  employers  for  which  else- 
where he  has  to  beg  or  fight,  and  usually 
in  vain.  New  Zealand  prevents  labor 
wars  by  a  multitude  of  democratic  inter- 
ventions to  forbid  economic  violence  by 
the  strong  upon  the  weak,  like  those  just 
mentioned,  which  make  it  unnecessary 
to  surrender  for  the  chance  to  work,  or 
to  strike  for  hours  and  recognition  of 
unions.  Crowning  all  these  interven- 
tions is  this  guarantee  of  arbitration. 

The  statement  given  out  by  the  presi- 
dent of  the  miners'  organization  shows 
that  the  real  cause  of  the  labor  war  in 
the  coal  country  was  the  refusal  of  the 
employers  —  the  railroads  and  coal  min- 
ing corporations  —  to  arbitrate.  The 
miners  made  no  hard  and  fast  demands. 
They  do  not  insist  upon  the  nine  hours 
day,  nor  the  recognition  of  the  unions, 
nor  twenty  per  cent  more  pay.  They 
ask  for  only  such  advantages  in  these 
particulars  as  they  may  be  found  enti- 
tled to  by  disinterested  referees.  If 
one  might  be  pardoned  the  word,  their 
terms  are  not  arbitrary  but  arbitration- 
ary.  Because  the  mine  owners  will  have 
no  compromise,  nothing  but  their  own 
will,  the  workmen  must  starve,  we  must 
freeze,  industry  must  be  converted  into 
a  desert  of  cold  chimneys  and  idle  men, 
our  bright  American  cities  must  take  the 
veil  of  London  smoke,  and  the  public 
peace  be  broken.  In  New  Zealand  it  is 
as  out  of  the  question  that  one  side  of 
a  labor  dispute  should  say,  "There  is 
nothing  to  arbitrate, "  as  that  a  man  ac- 
cused of  violation  of  law  or  breach  of 
contract  should  say  to  public  prosecutor 
or  private  claimant,  "There  is  nothing 


to  litigate."     Only  slaves  have  ears  for 
either  phrase. 

This  struggle  which  has  agitated  and 
injured  the  whole  of  our  country  for  so 
many  weeks  would  have  been  known  to 
the  public  of  the  southern  hemisphere 
probably  only  by  a  newspaper  para- 
graph if  by  so  much.  In  its  provision 
for  "  the  common  welfare  "  Parliament 
in  New  Zealand  has  so  far  safeguarded 
the  miners  by  laws  against  overwork,  ac- 
cidents, dangers,  payment  in  store  or- 
ders, refusal  to  recognize  their  unions, 
swindling  in  the  weighing  of  their  coal, 
in  deductions  for  slate  and  impurities, 
in  charges  for  powder,  and  like  familiar 
grievances,  that  practically  nothing  is 
left  to  differ  about  save  the  rate  of  pay. 

How  dramatic  the  contrast  between 
what  happens  among  us  and  that  which 
there  would  follow  such  a  difference 
about  wages  if  it  arose!  A  private 
conference  might  be  all;  that  failing, 
reference  to  the  district  Board  of  Con- 
ciliation ;  if  either  party  were  still  dis- 
satisfied, an  appeal  to  the  one  national 
Court  of  Arbitration.  A  few  weeks' 
work  of  committees ;  a  few  days  in  court 
for  the  witnesses  and  the  representatives 
of  the  unions  of  the  workmen  and  the 
capitalists ;  a  few  hours'  deliberation  for 
the  five  members  of  some  Board  of  Con- 
ciliation and  the  three  members  of  the 
Arbitration  Court.  No  riots,  no  troops, 
no  agitation  of  capitalists,  press,  or 
philanthropists.  Above  all,  no  famine 
among  the  people,  and  no  famine  of  in- 
dustry, for,  most  beneficent  provision 
of  all,  pending  this  appeal  to  arbitra- 
tion, work  must  go  on.  Laborers  are 
forbidden  to  strike,  employers  to  lock 
out,  for  the  purpose  of  evading  arbitra- 
tion, though  they  may  cease  for  any  oth- 
er reason.  The  peaceful  New  Zealand 
court-room  of  arbitration,  with  its  table, 
about  which  the  judges,  the  contestants, 
the  witnesses,  and  interested  citizens 
are  grouped,  is  a  lens  through  which  we 
Americans  can  look,  with  what  satisfac- 
tion we  may,  at  the  spectacle  we  make 
of  ourselves  as  "practical"  men. 


Australasian   Cures  for  Coal   Wars. 


671 


The  Board  of  Conciliation  and  the  Ar- 
bitration Court  have  found  no  more  dif- 
ficulty in  settling  the  questions  involved, 
however  intricate,  than  our  courts  find 
in  disentangling  the  complexities  of 
bankruptcies,  insurance,  railroad  receiv- 
erships, and  the  like.  The  spokesmen 
of  the  coal  mine  owners  of  Pennsylva- 
nia, explaining  the  points  of  difference 
with  the  men,  all  referring  practically 
to  wages  and  the  recognition  of  the 
union,  said  to  the  senators  of.  Pennsyl- 
vania, "  None  of  these  things  can  be  the 
subject  of  arbitration."  But  we  open 
the  volume  of  awards  under  the  New 
Zealand  arbitration  law  and  find  in  case 
after  case  in  the  coal  industry  that  the 
court  has  settled  all  "  these  things, "  — 
and  many  still  more  technical,  —  ques- 
tions of  pay  for  all  variety  of  work, 
"mining,"  "timbering,"  "headings," 
in  all  sorts  of  places  "  solid  workings, " 
" wet  places, "  " hot  places, "  "places  in 
faulty  coal, "  for  all  classes  of  labor,  and 
to  the  satisfaction  of  owners  and  miners. 
The  members  of  the  coal  companies  are 
prominent  among  the  New  Zealand  wit- 
nesses, quoted  by  the  Royal  Commission 
of  New  South  Wales  in  support  of  ar- 
bitration. A  number  of  the  first  cases 
referred  to  the  Arbitration  Court,  which 
only  a  few  weeks  ago  began  its  career 
in  Sydney,  were  issues  between  coal 
companies  and  their  miners,  and  several 
of  these  have  been  already  decided  and 
the  judgments  of  the  court  acquiesced 
in  by  "  all  parties, "  —  which  there  in- 
clude the  public.  The  workingmen  and 
the  capitalists  find  no  difficulty  in  ac- 
cepting the  decisions.  The  findings  are 
sometimes  for  the  men,  sometimes  for 
the  master,  and  both  acquiesce,  almost 
without  exception.  The  exceptional 
rebels  have  been  easily  fined  or  rebuked 
into  submission. 

"You  cannot  make  men  work  by 
law,"  was  the  cry  against  arbitration 
there  as  it  is  here.  The  law  does  not 
attempt  it.  But  Australasian  expe- 
rience is  a  brilliant  demonstration  that 
the  law  can  find  the  golden  mean  on 


which  both  sides  are  willing  to  work. 
Men  must  work,  capitalist  as  well  as 
laborer;  and  the  arbitration  law  can 
claim  to  have  been  more  successful  in 
keeping  both  at  work  than  the  violent 
method  of  private  war.  New  Zealand 
has  found  the  way  —  the  only  way  — 
"to  make  men  work  by  law;  "  it  offers 
them  an  escape  by  law  from  the  dead- 
locks and  conflicts  which  elsewhere  keep 
them  from  work. 

This  arbitration  is  not  "  compulsory  " 
in  any  sense  foreign  to  that  "  Anglo-Sax- 
on liberty  "  which  exists  by  such  com- 
pulsions as  taxation,  eminent  domain, 
conscription,  education,  and  sanitation. 
The  workingmen  of  America  reject  the 
procedure  of  Australasia  only  to  submit 
to  something  far  worse.  They  have  a 
compulsory  arbitration  much  more  odi- 
ous. The  defeat  of  strikers  by  injunc- 
tions often  entailing  imprisonment  has 
become  their  frequent  experience.  The 
Australasian  workingmen  think  a  judge 
—  even  if  a  "  capitalist  tool  "  —  who 
sits  in  an  arbitration  court,  where  by 
law  they  are  given  recognition,  hearing, 
facts,  publicity,  settlement,  and  protec- 
tion, all  in  full,  is  better  than  a  judge 
who  sits  in  a  star  chamber  dispensing 
government  by  injunction,  with  reserves 
of  gatling  guns  and  generals  on  horse- 
back just  outside  his  door. 

No  workingmen  can  be  summoned  to 
arbitrate  unless  they  have  formed  a 
union  and  registered  under  the  law  to 
bring  themselves  within  its  jurisdiction. 
If  they  wish  afterwards  to  withdraw 
they  can  do  so.  The  unions  must  be 
open  to  all,  and  then  in  New  Zealand 
by  the  usual  practice  of  the  court,  and 
in  New  South  Wales  by  the  law  itself, 
these  trades-unionists  are  given  prefer- 
ence of  employment  over  non-unionists. 

Employers  and  employees  may,  if 
they  wish,  establish  private  arbitration 
tribunals  of  their  own,  and  the  law 
makes  special  provision  for  this.  If  they 
would  rather  fight  than  eat,  as  many 
men  would,  they  may  even  agree  never 
to  call  one  another  into  the  Arbitration 


672 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal   Wars. 


Court,  and  then  they  can  strike  and  lock 
out  to  their  heart's  content  —  if  the 
heart  has  anything  to  do  with  such 
things.  The  state  in  New  Zealand  takes 
no  initiative  to  compel  resort  to  arbitra- 
tion, or  litigation,  as  South  Australia 
has  done.  It  provides  only  the  place 
where  and  the  way  how.  There  is  no 
compulsion  on  both  to  arbitrate.  But 
if  one  party  wants  to  arbitrate,  instead 
of  fighting,  the  other  must  come  into 
court.  New  South  Wales  in  following 
New  Zealand  has  gone  farther,  and  has 
given  the  state  the  right  to  call  the  com- 
batants in  labor  wars  into  court. 

The  decisions  have  not  all  been  in  fa- 
vor of  the  workmen,  though  most  of  them 
have  been  so,  as  the  times  and  wages 
with  them  have  been  steadily  improv- 
ing. Some  of  the  findings  have  gone 
heavily  against  labor,  but  it  has  always 
submitted.  This  seems  to  justify  the 
expectation  that  arbitration  will  stand 
the  test  of  hard  times,  too.  But  if  the 
new  institution  should  have  nothing  to 
its  credit  but  that  it  succeeded  in  re- 
adjusting the  relations  of  labor  and  cap- 
ital to  higher  and  better  terms  during 
the  past  seven  years  of  advancing  prices, 
it  would  deserve  to  be  considered  the 
best  investment  the  New  Zealand  demo- 
cracy has  made. 

The  recent  British  Trades-Union 
Congress  voted  down  a  resolution  for  ar- 
bitration on  the  ground  that  if  there 
were  arbitration  the  need  for  unions 
would  cease  and  they  would  die  of  in- 
anition. But  arbitration  has  wonder- 
fully stimulated  trades  unionism  in  Aus- 
tralasia. By  forming  a  union  the  work- 
men can  get  arbitration  as  a  right. 
Practically  every  trade  in  New  Zealand 
has  organized  under  the  law,  and  in  New 
South  Wales  unions  are  now  being 
formed  both  of  capitalists  and  laborers 
to  enjoy  this  new  right  of  freedom  from 
economic  violence  in  the  labor  bargain. 
The  employers  are  as  favorable  to  arbi- 
tration as  their  men,  for  by  it  they 
alone,  of  all  employers  in  the  world,  are 
free  from  cutthroat  competition  by  un- 


scrupulous rivals  who  cut  wages  in  order 
to  cut  prices,  and  they  can  make  contracts 
ahead  without  fear  of  strikes,  as  the 
awards  are  usually  made  to  run  for  two 
years,  and  bind  all  in  the  trade.  The 
Australasian  colonies  are  the  only  coun- 
tries where  the  workingmen  can  have 
their  representatives  received,  and  their 
case  fairly  heard,  and  their  living  wage 
enforced  as  a  right.  There,  only,  the 
supremacy  of  public  opinion,  which  else- 
where is  a  boast,  has  been  made  a  real- 
ity, for  there  only  has  public  opinion 
clothed  itself  with  the  powers  by  which 
it  can  learn  all  the  facts,  and  enforce  it- 
self. Employers,  clerks,  and  even  books 
can  be  brought  into  court  to  furnish  the 
information  necessary  for  a  just  and 
practical  decision. 

The  social  and  economic  success  of 
this  cure  for  labor  wars  is  beyond  ques- 
tion. During  his  recent  coronation  jour- 
ney Premier  Seddon,  of  New  Zealand, 
has  contradicted  in  England  and  else- 
where the  countless  canards  of  failure 
set  afloat  by  the  Irreconcilables  of  his 
country,  the  Tories  of  industry.  "Cap- 
ital is  satisfied,  labor  is  satisfied,"  he 
says.  The  London  Times,  which  never 
conceals  its  dislike  of  the  antipodal  de- 
mocracy which  casts  so  searching  a  light 
on  aristocratic  policy  at  home,  has  had 
to  say  recently  in  an  editorial :  — 

"  It  is  fair  to  the  authors  of  the  Con- 
ciliation and  Arbitration  Act  to  own 
that  all  the  evil  consequences  which  its 
adversaries  predicted  have  not  come  to 
pass,  and  that  employers  have  not  with- 
drawn their  capital  in  order  to  escape 
what  it  was  said  would  soon  become  in- 
tolerable tyranny." 

A  Royal  Commission  from  New  South 
Wales  in  1901  and  another  Royal  Com- 
mission from  Victoria  in  1902  have 
made  reports  speaking  of  the  results  in 
the  highest  terms.  The  Minister  for 
Labor  reports  that  the  demand  for  labor 
in  1902  and  the  growth  of  industry  are 
larger  than  ever,  and  the  statistics  show 
that  in  revenue,  manufactures,  com- 
merce, everything  the  statesman  counts, 


Australasian   Cures  for   Coal    Wars. 


673 


New  Zealand  is  more  prosperous  than 
before,  is  in  fact  the  most  prosperous 
country  in  the  world. 

The  cost  of  all  this  up  to  date  has 
been  $20, 000  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  Boards  of  Conciliation  and  the  Ar- 
bitration Court.  This  is  the  price  of 
seven  years  of  peace.  On  every  day  of 
these  seven  years  the  country  has  saved 
the  whole  cost  of  the  entire  period. 

From  New  Zealand  arbitration  by 
courts  with  powers  of  settlement  has 
spread  to  New  South  Wales  and  West- 
ern Australia,  and  in  the  modified  form 
of  Wages  Boards  to  Victoria,  which  is 
likely  to  adopt  it  fully  as  a  result  of  the 
favorable  verdict  of  its  recent  Royal 
Commission.  A  bill  for  an  arbitration 
court  has  also  been  introduced  into  the 
Tasmanian  Parliament.  South  Austra- 
lia was  the  first  colony  to  attempt  arbi- 
tration, but  its  law  has  been  inoperative 
for  reasons  which  have  been  avoided  by 
the  other  colonies. 

New  South  Wales  has  been  a  bloody 
ground  of  labor  wars.  It  is  the  richest 
and  most  important  of  the  Australasian 
colonies,  antagonistic  to  New  Zealand  as 
to  federation,  tariff,  and  general  policy. 
It  is  city  governed,  New  Zealand  is 
country  governed.  New  South  Wales 
is  free  trade,  New  Zealand  protection- 
ist. All  the  prepossessions  of  New  South 
Wales  would  be  against  any  imitation  of 
its  humble  island  neighbor.  Its  decision 
to  follow  New  Zealand's  lead  in  arbi- 
tration is  the  strongest  possible  indorse- 
ment this  could1  have  from  practical 
men.  The  statesmen  of  New  South 
Wales  expect  to  see  arbitration  succeed 
as  well  in  the  great  metropolis  of  Syd- 
ney as  in  the  more  modest  towns  of  New 
Zealand.  In  the  expansion  of  this  in- 
stitution from  one  commonwealth  to  an- 
other of  the  most  progressive  democracy 
of  our  race,  and  in  the  universal  scrutiny 
of  its  results  by  all  civilized  peoples,  the 
social  observer  can  hardly  doubt  that  he 
is  witnessing  the  evolution  of  a  new,  but 
permanent,  organ  of  our  social  life. 

Had  such  a  system  been  in  force  in 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  43 


the  United  States  we  would  have  saved 
besides  much  else  the  thousands  of  chil- 
dren and  of  old  people  who  will  die  this 
winter  in  New  York,  Boston,  Philadel- 
phia, Chicago,  and  in  all  our  Northern 
cities,  because  of  dear  coal.  The  preven- 
tion of  the  coal  mine  war  would  have 
been  only  a  minor  item  in  the  inventory 
of  benefits.  It  would  have  made  impossi- 
ble something  we  can  see  coming,  which 
will  be  infinitely  more  disastrous  and 
will  work  its  mischief  all  through  our 
life  for  many  years.  There  is  more  than 
one  sign  that  this  coal  strike  has  been 
forced  as  part  of  a  still  greater  strike 
against  the  public,  —  a  combination  of 
hard  and  soft  coal  interests,  to  accus- 
tom the  public  through  strike  scarcity 
to  a  higher  price  for  anthracite,  which 
will  never  again  be  as  cheap  as  before; 
to  force  bituminous  into  wider  use,  at 
the  sacrifice  of  individual  health  and 
municipal  beauty,  enhancing  its  price, 
also,  permanently ;  levying  many  addi- 
tional millions  a  year  more  for  tribute 
to  the  coal  monopolists,  and  adding  many 
hundreds  of  millions  in  stock  exchange 
valuations  to  the  fortunes  of  a  few  de- 
votees of  this  kind  of  "cooperation." 
There  was  no  such  "  loot  "  in  the  descent 
of  the  allied  Christian  powers  on  China 
as  in  the  conspiracy  against  the  life, 
property,  and  industry  of  us  all,  masked 
behind  this  attack  on  the  coal  miners  of 
Pennsylvania.  These  Poles,  Lithuani- 
ans, and  other  Slavs  in  Anthracite  were 
the  pickets  of  your  firesides,  as  well  as 
of  their  own,  and  of  your  liberties  in  the 
markets,  and  all  your  other  liberties, — 
for  the  liberties  are  all  near  relatives. 
You  forgot  it,  but  for  the  contributions 
you  did  not  make  to  their  strike  funds, 
for  the  help  you  did  not  give  their  plea 
for  just  settlement,  you  will  be  fined  in 
generations  to  come  on  every  fire  in  your 
homes  and  factories,  and  on  every  right. 
Had  the  American  democracy  but  the 
wit  and  virtue  of  its  brothers  of  Austra- 
lasia to  protect  the  right  of  the  miners 
to  arbitration,  it  would  have  protected 
itself  from  the  impending  possibility  of 


674 


Modern  Artistic  Handicraft. 


as  absolute  a  monopoly  of  its  fuel  as  that 
which  it  already  suffers  in  oil  and  steel, 
a  greater  calamity  than  any  other  that 
could  befall  except  a  monopoly  of  our 
food,  —  and  that  is  already  well  under 
way  as  every  housekeeper  knows. 

For  peace  in  the  world  of  labor,  which 


is  the  whole  world,  we  of  America  are 
building  armories  and  monopolies ;  our 
antipodal  brothers  of  New  Zealand,  New 
South  Wales,  Western  Australia,  South 
Australia,  Victoria,  are  building  court- 
rooms. Which  is  the  easier  and  wiser 
way  —  and  the  wealthier  ? 

Henry  Demarest  Lloyd. 


MODERN  ARTISTIC  HANDICRAFT. 


MUCH  has  been  said  of  the  lack  of 
artistic  merit  in  the  products  of  modern 
handicrafts,  and  many  efforts  at  im- 
provement have  been  made,  though  as 
yet  with  little  substantial  result.  Not- 
withstanding the  extensive  activities  of 
the  South  Kensington  establishment,  by 
which  the  British  government  hoped  to 
effect  far-reaching,  and  commercially 
profitable  reforms  in  the  so-called  in- 
dustrial arts,  the  Eastlake  Household 
Art  movement,  the  William  Morris 
movement,  and  various  other  corporate 
and  individual  enterprises,  it  is  begin- 
ning to  appear  that  little  real  improve- 
ment has  been  effected.  The  standard 
of  excellence  has  not  been  so  material- 
ly raised  as  was  expected,  and  much  of 
what  has  been  produced  as  a  result  of 
the  efforts  of  the  propagandists  of  re- 
form is  now  found  to  be  of  question- 
able merit. 

An  address  lately  published *  by  Mr. 
Arthur  A.  Gary,  the  president  of  The 
Society  of  Arts  and  Crafts  in  Boston, 
gives  promise  of  a  more  hopeful  move- 
ment in  seeking,  as  a  primary  condi- 
tion of  success,  to  find  the  fundamental 
obstacles  which  have  thus  far  stood  in 
the  way  of  reform.  Efforts  at  improve- 
ment consistently  maintained  in  the 
spirit  of  this  address  cannot  fail  to  ac- 
complish something  of  importance  in 
the  way  of  enlightenment  as  to  the  con- 

1  In  Handicraft,  a  monthly  periodical  issued 
by  the  Society  of  Arts  and  Crafts,  14  Somer- 
set Street,  Boston,  for  April,  1902. 


ditions  on  which  good  artistic  produc- 
tion must  rest,  though  to  bring  about 
these  conditions,  and  thus  to  effect  any 
general  improvement  of  the  arts,  must 
be  a  slow  process,  because  it  involves 
nothing  less  than  a  radical  change  in 
widely  prevailing  motives  and  desires. 
A  fundamental  weakness  of  most  of 
the  movements  hitherto  started  has  been 
that  they  have  not  been  based  on  a  just 
recognition  of  what  is  involved  in  artis- 
tic reform.  Even  the  less  remote  con- 
ditions of  success  have  not  been  clearly 
seen.  A  misconception  of  what  is  pro- 
perly meant  by  artistic  design  has  pre- 
vailed. It  has  been  conceived  too  much 
as  something  abstract  and  extraneous 
which  may  be  applied  to  objects  of  use 
in  order  to  beautify  them.  Thus  the 
term  "applied  design"  has  come  into 
vogue.  But  if  there  be  a  sense  in  which 
it  may  be  correct  to  speak  of  design  as 
applied,  there  is  a  fundamental  mis- 
conception involved  in  the  general  idea. 
The  extent  to  which  good  design  in  hand- 
icrafts is  connected  with  good  crafts- 
manship is  lost  sight  of.  This  is  apt 
to  be  the  case  under  our  confused  mod- 
ern teaching,  even  when  the  designer 
and  the  craftsman  are  one  and  the  same 
person.  It  is,  of  course,  still  more  so 
when  they  are  not.  The  idea  of  ap- 
plied design  has  naturally  grown  out 
of  the  modern  system  of  division  of  la- 
bor. But  this  system  is  injurious,  if 
not  wholly  destructive,  to  artistic  design. 
There  can  hardly  be  any  complete  di- 


Modern  Artistic  Handicraft. 


675 


vision  of  labor  between  the  designer  and 
the  manual  worker  in  handicrafts  with- 
out disastrous  results.  The  designer 
who  is  not  a  craftsman  not  only  lacks 
the  practical  basis  of  apprehension  that 
is  needful,  but  he  becomes  sophisticat- 
ed, and  too  much  affects  design.  The 
craftsman  must  be,  for  the  most  part, 
himself  the  designer;  but  he  must  be 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  his  craft,  and 
have  regard  to  it  primarily.  If  he 
thinK  too  much  of  design,  and  strive 
for  novelty,  he  will  surely  go  wrong. 
He  must  be  a  modest  worker,  and  find 
pleasure  in  doing  excellent  work  for  use. 
He  must  be  governed  by  a  controlling 
sense  of  fitness,  and  realize  that  no  de- 
sign can  be  good  which  is  incompatible 
with  use,  or  which  violates  the  princi- 
ples of  constructive  propriety. 

A  natural  part  of  the  misconception 
of  design  as  something  to  be  applied  is 
the  notion  that  the  faculty  of  it  may  be 
acquired  by  a  study  of  rules.  But  the 
principles  of  design  cannot  be  formu- 
lated and  applied  by  rule.  Design  is 
not  a  mechanical  application  of  formu- 
lae, nor  is  it  a  science.  It  is  a  fine  art. 
There  are,  indeed,  certain  general  prin- 
ciples underlying  it  that  have  been  de- 
duced from  practice,  approved  by  expe- 
rience, and  confirmed  by  philosophical 
considerations,  which  may  be  intelligi- 
bly stated,  and  may,  in  some  measure, 
quicken  apprehension  where  it  has  not 
already  been  consciously  awakened.  But 
a  knowledge  of  these  will  not  make  a 
designer.  The  faculty  of  artistic  de- 
sign is  a  faculty  of  the  creative  imagi- 
nation. It  is  a  supremely  logical  fac- 
ulty, but  it  involves  a  great  deal  more 
than  logic,  and  is  primarily  animated 
and  directed  by  that  subtle  feeling 
which  no  science  can  grasp  or  explain. 

There  is  little  need  for  original  de- 
sign in  the  forms  of  most  objects  of  use. 
The  best  shapes  for  utensils  and  house- 
hold furniture  were  evolved  long  ago. 
In  the  making  of  these  objects  there  is 
slight  occasion  even  for  what  is  called 
adaptation.  For  the  form  of  a  spoon, 


a  bowl,  or  a  pitcher,  better  models  al- 
ready exist  than  any  others  that  the 
most  clever  designer  can  invent.  While 
the  functions  and  materials  of  things  re- 
main unchanged  the  craftsman  will  thus 
have  little  need  to  seek  new  forms.  Let 
him  learn  to  appreciate  the  best  exist- 
ing forms,  and  to  reproduce  these  in  the 
best  manner.  The  best  forms  are  those 
which  best  serve  their  intended  uses.  A 
spoon  must  be  convenient  to  handle,  its 
bowl  must  have  the  right  angle,  its  han- 
dle must  not  be  too  heavy  for  conven- 
ience, nor  too  light  for  strength.  It 
must  expand,  and  be  flattened,  for  com- 
fortable grasp,  and  the  best  form  for  the 
narrow  shaft  connecting  the  handle  with 
the  bowl  will  be  narrow  transversely, 
and  thick  the  other  way  to  stiffen  its 
delicate  leverage.  The  meeting  of  these 
conditions  alone  will  go  far  to  give  the 
object  grace,  and  if  the  craftsman  have 
an  eye  for  beauty  of  line  and  surface, 
such  as  may  be  caught  from  the  living 
curves  and  subtle  modelings  of  leaves 
and  stems,  he  will  naturally  impart  to 
his  implement  some  corresponding  grace 
and  refinement.  A  bowl  must  stand 
firmly,  therefore  it  must  be  relatively 
large  at  its  base.  But  for  convenience 
its  greatest  diameter  must  be  at  its  rim. 
For  its  outline  in  elevation  a  curve  of 
double  flexure  is  unnecessary,  and  may 
be  inconvenient.  The  best  outline  for 
use  is  a  simple  convex  curve,  to  which 
the  craftsman  may,  if  he  will,  give  a 
beauty  like  that  of  the  sea  urchin.  The 
essential  qualities  of  a  pitcher  are  that 
it  stand  firmly,  that  it  balance  well  in 
the  hand,  and  that  it  pour  well.  It 
must  therefore  have  a  firm  base,  its  han- 
dle must  extend  well  down  on  its  side 
to  give  an  easy  fulcrum,  and  its  spout 
must  be  so  formed  as  to  give  proper 
direction  to  the  stream  in  pouring.  Its 
opening  ought  to  be  large  enough  for  the 
insertion  of  the  hand,  and  its  surfaces, 
within  and  without,  should  be  smooth 
enough  for  facility  of  cleansing.  Most 
convenient  and  most  graceful  forms  of 
all  such  objects  were  long  ago  produced, 


676 


Modern  Artistic  Handicraft. 


yet  inappropriate  and  awkward  forms 
are  more  common  in  modern  use  than 
good  ones.  Now  the  bad  forms  that 
prevail  are  the  result  of  misdirected  ef- 
forts at  original  design  largely  on  the 
part  of  men  who  are  not  craftsmen,  and 
have  little  knowledge  of  craft.  Such 
designers  seek  for  novelties  of  form  and 
ornamentation  without  regard  to  adap- 
tation to  use,  with  the  inevitable  result 
that  every  departure  from  the  standard 
forms,  long  since  attained,  has  contrib- 
uted to  make  the  objects  produced  both 
unhandy  and  ungraceful. 

Within  the  limits  of  the  best  estab- 
lished forms  there  is  room  in  every  ob- 
ject for  countless  variations  of  line  and 
surface,  such  as  will  naturally  be  made, 
without  much  conscious  effort  at  origi- 
nality, by  the  intelligent  workman  who 
has  acquired  an  artistic  sense  of  form. 
Thus  the  proportions  and  outlines  of  the 
finest  Greek  amphorae  are  endlessly  va- 
ried, no  two  examples  having  precisely 
the  same  shape,  though  the  general  stan- 
dard form  is  maintained  in  all.  These 
variations  are,  of  course,  in  part  due  to 
accidental  irregularities  inherent  in  all 
hand  work ;  but  even  these  have  a  charm 
when  they  come  from  the  hand  of  a  work- 
man of  artistic  feeling  and  skill. 

The  refinements  which  distinguish  the 
most  beautiful  objects  of  artistic  work- 
manship are  not  striking  to  the  common 
eye.  Their  varieties  do  not  constitute 
conspicuous  novelties  of  design.  The 
good  workman  does  not  strive  for  nov- 
elty, or  seek  applause.  He  finds  satis- 
faction and  pleasure  in  merely  excellent 
production  on  well-established  lines. 
There  has  been  too  little  appreciation 
of  this  on  the  part  of  those  who  have 
striven  for  artistic  reform  in  the  indus- 
trial arts.  They  have,  though  without 
intending  it,  encouraged  a  false  ambi- 
tion which  has  made  the  designer  vain 
of  his  art  and  forgetful  of  his  craft. 

One  of  the  immediate  causes  which 
have  induced  this  condition,  and  retard- 
ed progress,  is  the  lack  of  discrimina- 
tion in  the  use  of  models.  This  has  been 


conspicuous  in  the  methods  adopted  in 
the  English  government  schools.  The 
promiscuous  collections  of  bricabrac 
gathered  in  the  South  Kensington  Mu- 
seum include  multitudes  of  objects  which 
have  no  merit  as  works  of  art,  and  many 
among  those  which  have  merit  in  some 
points  embody,  at  the  same  time,  vices 
of  design  that  render  them  pernicious  as 
models.  The  credulous  artisan,  find- 
ing these  things  set  before  him  as  guides 
to  his  taste,  accepts  them  as  authorita- 
tive, and  imitates  their  defects.  Such 
objects  are  largely  those  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance.  Objects  of  use  have  rare- 
ly been  designed  with  less  regard  to 
propriety  and  convenience  of  form,  or 
temperance  of  enrichment,  than  those 
of  the  Italian  workmen  of  that  period. 
The  ornamental  art  of  the  Renaissance, 
with  all  its  delicate  refinement,  is  re- 
markable for  lack  of  fitness  in  all 
branches  of  design  in  works  of  utility, 
from  architecture  down  to  the  lowest 
handicrafts. 

For  instance,  I  have  before  me  a 
photograph  of  a  silver  ewer  of  the  school 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini.  Its  general  out- 
line is  graceful  in  the  abstract,  being 
one  which,  with  many  minor  variations, 
characterizes  a  large  class  of  Greek 
vases.  But  the  neck  is  so  small,  and  the 
shoulder  so  pronounced,  that  the  vessel 
would  have  to  be  completely  inverted  to 
empty  it.  The  ornamental  handle  is 
shaped  and  adjusted  with  no  respect  to 
facility  of  grasp  or  ease  of  pouring.  It 
rises  from  the  top  of  the  shoulder,  close 
to  the  neck,  so  that  it  would  require  a 
painful  effort  to  tilt  the  jug  when  filled. 
It  is  rendered  further  difficult  to  handle 
by  very  salient  ornaments  which  leave 
no  portion  smooth  enough  for  comfort 
to  the  hand.  A  silver  cup  with  han- 
dles, of  the  same  school  of  workmen, 
has  a  rim  which  flares  so  that  it  must 
be  difficult  to  drink  from,  and  the  han- 
dles, here  also,  are  armed  with  project- 
ing points  of  ornament  painful  to  grasp. 
Of  the  numerous  silver  plates  by  Cellini 
and  his  followers,  few,  if  any,  could  be 


Modern  Artistic  Handicraft. 


677 


made  serviceable  on  account  of  the  or- 
naments in  high  relief  with  which  their 
surfaces  are  loaded.  The  forms  of  these 
objects  are  not  always  beautiful  even  in 
the  abstract;  but  in  respect  to  adapta- 
tion to  use  they  are  often  ridiculous,  and 
as  models  they  can  be  only  stumbling- 
blocks  to  the  craftsman. 

In  some  classes  of  objects  the  details 
of  form  are  not  so  strictly  governed  by 
adaptation  to  use,  and  there  is  more  room 
for  a  free  play  of  independent  artistic 
fancy.  In  this  category  are  things  that 
do  not  have  to  be  much  handled :  lamps, 
candelabra,  firedogs,  picture  frames, 
etc.  Adaptation  to  use  is,  of  course, 
imperative  in  these  also,  but  the  intro- 
duction of  many  details  of  a  purely  or- 
namental character  may  not  be  incon- 
sistent with  such  use  as  they  subserve. 
The  value  of  these  details  will  depend 
on  their  merits  considered  as  abstract 
ornamental  design.  But  aberrations  of 
design  in  the  abstract  are  less  easy  to 
demonstrate  than  infractions  of  the 
principles  of  utility,  since  they  consist 
in  violations  of  laws  which  are,  for  the 
most  part,  too  subtle  for  analysis.  The 
more  general  principles  of  symmetry, 
harmony,  and  measure  may,  however, 
serve  as  a  basis  of  criticism  as  far  as 
they  go,  and  there  are  some  obvious 
principles  of  congruity  which  cannot  be 
violated  without  offense,  but  which  of- 
ten are  violated  in  the  handicrafts  of 
the  Renaissance.  For  instance,  I  have 
another  photograph,  of  an  ecclesiasti- 
cal candelabrum  by  Fra  Giovanni  of 
Verona  that  is  open  to  objection  in  its 
purely  ornamental  forms,  though  in  gen- 
eral adaptation  to  its  function  no  fault 
can  be  found  with  it.  The  function  of 
such  a  thing  is  merely  to  hold  a  great 
candle  firmly  at  a  required  height.  A 
tall  shaft  on  a  firm  base  is  all  that  is 
needed  for  this  use,  and  the  object  in 
question  has  these  parts  properly  ad- 
justed. The  shaft,  however,  is  orna- 
mented improperly.  It  has,  indeed,  a  se- 
ries of  swelling  and  contracting  surfaces, 
and  salient  circular  rings  and  mould- 


ings, which,  though  of  no  great  beauty, 
have  some  merits  of  line  and  proportion, 
and  are  well  enough  in  their  way ;  but 
this  appropriate  scheme  of  embellish- 
ment is  broken  just  above  the  middle 
by  a  miniature  architectural  composi- 
tion in  the  form  of  an  octagonal  taber- 
nacle resting  on  the  backs  of  diminutive 
sphinxes  ranged  on  the  circumference 
of  one  of  the  salient  rings.  This  fea- 
ture, badly  designed  in  itself,  is  inap- 
propriate. To  fashion  a  sarcophagus, 
or  a  reliquary,  in  the  form  of  a  dimin- 
utive architectural  design,  as  was  done 
in  ancient  times,  and  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  may  be  well  enough.  The  forms 
of  these  objects  lend  themselves  to  such 
ornamental  treatment ;  but  to  work  an 
architectural  scheme  around  the  shaft 
of  a  candelabrum  is  incongruous. 

In  these,  and  in  many  other  ways, 
the  handicrafts  of  the  Renaissance  em- 
body vices  of  design  which  unfit  them 
to  be  taken  by  the  modern  artisan  as 
exemplary  models  for  imitation.  It 
does  not,  however,  follow  that  no  ad- 
vantage may  be  derived  from  the  study 
of  them.  These  remarks  are  intended 
to  show  only  that  all  such  models  should 
be  studied  with  intelligence  and  discrim- 
ination which  have  not  been  enough  in- 
culcated in  the  recent  efforts  at  artistic 
reform  in  handicrafts.  The  craftsman 
needs  to  exercise  a  critical  habit,  to  gath- 
er from  models  their  excellent  qualities 
which  may  be  suited  to  his  uses,  and  to 
reject  what  is  unsuitable.  The  primary 
guides  to  the  formation  of  such  a  critical 
habit  are  a  thorough  knowledge  of  his 
craft,  and  the  true  spirit  of  a  craftsman, 
which  will  prompt  him  to  work  with  a 
controlling  regard  for  the  uses  of  the 
objects  that  he  makes.  But  the  causes 
of  failure  thus  far  considered  are  not 
the  fundamental  causes.  They  do  not 
wholly  explajn  the  general  lack  of  ar- 
tistic excellence  in  handicrafts.  There 
are  causes  back  of  these  which  must  be 
reached  before  we  can  gain  a  solid  work- 
ing basis  for  general  improvement  in  de- 
sign. Mr.  Gary,  in  his  admirable  ad- 


678 


Modern  Artistic  Handicraft. 


dress  already  alluded  to,  finds  them  in 
the  commercial  spirit  of  our  time.  This 
is  an  important  discovery.  Twenty -five 
years  ago,  when  efforts  were  making  to 
introduce  the  South  Kensington  meth- 
ods as  a  means  of  improving  industrial 
arts  on  the  artistic  side,  the  commercial 
spirit  was  appealed  to.  The  pecuniary 
advantage  that  it  was  hoped  would  ac- 
crue was  then  held  up  as  a  motive  for 
supporting  the  proposed  measures  for 
public  instruction  in  design.  But  Mr. 
Gary  is  certainly  right  in  affirming  that 
the  commercial  spirit,  even  when  most 
honorable,  can  have  no  place  as  a  mo- 
tive in  artistic  production.  As  a  mo- 
tive it  is  an  obstacle  that  is  sure  to  de- 
feat improvement. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  the  commercial 
spirit  alone  that  the  root  of  the  trouble 
lies.  The  prevalence  of  the  commercial 
spirit  does  not  wholly  explain  why  the 
better  things  which  a  few  exceptionally 
able  craftsmen  produce  do  not  readily 
find  a  market.  The  commercial  spirit 
is  only  a  part,  or  a  consequence,  of 
other  causes  which  have  their  root  in 
popular  conditions  giving  rise  to  a  rest- 
less desire  for  novelty  and  show,  with 
little  respect  for  real  excellence  of  any 
kind.  Thus  with  the  growth  and  diffu- 
sion of  material  resources  extensive  de- 
mands have  arisen  for  merely  specious 
forms  of  art.  While  such  demands  pre- 
vail the  commercial  spirit  will  naturally 
seek  profit  in  supplying  them,  and  the 
efforts  of  a  few  aesthetically  inclined 
people  will  count  for  little.  We  can- 
not hope  to  reform  the  arts  from  the 
outside.  Reform  in  art,  as  in  life, 
must  come  from  within.  To  improve 
our  material  surroundings  it  is  neces- 
sary first  to  reform  our  motives  and  de- 
sires. The  works  of  our  hands  must 
ever  be  the  result  and  expression  of  our 
essential  character. 

Before  the  fine  arts  can  materially 
improve  among  us  we  have  got  to  care 
more  for  them.  A  genuine  and  an  ac- 
tive craving  for  beauty,  and  a  recog- 
nition of  its  meaning  and  worth,  must 


prevail.  To  such  craving  the  artistic 
powers  of  the  people  will  promptly  re- 
spond, as  they  do  to  whatever  we 
strongly  desire  and  strive  for.  There 
is  no  lack  of  latent  artistic  capacity 
among  us,  but  there  is  a  woeful  lack  of 
artistic  intelligence  due  to  neglect  and 
indifference.  Our  absorbing  interests 
and  successful  achievements  are  in  other 
directions.  Men  always  do  best  what 
the  largest  numbers  of  the  most  intelli- 
gent among  them  care  most  for.  Our 
predominant  interests  are  plainly  not  at 
present  in  the  direction  of  the  fine  arts. 
The  spirit  of  scientific  investigation,  of 
mechanical  works,  and  of  commercial 
enterprises,  all  good  and  important  in 
themselves,  is  the  controlling  spirit  of 
the  air  we  breathe.  This,  and  the  rest- 
less habit  which  the  too  strenuous  pur- 
suit of  material  interests  engenders,  the 
superficial  tastes,  and  seeking  for  nov- 
elties which  are  the  natural  concomi- 
tants of  such  conditions,  make  it  im- 
possible for  genuine  artistic  apprehen- 
sions, and  the  sense  of  artistic  needs, 
to  gain  any  large  foothold.  Thus  into 
the  complex  of  our  modern  life  in- 
terest in  the  fine  arts  enters  as  yet  so 
subordinately  that  it  does  not  percepti- 
bly influence  our  general  ideas  and  ac- 
tivities. Thrust  aside  from  a  foremost 
place,  the  fine  arts  among  us  are  dis- 
honored and  stunted ;  and  it  is  no  won- 
der that  in  handicrafts  wrought  for  the 
larger  public,  meretricious  design,  suit- 
ed to  the  popular  demand  for  the  spe- 
cious, takes  the  place  of  that  which 
should  be  an  expression  of  genuine  and 
disciplined  artistic  feeling. 

What,  then,  may  those  of  us  who  care 
for  good  design  in  handicrafts  hope  un- 
der existing  conditions  to  effect  in  the 
way  of  reform  ?  To  say  nothing  of  the 
matters  which  concern  the  spiritual  and 
moral  foundation  of  the  fine  arts,  we 
may  hope  to  induce  among  the  thought- 
ful a  justly  critical  spirit  which  shall 
lead  them  to  seek  what  is  excellent  in 
household  belongings.  The  acceptance 
of  the  specious  in  the  adornment  of  ob- 


My   Cookery  Boohs. 


679 


jects  of  use  is  largely  from  thoughtless- 
ness, often  on  the  part  of  otherwise  in- 
telligent and  thoughtful  people.  The 
exercise  of  a  discriminating  spirit,  even 
by  a  few,  will  at  once  create  a  demand 
which,  though  limited,  may  support  and 
encourage  the  small  number  of  artistic 
craftsmen  who  already  have  a  right  con- 
ception of  their  art,  and  a  genuine  as- 
piration for  excellence;  but  who,  Mr. 
Gary  tells  us,  are  now  unable  to  find  a 
market  for  their  wares.  We  must  seek 
to  awaken  and  maintain  among  artistic 
workmen  the  truest  ideals.  Affecta- 
tions, vagaries,  and  extravagances  of 
every  kind  must  be  discouraged,  and 
sound,  suitable,  substantial,  and  finished 
work  required.  Every  kind  of  simu- 
lation and  cheapness  got  by  hasty  and 
imperfect  execution  must  be  repressed. 
There  is  no  greater  obstacle  to  artistic 


progress  than  that  which  lies  in  the 
cheapening  of  things  by  flimsiness  of 
make.  The  common  saying  of  the  dealer 
that  a  thing  is  good  for  its  price  ex- 
presses an  idea  that  is  hostile  to  excel- 
lence. A  thing  is  not  good  from  an  ar- 
tistic point  of  view  if  it  be  not  the  best 
that  can  be  produced  at  any  price. 

In  criticism  we  ought  not  to  be  too 
confident  of  our  judgments  of  artistic 
excellence.  We  have  all  been  too  long 
surrounded  by  false  aims,  and  spurious 
production,  to  completely  free  ourselves 
at  once  from  the  habits  of  mind  they 
have  induced.  We  must  be  on  our 
guard  against  crotchets  to  which  all  re- 
formers are  prone.  We  should  realize 
that  with  the  best  intentions  we  may 
make  mistakes;  but  our  mistakes  will 
correct  themselves  as  we  persistently 
seek  for  uncompromising  excellence. 
Charles  H.  Moore.  • 


MY  COOKERY  BOOKS.1 


III. 


IT  is  when  I  look  at  my  Latin  books 
that  I  am  most  convinced  of  my  sincer- 
ity as  collector.  My  English  books  I 
can  read  and  enjoy.  But  my  pleasure 
in  these  old  vellum -covered  quartos  and 
octavos,  printed  in  a  language  I  can- 
not understand,  is  purely  bibliographi- 
cal. Were  their  pages  blank,  my  profit 
as  reader  could  be  no  less.  But  with- 
out them,  my  pride  as  collector  would 
not  be  so  great. 

They  are  not  many,  or  it  would  be 
nearer  the  truth  to  say  they  are  very 
few.  But  these  few  are  of  rare  inter- 
est, and  at  least  one  would  satisfy  the 
collector  of  Early  Printed  Books.  In- 
deed, since  I  have  been  collecting,  I  be- 
gin to  believe  that  the  real  achievement 
of  the  Renaissance  was  not  the  discov- 
ery of  the  world  and  man,  as  historians 
fancy,  but  the  discovery  of  the  kitchen, 


so  promptly  were  cookery  books  put  on 
the  market.  The  earliest,  Platina's  De 
Honesta  Voluptate  (1470),  I  cannot 
mention  without  a  sigh,  remembering 
how  once  at  Sotheby's  I  came  within 
a  miserable  pound  of  having  it  for  my 
own,  —  such  an  exceptionally  fine  copy 
too !  However,  I  take  what  comfort  I 
can  from  Apicius  Coelius,  which  I  have 
in  two  editions.  One,  the  first,  is  only 
sixteen  years  younger  than  the  Platina ; 
and  1486  is  a  respectable  date,  as  these 
matters  go.  When  the  first  article  on 
My  Cookery  Books  was  printed  in  the 
Atlantic,  I  had  only  the  1498  edition, 
my  copy,  as  I  described  it,  quite  per- 
fect save  for  the  absence  of  the  title- 
page.  For  long  I  tried  to  convince 
myself  that  this  absence  was  welcome 
as  one  of  the  marks  by  which  the  Early 
Printed  Book  may  be  known.  Besides, 

1  See  Atlantic  for  June,  1901,  p.  789,  and 
also  for  August,  1902,  p.  221. 


680 


My   Cookery  'Books. 


I  could  see  no  need  for  a  title-page, 
when  there,  on  the  last  page,  was  the 
name  of  the  printer,  and  the  date,  while 
the  space  left  for  the  capital  letter  at 
the  beginning  of  every  division  was  still 
another  mark  as  distinctive  of  the  primi- 
tive press,  though  1498  might  be  a  little 
late  to  look  for  either  one  or  the  other. 
But  M.  Vicaire  and  his  Bibliography 
refused  to  leave  me  in  my  comfortable 
ignorance.  The  1498  edition,  when 
perfect, has  a  title-page;  one,  moreover, 
with  a  fine  printer's  mark,  —  an  angel 
holding  a  sphere.  The  curious  may  be 
referred  to  the  example  at  the  Biblio- 
theque  Nationale  in  Paris.  But  not 
even  M.  Vicaire  can  put  me  out  of  coun- 
tenance when  it  comes  to  my  first  edi- 
tion,1 printed  by  Bernardino  of  Venice. 
That,  any  way,  is  in  order :  title-page  in 
place,  the  spaces,  all  except  one,  filled 
with  decorative  capitals  by  the  wood- 
cutter; the  pages  untorn  and  unsoiled, 
only  mellowed  by  time  to  a  rich  yellow ; 
here  and  there,  on  the  margin,  a  note, 
and  once  some  verses,  in  beautiful  old 
handwriting;  the  binding  of  vellum. 
I  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  it  is  more  complete  than  any 
that  has  come  in  M.  Vicaire 's  way. 
On  the  title-page  there  are  three  ti- 
tles :  Apicii  Celii  de  re  Coquinaria  libri 
decem ;  Suetonius  Traquillus  De  Claris 
Gramaticis;  Suetonius  Traquillus  De 
Claris  Rhetoribus.  M.  Vicaire  calls  at- 
tention to  the  fact  that  the  two  trea- 
tises under  the  heading  Suetonius,  etc., 
do  not  appear.  But  in  my  copy  they 
do,  combined  in  one  essay.  And  when- 
ever I  am  discouraged  by  the  condition 
of  some  of  my  rare  books  into  asking 
myself  whether,  after  all,  they  are  any- 
thing more  than  Mr.  Lang's  "  twopenny 
treasures, "  a  glance  at  the  1486  Apicius 
restores  my  confidence  in  my  collection. 
When  I  consider  what  the  mere  pos- 
session of  the  book  means  to  me,  it 
seems  unreasonable  to  waste  my  time 

1  I  speak  of  it  as  the  first  out  of  deference 
to  the  authorities.  Judging1  the  books  by  their 
appearance,  I  should  say  the  1498  edition  was 


in  regretting  the  further  pleasure  I 
might  have,  if  only  I  could  read  it. 
But  what  a  triumph,  if  I  could  decide 
the  vexed  question  as  to  whether  one 
of  the  three  men  who,  in  the  days  of 
Roman  Emperors,  made  the  name  Api- 
cius the  synonym  for  gluttony,  was  the 
author,  and,  if  so,  which ;  or  whether, 
as  Dr.  Martin  Lister  and  Dr.  Warner 
agreed  over  a  hundred  years  ago,  the 
book  was  the  work  of  a  fifteenth-cen- 
tury student  of  cookery  who  borrowed 
the  ancient  name  to  advertise  his  own 
performance.  And  what  a  satisfaction 
if  I  could  demolish  the  irreverent  crit- 
ics who  declare  the  receipts  to  be  full 
of  "garbage,"  —  of  vile  concoctions, 
with  assafcetida  for  motif!  The  few 
words  I  can  understand  —  asparagus, 
carrots,  wine,  oil,  melons,  pork  -^— 
sound  innocent,  even  appetizing.  But 
to  argue  from  such  meagre  premises 
would  be  about  as  wise  as  to  criticise  a 
picture,  in  Morellian  fashion,  after  see- 
ing it  only  in  the  photograph. 

I  have  also  Dr.  Lister's  edition,  with 
numerous  notes :  not  the  first  published 
in  London  in  1705,  but  the  second, 
printed  in  Amsterdam  four  years  later, 
limited  to  a  hundred  copies.  This  is 
the  book  which  set  Dr.  King  to  writing 
his  Art  of  Cookery  in  imitation  of  Hor- 
ace, and  filled  scholars,  who  could  not 
secure  it  for  themselves,  with  despair 
lest  they  might  be  dining  in  defiance  of 
classical  rule.  The  notes  are  so  many 
that  they  turn  the  thin  little  old  quarto 
into  a  fat  octavo.  For  their  learning, 
as  they  too  are  in  Latin,  I  must  take 
the  word  of  Dr.  Lister's  admirers. 
But,  without  reading  them,  I  know  they 
are  sympathetic.  Dr.  Lister  was  not 
only  physician  to  Queen  Anne,  but  her 
adviser  in  the  Art  of  Eating,  and  it  was 
his  privilege  to  inspire  the  indigestions 
it  became  his  duty  to  cure.  The  fron- 
tispiece calls  for  no  interpreter,  though 
the  scrupulous  housekeeper  might  think 

far  the  earlier.  Certainly  it  is  the  first  with  a 
date,  and,  I  am  happy  to  say,  is  excessively 
rare. 


My   Cookery  Books. 


681 


it  needs  an  apologist.  It  shows  a  kitch- 
en with  poultry,  fruit,  and  vegetables 
strewn  over  the  floor  as  none  but  the 
artist  would  care  to  see  them,  and 
cooks,  in  the  scantiest  drapery,  posing 
in  the  midst  of  the  confusion;  prom- 
inent in  the  foreground,  a  Venetian 
plaque  exactly  like  one  on  my  dining- 
room  mantelpiece,  or  for  that  matter 
like  dozens  shining  and  glittering  from 
the  darkness  of  the  cheap  little  fishshops 
of  Venice. 

With  these  three  editions  of  Apicius, 
I  am  content.  I  know  ten  are  duly 
entered  in  the  pages  of  M.  Vicaire, 
but  when  a  book  figures  so  seldom  in 
sale  rooms  and  catalogues,  I  think  I  am 
to  be  envied  my  good  fortune  in  owning 
it  at  all. 

My  next  Latin  work  is  De  Re  Ciba- 
ria,  by  Bruyerin,  which  I  have  in  the 
first  edition,  a  thick,  podgy  octavo,  pub- 
lished at  Lyons  by  Sebastian  Honorat 
in  1560.  A  more  severe  and  solid  page 
of  type  I  have  never  seen.  The  quota- 
tions from  Horace  or  Virgil,  breaking 
the  solidity,  seem  like  indiscretions ; 
an  air  of  undue  frivolity  is  given  when, 
toward  the  end,  the  division  into  short 
chapters  results  in  two,  three,  and  even 
four  initial  letters  on  a  single  page; 
while  a  capital  N,  inserted  sideways, 
and  overlooked  by  author,  printer,  and 
proofreader,  is  a  positive  relief  as  the 
one  sign  of  human  weakness  in  all  those 
eleven  hundred  and  twenty-nine  solemn 
pages.  Bruyerin  was  a  learned  physi- 
cian who  translated  Averroes  and  Avi- 
cenna,  and  who  was  sufficiently  in  favor 
at  court  to  attend  those  suppers  of 
Francis  I.,  which,  he  explains,  were 
served  by  Theologians,  Philosophers,  and 
Doctors.  If  it  was  from  this  company 
he  derived  his  theory  of  food,  it  is 
alarming  to  consider  the  consequences 
to  his  contemporaries.  In  any  case, 
his  book,  to  look  at,  is  the  most  impres- 
sive in  my  library.  •  have  also  a  grace- 
ful quarto,  called  Juris  Evidentiae  De- 
monstratio  in  Materia  Alimentarum  et 
Sumptuum  Litis,  by  Francesco  Maria 


Cevoli,  Florence,  1703,  omitted  from  all 
bibliographies  of  cookery  books.  But  as 
it  is  concerned  indirectly  with  nourish- 
ment, it  seems  to  me  eligible.  Besides, 
it  has  many  graces  of  outward  form  that 
appeal  to  the  book  lover,  —  a  pleasant 
page  well  spaced  and  well  printed,  old 
paper  mellowed  and  toned  by  years,  a 
vellum  binding  ingeniously  patched. 

I  may  as  well  admit  at  once  that  un- 
fortunate gaps  occur  not  only  in  my 
Latin,  but  in  all  my  foreign  sections. 
Naturally,  one's  spoils  are  richest  in 
one's  own  country.  When  I  travel  on 
the  Continent  I  keep  my  eyes  open,  and 
I  receive  many  foreign  catalogues.  But 
that  is  not  quite  the  same  as  being  con- 
tinually on  the  spot.  After  my  Eng- 
lish books,  my  Italian  are  the  most  nu- 
merous, because  mine  is  the  rare  good 
fortune  of  having  in  Italy  a  friend  who 
is  as  eager  to  collect  for  me  as  I  am  to 
collect  for  myself.  Mr.  Charles  God- 
frey Leland,  who  lives  in  Florence,  has 
for  several  years  haunted  the  old  book- 
shops and  barrows  there  in  my  behalf, 
and  to  him  I  owe  an  imposing  shelf  of 
vellum-covered  volumes,  the  titles  of 
many  in  illuminated  lettering  on  their 
backs,  often  both  binding  and  illumina- 
tion being  the  work  of  his  hands.  A 
few  prizes  have  also  been  captured  by 
me  in  London,  and  altogether,  if  I  boast 
of  my  Italian  section,  it  is  with  reason. 
Curiously,  however,  though  it  includes 
almost  every  one  of  the  amazing  treatises 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  though 
few  if  any  of  the  nineteenth  -  century 
books  are  missing,  the  two  intervening 
centuries  are  unrepresented,  —  the  pe- 
riod, that  is,  to  which  I  owe  by  far  the 
larger  part  of  my  English  series. 

But  had  the  selection  been  deliberate, 
instead  of  the  result  of  mere  chance,  it 
could  not  have  been  better.  The  Ital- 
ian cookery  books  were  the  most  impor- 
tant published  anywhere,  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  Italy  then  set  the 
standard  of  cookery,  as  of  all  the  arts, 
for  the  world.  Even  the  French  looked 
up  to  the  Italian  chef  as  to  the  Italian 


682 


My   Cookery  Books. 


painter  or  sculptor.  Historically,  these 
old  volumes  are  indispensable  to  the 
student  of  the  Renaissance.  Biblio- 
graphically,  too,  they  have  their  charm : 
being  often  delightful  specimens  of 
book-making,  and  as  often  of  unques- 
tionable rarity.  For  two  or  three  I  still 
look,  but  the  most  famous  are  already 
in  my  possession:  the  Banchetti  of 
Christoforo  Messibugo,  not  in  the  first 
edition  published  at  Ferrara  in  1549, 
but  in  the  second  with  the  title  changed 
to  Libro  Novo,  printed  In  Venetia  al 
signo  di  San  Girolamo  in  1552,  — a  lit- 
tle shabby  duodecimo  in  cracked  vellum ; 
La  Singolare  Dottrina  of  Domenico 
Romoli,  a  dignified  stout  octavo  which 
I  have  in  the  first  edition,  bearing  the 
date  1560,  and  the  name  of  the  printer, 
Michel  Tramezzino,  who  seems  to  have 
had  something  like  a  monopoly  of  cook- 
ery books  in  Venice ;  the  Opera  of  Bar- 
tolomeo  Scappi,  another  of  Tramezzi- 
no' s  publications,  also  mine  in  its  first 
edition,  1570,  — a  nice,  fat,  substantial 
octavo  in  its  old  vellum  covers,  but  com- 
pressed into  half  the  thickness  between 
the  shining  calfskin  with  which  Sala 
bound  the  second  edition  —  1598  — 
which  I  secured  at  his  sale ;  II  Trin- 
ciante  of  Vincenzo  Cervio,  my  only 
copy,  Giovanni  Vacchi's  edition  of 
1593,  the  first  having  been  issued  by 
the  indefatigable  Tramezzino  in  1581; 
Castor  Durante's  Tesoro  della  Sanita, 
one  of  my  compensations,  as  the  first 
of  my  two  editions  (Venice,  Andrea 
Muschio,  1586),  is  a  year  earlier  than 
the  first  known  to  M.  Vicaire.  You 
see,  I  enjoy  occasional  moments  of  su- 
periority, if  I  do  suffer  occasional  hu- 
miliations. 

My  Italian  is  no  great  thing  to  boast 
of,  but,  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary, 
I  have  gradually  read  enough  to  learn 
that  these  old  books  are  delightfully 
amusing.  It  is  their  close  relationship 
to  the  church  that  strikes  me  above  all. 
"Take  pride  from  priests  and  what  re- 
mains ?  "  somebody  once  said  to  Vol- 
taire. "Do  you  then  reckon  gluttony 


for  nothing  ?  "  was  his  answer.  Cer- 
tainly, in  the  Italy  of  the  Renaissance, 
gluttony  seems  to  have  been  the  chief 
resource  of  Popes  and  Cardinals,  who 
were  no  longer  quite  so  sure  that  man 
was  placed  on  earth  to  gather  bitter 
fruit.  The  distinguished  cooks  of  the 
period,  whose  names  have  come  down 
to  us,  were  with  scarcely  an  exception 
as  dependent  on  church  patronage  as  the 
distinguished  painters  and  sculptors. 
When  they  undertook  to  write  on  their 
art,  their  books  were  published,  as 
every  title-page  records,  "Col  Privile- 
gio  del  sommo  Pontefici, "  and  as  a  rule 
were  dedicated  to,  or  at  least  inspired 
by,  the  priest  or  church  dignitary  in 
whose  household  the  author  served. 
Messibugo,  a  native  of  Moosburg,  Ba- 
varia, who  settled  in  Italy  and  wrote 
in  Italian,  was  cook  to  the  Illustrissimo 
et  Reverendissimo  Signore,  il  Signer 
don  Hippolito  da  Este,  Cardinal  di 
Ferrara,  to  whom  he  offered  his  Ban- 
chetti. Scappi  was  cuoco  secreto  (pri- 
vate cook)  to  Pius  V.,  and  his  treatise 
was  written  chiefly  for  the  instruction 
of  Giovanni,  a  pupil  recommended  by 
Cardinal  Carpi.  Cervio  and  his  editor 
Narni  were  each  in  turn  trinciante, 
that  is,  carver,  to  Cardinal  Alessandro 
Farnese,  whose  name  graces  the  dedica- 
tion. Romoli  was  cook  to  a  Pope  —  I 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  find  out  which 
Pope  —  and  to  a  Cardinal.  It  seems  al- 
most like  heresy  when  Castor  Durante, 
a  physician  who  ventured  to  write  on 
the  subject,  dedicated  his  Tesoro  to  a 
lady,  la  Signora  Donna  Camilla  Peretta, 
and  yet  she,  I  fancy  from  her  name, 
was  a  near  relation  of  Pius  V. 

If  there  is  one  feature  all  these  books 
have  in  common,  it  is  a  love  of  pageant- 
ry, eminently  characteristic  of  the  Re- 
naissance. Popes  and  Cardinals,  who 
overloaded  their  churches  with  orna- 
ment, who  covered  the  walls  of  their 
palaces  with  splendid  pictures  and  gor- 
geous arabesques,  whose  very  costume 
added  to  the  pageant  into  which  they 
turned  their  daily  existence,  would  have 


My   Cookery  Books. 


683 


had  no  appetite  for  the  meal  that  did 
not  contribute  its  share  to  the  great 
spectacle  of  life.  The  simplest  dish 
was  transformed  into  a  bewildering  har- 
mony of  color,  a  marvelous  medley  of 
spices  and  sweets,  and  when  it  came  to 
the  composition  of  the  menu  for  a  feast, 
the  cook  soared  to  heights  of  poetic 
imagination,  now  happily  unattainable. 
It  was  over  these  menus  he  loved  to  lin- 
ger at  his  desk  as  in  his  kitchen.  Mes- 
sibugo  frankly  confessed  the  subject 
that  engrossed  him  in  the  title  of  his 
book,  which,  I  cannot  help  thinking, 
as  Lamb  said  of  Thomson's  Seasons, 
looks  best  when,  like  my  copy  picked 
up  by  my  husband  in  an  old  bookshop 
of  Siena,  it  is  a  little  torn  and  dog's- 
eared,  with  sullied  leaves  and  a  worn- 
out  appearance,  for  its  shabbiness  shows 
that  generations  have  had  as  much  joy 
in  the  reading  as  the  Cardinal  had  in 
the  eating.  The  banquets,  in  which  I 
am  afraid  lurked  many  a  magnificent 
indigestion,  covered  twenty  years,  from 
the  first  on  the  20th  of  May,  1529,  — 
the  feast  of  San  Bernardino  is  Messi- 
bugo's  pious  reminder,  — and  were  de- 
signed on  a  scale  and  with  a  spectacular 
splendor  that  fairly  staggers  the  mod- 
ern weakling.  An  Italian  Inigo  Jones 
building  up  the  stage  for  a  masque,  one 
might  think,  not  the  cook  dishing  up 
his  dinner.  A  terrace  or  a  fair  garden 
became  the  scene,  cypress  and  orange 
groves  the  background,  courses  were 
served  to  the  sound  of  "  divine  music  " 
and  interrupted  by  the  wit  of  a  plea- 
sant farce.  And  yet,  these  were  the 
commonplaces  of  feasting.  Cervio's 
banquets  were  far  more  amazing,  or,  it 
may  be,  he  had  a  prettier  talent  for  de- 
scription. Pies  from  which  outstepped 
little  blackamoors  bearing  gifts  of  per- 
fumed gloves,  or  rabbits  with  coral  beads 
on  their  feet  and  silver  bells  round  their 
necks;  castles  of  pastry  with  sweet- 
smelling  fire  issuing  from  the  ramparts ; 
white  peacocks  served  in  their  feathers 
to  look  alive;  statues  of  the  Horse  at 
the  Capitol,  of  Hercules  and  the  Lion 


in  marchpane ;  a  centre  table  of  a  hun- 
dred lovely  ladies ;  a  beautiful  garden  — 
bellissimo  giardino  —  all  in  paste  and 
sugar,  with  fountains  playing,  statues 
on  terraces,  trees  bearing  boxes  of  sugar 
plums,  a  fish-pond,  and,  for  the  beauti- 
ful ladies,  little  nets  to  go  fishing  with 
if  they  would ;  —  such  are  a  few  of  Cer- 
vio's  flights  of  fancy  for  great  occa- 
sions :  the  wedding  of  the  Duke  of  Man- 
tua, for  instance,  or  the  reception  of 
Charles  V.  by  Cardinal  Campeggio. 
This  was  the  Cardinal  who,  when  he 
went  to  England  on  business  connected 
with  the  divorce  of  Henry  VIII.  and 
Queen  Katharine,  was  charged  by  the 
Pope  with  a  private  mission  to  look  into 
the  state  of  the  kitchens  of  the  king  and 
of  the  people,  so  that  no  doubt  he  was 
qualified  to  appreciate  Cervio's  most 
daring  fantasies.  But  it  seems  as  if 
the  two  hundred  and  eighteen  receipts 
for  fish  Scappi  gives  must  have  more 
than  satisfied  a  Pope  whose  usual  ap&ri- 
tif  before  dinner  was  a  visit  to  the  hos- 
pitals and  practices  there  too  unpleasant 
for  me  to  repeat.  Scappi,  however,  was 
an  artist,  and  when,  in  his  portrait, 
the  frontispiece  to  his  book,  I  see  the 
sad  ruggedness  of  his  face  and  the  lines 
with  which  his  brow  is  seamed  and  fur- 
rowed, I  attribute  these  signs  of  care 
to  his  despair  over  the  Pope's  hair  shirt 
and  all  it  stood  for.  He  himself  shared 
the  ideal  of  his  contemporaries.  Not 
one  could  surpass  him  in  the  ceremonial 
banquet  he  prepared  for  the  "Corona- 
tion "  of  Pius  V.,  or  for  Cardinals  in 
Conclave;  not  one  could  equal  him  in 
the  more  informal  feasts  he  suggested 
for  an  August  fast  day  after  vespers 
in  a  vineyard,  or  for  a  May  afternoon 
in  a  garden  of  the  Trastevere,  or  for 
the  cool  of  a  June  evening  in  Cardinal 
Carpi's  vineyard  on  Monte  Cavallo. 
And  there  is  the  intimate  charm  of  the 
"petits  soupers  "  of  the  French  court  a 
couple  of  centuries  later  in  his  light 
collations  served,  one  at  an  early  hour  of 
a  cold  Efecember  morning  after  a  per- 
formance of  Plautus,  another  at  Cardi- 


684 


My   Cookery  Books. 


nal  Bellaia's  after  a  diverting  comedy 
played  in  French,  Spanish,  Venetian,  and 
Bergamesque.  Whatever  Pope  Pius 
might  do,  Scappi  kept  up  the  best  tra- 
ditions of  the  Vatican.  His  book  has 
the  further  merit  of  taking  one  behind 
the  scenes;,  in  an  unrivaled  series  of 
illustrations,  it  shows  the  Vatican  kitch- 
en, airy  and  spacious  as  he  says  a  kitch- 
en should  be,  the  Vatican  scullery,  cel- 
lar, and  dairy,  and  every  pot,  pan,  and 
conceivable  utensil  a  Papal  or  any  other 
cook  could  ever  be  in  need  of.  Dome- 
nico  Romoli,  though  less  gorgeous  than 
Messibugo  and  Cervio,  less  charming 
than  Scappi,  outdid  them  in  ambition. 
For  to  the  inevitable  description  of  oc- 
casional feasts,  he  added,  in  anticipa- 
tion of  Baron  Brisse,  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  menus  for  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  days  of  the  year,  and 
served  them  in  the  noble  fashion  of 
"  those  divine  Florentine  geniuses, "  his 
fellow  citizens,  who  were  masters  of 
table  decoration.  In  his  treatise,  how- 
ever, one  is  conscious  of  the  mummy  at 
the  feast.  The  private  cook  of  Pope 
or  Cardinal  has  need  to  keep  his  eyes 
open,  he  says  with  a  sigh,  and  adds 
that  he  never  goes  to  bed  at  night  with- 
out thanking  God  for  gtill  another  day 
passed  in  safety.  The  fear  of  poison 
haunted  him,  as  it  must  have  haunted 
many  another  man  in  his  responsible 
position.  Sala,  on  a  fly-leaf  of  his  copy 
of  Scappi,  noted  his  surprise  to  find  no 
trace  of  poisons  in  the  book.  But  I 
think  there  is  more  than  a  trace  in  Scap- 
pi's  advice  to  build  the  kitchen  apart 
from  the  house  that  none  might  enter 
unseen  and  tamper  with  the  food.  The 
Italian  cook's  bed  in  those  days  was  not 
one  of  roses. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  there 
were  no  frugal  intervals  in  these  old 
books.  Even  the  prevailing  flamboy- 
ancy  had  its  degrees.  The  feast  might 
begin  with  nothing  more  elaborate  than 
melon  and  a  slice  of  ham  or  sausage 
served  together,  for  all  the  world  like 
the  last  breakfast  I  ate  in  the  trattoria 


at  Lecco,  where  the  Milanese  go  for  a 
Sunday  outing  in  summer.  Simple  sal- 
ads and  salamis  had  their  place  among 
the  intricate  devices  at  Cardinal  Fer- 
rara's  table,  and  Messibugo  himself 
gives  ten  different  kinds  of  maccheroni, 
not  leaving  out  the  most  frequent  if 
least  simple  of  all  in  to-day's  bill  of 
fare,  Maccheroni  alia  Napoletani.  Scap- 
pi is  prodigal  in  his  receipts  for  soups 
and  fish,  and  caters  specially  for  the 
convalescent.  Such  plain  fare  as  the 
English  veal  pie  —  alia  Inglese  —  was 
at  times  imported,  though  before  it 
reached  the  Italian  table  olives  and 
capers  had  been  added.  But  still,  the 
principal  attention  was  paid  to  feasting, 
the  main  tendency  of  the  cookery  book 
was  toward  excess  and  exaggeration, 
until  the  pro  test,  which  Durante's  Teso- 
ro  probably  seemed  when  it  appeared  in 
1586,  was  sorely  needed.  It  was  time 
to  teach,  not  how  to  eat,  but  how,  in 
eating,  to  preserve  health. 

The  next  book  in  my  Italian  series 
marks  a  radical  change.  If  in  the  six- 
teenth century  the  Italian  kitchen  was 
paramount,  in  the  seventeenth,  the  ta- 
bles had  turned  and  French  cookery  had 
become  supreme.  It  is  therefore  appro- 
priate that  my  one  Italian  book  of  the 
period  should  be  the  translation  of  La 
Varenne's  famous  Cuisinier  Fran^ais, 
since  described  as  "the  starting  point 
of  modern  cookery."  My  copy  of  II 
Cuoco  Francese  was  published  in  Ven- 
ice in  1703,  but  the  first  edition  ap- 
peared in  1693  in  Bologna,  and  so  the 
book  belongs  by  right  to  the  same  cen- 
tury as  the  original.  Of  the  century 
that  followed,  my  record  is  almost  as 
barren.  But,  here  again,  had  the  choice 
been  left  to  me,  I  would  have  preferred 
to  all  others  the  books  that  happen  to 
have  found  their  way  to  my  shelves. 
For  they  include  the  principal  works  of 
Francesco  Leonardi,  who  wrote  them 
with  that  naive  want  of  reserve  peculiar 
to  distinguished  cooks.  The  most  elab- 
orate is  the  Apicio  Moderno  in  six  vol- 
umes, to  the  collector  an  indispensable 


My   Cookery  Books. 


685 


sequel  to  the  fifteenth-century  Apicius. 
My  copy  is  dated  1808,  but  the  first 
edition  appeared  before  1800.  Another 
is  the  Pasticciere  all'  Uso  Moderno, 
Florence,  1797,  written  when,  after 
serving  the  Mare'chal  de  Richelieu,  and 
going  through  several  campaigns  with 
Louis  XV.,  Leonardi  had  become  chef 
to  Catherine  II.,  Empress  of  all  the 
Russias,  to  whom  his  French  training 
did  not  prevent  his  serving  many  Ital- 
ian dishes.  But  he  excelled  even  him- 
self in  the  Gianina  ossa  la  Cuciniera 
delle  Alpi  (the  date  carefully  blotted 
out  on  the  title-page  of  my  copy,  and 
the  book,  to  my  astonishment,  unknown 
to  M.  Vicaire).  It  was  a  legacy,  he 
says,  left  him  by  an  accomplished  lady 
whom  he  described  as  the  hostess  of  an 
inn  on  the  Mont  Cenis,  but  whom  I  sus- 
pect to  have  been  one  of  his  own  inven- 
tions. Not  over  his  most  inspired  dish 
did  he  grow  so  lyrical  as  over  the  story 
of  her  happy  wooing  by  the  chef  Lune- 
ville  in  the  kitchen  of  her  father's  inn 
at  Neustadt.  He  makes  you  feel  there 
is  more  romance  in  the  Courtship  of 
Cooks  than  in  all  the  Loves  of  the  Poets 
or  Tragedies  of  Artists'  Wives,  and, 
if  only  for  the  sake  of  the  grandiloquent 
Preface  that  tells  the  tale,  I  recommend 
this  work,  his  masterpiece. 

With  Leonardi,  I  bring  the  record  of 
my  Italian  books  to  an  end.  The  nine- 
teenth century  produced  a  large  library 
on  the  subject  of  cookery,  and  most  of 
the  volumes  in  it  I  have,  but  they  open 
an  entirely  new  chapter  in  the  literature 
of  the  kitchen. 

My  French  books  have  been  chosen  as 
kindly  by  chance  as  my  Italian.  I  still 
wait  for  the  collector's  prizes  —  Taille- 
vent's  Viandier  (about  1490),  the  Roti- 
Cochon  (about  1696),  Le  Patissier  Fran- 
§ais  (1655),  and  I  suppose  I  shall  go 
on  waiting  till  the  end,  so  extremely 
rare  are  they.  But  in  the  history  of 
cookery  they  do  not  hold  the  indispen- 
sable place  of  the  three  most  famous 
books  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries:  La  Varenne's  Cuisinier 


Frangais  (1651),  Les  Dons  de  Comus 
(1739),  La  Cuisiniere  Bourgeoise 
(1745),  and  these  I  do  own  in  interest- 
ing editions.  The  change  that  had 
come  over  the  spirit  of  the  kitchen  is 
at  once  revealed  in  the  rank  of  its  new 
patrons.  The  church  had  ceased  to  be 
the  controlling  power.  La  Varenne 
was  maitre  d' hotel  to  the  Marquis 
d'Uxelles;  Marin,  author  of  Les  Dons 
de  Comus,  was  chef  to  the  Mare'chal 
de  Soubise,  who  did  pay  his  cooks,  how- 
ever other  men  in  his  service  might 
fare;  and  if  the  author  of  La  Cuisi- 
niere Bourgeoise  preferred  to  remain 
anonymous,  his  claim  to  favor  was  no 
ecclesiastical  recommendation,  but  his 
own  excellence  as  cook.  Here  was 
change  indeed.  But  there  was  a  still 
more  vital  difference.  The  Italian  cook- 
ery books  of  the  sixteenth  century  were 
as  flamboyant  as  the  kitchen  they  im- 
mortalized. In  the  French  of  the 
seventeenth,  the  genius  of  the  French 
people  for  order,  for  harmony  of  bal- 
ance, in  a  word,  for  style,  had  asserted 
itself.  Perfection  of  form  —  that  is 
what  the  French  have  striven  for  in  all 
their  arts,  and  cookery  was  no  excep- 
tion. Even  under  Louis  XIV. ,  who  was 
blessed  with  a  phenomenal  appetite  and 
more  phenomenal  capacity,  dinner  be- 
came a  work  of  art,  admirably  rounded 
out,  compared  to  the  unspeakable  med- 
leys and  discords,  the  barbarous  profu- 
sion in  which  Popes  and  Cardinals  a 
century  earlier  had  found  their  pleasure. 
It  was  for  a  great  principle  Vatel  killed 
himself  when  the  fish  did  not  arrive  in 
time  for  the  royal  dinner  at  Chantilly. 
And  the  cooks  brought  the  same  order 
to  their  books.  If  La  Varenne's  has 
been  described  as  "the  starting  point 
of  modern  cookery, "  it  is  because  there 
is  a  method  in  his  treatment  of  the  sub- 
ject, never  before  attempted,  seldom 
since  surpassed.  And  he  wrote  it  at  a 
time  when,  in  England,  Queen's  Closets 
and  Cabinets  were  being  opened  by 
titled  dilettanti  and  obsequious  court- 
iers. Compared  to  contemporary  Eng- 


686 


My   Cookery  Books. 


lish  books,  it  is  as  the  masterpiece  of 
Claude  to  the  little  pictures  that  many 
accomplished  ladies  besides  Mrs.  Pepys 
and  Pegg  Penn  were  turning  out  for  the 
edification  of  their  friends.  He  went 
to  work  as  systematically  as  a  chemist 
classifying  gases  and  acids,  or  as  an 
astronomer  designing  a  chart  of  the 
heavens.  Soups,  Fish,  Entries,  Roasts, 
Sauces,  —  a  whole  "  artillery  of  sauces, " 
—  Entremets,  were  treated  in  their  re- 
spective sections  and  correct  order.  His 
dishes  did  stand  upon  the  order  of  their 
serving  and  his  book  was  a  training  in 
itself.  Its  pages  may  be  turned  with 
the  same  confidence  that  carries  the 
student  through  the  galleries  of  French 
paintings  in  the  Louvre  —  the  certain- 
ty that  all  will  be  accomplished,  cor- 
rect, distinguished.  Nor  do  I  find  that 
this  method  put  a  curb  upon  La  Va- 
renne's  imagination,  a  restraint  upon 
the  expression  of  his  individuality.  He 
was  a  man  of  conscience,  who  wrote  be- 
cause he  felt  it  right  the  public  should 
profit  by  his  experience  and  share  his 
knowledge.  But  though  his  style  has 
greater  elegance  and  restraint  than  Sir 
Kenelm  Digby's  or  Lord  Ruthven's,  it 
is  as  intimate  and  personal.  "Bien 
que  ma  condition  ne  me  rende  pas  capa- 
ble d'un  co3ur  he'roique, "  he  tells  the 
Marquis  d'Uxelles  in  a  dedication  that 
is  stateliness  itself,  "elle  me  donne 
pourtant  assez  de  ressentement  pour  ne 
pas  oublier  mon  devoir;  "  and  he  con- 
cludes with  the  assurance  that  the  en- 
tire work  is  but  a  mark  of  the  passion 
with  which  he  has  devoted,  and  will 
ever  devote,  himself  to  the  service  of 
Monseigneur,  whose  very  humble,  very 
obedient,  very  grateful  servant  he  is. 
Here  and  there  in  the  text  he  inter- 
rupts his  technical  directions  for  such  a 
graceful  little  touch  as  the  advice  to 
garnish  sweet  dishes  with  the  flowers 
that  are  in  season,  or  the  reminder  that 
heed  paid  to  any  other  such  "petites 
curiosite's  "  can  but  add  to  the  honor 
and  respect  with  which  the  great  should 
be  served.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  his 


successors  profiting  by  these  pretty 
hints,  as  well  as  by  his  masterly  meth- 
od. It  was  a  distinct  compliment  to 
La  Varenne,  when  Massialot,  in  the 
Nouvelle  Instruction  pour  les  Confi- 
tures, les  Liqueurs,  et  les  Fruits 
(1692 ;  I  only  have  it  in  the  1716  edi- 
tion), gave  one  en  tire,  section  as  guide 
to  the  flowers  in  season,  month  by 
month,  for  the  decoration  of  dishes, 
and  another  to  the  "delicate  liqueurs," 
made  from  roses,  violets,  pinks,  tube- 
roses, jasmine,  and  orange  flowers,  for 
all  the  year  round. 

La  Varenne 's  book  was  an  immediate 
and  continued  success.  By  1652  there 
was  a  second  edition,  by  1654,  a  third. 
M.  Vicaire  counts  seventeen  before  he 
finishes  his  list.  I  have  the  fourth, 
published  at  the  Hague  by  Adrian  Vlacq 
and  ranked  by  some  collectors  with  La 
Varenne 's  more  famous  Patissier  Fran- 
cais  in  the  Elzevir  edition.  The  Cui- 
sinier  Francais  never  fetched  three  thou- 
sand dollars.  In  special  binding,  it  has 
gone  up  to  over  a  hundred,  but  ten  is 
the  average  price  quoted  by  bibliogra- 
phers. I  paid  six  for  mine,  bought,  in 
the  way  Mr.  Lang  deplores,  from  a  cata- 
logue, without  inspection.  But  I  have 
no  quarrel  with  the  little  duodecimo, 
yellow  and  worn,  more  than  doubled  in 
size  by  the  paper  of  nearly  the  same 
date  bound  up  with  it.  A  few  receipts 
in  old  German  writing  explain  the  ob- 
ject of  this  paper,  but  its  owners,  many 
or  few,  have  left  it  mostly  blank,  the 
envy  now  of  every  etcher  who  sees  it. 
I  also  delight  in  a  later  edition,  with- 
out a  date,  but  published  probably 
somewhere  between  1695  and  1715,  by 
Pierre  Mortier  in  Amsterdam.  It  has 
a  curious  and  suggestive  frontispiece,  an 
engraving  of  a  fine  gentleman  dining  at 
a  table  set  directly  in  front  of  the  kitch- 
en fire,  with  the  chef  himself  in  atten- 
dance, and  it  includes  other  works  at- 
tributed to  La  Varenne.  One  is  Le 
Maistre  d'Hostel  et  le  Grand  Ecuyer 
Tranchant,  a  treatise  originally  pub- 
lished in  L'Ecole  Parfaite  des  Officiers 


My   Cookery  Books. 


687 


de  Bouche,  which  was  appropriated  and 
translated  into  English  by  Giles  Rose 
in  1682,  with  the  same  dramatic  dia- 
grams of  trussed  birds  and  skewered 
joints,  the  same  wonderful  directions 
for  folding  napkins  into  beasts  and 
birds,  "  the  mighty  pretty  trade  "  that, 
when  it  reached  England,  enraptured 
Pepys.  Thanks  to  this  volume,  my 
works  of  La  Varenne  are  almost  com- 
plete, if  my  editions,  bibliographically, 
leave  something  to  be  desired. 

When  Marin  wrote  his  book,  a  little 
less  than  a  hundred  years  afterwards, 
the  art  had  made  strides  forward  in  the 
direction  of  refinement  and  simplicity. 
Louis  XIV.  ate  well,  but  the  Regent 
and  Louis  XV.  ate  better.  It  was 
probably  due  to  the  Grand  Monarque's 
abnormal  stomach,  which,  I  have  seen 
it  stated,  was  discovered  after  death 
to  be  twice  the  average  size,  that  a 
suspicion  of  barbarity  lingered  in  his 
day.  But  with  the  return  of  the  royal 
organ  to  normal  limits  quality  tri- 
umphed over  quantity.  I  have  not  for- 
gotten that  Dr.  Johnson,  when  he  vis- 
ited France,  declared  the  French  kitch- 
en gross.  But  then  Dr.  Johnson  was 
not  an  authority  in  these  matters.  '  If 
the  word  of  any  Englishman  carries 
weight,  I  would  rather  quote  a  letter 
Richard  West  wrote  to  Walpole  in  the 
very  year  that  Marin' s  book  was  pub- 
lished, as  a  proof  that  the  distinction 
between  English  and  French  ideals  was 
much  the  same  then  as  now.  "I  don't 
pretend,"  he  says,  "to  compare  our 
supper  in  London  with  your  partie  de 
cabaret  at  Rheims;  but  at  least,  sir, 
our  materials  were  more  sterling  than 
yours.  You  had  a  goutd  forsooth, 
composed  of  des  fraises,  de  la  creme, 
du  vin,  des  gateaux,  etc.  We,  sir,  we 
supped  a  1' Angloise.  Imprimis,  we  had 
buttock  of  beef  and  Yorkshire  ham; 
we  had  chicken  too,  and  a  gallon  bowl 
of  sallad,  and  a  gooseberry  tart  as  big 
as  anything."  Might  not  that  have 
been  written  yesterday  ?  But  more  elo- 
quent testimony  is  to  be  had  from  the 


French  themselves.  Moderation  ruled 
over  those  enchanting  little  feasts  of 
theirs  that,  in  memory,  cannot  alto- 
gether die :  Madame  Geoffrin's  suppers 
for  the  elect,  of  chicken,  spinach,  and 
omelette;  Madame  du  Chatelet's  with 
Voltaire  at  Cirey,  "not  abundant,  but 
rare,  elegant,  and  delicate, "  —  and  yet, 
it  was  Madame  du  Chatelet  who  re- 
joiced that  God  had  given  her  a  capa- 
city for  the  pleasures  of  the  table;  a 
hundred  others  to  us.  as  irresistible.  Or 
go  to  court,  where  the  king's  mistresses 
and  courtiers  were  vying  with  one  an- 
other in  the  invention  of  dishes  graced 
with  their  own  names,  where  even  the 
more  serious  Queen  played  godmother 
to  the  dainty  trifles  we  still  know  as 
Petites  Bouchees  a  la  Reine,  where  the 
famous  tables  volantes  recalled  the  prod- 
igies of  Cervio  —  there  too  barbaric 
excess  had  gone  out  of  fashion.  I  have 
space  but  for  one  example,  though  I 
could  quote  many  as  convincing,  —  Ma- 
dame du  Barry's  dinner  to  the  King: 
Coulis  de  faisans;  croustades  du  foie 
des  lottes;  salmis  des  be'cassines;  pain 
de  volaille  a  la  supreme ;  poularde  au 
cresson ;  e'crevisses  au  vin  de  Sauterne ; 
bisquets  de  peches  au  Noyau ;  creme  de 
cerneaux ;  —  the  dinner  that  won  for 
the  cook  the  first  cordon  bleu.  What 
an  elegant  simplicity  compared  to  the 
haphazard  profusion  approved  by  Popes 
and  Cardinals ! 

This  simplicity  rules  in  Marin 's 
book.  Throughout  the  three  fat  little 
volumes,  the  method  is  beyond  criti- 
cism. And  he  was  more  learned  than 
La  Varenne,  for  whom  I  could  wish, 
however,  that  his  veneration  had  been 
greater.  To  make  a  point  of  dating 
the  modern  kitchen  but  thirty  years 
back,  when  La  Varenne  had  been  long 
in  the  grave,  seems  a  deliberate  insult. 
In  the  history  of  his  art,  prepared  with 
the  assistance  of  two  accomplished  Jes- 
uits, and  beginning  with  the  first  man 
who  discovered  the  use  of  fire,  he  de- 
fines this  modern  kitchen  as  "  chemical, 
that  is,  scientific."  But  for  all  his  sci- 


688 


My   Cookery  Books. 


ence,  Ke  did  not  disdain  the  graces  of 
style,  he  did  not  forget  he  was  an  ar- 
tist. Let  the  cook,  he  says,  blend  the 
ingredients  in  a  sauce,  as  the  painter 
blends  the  colors  on  his  palette,  to  pro- 
duce the  perfect  harmony :  as  pretty  a 
simile  as  I  can  remember  in  any  book 
in  my  collection,  given  as  were  the 
chefs  of  all  nations  to  picturesque 
phrasing.  But  a  wider  gulf  than  learn- 
ing separates  Les  Dons  de  Comus  from 
Le  Cuisinier  Francais.  La  Varenne's 
book  was  addressed  to  his  fellow  artists ; 
Marin's  was  designed  not  only  for  the 
officers  in  great  households,  but  for  the 
little  bourgeois,  who,  though  limited  in 
means,  was  wise  enough  to  care  for  good 
eating.  The  idea  did  not  originate 
with  him.  As  far  back  as  1691,  Mas- 
sialot  had  written  his  Cuisinier  Royal 
et  Bourgeois  (my  edition  unfortunately 
is  1714),  the  earliest  book  I  know,  it 
is  but  fair  to  add,  in  which  the  contents 
are  arranged  alphabetically :  a  plan  cop- 
ied by  John  Nott  and  John  Middle  ton 
in  England  for  their  Cooks'  and  Con- 
fectioners' Dictionary,  and  by  Briand, 
in  France,  for  his  Dictionnaire  des  Ali- 
ments (1750),  a  pretentious  and  learned 
work  in  three  volumes.  Next,  Le  M£- 
nage  des  Champs  et  de  la  Ville,  ou  Nou- 
veau  Cuisinier  Francais  (1713),  consid- 
ered all  tastes,  from  those  "des  plus 
grands  Seigneurs  jusqu'a  celles  des  bons 
Bourgeois, "  and  was  rewarded  by  being 
not  only  passed  by  the  censor  of  the 
press,  but  recommended  by  him,  in  his 
official  Approbation ;  a  rare  distinction. 
Neither  of  these  books  judged  by  its 
intrinsic  merit  could,  however,  compete 
with  Les  Dons  de  Comus.  Marin  was 
the  genius  who,  giving  expression  to  the 
ideas  of  his  time,  made  his  treatise  im- 
mediately the  standard  work  on  cook- 
ery. He  was  promptly  flattered  by 
wholesale  imitation.  In  the  Preface  to 
the  1758  edition  (which  I  have)  he-com- 
plains that  in  the  twenty  years  since 
the  first  (which  I  have  not),  this  com- 
pliment had  been  paid  him  with  only 
too  much  sincerity.  And,  in  truth,  his 


followers  did  their  best  to  capture  his 
patron,  the  bourgeois,  to  borrow  his 
weapons  against  artless  extravagance, 
even  to  appropriate  his  similes.  Me- 
non's  Science  du  Maitre  d' Hotel  Cui- 
sinier (1749)  owes  everything  to  Marin, 
to  the  very  glibness  with  which  the  art 
not  of  painting,  but  of  music,  is  held  up 
as  a  guide  to  the  cook  in  the  composi- 
tion of  his  ragouts,  and  this  debt  Marin 
is  quick  to  admit.  But,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  felt  it  too  deeply,  he  says  no- 
thing of  the  more  flagrant  plagiarism  in 
La  Cuisiniere  Bourgeoise,  which  was 
addressed  solely  and  entirely  to  the 
bourgeois  of  mediocre  fortune,  and  so 
scored  heavily;  while,  remembering 
Massialot,  the  author,  with  a  stroke  of 
genius  denied  to  Marin,  incorporated 
the  idea  in  his  title,  an  advertisement 
in  itself.  La  Cuisiniere  Bourgeoise 
appeared  only  six  years  after  Les  Dons 
de  Comus,  but  in  the  competition  that 
followed  Marin  was  eclipsed.  Even 
Mrs.  Glasse's  Art  of  Cookery,  credited 
with  the  greatest  sale  of  any  book  in 
the  English  language,  was  left  far  be- 
hind. M.  Vicaire  gives  forty  editions, 
and  yet  he  does  not  know  three  out  of 
my»five.  Studied  under  the  last  Bour- 
bons, it  was  popular  during  the  first 
Republic  —  An  VI  de  la  R^publique  is 
the  date  in  one  of  my  copies ;  familiarly 
quoted  by  the  Romanticists  of  1830,  the 
demand  for  it  had  not  ceased  in  1866, 
when  the  last  edition  I  know  of  was  is- 
sued. It  was  one  of  the  first  cookery 
books  that  appealed  primarily  to  the 
people,  and  the  people  responded  by 
buying  it  during  a  hundred  years  and 
more. 

Even  after  praise  of  simplicity  was 
in  every  mouth,  there  were  relapses. 
Thus,  Menon,  who  wrote  also  a  Maitre 
d' Hotel  Confiseur  (1788,  my  edition, 
the  second),  denounces  the  old  elabo- 
rate edifices  of  pastry  and  sugar,  over- 
loaded with  ornament  and  grotesque  in 
design,  only  to  evolve,  out  of  the  same 
materials,  gardens  with  trees  and  urns, 
or  classical  balustrades  with  figures  of 


My   Cookery  Books, 


689 


Diana,  Apollo,  and  .ZEneas,  or  temples 
of  Circe,  with  Ulysses,  pigs  and  all. 
"Quel  agre'able  coup  d'oeil!  "  he  ex- 
claims in  ecstasy,  "quel  gout!  Quelle 
aimable  syme'trie!  "  But  it  was  just 
such  masterpieces,  just  such  exceptions 
to  the  new  rule,  that  encouraged  French 
physicians  in  the  seventeenth  and  eigh- 
teenth centuries  to  write  on  food  from 
the  hygienic  point  of  view,  as  Bruyerin 
already  had  in  Latin,  and  Castor  Du- 
rante  in  Italian.  La  Varenne  and 
Marin,  Menon  and  Massialot,  did  not 
bother  about  sovereign  powders  and  pa- 
tent pills  in  the  way  of  English  writers 
on  cookery.  It  was  left  to  doctors  to 
dogmatize  on  their  own  art,  and  lay 
down  the  rules  for  "rhubarb  and  so- 
briety." Louis  Lemerry,  physician  to 
Louis  XIV.,  published  in  1702  a  Traite 
des  Aliments,  dedicated  to  M.  Boudin, 
physician  to  the  Dauphin,  a  treatise 
translated  into  English,  and,  in  the 
translation,  passing  through  several  edi- 
tions. In  1753,  Bruzen  de  la  Marti - 
nieres  translated  the  old  verses  on  the 
medical  properties  of  meat  and  drink 
by  John  of  Milan,  a  doctor,  changing 
the  title  of  the  earlier  translations, 
L'Art  de  se  passer  de  Me'decin,  into  the 
more  literally  true  L'Art  de  Conserver 
sa  Sant^  (1753).  In  1789,  Jourdain 
Le  Cointe  published  La  Cuisine  de 
Sante',  a  large  book  in  three  volumes, 
revised  by  a  fellow  physician  of  Mont- 
pelier,  and,  could  Le  Cointe  have  had 
his  way,  France  would  have  been  as 
barren  of  sauces  as  England  in  Vol- 
taire's epigram.  All  these  books  I 
have,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ought 
not  to  count  with  them  M.  de  Blegny's 
Bon  Usage  du  The',  du  Gaffe'  et  du 
Chocolat  (1687),  since  its  end  was  the 
preservation  of  health  and  the  cure  of 
disease.  De  Blegny  was  Conseiller 
Me'decin  artist  ordinaire  du  Roi  et  de 
Monsieur,  and  his  book,  charmingly  il- 
lustrated in  the  fashion  of  the  old  Her- 
bals,  is  dedicated  to  Messieurs  les  Doc- 
teurs  en  Me'decine  des  Faculte's  Provin- 
cialles  et  Etrangeres  practiquant  a  la 
VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  44 


Cour  et  a  Paris.  If  the  French  have 
got  over  the  fancy  that  coffee  and  cho- 
colate are  medicines,  throughout  the 
provinces  in  France  tea  is  still  the  drink 
that  cures,  not  cheers. 

It  is  as  well  the  books  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  do  not  enter  into  my 
present  scheme.  There  would  be  too 
much  to  say  of  the  new  development  in 
the  literature  of  cookery  that  began  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  eighteenth,  with 
Grimod  de  la  Rey  mere,  the  Ruskin  of 
the  kitchen.  A  new  era  opened  with 
his  Almanach  des  Gourmands;  a  new 
school  of  writers  was  inaugurated, 
which,  before  it  was  exhausted,  had 
counted  Brillat  Savarin,  the  Marquis 
de  Cussy,  and  Dumas  Pere  among  its 
masters. 

In  the  books  of  other  countries  my 
poverty  is  more  marked.  I  have  but 
two  or  three  German  works,  none  of 
special  note.  I  have  nothing  American 
earlier  than  1805,  but  then  comes  an 
irresistible  little  volume  bristling  with 
patriotism,  proclaiming  independence  in 
its  very  cakes.  I  have  nothing  Hunga- 
rian, Russian,  Portuguese,  or  Dutch. 
A  manuscript  Romany  cookery  book, 
compiled  by  Mr.  Leland,  the  Romany 
Rye,  makes  up  as  a  curiosity  for  many 
omissions.  The  only  other  country  with 
a  definite  cookery  literature  that  con- 
tributes to  my  shelves  is  Spain,  and 
that,  merely  to  the  extent  of  a  dozen 
volumes.  These  are  spoils  brought  home 
by  my  husband  from  a  tour  of  the  old 
bookshops  of  Madrid  and  Toledo.  Few 
of  my  treasures  do  I  prize  more  than 
the  Arte  de  Cocina,  though  it  is  in  the 
fifteenth  edition,  with  the  date  on  the 
title-page  provokingly  effaced.  The 
first  edition  was  published  in  1617,  and 
'its  author  was  Francisco  Martinez  Mon- 
tino,  Cocinero  Mayor  del  Rey  —  this 
particular  Rey  being  none  other  than 
Philip  IV.  Here,  then,  you  may  learn 
what  the  Spaniard  ate  in  the  days  when 
Velasquez  painted.  As  yet,  the  facts  I 
have  gleaned  are  few,  my  Spanish  being 
based  chiefly  on  that  comprehensive  first 


690 


Jimville. 


phrase  in  Meisterschaft,  which,  though 
my  passport  through  Spain,  can  hardly 
carry  me  through  Spanish  literature. 
I  can  make  out  enough,  however,  to 
discover  that  Montino,  in  the  fashion 
of  the  Italian  writers  of  the  Renais- 
sance, supplies  menus  for  great  occa- 
sions, but  that  he  had  not  forestalled 
the  French  in  writing  with  method. 
His  book  is  a  hodge-podge,  Portuguese, 
English,  German,  and  Moorish  dishes 
thrown  together  any  how,  the  whole  col- 
lection ending  unexpectedly  with  a  soup. 
But  his  pious  Laus  Deo  on  the  last  page 
covers  many  sins,  and  his  index  shows 
a  desire  for  the  system  he  did  not  know 
how  to  achieve.  No  less  interesting  is 
the  Nuevo  Arte  de  Cocina,  by  Juan  Al- 
timiras.  Thanks,  I  suppose,  to  the  law 
of  compensation,  while  my  Montino  is 
in  the  fifteenth  edition,  my  copy  of 
Altimiras  is  dated  1760,  though  M. 
Vicaire  knows  none  earlier  than  1791. 
It  has  the  attraction,  first,  of  vellum 
covers  with  leather  strings  still  in  con- 
dition to  be  tied,  and,  next,  of  an  edi- 
fying dedication  to  San  Diego  de  Alcala, 
—  Santo  Mio  is  the  author's  familiar 
manner  of  address,  and  he  makes  the 
offering  from  the  affectionate  heart  of 
one  who  hopes  to  enjoy  the  saint's 
company  some  day  in  heaven.  After 
this,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  work 
should  have  been  approved  by  high  of- 


ficials in  the  king's  kitchen,  and  that 
a  point  is  made  of  Lenten  dishes  and 
monastic  menus. 

My  remaining  Spanish  books,  in  com- 
parison, seem  commonplace.  There  is 
a  little  Arte  de  Reposteria,  by  Juan  de 
la  Mata,  Madrid,  1791,  a  small  quarto 
in  vellum  covers  that  gives  a  whole 
chapter  to  the  Aguas  Heladas  de  Frutas, 
still  one  of  the  joys  of  Spain,  and  a  re- 
cipe for  Gazpachos,  still  one  of  its  won- 
ders. There  is  the  Disertacion  en  Re- 
comendacion  y  Def  ensa  del  f  amoso  Vino 
Malegueno  Pero  zinien,  Malaga,  1792, 
with  a  wood- engraved  frontispiece  that 
looks  like  the  beginning  of  the  now  fa- 
miliar cigar -box  labels.  But  the  other 
big  and  little  volumes  are  of  too  late  a 
date  for  my  present  purposes.  Many 
are  translations  of  the  French  books 
of  1830,  and  they  reproduce  even  the 
lithographs  and  other  illustrations  pub- 
lished in  the  original  works. 

Of  course,  it  will  be  understood  that 
I  write  solely  of  the  books  in  my  own 
collection,  which  I  am  not  foolish 
enough  to  represent  as  exhaustive.  In- 
deed, if  I  were,  M.  Vicaire 's  Biblio- 
graphy would  betray  me  at  once.  But 
for  the  collector  the  evil  hour  is  when, 
folding  his  hands,  he  must  admit  his 
task  completed.  As  long  as  there  are 
gaps  on  my  shelves,  life  will  still  hold 
the  possibility  of  emotion. 

Elizabeth  Robins  Pennell. 


JIMVILLE. 


A   BRET   HAUTE   TOWN. 


WHEN  Mr.  Harte  found  himself  with 
a  fresh  palette  and  his  particular  local 
color  fading  from  the  West,  he  did  what 
he  considered  the  only  safe  thing,  and 
carried  his  young  impression  away  to  be 
worked  out  untroubled  by  any  newer 
fact.  He  should  have  gone  to  Jimville. 
There  he  would  have  found  cast  up  on 


the  ore-ribbed  hills  the  bleached  timbers 
of  more  tales,  and  better  ones. 

You  could  not  think  of  Jimville  as 
anything  more  than  a  survival,  like  the 
herb-eating,  bony-cased  old  tortoise  that 
pokes  cheerfully  about  those  borders 
some  thousands  of  years  beyond  his 
proper  epoch.  Not  that  Jimville  is  old, 


Jimville. 


691 


but  it  has  an  atmosphere  favorable  to 
the  type  of  a  half  century  back,  if  not 
"forty-niners,"  of  that  breed.  It  is 
said  of  Jimville  that  getting  away  from 
it  is  such  a  piece  of  work  that  it  encour- 
ages permanence  in  the  population ;  the 
fact  is  that  most  have  been  drawn  there 
by  some  real  likeness  or  liking.  Not 
however  that  I  would  deny  the  difficulty 
of  getting  into  or  out  of  that  cove  of  re- 
minder, I  who  have  made  the  journey 
so  many  times  at  great  pains  of  a  poor 
body.  Any  way  you  go  at  it,  Jimville 
is  about  three  days  from  anywhere  in 
particular.  North  or  south,  after  the 
railroad  there  is  a  stage  journey  of  such 
interminable  monotony  as  induces  for- 
getfulness  of  all  previous  states  of  ex- 
istence. 

The  road  to  Jimville  is  the  happy 
hunting  -  ground  of  old  stagecoaches 
bought  up  from  superseded  routes  the 
West  over,  rocking,  lumbering,  wide 
vehicles  far  gone  in  the  order  of  ro- 
mance, coaches  that  Vasquez  has  held 
up,  from  whose  high  seats  express  mes- 
sengers have  shot  or  been  shot  as  their 
luck  held.  This  is  to  comfort  you  when 
the  driver  stops  to  rummage  for  wire  to 
mend  a  failing  bolt.  There  is  enough  of 
this  sort  of  thing  to  quite  prepare  you 
to  believe  what  the  driver  insists,  name- 
ly, that  all  that  country  and  Jimville 
are  held  together  by  wire. 

First  on  the  way  to  Jimville  you  cross 
a  lonely  open  land,  with  a  hint  in  the 
sky  of  things  going  on  under  the  hori- 
zon, a  palpitant,  white,  hot  land  where 
the  wheels  gird  at  the  sand  and  the 
midday  heaven  shuts  it  in  breathlessly 
like  a  tent.  So  in  still  weather ;  and 
when  the  wind  blows  there  is  occupa- 
tion enough  for  the  passengers,  shifting 
seats  to  hold  down  the  windward  side 
of  the  wagging  coach.  This  is  a  mere 
trifle.  The  Jimville  stage  is  built  for 
five  passengers,  but  when  you  have 
seven,  with  four  trunks,  several  parcels, 
three  sacks  of  grain,  the  mail  and  ex- 
press, you  begin  to  understand  that  pro- 
verb about  the  road  which  has  been  re- 


ported to  you.  In  time  you  learn  to  en- 
gage the  high  seat  beside  the  driver, 
where  you  get  good  air  and  the  best 
company.  Beyond  the  desert  rise  the 
lava  flats,  scoriae  strewn ;  sharp  cutting 
walls  of  narrow  canons;  league-wide, 
frozen  puddles  of  black  rock,  intolerable 
and  forbidding.  Beyond  the  lava  the 
mouths  that  spewed  it  out,  ragged- 
lipped,  ruined  craters  shouldering  to  the 
cloud  line,  mostly  of  red  earth,  as  red 
as  a  red  heifer.  These  have  some  com- 
forting of  shrubs  and  grass.  You  get 
the  very  spirit  of  the  meaning  of  that 
country  when  you  see  Little  Pete  feed- 
ing his  sheep  in  the  red,  choked  maw  of 
an  old  vent,  —  a  kind  of  silly  pastoral 
gentleness  that  glozes  over  an  elemental 
violence.  Beyond  the  craters  rise  worn, 
auriferous  hills  of  a  quiet  sort,  tumbled 
together ;  a  valley  full  of  mists ;  whitish 
green  scrub ;  and  bright  small  panting 
lizards ;  then  Jimville. 

The  town  looks  to  have  spilled  out 
of  Squaw  Gulch,  and  that,  in  fact,  is  the 
sequence  of  its  growth.  It  began  around 
the  Bully  Boy  and  Theresa  group  of 
mines  midway  up  Squaw  Gulch,  spread- 
ing down  to  the  smelter  at  the  mouth 
of  the  ravine.  The  freight  wagons 
dumped  their  loads  as  near  to  the  mill 
as  the  slope  allowed,  and  Jimville  grew 
in  between.  Above  the  Gulch  begins  a 
pine  wood  with  sparsely  grown  thickets 
of  lilac,  azalea,  and  odorous  blossoming 
shrubs. 

Squaw  Gulch  is  a  very  sharp,  steep, 
ragged-walled  ravine,  and  that  part  of 
Jimville  which  is  built  in  it  has  only  one 
street,  —  in  summer  paved  with  bone- 
white  cobbles,  in  the  wet  months  a 
frothy  yellow  flood.  All  between  the 
ore  dumps  and  solitary  small  cabins, 
pieced  out  with  tin  cans  and  packing- 
cases,  run  footpaths  drawing  down  to 
the  Silver  Dollar  saloon.  When  Jim- 
ville was  having  the  time  of  its  life  the 
Silver  Dollar  had  those  same  coins  let 
into  the  bar  top  for  a  border,  but  the 
proprietor  pried  them  out  when  the 
glory  departed.  There  are  three  hun- 


692 


Jimville. 


dred  inhabitants  in  Jimville  and  four 
bars,  though  you  are  not  to  argue  any- 
thing from  that. 

Hear  now  how  Jimville  came  by  its 
name.  Jim  Calkins  discovered  the 
Bully  Boy,  Jim  Baker  located  the  The- 
resa. When  Jim  Jenkins  opened  an 
eating-house  in  his  tent  he  chalked  up 
on  the  flap,  "Best  meals  in  Jimville, 
$1.00,"  and  the  name  stuck. 

There  was  more  human  interest  in 
the  origin  of  Squaw  Gulch,  though  it 
tickled  no  humor.  It  was  Dimmick's 
squaw  from  Aurora  way.  If  Dimmick 
had  been  anything  except  New  England- 
er  he  would  have  called  her  Mahala,  but 
that  would  not  have  bettered  his  be- 
havior. Dimmick  made  a  strike,  went 
East,  and  the  squaw  who  had  been  to 
him  as  his  wife  took  to  drink.  That 
was  the  bald  way  of  stating  it  in  the 
Aurora  country.  The  milk  of  human 
kindness,  like  some  wine,  must  not  be 
uncorked  too  much  in  speech  lest  it  lose 
savor.  This  is  what  they  did.  The 
woman  would  have  returned  to  her  own 
people,  being  far  gone  with  child,  but 
the  drink  worked  her  bane.  By  the 
river  of  this  ravine  her  pains  overtook 
her.  There  Jim  Calkins,  prospecting, 
found  her  dying  with  a  three  days'  babe 
nozzling  at  her  breast.  Jim  heartened 
her  for  the  end,  buried  her,  and  walked 
back  to  Poso  eighteen  miles,  the  child 
poking  in  the  folds  of  his  denim  shirt 
with  small  mewing  noises,  and  won  sup- 
port for  it  from  the  rough-handed  folks 
of  that  place.  Then  he  came  back  to 
Squaw  Gulch,  so  named  from  that  day, 
and  discovered  the  Bully  Boy.  Jim 
humbly  regarded  this  piece  of  luck  as 
interposed  for  his  reward,  and  I  for 
one  believed  him.  If  it  had  been  in 
mediaeval  times  you  would  have  had  a 
Jegend  or  a  ballad.  Bret  Harte  would 
have  given  you  a  tale.  You  see  in  me 
a  mere  recorder,  for  I  know  what  is  best 
for  you ;  you  shall  blow  out  this  bubble 
from  your  own  breath. 

You  could  never  get  into  any  proper 
relation  to  Jimville  unless  you  could 


slough  off  and  swallow  your  acquired 
prejudices  as  a  lizard  does  his  skin. 
Once  wanting  some  womanly  attentions, 
the  stage  driver  assured  me  I  might 
have  them  at  the  Nine-Mile  House  from 
the  lady  barkeeper.  The  phrase  tickled 
all  my  after-dinner-coffee  sense  of  hu- 
mor into  an  anticipation  of  Poker  Flat. 
The  stage  driver  proved  himself  really 
right,  though  you  are  not  to  suppose 
from  this  that  Jimville  had  no  conven- 
tions and  no  caste.  They  work  out  these 
things  in  the  personal  equation  largely. 
Almost  every  latitude  of  behavior  is  al- 
lowed a  good  fellow,  one  no  liar,  a  free 
spender,  and  a  backer  of  his  friends' 
quarrels.  You  are  respected  in  as  much 
ground  as  you  can  shoot  over,  in  as  many 
pretensions  as  you  can  make  good. 

That  probably  explains  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe,  the  gentlemanly  faro  dealer  of 
those  parts,  built  for  the  role  of  Oak- 
hurst,  going  white-shirted  and  frock- 
coated  in  a  community  of  overalls ;  and 
persuading  you  that  whatever  shifts  and 
tricks  of  the  game  were  laid  to  his  deal 
he  could  not  practice  them  on  a  person 
of  your  penetration.  But  he  does.  By 
his  own  account  and  the  evidence  of  his 
manners  he  had  been  bred  for  a  clergy- 
man, and  he  certainly  has  gifts  for  the 
part.  You  find  him  always  in  possession 
of  your  point  of  view,  and  with  an  evi- 
dent though  not  obtrusive  desire  to  stand 
well  with  you.  For  an  account  of  his 
killings,  for  his  way  with  women  and  the 
way  of  women  with  him,  I  refer  you  to 
Brown  of  Calaveras  and  some  others  of 
that  stripe.  His  improprieties  had  a 
certain  sanction  of  long  standing  not 
accorded  to  the  gay  ladies  who  wore  Mr.' 
Fanshawe '  s  favors .  There  were  perhaps 
too  many  of  them.  On  the  whole,  the 
point  of  the  moral  distinctions  of  Jim- 
ville appears  to  be  a  point  of  honor, 
with  an  absence  of  humorous  apprecia- 
tion that  strangers  mistake  for  dullness. 
At  Jimville  they  see  behavior  as  history 
and  judge  it  by  facts,  untroubled  by 
invention  and  the  dramatic  sense.  You 
glimpse  a  crude  sense  of  equity  in  their 


Jimville. 


693 


dealings  with  Wilkins  who  had  shot  a 
man  at  Lone  Tree,  fairly,  in  an  open 
quarrel.  Rumor  of  it  reached  Jimville 
before  Wilkins  rested  there  in  flight. 
I  saw  Wilkins,  all  Jimville  saw  him ; 
in  fact,  he  came  into  the  Silver  Dollar 
when  we  were  holding  a  church  fair  and 
bought  a  pink  silk  pincushion.  I  have 
often  wondered  what  became  of  it. 
Some  of  us  shook  hands  with  him,  not 
because  we  did  not  know,  but  because 
we  had  not  been  officially  notified,  and 
there  were  those  present  who  knew  how 
it  was  themselves.  When  the  sheriff 
arrived  Wilkins  had  moved  on,  and  Jim- 
ville organized  a  posse  and  brought  him 
back,  because  the  sheriff  was  a  Jimville 
man  and  we  had  to  stand  by  him. 

I  said  we  had  the  church  fair  at  the 
Silver  Dollar.  We  had  most  things 
there,  dances,  town  meetings,  and  the 
kinetoscope  exhibition  of  the  Passion 
Play.  The  Silver  Dollar  had  been  built 
when  the  borders  of  Jimville  spread 
from  Minton  to  the  red  hill  the  Defi- 
ance twisted  through.  "  Side-Winder  " 
Smith  scrubbed  the  floor  for  us  and 
moved  the  bar  to  the  back  room.  The 
fair  was  designed  for  the  support  of  the 
circuit  rider  who  preached  to  the  few 
that  would  hear,  and  buried  us  all  in 
turn.  He  was  the  symbol  of  Jimville's 
respectability,  although  he  was  of  a  sect 
that  held  dancing  among  the  cardinal 
sins.  The  management  took  no  chances 
on  offending  the  minister;  at  11.30 
they  tendered  him  the  receipts  of  the 
evening  in  the  chairman's  hat,  as  a  deli- 
cate intimation  that  the  fair  was  closed. 
The  company  filed  out  of  the  front  door 
and  around  to  the  back.  Then  the  dance 
began  formally  with  no  feelings  hurt. 
These  were  the  sort  of  courtesies,  com- 
mon enough  in  Jimville,  that  brought 
tears  of  delicate  inner  laughter. 

There  were  others  besides  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe  who  had  walked  out  of  Mr. 
Harte's  demesne  to  Jimville  and  wore 
names  that  smacked  of  the  soil,  "  Alkali 
Bill,"  "Pike"  Wilson,  "Three  Fin- 
ger," and  "Mono  Jim;  "  fierce, shy, pro- 


fane, sun-dried  derelicts  of  the  windy 
hills ;  who  each  owned,  or  had  owned,  a 
mine  and  was  wishful  to  own  one  again. 
They  laid  up  on  the  worn  benches  of  the 
Silver  Dollar  or  the  Same  Old  Luck 
like  beached  vessels,  and  their  talk  ran 
on  endlessly  of  "strike  "  and  "contact  " 
and  "mother  lode,"  and  worked  around 
to  fights  and  hold-ups,  villainy,  haunts, 
and  the  hoodoo  of  the  Minietta,  told 
austerely  without  imagination. 

Do  not  suppose  I  am  going  to  repeat 
it  all ;  you  who  want  these  things  writ- 
ten up  from  the  point  of  view  of  people 
who  do  not  do  them  every  day  would  get 
no  savor  in  their  speech. 

Says  Three  Finger,  relating  the  his- 
tory of  the  Mariposa,  "I  took  it  off'n 
Tom  Beatty,  cheap,  after  his  brother 
Bill  was  shot." 

Says  Jim  Jenkins,  "  What  was  the 
matter  of  him  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  Bill  ?  Abe  Johnson  shot  him ; 
he  was  fooling  around  Johnson's  wife, 
an'  Tom  sold  me  the  mine  dirt  cheap." 

"Why  did  n't  he  work  it  himself  ?  " 

"  Him  ?  Oh,  he  was  laying  for  Abe 
and  calculated  to  have  to  leave  the 
country  pretty  quick." 

"  Huh !  "  says  Jim  Jenkins,  and  the 
tale  flows  smoothly  on. 

Yearly  the  spring  fret  floats  the  loose 
population  of  Jimville  out  into  the 
desolate  waste  hot  lands,  guiding  by  the 
peaks  and  a  few  rarely  touched  water 
holes,  always,  always  with  the  golden 
hope.  They  develop  prospects  and  grow 
rich,  develop  others  and  grow  poor  but 
never  embittered.  Say  the  hills,  It  is 
all  one,  there  is  gold  enough,  time 
enough,  and  men  enough  to  come  after 
you.  And  at  Jimville  they  understand 
the  language  of  the  hills. 

Jimville  does  not  know  a  great  deal 
about  the  crust  of  the  earth,  it  prefers 
a  "hunch."  That  is  an  intimation 
from  the  gods  that  if  you  go  over  a 
brown  back  of  the  hills,  by  a  dripping 
spring,  up  Coso  way,  you  will  find  what 
is  worth  while.  I  have  never  heard  that 
the  failure  of  any  particular  hunch  dis- 


694 


Evenings  at  Simeon?  s  Store. 


proved  the  principle.  Somehow  the 
rawness  of  the  land  favors  the  sense  of 
personal  relation  to  the  supernatural. 
There  is  not  much  intervention  of  crops, 
cities,  clothes,  and  manners  between 
you  and  the  organizing  forces  to  cut  off 
communication.  All  this  begets  in  Jim- 
ville  a  state  that  passes  explanation  un- 
less you  will  accept  an  explanation  that 
passes  belief.  Along  with  killing  and 
drunkenness,  coveting  of  women,  char- 
ity, simplicity,  there  is  a  certain  indif- 
ference, blankness,  emptiness  if  you 
will,  of  all  vaporings,  no  bubbling  of 
the  pot,  —  it  wants  the  German  to  coin 
a  word  for  that,  —  no  bread- envy,  no 
brother-fervor.  Western  writers  have 
not  sensed  it  yet  (perhaps  Lummis  a 
little) ;  they  smack  the  savor  of  lawless- 


ness too  much  upon  their  tongues,  but 
you  have  these  to  witness  it  is  not  mean- 
spiritedness.  It  is  pure  Greek  in  that 
it  represents  the  courage  to  shear  off 
what  is  not  worth  while.  Beyond  that 
it  endures  without  sniveling,  renounces 
without  self-pity,  fears  no  death,  rates 
itself  not  too  great  in  the  scheme  of 
things ;  so  do  beasts,  so  did  St.  Jerome 
in  the  desert,  so  also  in  the  elder  day  did 
gods.  Life,  its  performance,  cessation, 
is  no  new  thing  to  gape  and  wonder  at. 
Here  you  have  the  repose  of  the  per- 
fectly accepted  instinct  which  includes 
passion  and  death  in  its  perquisites.  I 
suppose  that  the  end  of  all  our  hammer- 
ing and  yawping  will  be  something  like 
the  point  of  view  of  Jimville.  The  only 
difference  will  be  in  the  decorations. 
Mary  Austin. 


EVENINGS  AT  SIMEON'S  STORE. 


AFTER  several  days  of  strong  easterly 
wind  with  rain  and  sleet,  it  had  fallen 
nearly  calm,  and  a  dense,  dripping  fog 
settled  over  Killick  Cove  as  night  came 
on  early  with  dungeon -like  blackness. 
Across  the  rain-soaked  pastures  sounded 
loudly  the  hollow  rote  of  the  sea,  broken 
periodically  by  the  foghorn's  sepulchral 
note  and  the  mournful  clang  of  the  bell 
buoy  on  the  Hue  and  Cry. 

Clad  in  oilskins  and  rubber  boots,  cer- 
tain faithful  pilgrims  to  the  store,  who 
had  wallowed  up  through  the  mud  and 
darkness  from  the  Lower  Neck,  report- 
ed it  as  "breakin'  a  clean  torch  "  on 
every  ledge  outside,  and  bewailed  the 
probable  loss  of  lobster  traps  and  trawls. 

Surely  a  more  fitting  night  on  which 
to  consider  witchcraft,  forerunners,  and 
like  subjects  could  not  have  been  chosen, 
and  Cap'n  Job  Gaskett's  black  eyes 
snapped  excitedly  as  he  once  more  de- 
clared his  firm  belief  that  witches  still 
practiced  their  art  in  the  vicinity, 
though  possibly  in  a  less  open  manner 


than  in  the  old  days  when  Sarah  Kentall 
and  Hetty  Moye  "hove  "  their  dreaded 
bridles  at  will,  or  in  the  much  more 
recent  times  when  Aunt  Polly  Belknap 
exacted  tribute  from  mariners  about  to 
sail. 

As  the  most  recent  occurrence  uphold- 
ing him  in  his  well-known  belief,  Cap'n 
Job  related  the  following  singular  expe- 
rience of  his  wife :  — 

"My  woman,"  said  he,  "she  sot  out 
one  time  las'  fall  to  drive  way  up  back 
here  a-visitin'  of  her  cousin  to  Lyndon 
Corners.  'T  was  some  consid'ble  time 
sence  she  'd  been  over  the  ro'd,  you 
un'stan',  an'  bimeby  she  come  to  a 
place  where  she  kind  o'  got  off'n  her 
course  altogether ;  she  lost  her  reck'nin' 
you  might  say,  an'  could  n't  see  ary 
*  marks, '  nor  git  ary  soundin's,nary  one 
o*  the  two. 

"Wai,  fin'lly  she  see  a  woman  out 
waterin'  plants  down  by  the  gate  in 
front  of  a  little,  small  ole  red  house 
there  was,  so  she  let  the  mare  come  to, 


Evenings  at  Simeon's  Store. 


695 


passed  the  time  o'  day  'long  o'  the  wo- 
man, an'  asked  her  'bout  which  was  the 
right  ways  to  take.  Wai,  this  here  wo- 
man she  made  off  's  ef  she  was  ter'ble 
perlite  an'  'commodatin'  like,  an'  went 
to  work  right  away  an'  pricked  off  a  new 
course  for  my  woman  to  run,  plain  's 
could  be,  but  she  kep'  up  a  stiddy  clat- 
ter o'  talk  same  's  ef  she  hadn't  seen 
nary  soul  for  a  fortni't,  an'  fin'lly  no- 
thin'  would  n't  do  but  my  woman  should 
turn  to  an'  have  a  dish  o'  tea  'long  o' 
her,  seem'  how  it  was  hard  on  to  noon- 
time a' ready.  Wai,  when  my  woman 
come  to  leave,  she  follered  her  chock 
down  to  the  gate  ag'in,  a-makin'  off  to 
be  ter'ble  anxious  for  fear 't  would  storm 
'fore  ever  my  woman  got  to  the  Corners. 

"Oh,  she  done  her  little  act  up  in 
complete  shape,  I  tell  ye,  but  what  I  'm 
comin'  at 's,  when  my  woman  took  holt 
o'  them  reins  to  start,  that  'ere  mare 
couldn't  make  out  to  raise  a  huff  off'n 
the  groun',  no  ways  she  could  fix  it. 
My  woman  'lows  she  done  her  dingdes' 
a-tryin'  to  git  a  move  on  to  that  hoss 
ag'in,  but 't  wa'n't  a part'cle  o'  use,  an' 
fin'lly  it  come  acrosst  her  all  of  a  sud- 
din  jes'  what  was  to  pay. 

"She  jes'  took  an'  unhitched  a  blame' 
great  shawl-pin  she  had  on  to  her  by  good 
luck,  an*  'fore  ever  this  here  set-fired 
ole  witch  knowed  what  she  was  up  to, 
my  woman  reached  out'n  that  wagon 
an'  fetched  a  kind  o'  rakin'  jab  like 
with  that  pin,  chock  down. the  length  o' 
the  creetur's  bare  arm,  so  's  to  start 
the  blood  a-squirtin'  in  good  shape,  I 
tell  ye,  an'  jes'  the  very  minute  she 
done  so,  the  mare  started  off  down  the 
ro'd  same  's  a  bullet  out'n  a  gun,  an' 
left  that  air  ole  witch  a-hoppin'  roun' 
there,  screechin'  fit  to  stund  ye. 

"She  'd  went  to  work  an'  teched  that 
'ere  mare,  ye  see;  she'd  jes'  up  an' 
hove  a  spell  acrosst  the  whole  d — n 
bus'niss,  an'  nothin'  only  blood  would 
n't  break  it." 

After  some  few  remarks  in  commen- 
dation of  Mrs.  Gaskett's  sagacity  on 
this  occasion,  Simeon  inquired  from  his 


high  perch  behind  the  desk  whether 
Cap'n  Job  had  heard  anything  from  his 
oil-can  recently,  and  as  it  proved  there 
were  several  present  unfamiliar  with  the 
facts  in  this  strange  case,  Cap'n  Gaskett 
obligingly  furnished  them  again  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  When  I  painted  my  house  an'  out- 
buildin's  eight  year  ago  come  spring- 
time, there  was  a  four-gallon  oil-can 
lef '  kickin'  'bout  the  yard,  an'  fin'lly 
I  took  an'  I  hove  her  into  the  barn  to 
be  red  on  her.  Wai,  she  laid  there  up 
in  one  corner  all  quiet  'nough  for  a 
spell ;  month  or  more  I  guess  't  was  she 
laid  there  into  that  krawm-heap,  till  one 
time  I  was  out  there  grindin'  up  my  axe, 
an'  all  to  once  I  heerd  a  set-fired  fun- 
ny thumpin'  soun'  —  ker- chunk !  ker- 
plunk !  Sup'n  that  ways  she  'peared  to 
soun',  but  six  on  'em  to  a  lick,  allus. 

"There  wa'n't  nary  soul  into  that 
barn  but  me,  I  knowed  that  all  right, 
but  to  make  a  dead  sure  thing,  I  up  an' 
ransacked  that  buildin'  high  an'  low, 
but  it  didn't  'mount  to  nothin'  't  all, 
for  I  foun'  them  thumps  come  direc' 
out'n  that  ole  oil-can,  an'  nowheres 
else.  'S  I  say,  at  the  fus'  send-off, 
there  was  allus  jes'  six  on  'em  to  a  time, 
an'  I  knowed  they  was  a  forerunner, 
fas'  'nough,  but  'twas  some  few  days 
'fore  ever  I  ketched  on  to  jes'  what 
't  was  they  meant,  till  one  af  'noon  I 
was  a-settin'  out  there  kind  o'  study  in' 
of  it  over,  an'  I  see  all  to  once  that 
them  six  thumps  was  a  sign  that  Sister 
Jane  was  goin'  to  stop  roun'  here  'long 
on  us  jes'  six  more  months,  an'  no  longer. 
She  'd  jes'  barely  commenced  to  be  sick- 
ly 'bout  that  time,  you  rec'lec'. 

"Wai  sir,  that  ole  can  kep'  right  on 
thumpin'  out  six  clips  to  a  time  for  jes' 
one  month,  an'  then  she  let  up  on  one 
thump,  an'  slacked  down  to  five.  I  use' 
to  git  so  aggravated  'long  o'  the  dod- 
blasted  ole  thing,  I  'd  up  an'  kick  her 
all  round  the  barn  floor  chock  out  into 
the  henyard,  but  't  wa'n't  no  manner  o' 
use,  an'  never  made  a  mite  o'  diff 'rence, 
not  a  mite. 


696 


Jfveninys  at  Simeon's  Store. 


"Soon 's  ever  I  'd  come  to  git  through 
kickin'  of  her,  she  'd  jes'  up  an'  give 
out  them  same  ole  thumps  same  's  she  'd 
been  doin'  of,  so  fin'lly  I  never  paid  no 
more  'tention  to  her,  an'  she  kep'  right 
on  thumpin'  whenever  she  got  good  an' 
ready,  but  I  took  pertik'ler  notice  ev'ry 
month  she  let  up  on  one  thump,  an'  Sis- 
ter Jane  she  kep'  right  on  failin'  stiddy 
all  the  time.  Wai  sir,  them  thumps 
fin'lly  come  down  to  one,  an'  that  one 
kep'  on  dwindlin'  away  fainter  an' 
fainter,  till  bimeby  Jane  she  died.  The 
ole  can  sets  up  there  into  the  barn  yit, 
but  nary  yip  has  come  out'n  her  sence." 

A  pause  followed  this  narrative  of 
Cap'n  Job's,  during  which  his  listeners 
chewed  their  quids  reflectively,  while 
the  clucking  of  Cap'n  Roundturn's  false 
teeth  became  painfully  noticeable. 

"Them  kind  o'  things  is  sing'lar,  an' 
there's  no  rubbin'  of  it  out,  neither," 
continued  Job  in  a  few  minutes.  "I 
cal'late  there  won't  never  be  no  def 'ni- 
tion  to  'em.  Now  there  was  one  o' 
them  drummer  fellers  put  up  to  my 
house  over  night  one  time,  an'  I  was 
tellin'  him  'bout  that  air  scrape  o'  my 
woman's  when  the  ole  witch  teched  the 
mare,  same  's  I  was  jes'  now  speakin' 
of.  Wai  sir,  this  here  drummer  he  was 
an  extry  smart  'pearin'  sort  o'  chap, 
an'  I  'lowed  he  was  posted  on  mos' 
ev'ry  thing  chock  to  the  handle.  Why, 
he  had  a  head  on  to  him  same  's  a  wooden 
god;  bigger 'n  what  Dan'l  Webster's 
ever  dared  to  be,  so  's  't  I  cal'lated  you 
could  n't  stick  him  on  nothin'  in  rea- 
son, but  be  dinged  ef  he  did  n't  own  up 
that  three  or  four  o'  them  yarns  1  give 
him  that  night  was  reg'lar  ole  clinch- 
ers, an'  no  mistake ! 

"Said  they  jes'  knocked  him  silly, 
they  did,  so 's 't  he  wouldn't  preten' 
to  give  no  why  an'  wherefore  to  'em, 
but  he  'lowed  how  he  see  in  his  paper 
one  time  where  a  lot  o'  them  rich  col- 
lege fellers  up  to  the  west'ard  there  had 
turned  to  an'  j'ined  a  sort  o'  club  like, 
or  some  sich  thing,  to  hoi'  reg'lar  meet- 
in' s  an'  overhaul  jes'  sich  works  as  I 


was  tellin'  'bout,  so  's  to  see  ef  they 
couldn't  git  the  true  bearin's  on  'em 
some  ways  or  'nother. 

"I  to!'  him,  's  I,  they  can't  never 
tell  nothin'  'bout  'em,  for  the  reason 
it  wa'n't  never  cal'lated  we  should  git 
holt  on  't.  It  '11  be  jes'  time  an'  money 
hove  clean  away,  's  I,  an'  that 's  all 
it  '11  'mount  to." 

"That 's  true  's  preachin' !  "  assent- 
ed Cap'n  Roundturn.  "  What  ever  them 
pore  half  fools  kin  make  out'n  it  won't 
'mount  to  a  row  o'  pins,  but  Godfrey 
mighty !  Them  fellers'  time  don't  come 
very  high,  by  no  manner  o'  means,  an' 
somebody  may  git  a  dollar  out'n  'em, 
some  ways!  I  sh'd  say  bes'  give  'em 
plenty  o'  slack  line,  an'  tell  'em  to  go 
it,  full  tilt." 

"Wai,  yas,"  said  Cap'nGaskett,  "I 
s'pose  they  might 's  well  mull  the  thing 
over  amongst  'em.  'T  won't  do  no 
great  hurt,  ef  it  don't  do  no  good,  as 
the  feller  said  when  he  went  to  work  an' 
leggo  his  anchor  without  no  cable  bent 
on  to  it !  But  ef  them  fellers  lacks  ma- 
teeril  for  to  try  their  headpieces  on  to, 
I  *11  bate  a  hat  I  kin  deal  out  'nough 
on  't  so  's  to  keep  'em  guessin'  for  the 
nex'  twelvemonth,  an'  resk  it. 

"Now  you  take  the  time  they  fetched 
Cap'n  Thaddy  Kentall  ashore  from  his 
vess'l  here  to  this  Cove.  You  rec'lect 
it,  Cap'n  Roundturn  ?  'T  was  the  time 
I  retopped  the  ole  Fair  Wind  up  there 
to  your  shore,  much  's  thirty-five  year 
sence,  I  guess.  That  air  ole  crooked  ap- 
ple tree  that  stan's  cluss  to  the  eastern 
end  o'  the  Kentall  place  was  all  chock- 
a-block  with  blossoms  when  they  fetched 
Cap'n  Thaddy  up  there  that  spring,  but 
soon  's  ever  he  was  to  bed  in  good  shape, 
be  jiggered  ef  them  blossoms  did  n't 
commence  a-fallin'  off'n  her! 

"They  pretended  to  say  'long  the 
fus'  send-off  how  Cap'n  Thaddy  had 
ketched  a  fever,  but  it  turned  out  sup'n 
ailed  his  liver;  that 's  what  it  was  the 
matter  on  him,  —  his  liver  kep'  shrink- 
in'  away  stiddy,  an'  them  set-fired  blos- 
soms kep'  on  droppin'  an'  droppin'  jes' 


Evenings  at  Simeon's  Store. 


697 


so  stiddy.  Bimeby,  when  they  'd  ev'ry 
dod-blasted  one  fell  off'n  that  tree,  be 
dinged  ef  the  leaves  didn't  commence 
a-dreepin'  off'n  her  too! 

"That 's  a  fac' !  I  'm  givin'  of  it 
to  ye  straight 's  a  gun  bar'l.  I  was 
right  to  home  here  through  the  hull 
on  't,  repairin'  up  my  vess'l,  an'  was 
knowin'  to  all  the  pertik'lers  jes'  like 
a  book.  The  way  'twas,  Cap'n  Thad- 
dy's  liver  fin'lly  come  to  git  complete- 
ly eat  up,  or  else  she  dried  up,  or  run 
out,  I  can't  rightly  say  fer  certain  now 
jes'  what  it  was  ailed  her,  but  any  ways, 
I  know  Cap'n  Thaddy  lost  his  liver  clip 
an'  clean,  an'  time  she  was  all  gone,  that 
air  apple  tree  was  stripped  chock  down 
to  bare  poles ;  yes  sir,  jes'  naked  's  ever 
she  was  in  winter  time ! 

"  Wai,  ole  Doctor  Windseye  he  start- 
ed in  to  grow  a  bran'-noo  liver  into 
Cap'n  Thaddy,  but  it  'peared  's  though 
he  could  n't  make  out  to  git  no  great 
headway  on  'long  the  fus'  on  't,  an'  I 
know  't  was  kind  o'  hinted  roun'  on  the 
sly  that  ole  Doc  had  went  to  work  an' 
bit  off  more  'n  what  he  could  chaw. 

"Any  ways,  Cap'n  Thaddy  he  jes' 
laid  there  to  bed  for  weeks  so  blame 
sick  he  didn't  give  a  tinker's  d — n  ef 
school  kep'  or  not,  but  bimeby,  though, 
ole  Doc  he  fin'lly  made  out  to  git  a  noo 
liver  sprouted  in  good  shape,  an'  jes' 
soon  's  ever  he  done  so,  set-fire  ef  them 
apple-tree  leaves  did  n't  commence  to 
bud  out  ag'in,  an'  time  the  Cap'n's  noo 
liver  had  got  a  real  good  holt  on  to  him, 
that  air  tree  was  all  bloomed  out  ag'in 
solid  full  o'  blossoms,  same  's  she  was 
when  they  fetched  him  ashore.  Yas  sir, 
she  was,  an'  now  let  them  club  fellers  up 
there  to  the  west'ard  jes'  shove  that  air 
into  their  pipes  an'  smoke  it  a  spell ! 

"Way 'twas  in  them  days,  folks 
round  here  kind  o'  'lowed  how  ole  Doc 
done  a  big  job  for  Cap'n  Thaddy,  but 
gracious  evers!  You  take  it  this  day 
o'  the  world,  an'  them  hospittle  fellers 
grows  noo  livers  right  'long;  't  aint  the 
fus1  bit  o'  put-out  to  'em  now'days,they 
tell  me." 


Although  this  striking  story  was  per- 
fectly well  known  throughout  the  vil- 
lage, Cap'n  Job's  hearers  listened  at- 
tentively to  the  end,  partly  because  he 
was  recognized  as  high  authority  upon 
the  subject  in  hand,  and  partly  because 
repetition  of  stories  was  a  privilege 
shared  by  all  frequenters  of  the  store. 
At  this  point  in  the  proceedings  Sheriff 
Windseye  said  to  a  man  reclining  upon 
a  pile  of  meal  bags :  — 

"Le'  's  see,  John  Ed,  wa'n't  it  you 
that  run  acrosst  ole  Skipper  Nate  Per- 
kins out  here  in  the  Bay,  one  time  ?  " 

"Yas  sir!  "  promptly  answered  this 
individual.  "I  see  him,  an'  passed  the 
time  o'  day  'long  on  him,  sure  's  ever 
you  're  settin'  where  you  be.  'T  was 
more  'n  a  dozen  years  after  he  was  los', 
but  he  let  on  jes'  who  he  was,  though  I 
should  hev  knowed  his  v'ice  all  right  ef 
he  hadn't  hev  tol'  me." 

"He  'd  took  the  shape  of  a  hagdon, 
hadn't  he,  John  Ed?  "  interrupted 
Cap'n  Gaskett.  "The  mos'  o'  them 
ole  fellers  doos,  I  've  allus  took  no- 
tice." 

"Yas,"  replied  John  Ed,  as  he 
straightened  up,  and  tapped  the  ashes 
from  his  cob  pipe.  "Yas  sir,  that  's 
jes'  the  very  shape  he  showed  hisself  to 
me  in  —  jes'  one  o'  these  common  hag- 
dons,  or  mack'rel  gulls,  I  b'lieve  some 
folks  calls  'em. 

"The  way  't  was  that  time  was  like 
this.  When  I  sot  out  that  mornin', 
't  was  thick  o'  fog,  an'  pooty  nigh  stark 
calm,  too.  I  had  to  row  my  hooker 
more  'n  two  mile  outside  'fore  ever  I 
struck  ary  breeze  at  all.  Then  I  took 
jes'  an  air  o'  win'  out  here  to  the  south- 
'ard,  an'  made  out  to  fan  'long  for  a 
spell, but 't  was  dretful  mod'rit,an'  part 
the  time  there  wa'n't  scursely  steer- 
age-way on  to  her.  My  gear  was  all  sot 
out  on  Betty  Moody 's  Ten  Acre  Lot 
that  time,  but  't  was  so  master  thick  I 
could  n't  see  nary  marks,  an'  I  mus' 
have  fooled  away  'nother  hour  'fore  ever 
I  sighted  my  gear. 

"Wai,  I  commenced  under-runnin' 


698 


Evenings  at  Simeon's  /Store. 


the  fus'  trawl,  an'  pooty  quick  I  see 
this  here  hagdon  a-roostin'  right  a- top 
o'  my  weather  trawl  buoy.  'Twas  git- 
tin'  on  'long  toe-wards  noontime  then, 
an'  there  fin'lly  come  quite  a  scale, 
so  's  't  the  sun  pooty  nigh  come  out,  an' 
I  see  this  here  feller  settin '  there  cock- 
in'  of  his  blame  head  at  me,  plain  's 
could  be,  a-top  o'  that  kag. 

"Wai,  thinks  I  to  myself,  dinged  ef 
you  don't  make  out  to  be  some  tame, 
you !  Wonder  how  nigh  I  kin  git  to  ye, 
'fore  ever  ye  '11  up  an'  skip!  Wai,  I 
kep'  on  under-runnin'  that  trawl  sort 
o'  easy  like,  an'  gainin'  up  on  to  him  all 
the  time,  till  I  '11  bate  I  wa'n't  two 
bo't's  lengths  off'n  him,  when  he  up  an' 
says  jes'  nat'ral  's  life,  'Good-morn- 
in',  John  Ed,'  's  he.  .Wai,  now,  it 
gimme  a  master  start,  that  did,  there  's 
no  rubbin'  that  out,  though  's  a  gin'ral 
thing  sich  works  don't  jar  me  not  for  a 
cent,  but  this  here  come  on  to  me  so 
dbd-blowed  suddin,  ye  see ! 

" I  knowed  right  away  jes'  who  't  was, 
though,  soon  's  ever  he  yipped,  an'  's 
I,  *  This  here  's  Skipper  Nate  Perkins, 
ain't  it  ?  ' 

"'That's  jes'  who  'tis!'  's  he. 
<  How  's  all  the  folks  there  to  the  Cove  ?  ' 
's  he. 

"Wai  sir,  by  that  time  I  was  all 
tanto  ag'in,  an'  cool 's  a  cowcumber,  so 
I  turned  to  an'  give  him  a  kind  o'  gin- 
'ral av'rage  how  things  was  workin' 
ashore  here,  an'  sot  out  to  try  an'  pump 
him  a  grain  'bout  hisself,  but  he  would 
n't  gimme  no  more  chance. 

"'Give  'em  all  my  bes'  respec's  to 
hum  there, '  's  he,  an'  off  he  went  'bout 
eas'suth'eas',  I  jedged,  jes'  though  the 
devil  kicked  him  on  end. 

"Course,  I  'd  allus  hearn  the  ole 
folks  tell  'bout  hagdons  bein'  them 
that  's  dead,  an'  'specially  them  that 's 
"been  los'  to  sea,  but  I  never  give  the 
thing  no  great  thought  till  I  come  to 
see  it  proved  this  way." 

"Oh,  wal,  there  now!  "  put  in  Cap'n 
Job.  "For  the  matter  o'  that,  it  don't 
need  no  provin',  not  at  this  day  o'  the 


world,  it  don't.  It 's  gospel  truth,  an' 
I  've  knowed  it  ever  sence  I  was  the 
bigness  of  a  b'layin'  pin.  Skipper  Nate 
Perkins,  the  one  you  was  talkin'  'long 
on,  was  los'  into  the  ole  Harvester, in  the 
fall  o'  '71.  I  know  ole  Enoch  Winds- 
eye  over  to  the  Neck  here,  he  was 
shipped  to  go  cook  'long  o'  him,  an' 
come  down  to  the  w'arft  where  the  ves- 
s'l  was  lay  in'  the  night  afore  they  was 
to  sail,  cal' latin'  to  stow  his  dunnage 
aboard,  but  he  see  a  rat  run  ashore  on 
a  line  from  the  vess'l,  an'  he  jes'  shift- 
ed his  mind  on  the  spot,  an'  'lowed  he 
would  n't  go  no  how,  so  Skipper  Nate  he 
shipped  one  o'  them  Kunkett  Blakeleys 
to  go  cook  in  the  room  on  him,  an'  in 
jes'  two  weeks'  time  to  a  day  they  was 
ev'ry  soul  on  'em  drownded.  You  kin 
bate  high  rats  ain't  cal 'latin'  to  skin 
out'n  a  vess'l  that  way  for  nothin',  an' 
never  was ! 

"But  talkin'  'bout  losin'  vess'ls  puts 
me  in  mind  o'  the  time  father  was  los' 
in  the  ole  Good  Intent,  there.  I  wa'n't 
but  'bout  ten  year  ole  then,  an'  there 
was  six  on  us  young  uns  to  home  'long 
o'  mother.  'T  was  a  ter'ble  ole  breeze 
o'  win',  that  one  was,  an'  you  take  it 
down  to  the  Bay  Shelore,  where  father 
was  to,  an'  nineteen  sail  on  our  'Meri- 
can  fishermen  was  los'.  It  blowed  here 
right  out  endways,  an'  for  the  matter  o' 
that,  it  swep'  the  whole  coast  clip  an' 
clean,  but  what  I  'm  comin'  at  's  this. 

"Up  to  our  house  there,  'long  toe- 
wards  midnight,  they  commenced  pound- 
in'  an'  bangin'  of  her  fit  to  stave  her 
sides  an'  ruf  in  chock  to  the  cellar !  Of 
all  the  hell-fired  rackets  ever  I  hearn 
yit,  that  was  the  wusst  one !  It  skeered 
us  young  uns  mos'  to  conniptions,  but 
mother  she  bunched  us  all  together 
downstairs  into  the  settin '-room,  an' 
tol'  me  an'  brother  Sam  jes'  what  the 
matter  was.  You  could  n't  learn  her 
nothin'  'bout  them  kind  o'  things,  'cause 
she  'd  been  there  afore,  mother  had,  an' 
she  knowed  blame  well  father's  vess'l 
was  a  goner,  soon  's  ever  them  hellish 
works  commenced. 


Evenings  at  Simeon's  Store. 


699 


"Wai  sir,  they  kep'  up  that  air 
bangin'  an'  whangin'  o'  that  ole  house 
pooty  nigh  all  night  long,  without  no 
let-up.  Why,  them  clips  they  give  it 
sounded  for  all  the  world  jes'  like  some- 
body was  standin'  off  an'  givin'  of  it  to 
her  with  thund'rin'  great  mallets  an' 
top-mauls,  so  's  't  you  'd  caPlated  for 
sure  they  'd  stove  off  half  the  shingles, 
an'  shook  the  plasterin'  down  'fore  they 
slacked  up !  But  come  nex'  mornin',  an' 
there  wa'n't  so  much  's  a  scratch  to  be 
seen  on  to  that  air  house  from  cellar  to 
garret!  ". 

"Be  dod-blowed  ef  that  ain't  'bout 
the  sing 'lares'  thing  ever  I  heerd  tell 
on!  "  exclaimed  Simeon,  removing  his 
spectacles,  and  gazing  earnestly  at  Job 
over  the  desk.  "An*  you  preten*  to 
say  the  ole  Good  Intent  was  los'  that 
same  night  ?  " 

"Yas  siree,  I  do!"  replied  Cap'n 
Job  decidedly.  "She  made  out  to  turn 
turtle  on  'em  'bout  two  o'clock  in  the 
mornin',  nigh  's  ever  we  could  make 
out.  There  wa'n't  but  half  a  dozen  sail 
o'  the  whole  fleet  that  clawed  out'n 
the  Bay  in  that  breeze  o'  win',  an'  four 
o'  them  was  'pinks. '  Course  you  know 
how  't  is  down  there  into  that  set-fired 
guzzle-trap ;  ef  you  git  ketched,  you  got 
to  crack  on  sail  an'  sock  it  to  a  vess'l 
scan'lous  to  git  sea-room,  but  this  time 
the  fleet  was  doin'  well  fishin',  an'  they 
hung  on  too  long.  I  been  there  times 
'nough  sence  so  's  to  know  jes'  how  it 
worked.  Ef  a  craf '  won't  lug  sail,  your 
name  's  mud,  that 's  the  whole  story. 

"  Ole  Skipper  Lish  Perkins  he  was  to 
the  Bay  this  time  in  the  ole  Paytriot, 
an'  come  out'n  it  jes'  by  the  skin  o'  his 
teeth,  too,  an'  I  tell  ye  when  the  Pay- 
triot would  n't  wear  a  cluss  -  reefed 
mains '1  an'  the  bunnet  out'n  her  jib,  it 
wa'n't  no  sense  for  any  the  res'  part  o' 
the  fleet  to  try  it  on,  not  a  d — n  mite, 
but  this  time  jSkip'  Lish  'lowed  she 
would  n't  so  much  's  look  at  it  under 
them  sails ;  allst  the  creetur  'd  do  was 
to  lay  ri'  down  chock  to  her  hatches 
an'  waller!  They  blowed  away  mos' 


ev'rythin'  they  had  aboard  in  the  shape 
o'  muslin,  but  fin'lly  some  ways  or 
'nother  they  come  out'n  it.  Skip'  Lish 
he  allus  stuck  to  it  he  was  in  comp'ny 
that  night  long  o'  father  into  the  Good 
Intent,  an'  'lowed  how  he  see  her  hove 
down  by  a  master  great  holler  sea,  a 
reg'lar  ole  he  one,  'twas,  so  's  't  she 
never  got  on  her  legs  ag'in.  This  was 
somewhere  's  nigh  two  in  the  mornin', 
an'  they  never  see  no  sign  on  her  sence, 
nor  her  crowd,  neither !  " 

"But  that  there  bastin'  they  give  the 
house  that  night,  Job,  that 's  what  jes' 
gits  me!  "  said  Simeon.  "Puts  me  in 
mind  o'  the  works  the  ole  folks  allus 
an'  forever  use'  to  be  gossipin'  'bout 
when  we  was  youngsters. 

"Sich  works  ain't  nigh  so  common 
roun'  here  o'  late  years  as  they  was 
them  times.  Now  you  take  it  'fore 
Hetty  Moye  an'  Aunt  Polly  lit  out,  an' 
them  two  jes'  fairly  kep'  things  a-hum  - 
min'  here  to  this  Cove  with  their  set- 
fired  pranks  an'  works!  Blame  ef  't 
wa'n't  downright  horrid  the  works  them 
two  ole  critters  was  into  in  them 
days!" 

"Oh,  them  was  jes'  rank  pizen,  them 
two  was,"  observed  Cap'n  Job,  tilting 
back  in  his  chair  against  the  counter. 
"You  jes'  take  an'  let  a  pore  feller  once 
git  on  the  wrong  side  o'  Aunt  Polly,  an' 
'twas  all  day  with  him,  be  jiggered  ef 
it  wa'n't,  now !  She  'd  d — n  quick  fig- 
ger  out  some  ways  to  git  her  come-up- 
pance  'long  on  him,  an'  don't  you  think 
for  a  minute  she  would  n't !  " 

"  Lord  sakes !  I  guess  she  would  some 
quick!  "  cried  Simeon.  "An'  you  come 
to  take  Hetty  Moye  there,  you  take  an' 
let  her  jes'  git  that  dod-blasted  ole  bri- 
dle o'  hern  roun'  a  feller's  neck  good 
an'  taut,  an'  it 's  a  chance  ef  he  did  n't 
wish  mos'  damnly  he  had  n't  never  been 
borned  'fore  ever  she  got  through  'long 
on  him ! 

"They  allus  'lowed  how  she  driv 
Cap'n  Zachy  Condon  chock  down  to 
Kunkett  ole  harbor  an'  back  ag'in  the 
same  night  on  one  o'  them  hell-fired  ex- 


700 


Evenings  at  Simeon's  Store. 


hibitions  o'  hern,  an'  the  pore  ole  cree- 
tur  was  so  tuckered  an'  beat  out  he  never 
sot  foot  out  o'  bed  for  three  weeks.  I 
tell  ye,  it  doos  jes'  knock  tar-water  the 
doin's  an'  goin's  on  there  was  here  to 
this  Cove  in  them  days!  Blame  ef 
't  ain't  some  sing'lar!  Why,  I  don't 
cal'late  there  was  ary  skipper  to  this 
place  but  what  dassent  turn  to  an'  git 
his  vess'l  under  way  without  he  'd  been 
up  an'  fixed  things  all  straight  'long  o' 
Aunt  Polly  fus'.  Lord  Harry!  What 
slathers  o'  terbacker  I  've  seed  backed 
up  to  her  place  there  in  my  time !  " 

"That  'safac',  Simeon!  "  exclaimed 
Sheriff  Windseye.  "An'  snuff,  too! 
Any  God's  quantity  o'  tea  an'  snuff  she 
use'  to  git,  right  'long  stiddy.  Why, 
'twas  allus  counted  a  reg'lar  temptation 
o'  Prov'dence  to  make  a  start  for  the 
Cape  Shore  in  the  spring  o'  the  year 
without  you  'd  been  up  an'  bought  your 
luck  there  to  Aunt  Polly's  in  good  shape. 
I  take  notice  I  allus  done  so  myself,  an' 
I  guess  them  that  hain't  's  plaguy  scat- 
t'rin'  here  to  the  Cove,  ef  they  've  got 
any  age  at  all  on  to  'em.  It 's  some 
sing'lar,  though,  how  them  ole  witch- 
women  has  died  out  roun'  this  part  o' 
the  country." 

"Died  out  be  jiggered !  "  cried  Cap'n 
Job  Gaskett  indignantly.  "Them  style 
o'  folks  ain't  died  out  by  a  jugful;  not 
yit  awhile,  they  ain't!  Don't  you  go 
runnin'  'way  'long  o'  no  sich  idee  's 
that  air,  Cap'n,  'cause  ef  ye  do,  'tween 
you  an'  me  an'  the  win'lass-bitt,  you  '11 
git  everlastin'ly  lef.  I  'm  tellin'  ye 
there  's  folks  right  here  to  this  Cove  to- 
day that 's  jes'  as  well  fittin'  to  heave 
the  bridle,  an*  tech  cream,  an'  bias' 
crops,  an'  upset  loads  o'  hay,  an'  raise 
gin'ral  ructions  as  ary  one  o'  them  ole 
style  folks  was,  an'  nothin'  only  the  sod 
won't  take  it  out'n  'em,  neither,  but 
the  thing  on  't  is,  they  're  more  slyer 
an*  cunninger  'bout  gittin'  in  their 
work,  now'days,  that  's  allst  there  is  to 
it." 

"Wai,  I  dunno  'bout  that,  Cap'n 
Job,"  replied  the  Sheriff  doubtfully. 


"Folks  roun'  here  's  gittin'  mos'  too 
posted  at  this  day  o'  the  worl'  for  to 
take  a  great  sight  o'  stock  into  sich 
works." 

"'T ain't  a  question  o'  bein'  posted 
at  all,"  Cap'n  Job  persisted,  warming 
up  in  defense  of  his  favorite  theory. 
"Forty  year  ago  folks  roun'  here  was 
better  posted  'n  they  be  now,  an'  a 
d — n  sight  smarter  in  ev'ry  way,  shape, 
an'  manner.  Look  a'  the  Wes'  Injy 
bus'niss  there  was  carried  on  to  this 
Cove ;  look  a'  the  master  fleet  o'  fish- 
ermen there  was  fitted  out  here  ev'ry 
springtime;  thirty  odd  sail  o'  vess'ls 
owned  right  here  to  this  one  place ;  look 
a'  the  fish  there  was  made  here,  an'  the 
coop'rin'  shops  there  was  here,  an'  now 
look  a'  what  is  there  here? 

"Nothin'.  Jes' plain  nothin'.  Ev'ry 
dod-blasted  thing  jes'  deado!  Vess'ls 
all  gone,  w'arfts  all  gone,  an'  all  our 
smart  men  gone  too,  up  back  o'  the 
meetin' -house  here,  but  I  take  pertik'- 
ler  notice  that  when  they  was  livin',  an' 
doin'  more  bus'niss  in  a  Week  'n  what 
you  fellers  see  in  a  year's  time,  they 
didn't  begredge  a  dollar  for  the  sake 
o'  keepin'  on  the  right  side  o'  Polly 
Belknap!  You  kin  claim  folks  roun' 
here  is  a  ter'ble  sight  better  posted 
now'days,  but  ef  there  's  ary  man  'live 
here  to  this  Cove  to-day  could  learn  them 
ole  sirs  how  to  git  a  livin',  I  '11  thank 
ye  to  jes'  up  an'  p'int  him  out  to  me. 
That 's  ev'ry  cussed  thing  I  '11  ask  on 
ye;  jes'  up  an'  p'int  him  right  out." 
And  Cap'n  Job  looked  about  him  at  the 
assemblage  defiantly. 

"Yas  sir,"  Cap'n  Roundturn  replied 
at  length.  "There  was  cert'nly  a  tre- 
mendius  smart  set  o'  men  doin'  bus'- 
niss here  to  this  Cove  them  days,  an' 
't  wa'n't  no  habit  o'  our'n  to  take  much 
chances,  neither.  I  '11  presume  to  say 
there  ain't  no  case  on  record  where  a 
vess'l  ever  lef  this  Cove^on  her  fus'  trip 
in  the  spring  o'  the  year  without  she  'd 
made  a  short  hitch  to  the  nor'rard  fus' 
for  luck.  Mebbe  there  wa'n't  nothin' 
into  sich  a  pro-cess,  an*  then  ag'in  mebbe 


Evenings  at  Simeon  s  Store. 


701 


there  was  a  set-fired  heap  into  it,  an'  I 
allus  felt  consid'ble  easier  for  doin'  of 
it,  to  the  las'  o'  my  goin'  on  the  water. " 

"So  did  I,  Cap'n!  "  cried  Job  Gas- 
kett;  "I  allus  done  so,  reg'lar,  an'  so 
I  would  now  ef  I  wa'n'tlookin'  for  trou- 
ble, but  I  cal'late  Cap'n  Windseye  here 
'lows  how  't  wa'n'tnothin'  but  witchery 
into  it. " 

"  No  sich  a  thing !  "  the  Sheriff  shout- 
ed, at  once  resenting  this  slur  upon  his 
seamanship.  "I  allus  made  a  hitch  to 
the  nor'rard  quick  's  ever  my  anchor  was 
broke  out!  I  ain't  claimin'  there's 
witch- works  into  no  sich  custom  as  that 
air.  We  all  on  us  done  it,  an'  I  kin 
show  you  them  that  doos  so  to-day,  but 
my  p'int  is  that  folks  roun'  here  ain't 
so  skeered  o'  witch-doin's  as  they  was 
form'ly." 

"Wai,"  retorted  Cap'n  Job,  "ef 
they  hain't,  it 's  their  own  lookout. 
Them  that  knows  nothin'  fears  nothin', 
an'  I  ain't  s 'posed  to  allus  keep  an'  eye 
to  wind'ard  for  'em.  But  bein'  's  we  're 
on  this  tack  this  evenin',  I  kin  tell  ye 
another  kind  o'  sing'lar  thing  father  see 
one  time  when  he  was  into  the  ole  Mi- 
randy,  boun'  home  here  with  a  trip  o' 
fish  from  Canso,  'longo'  ole  Skip'  Adam 
Whitten. 

"They  'd  took  a  fresh  eas'ly  breeze, 
an'  hooped  her  right  'long  in  good  shape, 
till  father  he  cal'lated  he  was  well  to 
the  west'ard  o'  Cape  'Lizbeth,  but  it 
had  been  thick  o'  fog  all  the  time  corn- 
in'  'long,  so  's  't  they  had  n't  sighted 
nothin'  't  all.  'Long  in  the  evenin'  she 
shet  in  thicker 'n  ever;  one  o'  them 
reg'lar  ole  black,  dreepin'  fogs  same  's 
to-night,  so  's  't  ye  could  n't  even  see 
the  win 'lass  from  jes'  beaft  the  fore- 
mas',  an'  father  he  commenced  bimeby 
to  git  kind  o'  fidgety  like  at  not  makin' 
nothin',  so  fin'lly  he  goes  chock  for'- 
rard  so  's  t'  listen  an'  see  ef  he  could 
n't  git  holt  o'  the  rote  on  Boon  Islant. 
This  was  'bout  nine  in  the  evenin', 
'cordin'  to  his  tell,  an'  the  win'  had 
kind  o'  petered  out  on  'em,  but  there 
was  a  devil  of  an  ole  sea  heavin'  in, 


so  's  't  ev'ry thing  'long  shore  was 
breakin'  a  clean  torch.  Wai,  father  he 
was  stannin'  there  for'rard  listenin' 
away  for  allst  he  was  wuth,  an'  hopin' 
every  minute  to  git  holt  o'  sup'n,  when 
all  of  a  suddin  there  come  a  bust  o' 
music  right  alof ',  pooty  nigh  overhead, 
an'  bang  up  ole  music  she  was  too,  jes' 
like  one  o'  these  here  ban's,  only  there 
was  a  singin'  o'  women's  v'ices  mixed 
up  into  it  some  ways,  so  's  't  all  han's 
aboard  'lowed  they  never  heerd  the  beat 
of  it. 

"Wai  sir,  while  they  was  all  han's 
on  'em  stannin'  roun'  on  deck  there 
takin'  of  it  in,  wha'  'd  that  air  ole  fog- 
bank  do  but  scale  in  a  big  hole  right 
direc'  over  the  vess'l,  an'  the  stars  come 
out  jes'  bright  's  ever  you  see  'em  the 
pooties'  night  ever  growed,  but  all  roun' 
ev'rywheres  else,  without  't  was  right 
in  this  hole,  the  fog  was  thick  as  ma'sh 
mud,  so  's  't  you  could  slice  it  up  in 
chunks  with  a  knife. 

"Course,  it  give  'em  all  han's  a 
consid'ble  start,  an'  they  all  'lowed 
't  was  a  sign,  but  father  he  could  n't 
'pear  to  git  over  it  all  the  way  home, 
no  how.  He  kep'  caP latin'  to  find 
somebody  dead  for  cert'n,  soon  's  ever 
he  got  ashore,  but  nothin'  ever  come 
out'n  it  without  Jt  was  at  jes'  twenty 
minutes  pas'  nine  o'clock  that  same 
evenin'  me  an'  brother  Sam  was 
borned !  " 

"Sho !  "  exclaimed  Sheriff  Windseye. 
"  I  don't  doubt  but  that  the  ole  man  was 
glad  to  find  it  wa'n't  no  wuss.  Wai,  I 
mus'  be  gittin'  'long  up  the  ro'd.  Go- 
in'  up  my  way,  Eph?  " 

"Hold  on  a  minute  'fore  you  fill 
away,  Cap'n,"  said  Job.  "There's 
jes'  one  thing  I  sh'd  like  to  ask  ye  'bout 
'fore  this  settin'  's  closed.  P'raps 
you  '11  preten'  to  say  it  don't  make  no 
diff'rence  with  the  pork  ef  you  stick  a 
hog  on  the  flood  tide  or  on  the  ebb  ?  " 

"  Wai, "  said  the  Sheriff  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  "  I  ain't  prepared 
to  give  no  'pinion  on  that  'ere  jes'  yit. 
I  've  allus  heerd  tell  how  it  done  so,  o' 


702 


At  Kilcolman   Castle. 


course,  but  I  ain't  never  made  no  per- 
tik'ler  test  on  myself." 

"Oh,youhain't!  "  cried  Job.  "Wai, 
now,  I  jes'  hev!  I  've  took  an'  tested 
of  it  right  chock  to  the  handle,  an* 
you  '11  find  pork  that 's  killed  on  the 
ebb  '11  shrink  away  one  quarter  part 
ev'ry  dog-gone  time!  Now  there  was 
ole  Skip'  Ben  Ken  tall  up  on  the  mill- 
dam  ro'd  there,  he  was  called  a  master 
ban'  to  stick  pigs,  an'  done  'bout  the 
whole  o'  sich  jobs  up  round  there  after 
he  come  to  quit  goin'.  Them  folks  up 
there  use'  to  'low  Skip'  Benknowed  jes' 
the  bearin's  o'  the  creetur's  jug'lar, 
so  's  't  he  could  allus  fetch  it  the  very 
fust  swipe  o'  the  knife,  an'  you  take 
him,  an'  he  was  allus  jes'  so  keerful  to 
make  dead  sure  the  tide  had  n't  pinched 
off  a  grain  'fore  ever  he  commenced. 
He  knowed  blame  well  jes'  how  the 
thing  worked,  an'  so  doos  mos'  the  whole 
o'  them  ole  farmers  up  back  here,  now- 
'days." 

"You  turn  to  an'  frog  it  up  on  the 
Kunkett  ro'd  there  an'  ask  ole  Jeff 
Blakeley  how  't  is  'bout  it.  You  take 
an'  go  up  to  his  place  there,  an'  tell 
him  to  his  face  you  got  your  doubts 


'bout  it,  an'  see  how  quick  he  '11  go 
into  the  air!  I  cal'late  he  'd  up  an' 
take  a  stick  o'  cord- wood  to  a  feller  ef 
he  sh'd  go  up  there  an'  hang  it  out 
there  wa'n't  nothin'  into  it.  But  there ! 
what 's  the  good  talkin '  ?  It  's  the  truth 
all  right,  an'  soon  's  ever  you  come  to 
look  at  it,  there  ain't  a  thing  onray- 
tionable  'bout  it,  not  a  thing.  You  can't 
deny  but  that  the  ebb  tide  's  ter'ble 
drawrin',  kin  you?  How  many  sick 
folks  kin  you  make  out  to  reckon  up 
here  to  this  Cove  that 's  died  without 's 
on  the  ebb?  Guess  you '11  find  them 
that  hain't  's  consid'ble  few  an'  fur 
between,  now.  The  ebb  tide  makes  out 
to  jes'  dreen  the  life  right  out'n  'em 
slick  's  a  whistle! 

"Then  ag'in,  you  take  an*  go  down 
to  the  shore  here  anywheres  to  fill  a 
bucket  o'  salt  water  to  wash  anybody 
with  that 's  rheumaticky,  an'  you  've 
allus  got  to  fill  it  on  the  ebb,  so  's  't 
it  '11  be  good  an'  drawrin',  you  know, 
or  ef  you  don't,  you  '11  be  apt  to  wisht 
mos'  damnly  ye  had,  for  water  that 's 
filled  on  the  flood  '11  drive  them  gripes 
an'  rheumatics  chock  to  the  vitils, 
sure  's  ever  the  sun  rises  an'  sets!  " 
George  S.  Wasson. 


AT  KILCOLMAN  CASTLE.1 
(NEAR  BTJTTEVANT,   COUNTY  CORK.) 

A  POET'S  house  it  was  —  ay,   long  ago. 
(Evicted  by  the  avenging  fire,   he  fled!) 
A  poet's  house,    indeed,    it  stands  to-day: 
Those  winged  poets,    troubadours  of  air, 
The  wren  and  robin,    claim  it  as  their  home. 
The  faery  mountains  hang  above  it  still:  — 
Old  Father  Mole  in  Tipperara  stands, 
Like  a  dull  storm-cloud  with  Olympian  guests, 

1  The  home  of  Edmund  Spenser,  who  there  castle,  was  heard  fitfully  murmuring  ^Eolian 
wrote  The  Faerie  Queene,  and  was  visited  by.  music  as  we  walked  on  toward  Doneraile,  and 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (vide  Colin  Clout  's  Come  less  than  two  miles  westward  a  train  upon  the 
Home  Again).  A  line  of  telegraph  wire,  a  Great  Southern  and  Western  Railway  was  pass- 
few  yards  below  and  in  front  of  the  ruined  ing. 


The   Garden  of  Memories. 

As  in  the  days  of  her  the  Faery  Queene. 

Ay,    every  highway  leads  to  Faery  land, 

Which  passes  by;   and  Mulla  yonder  flows, 

With  its  green  alders,    where  together  sat 

The  Shepherd  of  the  Ocean  and  his  host, — 

The  Pooka's  tower  far  off  a  lonely  square, 

Gray  Kilnemullah  with  sad  ruins  near. 

And,   hark !  —  what  sound  is  heard  so  weird  and  faint  ? 

A  sound  of  some  new  Faery  land  is  this  — 

A  bugle  blown  by  elfin  trumpeter, 

Who  flies  with  rumors  strange  from  lands  remote. 

And,    look !  —  where  yonder,    with  his  harnessed  Fire, 

Some  faery  lord  his  wondrous  chariot  drives 

Far  over  the  hills  from  far  to  far  away! 

John  James  Piatt. 


703 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES. 


THE  garden  looked  dreary  and  deso- 
late in  spite  of  the  afternoon  sunshine. 
The  lilac  and  lavender  bushes  were  past 
their  prime ;  their  wealth  of  sweetness 
had  been  squandered  by  riotous  off- 
shoots. The  wind  played  among  the 
branches,  and  cast  changing  sun-flecked 
shadows  on  the  grass-grown  paths,  nar- 
rowed by  the  encroachment  of  the  box 
borders  that  had  once  lined  the  way  with 
the  stiff  precision  of  troops  before  a 
royal  progress. 

The  flowers  had  the  air  of  being  over- 
burdened with  the  monotony  of  their 
existence.  They  could  never  have  had 
that  aspect  if  they  had  been  only  wild 
flowers  and  never  experienced  human 
care  and  companionship.  That  made 
the  difference. 

The  gate  hung  on  rusty  hinges ;  it 
answered  with  a  long  drawn-out  creak- 
ing, as  it  was  pushed  open  by  a  man 
who  had  been  a  stranger  to  the  place 
for  nearly  twenty  years. 

Yes,  the  garden  was  certainly  small- 
er than  it  had  been  pictured  by  his 
memory.  There  had  been  a  time  when 
it  had  appeared  as  a  domain  of  exten- 
sive proportions,  and  the  wood  beyond 
of  marvelous  depth  and  density. 


He  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  disap- 
pointment. The  property  would  scarce- 
ly realize  as  high  a  price  in  the  market 
as  he  had  hoped ;  and  it  was  incumbent 
upon  him  to  part  with  it,  if  he  would 
be  released  from  the  narrow  circum- 
stances that  hemmed  him  in. 

He  had  arranged  to  meet  the  lawyer 
there  that  afternoon.  One  of  the  lat- 
ter's  clients  had  already  made  a  bid  for 
the  estate.  The  timber,  at  all  events, 
would  add  to  the  value. 

The  house  faced  southward  upon  the 
garden.  It  was  here  the  man  had  been 
brought  up  by  an  old  great-aunt.  He 
guessed  later  that  she  had  grudged  him 
any  of  the  endearments  that  death  had 
denied  her  bestowing  upon  her  own 
children.  Her  affections  had  all  been 
buried  before  he  was  born.  Besides, 
he  took  after  the  wrong  branch  of  the 
family. 

She  must  have  possessed  a  strong 
personality.  It  was  difficult  to  bring 
to  mind  that  it  was  no  longer  an  exist- 
ent force.  Every  one  from  the  parson 
to  the  servants  had  stood  a  little  in  awe 
of  her.  He  remembered  the  unmoved 
manner  in  which  she  had  received  the 
news  of  the  death  of  a  near  relative. 


704 


The   Garden  of  Memories. 


It  had  overwhelmed  him  with  a  sudden 
chill,  that  so  she  would  have  received 
tidings  of  his  own.  It  had  taken  all 
the  sunshine  in  the  garden  to  make  him 
warm  again. 

In  the  mood  that  was  growing  upon 
him,  it  would  not  have  much  surprised 
him  to  find  her  sitting  bolt  upright  in 
her  carved  high-backed  chair,  as  she 
had  sat  in  the  time  of  his  earliest  recol- 
lections, —  the  thin,  yellow  hands,  on 
which  the  rings  stood  out,  folded  in  her 
lap.  On  one  occasion  she  had  washed 
his  small  hands  between  hers.  The  hard 
lustre  of  the  stones  acquired  a  painful 
association  with  the  ordeal.  The  blinds 
would  be  partially  drawn  in  the  musk- 
scented  parlor,  to  save  the  carpet  from 
further  fading,  for  there  had  been  a  tra- 
dition of  thrift  in  the  family  from  the 
time  of  its  settlement,  —  a  tradition  that 
had  not  been  maintained  by  its  latest 
representative. 

Like  the  atmosphere  of  a  dream,  the 
years  grew  dim  and  misty  between  now 
and  the  time  when  summer  days  were 
longer  and  sunnier,  and  it  had  been 
counted  to  him  for  righteousness  if  he 
had  amused  himself  quietly  and  not 
given  trouble. 

A  stream  that  he  had  once  dignified 
with  the  name  of  river  formed  a  bound- 
ary between  the  garden  and  the  wood. 
Although  it  had  shrunk  into  shallow  in- 
significance, —  with  much  beside,  —  a 
faint  halo  of  the  romance  with  which 
he  had  endued  this  early  scene  of  his 
adventures  still  clung  to  the  spot. 

As  he  came  to  the  stream,  he  saw  the 
reflection  of  a  face  in  the  water,  —  not 
his  own,  but  that  of  one  much  younger. 

It  was  so  he  met  the  boy.  The  child 
had  been  placing  stepping-stones  to 
bridge  the  stream,  and  now  came  across, 
balancing  himself  on  the  slippery  sur- 
faces to  test  his  work.  It  was  odd  he 
had  remained  unobserved  until  this  mo- 
ment, but  that  was  due  to  the  fact  of 
the  water-rushes  on  the  brink  being  as 
tall  as  he. 

The  boy's  eyes  met  those  of  the  man 


with  a  frank,  unclouded  gaze.  He  did 
not  appear  astonished.  That  is  the  way 
when  one  is  young  enough  to  be  contin- 
ually viewing  fresh  wonders ;  one  takes 
everything  for  granted.  He  saw  at  a 
glance  that  this  other  was  not  alien  to 
him;  his  instinct  remained  almost  as 
true  as  those  of  the  wild  nature  around. 

For  his  own  part,  he  had  an  unmis- 
takable air  of  possession  about  him.  He 
appeared  to  belong  to  the  place  as  much 
as  the  hollyhocks  and  honeysuckle ;  and 
yet,  how  could  that  be? 

"Probably  a  child  of  the  caretaker, " 
the  man  told  himself. 

He  had  authorized  the  agent  to  do 
what  was  best  about  keeping  the  house 
in  order.  He  had  not  noticed  what 
signs  it  had  to  show  of  habitation.  Now 
he  saw  from  the  distance  that  it  had  not 
the  unoccupied  appearance  he  had  ex- 
pected of  it ;  nor  the  windows,  the  dark 
vacant  stare  of  those  that  no  life  behind 
illumines. 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?  "  he  asked  of  the 
boy. 

"Yes."  The  boy  turned  proudly 
toward  the  modest  gray  pile  in  the 
manner  of  introducing  it,  forgetting 
himself  in  his  subject.  "It  's  a  very 
old  house.  There  's  a  picture  over  the 
bureau  in  the  parlor  of  the  man  who 
built  it,  and  planted  the  trees  in  the 
wood.  Hannah  says  "  — 

"Hannah!" 

It  was  a  foolish  repetition  of  the 
name.  Of  course  there  were  other  Han- 
nahs in  the  world.  The  old  servant  of 
that  name,  who  had  told  the  man  stories 
in  his  boyhood,  had  been  dead  more  years 
than  the  child  could  number. 

"Yes,  — don't  you  know  Hannah? 
She  '11  come  and  call  me  in  presently, 
and  then  you  '11  see  her.  Hannah  says 
they  —  the  trees  —  have  grown  up  with 
the  family  "  (he  assumed  a  queer  im- 
portance, evidently  in  unconscious  mim- 
icry of  the  one  who  had  repeated  the 
tradition  to  him),  "  and  that  with  them 
the  house  will  stand  or  fall.  Do  you 
think  the  roots  really  reach  so  far  ?  " 


The   Garden  of  Memories. 


705 


There  was  an  underlying  uneasiness 
in  the  tone,  which  it  was  impossible 
altogether  to  disguise. 

As  the  other  expressed  his  inability 
to  volunteer  an  opinion  on  this  point, 
the  boy  went  on,  seeing  that  his  confi- 
dences were  treated  with  due  respect: 

"  I  dug  up  one  myself  once  —  I 
wished  I  had  n't  afterwards  —  to  make 
myself  a  Christinas  tree  like  I  'd  read 
about.  I  just  had  to  hang  some  old 
things  I  had  on  it.  It  was  only  a  tiny 
fir,  small  enough  to  go  in  a  flower-pot ; 
but  that  night  the  house  shook,  and  the 
windows  rattled  as  if  all  the  trees  in  the 
forest  were  trying  to  get  in.  I  heard 
them  tapping  their  boughs  ever  so  an- 
grily against  the  pane.  As  soon  as  it 
was  light,  I  went  out  and  planted  the 
Christmas  tree  again.  I  had  n't  meant 
to  keep  it  out  of  the  ground  long :  they 
might  have  known  that." 

"  Have  you  no  playfellows  here  ?  " 

The  boy  gave  a  comprehensive  glance 
around.  "There  are  the  trees;  they 
are  good  fellows.  I  would  n't  part  with 
one  of  them.  It 's  fine  to  hear  them 
all  clap  their  hands  when  we  are  all  jolly 
together.  There  are  nests  in  them,  too, 
and  squirrels.  We  see  a  lot  of  one  an- 
other." 

This  statement  was  not  difficult  to 
believe :  the  Holland  overalls  bore  evi- 
dent traces  of  fellowship  with  mossy 
trunks. 

The  boy  did  most  of  the  talking.  He  . 
had  more  to  tell  of  the  founder  of  the 
family  whose  portrait  hung  in  the  par- 
lor, and  of  how,  when  he  —  the  child 
—  grew  up,  he  rather  thought  of  writ- 
ing books,  as  that  same  ancestor  had 
done,  and  making  the  name  great  and 
famous  again.  He  had  not  decided  what 
kind  of  books  he  should  write  yet.  Was 
it  very  hard  to  find  words  to  rhyme,  if 
one  tried  poetry  ?  He  was  at  no  pains 
to  hide  such  fancies  and  ambitions  of 
which  his  kind  are  generally  too  sensi- 
tive or  too  ashamed  to  speak  to  their 
elders,  and  that  are  as  a  rule  forgotten 
as  soon  as  outgrown. 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  541.  45 


"  Shall  we  go  in  the  wood  now  ?  " 
said  the  boy.  "It's  easy  enough  to 
cross  over  the  stepping-stones." 

"Yes,  let  us  go."  The  man  was 
beginning  to  see  everything  through  the 
boy's  eyes.  The  garden  was  again  much 
as  he  had  remembered  it,  inclosed  in  a 
world  of  beautiful  mystery.  Nothing 
was  really  altered.  What  alteration  he 
had  imagined  had  been  merely  a  transi- 
tory one  in  himself.  The  child  had  put 
a  warm,  eager  hand  into  his ;  together 
they  went  into  the  wood,  as  happy  as  a 
pair  of  truant  schoolboys;  they  might 
have  been  friends  of  long  standing. 

"  So  this  is  your  enchanted  forest  ?  " 
said  the  man. 

"Not  really  enchanted,"  replied  the 
boy  seriously.  "I  once  read  of  one, 
but  of  course  it  was  only  in  a  fairy  tale. 
That  one  vanished  as  soon  as  one  spoke 
the  right  word.  It  would  be  a  very 
wrong  word  that  could  make  this  van- 
ish." He  had  away  of  speaking  of  the 
wood  as  if  it  were  some  sacred  grove. 

His  companion  suddenly  felt  guilty, 
not  quite  knowing  why. 

"  Of  course  some  one  might  cut  them 
down. "  The  boy  lowered  his  voice ;  it 
seemed  shameful  to  mention  the  perpe- 
tration of  such  a  deed  aloud.  "  It  would 
be  terrible  to  hear  them  groan  when  the 
axe  struck  them.  The  young  ones 
mightn't  mind  so  much;  but  it  would 
be  bad  for  the  grandfather  trees  who  've 
been  here  from  the  beginning.  Hannah 
says  one  would  still  hear  them  wailing 
on  stormy  nights." 

"Even  if  they  had  been  felled  and 
carted  away  ?  " 

"Yes,  even  then;  though,  to  be  sure, 
there  would  be  no  one  to  hear  the  wail- 
ing if  it 's  true  that  the  house  must  fall, 
too,  at  the  same  time.  But  we  need 
n't  trouble  about  that;  none  of  it  is 
likely  to  happen.  You  see,  if  it  did, 
where  should  I  be?" 

He  laughed  merrily.  This  last  argu- 
ment appeared  to  him  to  be  quite  con- 
clusive. Such  an  important  considera- 
tion placed  the  awful  contingency  quite 


706 


Books  New  and  Old. 


out  of  the  question,  and  transformed  it 
into  nothing  more  than  a  joke. 

The  child's  laughter  died  away  as 
they  both  stood  still  to  listen.  Each 
thought  he  had  heard  his  own  name 
called. 

"  It *  s  Hannah, "  said  the  boy ;  and 
off  he  raced  toward  the  house,  barely 
saving  himself  from  running  into  the 
arms  of  another  person  who  had  turned 
in  at  the  gate. 

"  Who  was  the  boy  who  ran  round  by 
the  espaliers  a  minute  ago  ?  One  would 
scarcely  have  judged  him  to  be  a  child 
of  the  caretaker."  The  man's  heart 
sank  with  a  dull  thud:  something  had 
told  him  the  answer  before  it  came. 

"Child!  "  The  lawyer  looked  puz- 
zled. "I  did  not  see  one.  No  children 
have  any  business  in  this  garden;  nei- 
ther is  there  any  caretaker  here.  The 
house  has  been  shut  up  altogether  since 
the  old  servant  you  called  Hannah  died, 
eleven  years  ago." 


They  had  reached  the  veranda.  The 
westering  sun  had  faded  off  the  win- 
dows. It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  house 
was  empty.  The  shutters  were  up  with- 
in, and  the  panes  dark  and  weather- 
stained.  Birds  had  built  their  nests 
undisturbed  about  the  chimney  stacks. 
The  hearthstones  had  long  been  cold. 

"  My  client  is  willing  to  purchase  the 
property  on  the  terms  originally  pro- 
posed,"  the  lawyer  was  saying.  "He 
contemplates  investing  in  it  as  a  build- 
ing site.  Of  course  the  timber  would 
have  to  be  felled  "  — 

A  breeze  passed  through  the  treetops 
like  a  shudder.  The  younger  man  in- 
terposed :  "  I  am  sorry  you  should  have 
had  the  trouble  of  coming  here,  but  I 
have  decided  to  keep  the  old  place  after 
all  —  stick  and  stone.  It  is  not  right 
it  should  go  out  of  the  family.  I  must 
pull  my  affairs  together  as  well  as  I  can 
without  that." 

The  little  phantom  of  his  dead  boy- 
hood was  to  suffer  no  eviction. 

C.  A.  Mercer. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


FOUR   RECENT    BIOGRAPHIES. 


THREE  of  the  volumes  thus  far  pub- 
lished in  the  new  series  of  English  Men 
of  Letters  one  opens  with  the  utmost 
confidence;  and  the  inherited  tradition 
of  excellence  is  so  high  that  it  is  a  little 
hard  to  withhold  that  confidence  in  the 
case  of  the  fourth.  *  Its  authorship  is  not 
what  might  have  been  expected,  to  be 
sure.  There  is  cause  for  wonder  in  the 
admission  of  a  facile  leader-writer,  such 
as  Mr.  Herbert  W.  Paul  has  hitherto 
seemed  to  be,  to  the  esoteric  fellowship 
of  Mr.  Birrell,  Mr.  Harrison,  and  Mr. 
Stephen ;  and  there  is  cause  for  amaze- 

1  Matthew  Arnold.  By  HERBERT  W.  PAUL. 
William  Hazlitt.  By  AUGUSTINE  BIRRELL. 
John  Buskin.  By  FREDERIC  HARRISON.  George 


ment  in  the  fact  that  he  has  been  as- 
signed one  of  the  most  delicate  tasks 
which  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  recent 
biographers.  It  is  conceivable  that  a 
writer  of  Mr.  Paul's  limitations  might 
at  such  a  moment,  feeling  the  stress  of 
an  unusual  obligation,  call  in  his  re- 
serves of  strength  and  shoot  fairly  be- 
yond his  ordinary  mark.  Apparently 
nothing  of  the  sort  has  been  felt  or  done 
in  this  instance.  Mr.  Paul  has  under- 
taken to  dispose  of  Matthew  Arnold 
with  the  same  jaunty  confidence  which 
may  no  doubt  have  proved  a  useful  as- 

Eliot.  By  LESLIE  STEPHEN.  English  Men  of 
Letters.  Edited  by  JOHN  MORLEY.  New  York: 
The  Macmillan  Co.  1902. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


707 


set  to  the  London  Daily  News.  Sure- 
ly, without  making  a  superstition  of  such 
a  personality  as  Arnold's,  there  are  re- 
straints and  reticences  to  be  practiced. 
The  truth  is  to  be  told  as  one  sees  it,  but 
without  cocksureness ;  certainly  with- 
out suspicion  of  familiarity  or  conde- 
scension. "But  Matthew  Arnold  is 
more  than  strong  enough  to  live  in  spite 
of  his  faults."  This  is  the  conclusion 
which  the  present  biographer  offers  us  in 
his  introductory  chapter ;  and  this  sug- 
gests very  well  the  tone  of  the  book  as 
a  whole. 

One  is  perhaps  unduly  prejudiced 
against  the  substance  of  the  biography 
by  its  defects  of  style  in  the  smaller 
sense.  Mr.  Paul  is  in  the  habit  of 
bringing  together  perfectly  irrelevant 
facts,  which  he  does  not  take  the  trou- 
ble to  link  together  even  rhetorically. 
We  may  cite,  as  a  presumably  favorable 
instance,  a  narrative  passage,  a  sort  of 
writing  in  which,  one  would  think,  facts 
and  sentences  must  link  themselves :  — 

"Throughout  his  life,  indeed,  he 
worked  hard  for  a  moderate  salary,  nev- 
er complaining,  always  promoting  the 
happiness  of  others,  and  throwing  into 
his  daily  duties  every  power  of  his  mind. 
In  one  of  his  early  letters  to  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Forster,  Mr.  Arnold  naively  ob- 
serves that  he  is  much  more  worldly  than 
the  rest  of  his  family.  He  was  fond  of 
society,  and  a  delightful  member  of  it. 
Worldly  in  any  other  sense  he  was  not. 
Few  men  have  had  less  ambition,  or  a 
stronger  sense  of  duty.  On  the  10th  of 
June,  in  this  same  year,  he  married  the 
lady  who  for  the  rest  of  his  life  was  the 
chief  source  of  his  happiness.  Her 
name  was  Frances  Lucy  Wightman,  and 
her  father  was  an  excellent  judge  of  a 
good  old  school,  much  respected  in  court, 
little  known  outside.  Mr.  Arnold, 
though  neither  a  lawyer  nor  interested 
in  law,  accompanied  Mr.  Justice  Wight- 
man on  circuit  for  many  assizes  as  mar- 
shal. Characteristically  avoiding  the 
criminal' side,  he  liked  to  watch  his  fa- 
ther-in-law try  causes.  '  He  does  it  so 


admirably, '  he  tells  his  wife.  *  It '  is 
said  to  be  a  lost  art. "  Here  a  paragraph 
division  brings  relief  to  the  eye  without 
being  otherwise  of  appreciable  use. 

After  all,  the  difficulty  must  be  un- 
derstood in  the  end  as  a  difficulty  of 
style  in  the  larger  sense.  It  is  clear 
that  the  main  business  of  a  brief  bio- 
graphy should  be  to  effect  by  a  gradual 
process  of  increment  in  narrative  and  in- 
terpretation a  palpable  projection  of  the 
subject's  personality.  It  is  equally  clear 
that  this  end  can  be  gained  only  by  the 
exertion  of  discriminating  sympathy  and 
of  constructive  power.  Mr.  Paul  has 
been  able  to  bring  neither  of  these  qual- 
ifications to  his  task.  For  his  lack  of 
intellectual  and  temperamental  kinship 
with  Arnold  he  is  not  responsible,  though 
it  is  so  marked  as  to  disqualify  him  for 
effective  biography;  and  this  he  might 
have  felt.  Nor  can  it  be  asserted  that 
he  is  quite  accountable  for  his  lack  of 
method.  He  expresses  himself  frag- 
mentarily  because  he  thinks  in  bits  ;  his 
talent  is  altogether  for  aphorism  and 
summary.  It  is  not  astonishing,  there- 
fore, that  we  should  find  him  somewhat 
at  a  loss  for  legitimate  material  to  eke 
out  his  two  hundred  pages  withal.  Leav- 
ing out  of  account  the  quality  of  his  In- 
troduction, it  must  be  noted  that  he 
there  says  all  that  he  has  to  say  about 
Matthew  Arnold.  Having  made  his 
snappy  generalizations,  he  finds  them 
incapable  of  development.  He  is  thence- 
forth reduced  to  three  expedients :  the 
statement  of  such  facts  about  Arnold's 
life  as  may  serve  to  illustrate  his  aph- 
orisms, the  frequent  repetition  of  those 
aphorisms,  and,  most  useful  measure  of 
all,  the  minute  criticism  of  certain 
phrases  and  dicta  which  do  not  meet  his 
approbation.  Not  a  little  of  this  criti- 
cism is  clever  and  even  of  value,  but  far 
too  often  some  carefully  considered  theo- 
ry or  statement  of  Arnold's  is  met  by 
flat  contradiction  based  upon  the  per- 
sonal opinion  of  the  biographer.  It  ap- 
pears to  be  a  main  point  with  Mr.  Paul 
to  record  the  number  of  verses  or  sen- 


708 


Books  New  and  Old. 


tences  in  Matthew  Arnold  of  which  Mr. 
Paul  does  not  approve.  Excessive  at- 
tention to  minutiae  is  a  failing  to  which 
all  critics  are  liable.  With  a  plentiful 
lack  of  mere  assertiveness  and  excep- 
tional poise  of  mind  and  temper,  the 
error  is  at  least  not  offensive.  Unfor- 
tunately Mr.  Paul  possesses  the  asser- 
tiveness and  lacks  the  poise.  His  book 
will  do  no  harm  unless  by  having  re- 
moved the  opportunity  for  an  important 
work  in  an  important  series. 

Mr.  Birrell's  achievement  is  of  a  very 
different  sort.  He  is  not  a  trained  bi- 
ographer like  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  but 
he  is  a  man  of  keen  and  flexible  intel- 
ligence, and  a  writer  of  much  experi- 
ence and  extraordinary  charm.  The 
book  may  be  pretty  exactly  classed  with 
Black's  Goldsmith  in  the  earlier  series. 
As  in  that  case,  the  theme  is  admirably 
suited  to  the  biographer's  taste.  Its 
treatment  does  not  call  for  powers  in 
which  he  is  deficient,  nor  exact  their 
painful  utmost.  He  has  the  critical  ad- 
vantage over  the  other  writers  in  this 
group  of  dealing  with  a  product  the 
quality  of  which  has  been  already  ap- 
proximately determined  by  time.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  thinks,  the  lapse  of 
a  century  since  Hazlitt's  death  must 
have  made  a  modern  interpretation  of 
his  character  of  dubious  value :  — 

"How  little  is  it  we  can  ever  know 
about  the  character  of  a  dead  man  we 
never  saw !  His  books,  if  he  wrote  books, 
will  tell  us  something ;  his  letters,  if  he 
wrote  any,  and  they  are  preserved,  may 
perchance  fling  a  shadow  on  the  sheet  for 
a  moment  or  two ;  a  portrait  if  painted 
in  a  lucky  hour  may  lend  the  show  of 
substance  to  our  dim  surmisings;  the 
things  he  did  must  carefully  be  taken 
into  account;  but,  as  a  man  is  much 
more  than  the  mere  sum  of  his  actions, 
even  these  cannot  be  relied  upon  with 
great  confidence." 

We  are  tempted  to  quote  against  Mr. 
Birrell's  theory  and  in  favor  of  his  prac- 
tice a  passage  from  his  favorite  Bage- 
hot :  "  Some  extreme  skeptics,  we  know, 


doubt  whether  it  is  possible  to  deduce 
anything  as  to  an  author's  character 
from  his  works.  Yet  surely  people  do 
not  keep  a  tame  steam  engine  to  write 
their  books:  and  if  those  books  were 
really  written  by  a  man,  he  must  have 
been  a  man  who  could  write  them." 

It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  Mr. 
Birrell  has  been  singularly  successful  in 
deducing  the  kind  of  man  Hazlitt  was 
from  the  facts  of  his  life  and  work; 
most  readers  will  find  their  conception 
of  an  interesting  personality  sensibly 
clarified  by  this  appreciation. 

It  is  a  personality  neither  quite  lov- 
able nor  quite  venerable.  Hazlitt  made 
enemies  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  will 
continue  to  make  them  as  long  as  he  is 
read ;  for  there  was  little  tolerance  in 
his  heart,  and  no  flag  of  truce  among 
his  accoutrements.  But  if  he  gave  no 
quarter,  he  received  none.  "Gifford's 
abuse  stopped  the  sale  of  the  Charac- 
ters, "  says  Mr.  Birrell  with  his  accus- 
tomed energy;  "but,  happily,  there  is 
no  need  to  grow  tearful  over  Hazlitt's 
wrongs.  He  had  enough  bile  in  his  hold 
to  swamp  a  dozen  Giffords."  That 
swamping  was  effected  in  due  time.  The 
fact  which  is  most  to  the  credit  of  this 
rather  lonely  man's  character  is  the 
avowed  friendship  of  Lamb :  a  guaran- 
tee that  there  can  have  been  nothing 
radically  vicious  in  its  recipient.  At 
just  this  point  it  is  possible  that  Mr. 
Birrell  is  too  conservative.  From  the 
conventional  point  of  view  of  his  time 
and  still  more  distinctly  from  our  own 
not  less  conventional  point  of  view,  Haz- 
litt failed  of  being  a  moral  person. 
Doubtless  it  is  advisable  to  judge  a  man 
by  the  canons  of  his  own  age.  But  it 
should  be  remembered  that  Hazlitt  at 
his  worst  never  made,  like  Byron,  a 
postulate  of  libertinism  or,  like  Sterne, 
a  cult  of  prurience.  In  truth,  Hazlitt, 
in  many  respects  so  perfectly  a  modern, 
was  in  a  moral  sense  a  survival  and  not 
a  decadent :  a  survival,  however,  not  of 
classical  unmorality,  but  rather  of  the 
romantic  idealism  which  the  Middle 


Books  New  and   Old. 


709 


Ages  did  not  always  connect  with  what 
we  regard  as  purity  of  life.  One  can  find 
nothing  pleasant  in  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  the  writing  of  the  Liber 
Amoris ;  nor  can  one  altogether  fail  to 
perceive  a  certain  warped  and  misdi- 
rected nobility  in  the  eager  seriousness 
with  which  Hazlitt  there  attempts  to 
rear  a  structure  of  ideal!  passion  upon 
a  pitifully  inadequate  foundation.  * 

If  Hazlitt  was  now  and  then  capable 
of  mediaeval  idealism,  he  was  habitual- 
ly receptive  to  modern  sentimentalism. 
"For  novels  and  plays  there  never  was 
such  a  reader,"  says  Mr.  Birrell,  "nor 
was  he  over-critical,  —  the  most  stilted 
of  heroines,  the  palest  of  sentimental 
shadows,  could  always  be  relied  upon  to 
trundle  her  hoop  into  Hazlitt's  heart." 
He  adored  Richardson  and  reveled  in 
Rousseau.  From  a  personality  so  con- 
stituted it  is  impossible  to  expect  abso- 
lute regularity  of  life  or  thought.  Nor 
can  one  look  for  impartial  judgment, 
since  nobody  is  capable  of  greater  bias 
or  virulence  than  your  sentimentalist. 
Hazlitt's  Spirit  of  the  Age  is  the  finest 
gallery  of  portraits  in  English ;  yet  one 
is  reminded  by  not  a  few  sketches  of 
that  early  experience  of  his  as  a  paint- 
er. "Hazlitt  began  with  the  poets  — 
the  two  finest  in  England  if  not  in  Eu- 
rope, Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  whose 
equine  physiognomy  Hazlitt  greatly  ad- 
mired. Unluckily,  neither  picture  was 
a  success.  According  to  Southey,  Haz- 
litt made  Coleridge  look  like  a  horse- 
stealer  on  his  trial,  evidently  guilty,  but 
clever  enough  to  have  a  chance  of  get- 
ting off;  whilst  Mr.  Wordsworth,  ac- 
cording to  another  critic,  represented  a 
man  upon  the  gallows-tree  deeply  af- 
fected by  a  fate  he  felt  to  be  deserved." 

Mr.  Birrell  gives  an  interesting  ac- 
count of  the  gradual  development  of  the 
literary  personality  of  his  author.  "In 
the  beginning  of  things  Hazlitt  was  slow 
of  speech  and  sluggish  of  fancy,  the  bent 
of  his  mind  being  speculative  and  reflec- 
tive." His  first  book  was  published 
when  he  was  twenty-seven  years  old, 


and  was  a  metaphysical  discourse  In  De- 
fence of  the  Natural  Disinterestedness 
of  the  Human  Mind.  He  can  have  lit- 
tle fancied  that  the  passage  of  a  cen- 
tury would  leave  him  valued  not  as  critic 
or  metaphysician,  but  as  the  author  of 
Table -Talk  and,  in  Mr.  Birrell' s  phrase, 
"the  most  eloquent  of  English  essay- 
ists." 

If  the  limitation  of  remoteness  in 
point  of  time  is  really  important,  Mr. 
Harrison  has  not  suffered  under  it.  His 
peculiar  qualifications  for  the  present 
undertaking  and  the  spirit  in  which  it 
is  carried  out  are  plainly  indicated  in 
the  opening  chapter.  He  has  accepted 
the  task,  he  says,  with  real  hesitation. 
"Though  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  mor- 
al, social,  and  artistic  ideals  of  John 
Ruskin  myself,  I  am  sworn  in  as  a  dis- 
ciple of  a  very  different  school,  and  of 
a  master  whom  he  often  denounced.  As 
a  humble  lover  of  his  magnificent  power 
of  language,  I  have  studied  it  too  close- 
ly not  to  feel  all  its  vices,  extravagances, 
and  temptations.  I  am  neither  Social- 
ist nor  Plutonomist ;  and  so  I  can  feel 
deep  sympathy  for  his  onslaught  on  our 
modern  life,  whilst  I  am  far  from  ac- 
cepting his  trenchant  remedies.  I  had 
abundant  means  for  judging  his  beauti- 
ful nature  and  his  really  saintly  virtues, 
for  my  personal  acquaintance  with  him 
extended  over  forty  years.  I  remember 
him  in  1860  at  Denmark  Hill,  in  the 
lifetime  of  both  his  parents,  and  in  the 
heyday  of  his  fame  and  his  power.  I 
saw  him  and  heard  him  lecture  from  time 
to  time,  received  letters  from  him,  and 
engaged  in  some  controversies  with  him, 
both  public  and  private.  I  was  his  col- 
league as  a  teacher  at  the  Working 
Men's  College  and  as  a  member  of  the 
Metaphysical  Society.  And  towards  the 
close  of  his  life  I  visited  him  at  Brant- 
wood,  and  watched,  with  love  and  pain, 
the  latest  flickering  of  his  indomitable 
spirit.  If  admiration,  affection,  com- 
mon ideals,  aims,  and  sympathies,  can 
qualify  one  who  has  been  bred  in  other 
moulds  of  belief  and  hope  to  judge  fairly 


710 


Books  New  and  Old. 


the  life-work  of  a  brilliant  and  noble 
genius,  then  I  may  presume  to  tell  all 
I  knew  and  all  I  have  felt  of  the  '  Ox- 
ford graduate  '  of  1842,  who  was  laid  to 
rest  in  Coniston  Churchyard  in  1900." 
The  warmth  and  frankness  of  this  in- 
troduction are  a  happy  promise  of  the 
sympathy  and  discrimination  with  which 
the  work  is  done.  Mr.  Harrison  writes 
with  complete  recognition  of  the  de- 
fects of  judgment  which  made  Ruskin 
a  life-long  leader  of  forlorn  hopes.  But 
while  he  deplores  the  fallacies  and  lapses 
which  marred  so  much  of  the  work  of 
the  great  prose  rhapsodist,  there  is  not 
a  trace  of  sharpness  in  his  strictures. 
On  the  contrary  those  Utopian  dreams, 
those  vagaries  of  mental  habit,  those 
wild  and  wandering  words  of  which  Rus- 
kin was  too  capable  are  treated  with  for- 
bearing candor.  " The  ninety-six  letters 
of  Fors  contain  the  tale  of  a  long  career 
of  failures,  blunders,  and  cruel  disap- 
pointment. They  contain,  too,  the  re- 
cord of  that  damning  perversity  of  mind 
and  of  character  which  ruined  Ruskin 's 
life  and  neutralized  his  powers,  the  fol- 
ly of  presuming  to  recast  the  thought 
of  humanity  de  novo,  and  alone ;  to  re- 
mould civilization  by  mere  passion  with- 
out due  training  or  knowledge ;  attempt- 
ing alone  to  hurl  human  society  back  into 
a  wholly  imaginary  and  fictitious  past. 
Yet,  let  us  remember,  — 

'  It  was  a  grievous  fault, 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it.' 

But  there  are  some  failures  more  beau- 
tiful and  more  useful  to  mankind  than 
a  thousand  triumphs.  It  is  impossible 
to  weigh  the  value,  or  to  judge  the  le- 
gitimacy, of  a  hopeless  but  heroic  sacri- 
fice. .  .  .  Magnanimity  owes  no  ac- 
count of  its  acts  to  Prudence.  No;  nor 
to  Common  Sense." 

Ruskin,  like  Hazlitt,  was  a  lover  of 
painting  and  to  some  extent  a  proficient 
in  the  art;  a  voluminous  writer  upon 
miscellaneous  themes;  and  a  none  too 
discreet  belligerent  upon  many  fields. 
There  the  likeness  ends,  and  the  differ- 
ence begins  which  marks  Ruskin  for 


sympathy  and  love  where  Hazlitt  gets 
none.  Ruskin 's  instinct  was  to  build 
up  rather  than  to  tear  down ;  and  it  was 
from  a  certain  soreness  of  heart  that  his 
bitterest  invectives  welled  up,  and  not, 
as  Bagehot  remarked  of  Hazlitt' s  work, 
from  "  a  certain  soreness  of  mind. "  As 
for  the  character  of  his  total  written 
product,  Mr.  Harrison  says  what  most 
needs  to  be  said,  in  his  preliminary  sum- 
mary :  "  The  author  of  more  than  eighty 
distinct  works  upon  so  miscellaneous  a 
field,  of  masses  of  poetry,  lectures,  let- 
ters as  well  as  substantial  treatises,  was 
of  necessity  rather  a  stimulus  than  an 
authority  —  an  influence  rather  than  a 
master.  .  .  .  He  is  a  moralist,  an 
evangelist  —  not  a  philosopher  or  a  man 
of  science." 

Sir  Leslie  Stephen  does  not  approach 
his  task  in  quite  Mr.  Harrison's  mood, 
partly  on  account  of  a  difference  in  tem- 
perament and  subject,  but  largely  on 
account  of  a  difference  in  method.  Sir 
Leslie  is  perhaps  the  most  accom- 
plished of  living  biographers.  It  has 
become  his  habit  to  write,  never  with- 
out sympathy,  but  without  obvious  en- 
thusiasm; with  a  cool  detachment  of 
tone  and  a  polished  irony  of  phrase 
which  in  the  long  run  may  well  be  more 
effective  than  a  sentimental  and  rhetor- 
ical manner.  It  is  an  indication  of  his 
mastery  of  the  chosen  method  that  his 
coolness  suggests  dispassionateness  rath- 
er than  indifference,  and  his  irony  dis- 
crimination rather  than  supercilious- 
ness. The  career  of  George  Eliot  calls 
for  less  cautious  treatment  than  that  of 
Ruskin.  Her  life,  though  not  in  all  re- 
spects normal  or  happy,  had  nothing  of 
the  piteous  about  it.  From  the  time  of 
her  union  with  George  Lewes  the  merit 
of  her  work  was  fully  rewarded  by  pub- 
lic approbation;  and  the  constant  and 
affectionate  encouragement  of  Lewes 
himself  was  a  gift  of  the  gods  such  as 
few  women  of  genius  have  been  blessed 
with.  She  had  her  fits  of  diffidence  and 
depression,  as  what  writer  of  serious 
purpose  has  not  ?  But  there  was  nothing 


Books  New  and  Old. 


711 


morbid  in  her  nature,  her  experience 
was  of  a  sort  to  nourish  her  wholesome 
powers,  and  her  success  in  literature 
was  prompt  and  stable.  She  was,  to 
be  sure,  even  later  than  Hazlitt  in  find- 
ing her  true  work.  As  with  him,  the 
natural  bent  appeared  to  be  toward  spec- 
ulative studies,  and  it  was  diligently  fol- 
lowed till  she  had  fared  well  toward  mid- 
dle age.  At  thirty-six  she  had  not  even 
attempted  to  write  anything  Original. 
"She  was  at  home  in  the  upper  sphere 
of  philosophy  and  the  historical  criticism 
of  religion,  but  she  was  content  to  be  an 
expositor  of  the  views  of  independent 
thinkers.  She  had  spent  years  of  toil 
upon  translating  Strauss,  Feuerbach, 
and  Spinoza ;  and  was  fully  competent 
to  be  in  intellectual  communion  with  her 
friends  Charles  Bray  and  Herbert  Spen- 
cer." This  was  to  have  done  much,  but 
apparently  in  a  direction  little  likely  to 
lead  to  creative  work  of  any  sort.  And 
indeed,  undisputed  as  was  the  influence 
which  her  metaphysical  studies  exerted 
upon  her  later  literary  method,  the  best 
of  her  work  sprang  from  a  very  different 
soil.  The  seed  of  her  hardy  and  slow- 
growing  genius  was  probably  none  the 
worse  for  the  stony  deposit  with  which 
her  speculative  studies  had  laboriously 
overlaid  it.  Perhaps  nothing  less  than 
the  lapse  of  years  and  the  interposition 
of  sober  occupation  could  have  enabled 
her  in  middle  life  to  found  a  great  repu- 
tation upon  a  basis  of  youthful  memo- 
ries. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  critics 
have  had  much  to  say  about  the  quality 
of  George  Eliot's  work  as  art.  Mr. 
Dowden  asserts,  for  example,  that  her 
novels  are  not  only  far  from  mere  "  di- 
dactic treatises,"  but  "are  primarily 
works  of  art, "  while  Mr.  Brownell  con- 
tends that  she  had  no  art  at  all,  but  was 
essentially  a  moralist.  Sir  Leslie  char- 
acteristically declines  to  make  himself 
uncomfortable  over  the  somewhat  aca- 
demic question.  "George  Eliot  speaks, 
we  have  seen,  of  the  <  ethics  of  art,  * 
and  to  some  people  this  appears  to  im- 


ply a  contradiction  in  terms.  ./Esthetic 
and  ethical  excellence,  it  seems,  have 
nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  George 
Eliot  repudiated  that  doctrine  indig- 
nantly, and  I  confess  that  I  could  never 
quite  understand  its  meaning.  The 
4  ethical '  value  of  artistic  work,  she 
held,  is  simply  its  power  of  arousing 
sympathy  for  noble  qualities.  The  'ar- 
tist, '  if  we  must  talk  about  that  per- 
sonage, must,  of  course,  give  true  por- 
traits of  human  nature  and  of  the  gen- 
eral relations  of  man  to  the  universe. 
But  the  artist  must  also  have  a  sense  of 
beauty;  and,  among  other  things,  of 
the  beauty  of  character.  ...  If  any- 
body holds  that  morality  is  a  matter  of 
fancy,  and  that  the  ideal  of  the  sensual- 
ist is  as  good  as  that  of  the  saint,  he 
may  logically  conclude  that  the  moral- 
ity of  the  novelist  is  really  a  matter  of 
indifference.  I  hold  myself  that  there 
is  some  real  difference  between  virtue 
and  vice,  and  that  the  novelist  will  show 
consciousness  of  the  fact  in  proportion 
to  the  power  of  his  mind  and  the  range 
of  his  sympathies."  The  biographer, 
however,  is  careful  to  note  the  danger 
of  "direct  didactic  intention."  "It 
does  not  matter  so  much  why  a  writer 
should  be  profoundly  interested  in  his 
work,  nor  to  what  use  he  may  intend  to 
apply  it,  as  that,  somehow  or  other,  his 
interest  should  be  aroused,  and  the  world 
which  he  creates  be  a  really  living  world 
for  his  imagination;  This  suggests  the 
difficulty  about  George  Eliot's  later 
writings.  The  spontaneity  of  the  earlier 
novels  is  beyond  all  doubt.  She  is  really 
absorbed  and  fascinated  by  the  memo- 
ries tinged  by  old  affections.  We  feel 
them  to  be  characteristic  of  a  thought- 
ful mind,  and  so  far  to  imply  the  mode 
of  treatment  which  we  call  philosophi- 
cal. Her  theories,  though  they  may 
have  guided  the  execution,  have  not  sug- 
gested the  themes.  A  much  more  con- 
scious intention  was  unfortunately  to 
mark  her  later  books,  and  the  difficulties 
resulted  of  which  I  shall  have  to  speak. " 
It  is  impossible  to  give  here  even  a 


712 


Books  New  and  Old. 


brief  summary  of  Mr.  Stephen's  very 
interesting  discussion  of  the  novels. 
Among  his  conclusions  these  may  be 
barely  stated:  that  Mrs.  Poyser  is  the 
novelist's  masterpiece  of  characteriza- 
tion ;  that  George  Eliot  is  unnecessarily 
hard  upon  Hetty  Sorrel,  sharing  "the 
kind  of  resentment  with  which  the  true 
woman  contemplates  a  man  unduly  at- 
tracted by  female  beauty ;  "  that  she 
"  did  not  herself  understand  what  a  hair- 
dresser's block  she  was  describing  in  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest, "  and  indeed  was  inca- 
pable of  creating  real  men;  and  that 
Romola  was  not  a  Florentine  maiden  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  but  "a  cousin  of 
Maggie  Tulliver,  though  of  loftier  char- 
acter, and  provided  with  a  thorough  clas- 
sical culture." 

George  Eliot's  verse,  particularly 
The  Spanish  Gypsy,  is  analyzed  at  some 
length,  and  to  this  end :  "  Passages  often 
sound  exactly  like  poetry ;  and  yet,  even 
her  admirers  admit  that  they  seldom,  if 
ever,  have  the  genuine  ring.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps it  was  simply  that  George  Eliot 
had  not  one  essential  gift  —  the  exqui- 
site sense  for  the  value  of  words  which 
may  transmute  even  common  thought 
into  poetry.  Even  her  prose,  indeed, 
though  often  admirable,  sometimes  be- 
comes heavy,  and  gives  the  impression 
that  instead  of  finding  the  right  word 
she  is  accumulating  more  or  less  com- 
plicated approximations."  Mr.  Stephen 
avoids  the  word  "  style  "  as  he  avoids 
the  word  "artist;  "  but  he  seems  here 
to  come  very  near  Mr.  Brownell's  judg- 
ment that  George  Eliot  "had  no  style." 
The  biography  concludes  with  the  sug- 
gestion that  the  abiding  charm  of  George 
Eliot's  novels  may  best  be  understood 
"by  regarding  them  as  implicit  autobi- 
ography ;  "  that,  in  short,  to  read  her 
novels  is  to  come  under  the  intimate 
spell  of  companionship  with  a  remark- 
able person.  The  remark  would  seem 
to  be  generally  applicable  to  the  best 
work  in  any  field  of  literature.  Sir 
Leslie  Stephen's  biographies,  indeed, 
scrupulous  as  he  is  to  avoid  the  autobio- 


graphical note,  are  likely  to  prove  of 
permanent  value  not  only  because  they 
are  the  product  of  an  informed  and  sub- 
tle intelligence,  but  because  they  seem 
to  place  us  upon  terms  of  almost  familiar 
intercourse  with  a  personality  of  marked 
distinction. 

H.   W.  Boynton. 

IN  his  genial  progress  from  battlefield 

to  battlefield  of  old  Shake- 
bnaUespeare  ,__  ._ 

andVol-        spearean      Wars,     Professor 

Thomas  R.  Lounsbury  comes 
in  his  second  volume1  to  the  scene  of 
that  dread  conflict  once  so  bitterly  waged 
against  the  woundless  shade  of  Shake- 
speare by  Voltaire.  The  first  thought  that 
comes  to  one  finishing  the  delighted  pe- 
rusal of  the  book  is,  How  Professor  Louns- 
bury must  have  enjoyed  writing  it !  It 
is  composed  with  an  engaging,  leisurely 
gusto,  with  an  amplitude  of  learning,  and 
a  freedom  of  humane  remark,  which  take 
one  back  to  old  times  of  scholarship, 
when  the  typewriter  was  not,  and  folios 
were  in  fashion.  The  volume  is,  indeed, 
a  vindication  of  the  reality  and  value  of 
criticism.  Professor  Lounsbury  has  real- 
ized those  wordy  "  battles  long  ago  "  with 
a  vivid,  imaginative  grasp,  made  firm 
by  minute  and  various  research.  With 
Homeric  fullness  and  zest  he  tells  of  the 
duels  fought  by  minor  warriors  from 
either  camp,  but  the  chief  interest  al- 
ways centres  about  the  adroit  attack  by 
the  champion,  the  literary  dictator  of 
Europe,  Voltaire. 

The  course  of  the  unpleasantness  be- 
tween Shakespeare  and  M.  Arouet  was 
dramatic.  During  his  early  exile  in  Eng- 
land, the  Frenchman,  with  the  sensibility 
of  the  fine  genius  which  he  undoubtedly 
possessed,  came  much  under  the  spell 
of  Shakespeare's  plays.  Returning  to 
France  he  proceeded,  as  we  all  remem- 
ber, to  introduce  this  uncouth  but  inter- 
esting writer  of  the  country  made  glori- 

1  Shakespeare  and  Voltaire.  [Shakespearean 
Wars,  vol.  ii.]  By  THOMAS  R.  LOUNSBURY. 
New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1902. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


713 


ous  by  Locke  to  his  own  compatriots. 
This  he  accomplished  by  exposition,  and, 
Unfortunately,  by  somewhat  disingenu- 
ous paraphrase  and  unacknowledged  bor- 
rowing. Here  concludes  the  first  act; 
from  that  time  on  the  action  moved  steadi- 
ly to  its  inevitable  end,  the  disaster  that 
sooner  or  later  overtakes  literary  disin- 
genuousness.  Before  long  certain  Eng- 
lishmen arose  to  resent  these  covert  con- 
veyances from  their  great  poet,  whereat 
Voltaire,  fearful  lest  something  of  this 
come  to  the  ears  of  his  own  faithful 
Frenchmen,  amiably  lectured  to  them 
about  the  "drunken  savage,"  Shake- 
speare. Anon  came  La  Place's  so-called 
translation  of  Shakespeare,  showing  even 
Frenchmen  that  the  plays  of  the  "  drunk- 
en savage  "  were  not  wholly  devoid  of 
merit,  and  bringing  many  bothersome 
questions  to  the  author  of  Zaire,  Ma- 
homet, and  Seiniramis.  Then,  in  strict 
dramatic  propriety,  as  the  net  tightened 
around  Voltaire  his  activity  became  more 
feverish.  The  "  unities  "  had  been  as- 
persed, the  supreme  position  of  Racine, 
Voltaire  et  Cie.  had  been  questioned.  He 
sparred  with  Walpole  and  other  English 
correspondents,  he  wrote  commentaries 
on  Corneille,  he  made  an  appeal  to  all 
the  nations  of  Europe.  Then,  when  no- 
thing availed,  he  settled  into  pessimism  ; 
the  taste  of  France  was  decaying.  Le 
Tourneur's  more  adequate  and  success- 
ful translation  of  Shakespeare  evoked 
from  Voltaire  a  final  burst  of  wrath,  an 
adventurous  sally,  and  an  empty,  aca- 
demic victory  on  the  famous  day  of  St. 
Louis.  Yet  from  that  day,  the  cause,  so 
far  as  Voltaire  was  concerned,  was  lost, 
though  after  his  death  certain  of  his  ad- 
herents kept  the  field  for  half  a  century 
until  the  decisive  battle  of  Hernani. 

The  long  struggle  thus  briefly  outlined 
is  recounted  by  Professor  Lounsbury  in 
nearly  five  hundred  pages  of  subtle  ex- 
position and  pointed  comment,  pages  of 
considerable  import  for  the  light  they 
throw  upon  the  talents  of  three  men,  Pro- 
fessor Lounsbury,  Voltaire,  and  Shake- 


speare.    It  may  not  prove  unprofitable 
to  consider  them  in  this  order. 

Of  the  learning  of  the  book  enough 
has  been  said  ;  in  the  main  its  taste  and 
judgment  are  quite  as  noteworthy.  Per- 
haps the  only  exception  is  seen  in  the 
constitutional  inability  of  the  professional 
English  scholar  duly  to  appreciate  the 
perennial  beauty  and  dignity  which  lie 
at  the  root  of  the  classic  ideal  of  the 
Latin  races,  even  in  the  tragedies  of  Vol- 
taire. Indeed  his  opinion  of  all  so-called 
"classic  drama"  might  not  unjustly  be 
expressed  in  six  lines  from  the  prologue 
written  by  George  Colman,  Esq.,  for  a 
late  eighteenth-century  revival  of  Phi- 
laster :  — 

"  Then  nonsense  in  heroics,  seem'd  sublime  ; 

Kings  rav'd  in  couplets,  and  maids  sigh'd  in 
rhime. 

Next,  prim,  and  trim,  and  delicate,  and 
chaste, 

A  hash  from  Greece  and  France,  came  mod- 
ern taste. 

Cold  are  her  sons,  and  so  afraid  of  dealing 

In  rant  and  fustian,  they  ne'er  rise  to  feeling." 

Which  is  the  truth,  yet  not  all  of  it. 
Nevertheless  this  is  but  a  petty  caveat  to 
enter  against  a  book  so  essentially  sound 
as  Professor  Lounsbury's.  In  fact,  its 
chief  virtues  are  sanity  and  humor.  Be 
it  said  in  all  seriousness,  Professor  Louns- 
bury ranks  as  one  of  the  most  consider- 
able of  our  humorists.  The  present  vol- 
ume is  informed  throughout  by  a  subtly 
humorous  point  of  view,  and  it  exhibits 
a  proficiency  at  the  keen  but  covert  thrust 
worthy  of  Voltaire  himself.  The  peri- 
phrases for  "  lying,"  for  example,  are  as 
numerous  as  they  are  delightful.  At 
times  he  is  downright  witty,  as  when  he 
mentions  Hannah  More,  "  who  had  not 
yet  assumed  her  brevet  title  of  Mrs.,"  or 
says  of  well-meaning  Aaron  Hill  that  his 
"  language  did  not  really  conceal  thought, 
as  he  himself  and  perhaps  some  of  his 
contemporary  readers  fancied  ;  it  merely 
concealed  what  he  thought  he  thought." 
Voltaire,  of  course,  appears  in  Profes- 
sor Lounsbury's  book  only  in  a  single 
phase  of  his  myriad-minded,  often  bene- 


714 


Books  New  and  Old. ' 


ficent  activities.  Yet  there  is  much  in 
the  intensive  study  of  that  one  phase  to 
exhibit  the  essential  nature  of  the  man. 
One  is  disconcerted  to  find  the  person 
who  had  boasted  that  when  he  had  crossed 
the  Styx, 

"S'ils  ont  de  pre'juge's,  j'en  gue*rirai  les  om- 
bres," 

so  bound  by  racial  and  personal  preju- 
dice; and  one  is  dismayed  to  discover 
this  rugged  old  fighter  for  "enlighten- 
ment" and  "justice"  so  inconspicuous, 
in  literary  dealings,  for  common  honesty. 
Yet  one  who  reads  the  record  attentively 
will  discern  how  little  of  this  seeming 
mendacity  arose  from  intentional  deceit, 
how  much  was  referable  to  the  sponta- 
neous activity  of  the  "  literary  tempera- 
ment." Indeed,  Shakespeare  and  Vol- 
taire might  with  advantage  be  assigned 
as  collateral  reading  for  the  many  earnest 
students  of  Mr.  Barrie's  Tommy. 

But  after  all  it  is  the  mighty  genius 
of  Shakespeare  —  winning  his  way  by  the 
resistless  compulsion  of  his  art  through 
prejudice  and  hostility  to  men's  regard 
—  which  dominates  the  imagination  of 
the  reader.  The  final  impression  is  pretty 
much  that  contained  in  the  fine  paragraph 
which  Professor  Lounsbury  quotes  from 
Maurice  Morgann's  Essay  on  Falstaff. 
Morgann,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  the 
accomplished  and  modest  gentleman  who 
had  the  singular  felicity  and  distinction 
of  hearing  from  Dr.  Johnson's  lips  the 
words  :  "  Sir,  I  have  been  thinking  over 
our  dispute  last  night.  You  were  in  the 
right."  Fully  as  right  as  that  forgotten 
contention  has  proved  to  be  the  prophecy 
which  must  have  seemed  but  sound  and 
fury  to  so  many  of  his  contemporaries : 

"  When  the  hand  of  time  shall  have 
brushed  off  his  present  editors  and  com- 
mentators, and  when  the  very  name  of 
Voltaire,  and  even  the  memory  of  the 
language  in  which  he  has  written,  shall 
be  no  more,  the  Appalachian  Mountains, 

1  A  Foreign  View  of  England  in  the  Reigns 
of  George  I.  and  George  II.  The  Letters  of 
Monsieur  Ce'sar  de  Saussure  to  his  Family. 


the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and  the  plains  of 
Sciola  shall  resound  with  the  accents  of 
this  barbarian.  In  his  native  tongue  he 
shall  roll  the  genuine  passions  of  nature  ; 
nor  shall  the  griefs  of  Lear  be  alleviated, 
or  the  charms  and  wit  of  Rosalind  be 
abated  by  time."  F.  G. 

IN  the  spring  of  1725  a  young  gen- 
Earl  Qeor  ^eman  °f  Lausanne,  belong- 
gian  Eng-  ing  to  a  Huguenot  family  who 
a  generation  earlier  had  found 
there  a  refuge  from  persecution,  set  forth 
on  his  travels.  From  England,  where 
he  remained  more  than  five  years,  he 
wrote  letters,  then  and  long  afterward 
found  interesting  by  many  readers  in 
Switzerland,  Voltaire  among  them.  The 
youthful  visitor  had  clear  and  very  ob- 
servant eyes,  an  open  mind,  and  a  sim- 
ple, straightforward  manner  in  record- 
ing his  impressions  which  at  once  wins 
confidence,  and  his  letters,  now  translated 
and  edited  by  the  wife  of  one  of  his  de- 
scendants, have  a  quite  living  interest, 
as  well  as  a  somewhat  exceptional  value, 
as  a  picture  of  early  eighteenth-century 
England.1  Naturally,  too,  they  throw 
side  lights  upon  contemporary  manners 
and  customs  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Channel.  "  The  English  are  very  clean," 
says  M.  de  Saussure,  adding  that  not  a 
day  passes  without  their  washing  them- 
selves, and  that  "  in  winter  as  well  as 
in  summer."  He  also  declares  that  the 
amount  of  water  they  use  in  cleansing 
their  houses  "  is  inconceivable,"  and  after 
giving  details  of  this  daily  scrubbing,  he 
records  that "  even  the  hammers  and  locks 
on  the  doors  are  rubbed  and  shine  bright- 
ly," and  more  than  once  he  refers  ad- 
miringly to  the  Englishman's  table,  where 
the  linen  is  always  white,  the  silver  bril- 
liant, and,  most  surprising  of  all,  knives 
and  forks  are  changed  "every  time  a 
plate  is  removed."  And  yet  with  all  this 
lavish  use  of  water  "  absolutely  none  is 

Translated  and  edited  by  MADAME  VAN  MTJY- 
DBN.  New  York  :  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  Lon- 
don :  John  Murray.  1902. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


715 


drunk,"  not  even  by  paupers.  On  or- 
dinary occasions  he  finds  that  the  Eng- 
lish gentleman  dresses  far  more  plainly 
than  the  Frenchman,  but  his  cloth  and 
linen  are  always  of  the  finest.  That  the 
lower  classes  should  be  so  comfortably 
clad  (and  also  shod)  at  once  attracts  his 
notice,  as  does  the  well-being  of  the  pea- 
sant. He  warns  his  friends  that  in  mix- 
ing with  a  London  crowd  keeping  holi- 
day, it  is  best  to  eschew  finery,  else  the 
stranger  will  be  saluted  with  the  cry  of 
"  French  dog,"  their  worst  term  of  op- 
probrium. Reconstructors  of  early  Geor- 
gian London  are  much  inclined  to  lay 
stress  on  the  ill-lighted  streets,  but  this 
actual  observer  finds  most  of  them  "  won- 
derfully well -lighted"  all  the  night 
through.  They  are  badly  paved,  but  on 
either  side  is  a  smooth,  raised  path  where 
one  can  walk  pleasantly  and  safely  how- 
ever great  the  press  of  carriages  and 
horses,  —  safely  that  is,  if  the  "  By  your 
i  leave,  Sir,"  of  the  chairmen  is  heeded, 
for  these  strong  and  skillful  bearers  go 
so  fast  that  they  cannot  turn  aside. 

The  visitor  explores  the  town  from 
end  to  end,  noting  the  excellence  of  the 
houses,  the  opulence  of  the  shops  with 
their  "  magnificent  "  swinging  signs,  and 
also  the  pugnacity  of  the  "  lower  popu- 
lace "  always  ready  to  settle  quarrels 
with  their  fists  in  fair  fight.  He  even 
adventures  to  Bartholomew's  Fair,  not 
very  different  from  the  pandemonium  of 
a  century  earlier,  to  the  cockpit  and  the 
ring.  Once  he  is  at  Tyburn,  what  time 
Jonathan  Wild  met  his  not  unmerited 
doom,  and  remarks  with  approval  that 
torture  is  not  used,  either  at  trials  or 
executions.  But  these  are  the  investi- 
gations of  a  traveler ;  his  habitual  way  is 
that  of  the  class  called  "  civil,  sober  gen- 
tlemen." He  does  not  find  English 
comedy  "  at  all  refined  or  witty,"  but 
greatly  admires  their  tragedies  in  "  un- 
rhymed  verse,"  though  they  are  too 
"  bloody."  He  takes  so  lively  an  interest 
in  all  memorable  pageants,  that  friendly 
readers  are  glad  that  he  had  a  partial 


view  of  what  he  pronounces  "  the  most 
solemn,  magnificent,  and  sumptuous  cere- 
mony it  is  in  any  one's  lot  in  life  to  wit- 
ness." If  he  did  not  see  the  actual 
Coronation,  nor  hear  the  "  fine  and  suit- 
able sermon,"  or  the  greatest  singers  and 
musicians  uniting  in  "  admirable  sym- 
phonies conducted  by  the  celebrated  Mr. 
Handel,"  the  processions  and  banquet 
tax  all  his  powers  of  description. 

There  are  deep  shadows  as  well  as 
brilliant  lights  in  this  veracious  picture 
of  the  London  where  the  Hanoverian 
Georges  reigned  and  Walpole  ruled,  but 
nothing  mars  the  writer's  delight  in  the 
English  country  and  its  life,  a  life  in 
which  socially  the  country  town  still  had 
a  share.  He  rejoices  in  the  Thames, 
"  wide,  beautiful,  and  peaceful,"  a  water- 
way for  the  Londoners  with  its  fifteen 
thousand  boats.  He  can  write  under- 
standingly,  and  entertainingly  as  well,  of 
matters  political,  legal,  and  religious. 
The  pride  of  the  English  he  finds  often 
is  only  reserve  ;  they  are  more  taciturn 
than  the  French  by  nature,  but  their 
friendship  when  proffered  is  sincere  and 
can  be  counted  upon.  They  are  very 
brave,  yet  few  of  them  are  partisans  of 
dueling.  The  liberty  which  their  gov- 
ernment affords  "  they  value  more  than 
all  the  joys  of  life,  and  would  sacrifice 
everything  to  retain  it."  Their  freedom 
in  writing  on  religious  matters  rather  ap- 
palls the  young  Huguenot,  who  says  that 
in  any  other  country  such  books  and 
their  authors  would  speedily  be  consigned 
to  the  executioner.  England  is  un- 
doubtedly, he  declares,  the  most  happily 
governed  nation  in  the  world,  and  would 
be  the  most  enviable  were  it  not  divided 
by  different  sects  and  parties,  though  he 
owns  that  in  the  opinion  of  many  these 
differences  preserve  the  liberties  and 
privileges  of  the  people. 

The  variety  of  points  touched  upon  by 
M.  de  Saussure  is  as  remarkable  as  his 
general  accuracy  in  dealing  with  them. 
At  once  amiable  and  shrewd  he  proves 
an  agreeable  acquaintance,  and  it  causes 


716 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


a  twinge  of  regret  that  his  departure 
from  a  country  which  otherwise  treated 
him  so  hospitably  should  have  been  has- 
tened by  a  never-forgotten  disappoint- 
ment. The  family  of  the  charming  Eng- 
lish girl  whom  he  loved  wisely  and  well 
would  not  consent  to  her  marriage  with 
an  alien.  One  of  the  first  English  traits 
the  visitor  had  noted  was  that  foreign- 


ers in  general  were  looked  on  with  con- 
tempt, —  he  magnanimously  adds  that 
the  wealth,  plenty,  liberty,  and  comforts 
which  the  English  enjoy  go  far  to  justify 
their  good  opinion  of  themselves.  Cer- 
tainly Ce'sar  de  Saussure  was  not  classed 
by  his  many  friends  with  the  general,  but 
Lausanne  was  far,  very  far,  from  London 
in  1730.  S.  M.  F. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


A  RECENT  writer  to  the  Contributors' 
Club  has  confessed  his  affec- 
of  Orthogra-  tion  for  certain  English  words 
and  dislike  of  certain  others, 
and  asked  for  sympathy  in  his  prefer- 
ence. I  fancy  we  all  sympathize  in  the 
main,  although  we  might  not  all  hit  upon 
the  same  antipathies.  But  I  should  like 
to  go  a  step  farther,  and  beg  to  know 
whether  any  one  will  agree  with  me  in 
liking  some  ways  of  spelling  better  than 
others.  The  whole  value  of  a  word  does 
not  lie  in  its  sound,  nor  yet  in  its  mean- 
ing, nor  in  its  association  even.  Though 
this  last  tempts  me  to  pause  and  reflect 
how  much  association  does  have  to  do 
with  the  literary  value  of  words.  "Pur- 
ple," now ;  I  doubt  whether  any  other 
color  occurs  so  often  in  literature  as  pur- 
ple, yet  it  is  not  only  for  the  rich  beauty 
of  its  syllables,  but  also  for  its  hint  of 
royalty.  And  then  the  heraldic  colors 
—  why  do  the  poets  choose  them  ?  Is 
sable  more  dark  than  black,  or  more  yel- 
low than  gold  ?  Nay,  but  at  the  sound 
of  these  words  "  the  past  shall  arise," 
and  all  the  panoply  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
monks  and  Crusaders  and  kings,  march 
before  us  at  the  call  of  a  magical  word 
like  "  gules."  "  And  threw  warm  red  on 
Madeline's  fair  breast,"  —  what  were 
that  line  then  ? 

But  apart  from  beauty  of  sound  or 
charm  of  suggestion,  it  also  matters  a  good 


deal,  to  me  at  least,  how  a  word  looks. 
I  wish  I  knew  how  many  persons  feel  a 
difference  between  "  gray  "  and  "  grey," 
for  instance.  To  me  they  are  two  dif- 
ferent colors,  but  I  can  get  no  authority 
for  my  fancy.  The  dictionary  does  not 
help  out  in  the  least,  for  after  describing 
"  gray  "  in  its  unimaginative  way  as  "  any 
mixture  of  white  and  black,"  it  dismisses 
"  grey  "  with  saying  coldly,  "  See  GRAY 
(the  correct  orthography)." 

After  that  rebuff  I  suppose  it  is  very 
obstinate  of  me  to  continue  to  see  any 
distinction  between  them,  or  anything  in 
either  beyond  a  mixture  of  white  and 
black.  But  if  they  mean  exactly  the  same 
thing,  why  don't  the  poets  stand  by  one 
of  them  alone  ?  Or  if,  since  poets  are  a 
winged  race  who  are  not  to  be  bound  by 
rules  of  any  kind,  they  have  simply  set 
down,  hit  or  miss,  whichever  one  they 
thought  of  first,  am  I  then  the  only  per- 
son whom  they  have  befogged  into  think- 
ing there  is  a  choice  between  them  ? 
Does  the  dictionary  mean  to  imply  that 
Swinburne  did  not  know  what  he  was 
about  when  he  wrote  "  Bird  of  the  bitter, 
bright,  grey,  golden  morn,"  or  that  Mor- 
ris was  merely  suffering  from  the  great 
man's  inability  to  spell,  when  he  sent  "  an 
old  grey  man  "  to  inhabit  his  Dream  ? 
To  my  mind,  that  dawn  of  Swinburne's 
could  not  be  half  so  cold,  nor  so  early, 
nor  so  long  ago,  if  grey  had  been  spelled 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


717 


with  an  "  a."  It  would  have  become  at 
once  an  ordinary  cloudy  morning,  good 
for  hunting  perhaps,  but  certainly  with- 
out any  suggestion  of  gold  in  it.  Gray 
and  gold  do  not  mix ;  they  are  for  con- 
trasts, like  youth  and  grabbed  age.  But 
grey  —  that  may  have  brown  in  it,  and 
green,  and  why  not  gold  ? 

Gray  is  a  quiet  color  for  daylight 
things,  but  there  is  a  touch  of  difference, 
of  romance,  even,  about  things  that  are 
grey.  Gray  is  a  color  for  fur,  and  Qua- 
ker gowns,  and  breasts  of  doves,  and  a 
gray  day,  and  a  gentlewoman's  hair  ;  and 
horses  must  be  gray  : 

"  Woe  worth  the  day 
That  cost  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray," 

laments  one  of  Sir  Walter's  cavaliers, 
and  I  know  that  is  right.  But  I  cannot 
say  why.  Can  no  one  tell  me  ? 

Now  grey  is  for  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a 
witch,  with  green  lights  in  them,  and 
much  wickedness.  But  the  author  of 
Wishmakers'  Town  has  not  discovered 
this.  In  that  charming  little  volume  a 
group  of  girls  are  found  chattering  fond- 
ly of  the  future  and  the  coming  lover, 
when  one  among  them,  a  siren  of  a 
maiden,  cries  mockingly,  — 

"  Though  the  king  himself  implore  me, 
I  shall  live  unwedded  still, 
And  your  husbands  shall  adore  me." 

And  a  student  near  by,  nudging  his  fel- 
low, says,  — 

"  Heard'st  thou  what  the  Gray  Eyes  said  ?  " 

Which  goes  to  show  that  she  could  never 
really  have  said  it  at  all.  Gray  eyes 
would  be  as  tender  and  yielding  and  true 
as  blue  ones ;  a  coquette  must  have  eyes 
of  grey. 

Mrs.  Alice  Meynell  has  written  one  of 
her  subtle  little  essays  about  a  Woman 
in  Grey,  whom  she  makes  the  type  of 
the  modern  woman  who  can  go  her  own 
way  and  take  no  odds  of  man.  But  had 
she  gowned  her  in  gray,  do  you  not  see 
what  added  simplicity,  tenderness,  and 
femininity  it  would  endow  her  with  at 


once  ?     Such  a  woman  would  have  to  be 
protected. 

Dr.  Van  Dyke,  again,  invented  the 
pretty  title  of  My  Lady  Greygown  for 
the  charming  wife  who  glides  across  the 
pages  of  Fisherman's  Luck.  But  if  that 
gown  had  been  of  gray,  would  she  not 
have  to  be  a  gentle,  Quaker-like  lady  who 
sat  at  home  reading  a  quiet  book  while 
he  beat  the  streams  ?  "  My  Lady  Grey- 
gown,"  however,  I  am  sure  is  a  grande 
dame. 

Are  these  all  accidents  ?  I  shall  never 
believe  it,  no  matter  what  the  dictionary 
says.  Why,  the  dictionary  does  not  even 
recognize  "faery"  without  calling  Spen- 
ser in  to  take  the  responsibility.  Yet 
who  does  not  feel  that  "  faery  land  for- 
lorn "  is  a  thousand  times  more  distant 
and  enchanting  than  any  "  fairyland  " 
could  be  ?  How  that  little  change  con- 
ventionalizes it  at  once  !  Fairyland  we 
may  see  upon  the  stage,  but  the  land  of 
faery  —  ah,  no  ! 

Verily  the  letter  "  e  "  is  a  sorcerer's 
letter.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the 
"  lost  e  "  in  the  Romance  languages,  but 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  perhaps  it  has 
only  strayed  across  the  Channel  to  cast  a 
haunting  gleam  of  romance  upon  some 
English  words.  Will  any  one,  perchance, 
agree  with  me  ? 

AT  a  recent  dinner  party  composed  of 
Barbara  residents  of  Frederick,  Md., 
Frietchie  at  the  conversation  turned  upon 
Home.  •  T»  ,  T-I  .  i  .  -, 

Barbara  Frietchie,  and  sur- 
prise was  expressed  that  so  much  diffi- 
culty seemed  to  exist  in  establishing  the 
facts  about  a  personage  many  of  whose 
relatives  are  still  living,  and  concerning 
an  incident  to  which  eye-witnesses  are 
still  accessible.  The  explanation  sug- 
gested was  that  the  historical  method  was 
seldom  pursued,  that  people  were  con- 
tent to  talk  about  the  subject  without  in- 
vestigating the  sources  from  which  their 
information  should  have  been  drawn, 
and  the  company  present  was  taken  in 
illustration.  A  poll  showed  that  several 
had  written  on  the  subject,  and  all  had 


718 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


been  expected  to  discuss  it  fluently  when- 
ever introduced  to  strangers  as  coming 
from  Frederick,  and  yet  but  two  had 
conversed  with  eye-witnesses,  and  but 
one  had  seen  Barbara  Frietchie's  flag. 
This  last  gentleman  was  challenged  to 
act  as  escort  on  the  morrow  when  a  visit 
should  be  made  to  the  home  of  Mrs. 
John  H.  Abbott,  the  grand-niece  of  Dame 
Barbara,  into  whose  hands  the  precious 
flag  has  descended,  and  who  was  at  her 
aunt's  home  during  the  passage  of  the 
Confederate  troops  "  on  that  pleasant 
morn  of  the  early  fall."  We  had  scarce 
need  to  tell  our  errand,  though  a  par- 
ty composed  exclusively  of  residents  of 
Frederick  may  have  been  remarked  as 
a  little  peculiar,  and  were  at  once  shown 
a  small  silk  flag  within  a  gilt  frame  hang- 
ing on  the  parlor  wall.  Nor  were  we 
allowed  to  remain  long  in  doubt  on  which 
side  of  the  controversy  that  has  arisen 
Mrs.  Abbott  was  to  be  found.  A  gen- 
tleman of  the  party  remarking  somewhat 
flippantly,  "  So  this  is  the  flag  Barbara 
Frietchie  did  n't  wave  !  "  she  replied  with 
quiet  firmness,  "  This  is  the  flag  she  did 
wave,  but  not  at  just  the  time  nor  in  just 
the  way  the  poet  said.-"  Here,  then,  is 
summed  up  in  one  sentence  the  gist  of 
the  whole  matter.  Barbara  Frietchie's 
place  in  the  local  annals  of  Frederick 
cannot  be  called  into  question.  Her  great 
age,  having  been  born  in  Lancaster,  Pa., 
December  3, 1766,  and  being  thus  nearly 
ninety-six  "  when  Lee  marched  over  the 
mountain-wall,"  is  a  matter  of  record. 
To  her  intense  loyalty,  when  loyalty  was 
not  the  easiest  matter  even  in  Frederick, 
her  relatives  abundantly  testify.  Her 
unpretentious  flag  was  usually  flying  from 
its  mast  at  the  window  of  her  humble 
home  on  West  Patrick  Street.  It  was 
removed  when  the  Confederate  troops 
entered  the  city  September  10, 1862,  and 
carefully  folded  away  in  her  Bible,  but 
it  was  again  displayed  by  Dame  Barbara 
as  she  stood  by  the  window  watching  the 
passage  of  Burnside's  troops  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  12th.  This  is  the  occasion 


usually  referred  to  as  her  historic  waving 
of  the  flag,  though  it  was  not  in  the  face 
of  the  enemy,  and  called  forth  not  shots 
but  shouts  as  the  passing  troops  noted 
her  extreme  age  and  this  expressive 
token  of  her  loyalty.  Major  -  General 
Reno  himself  was  attracted  by  the  scene, 
and  stopped  to  speak  a  word  to  the  old 
lady,  inquire  her  age,  and  beg  the  flag  of 
her.  She,  however,  resolutely  refused  to 
part  with  this  one,  but  finally  consented 
to  give  the  gallant  general  another  owned 
by  her.  And  this  flag,  thus  presented, 
was  a  few  days  later  laid  on  the  bier  of 
the  brave  Reno,  who  fell  the  day  after 
at  South  Mountain. 

It  is  the  poet's  treatment  of  Stonewall 
Jackson  that  has  given  greatest  offense, 
and  has  caused  the  friends  of  that  gallant 
gentleman  to  denounce  the  whole  story 
as  a  myth,  and  either  to  deny  Barbara's 
existence  in  toto,  or  to  question  her  loy- 
alty. There  is  no  ground  for  either. 
Barbara  Frietchie  perhaps  never  saw 
Stonewall  Jackson  ;  at  least  she  did  not 
see  him  ride  past  her  house  on  that  "  cool 
September  morn."  Not  because  she  was 
bedridden  on  that  day  as  has  been  as* 
serted.  Mrs.  Abbott,  who  went  down  to 
invite  her  aunt  to  come  and  spend  the 
day  with  her,  failing  to  induce  her  to 
leave  the  house,  remained  and  watched 
with  her  the  "  dust  -  brown  ranks  "  as 
they  passed.  Jackson,  on  reaching  Mar- 
ket Street,  rode  with  his  staff  two  squares 
to  the  north  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
Presbyterian  minister,  Dr.  Ross,  on  Sec- 
ond Street,  and  then  rejoined  his  troops 
by  riding  through  Mill  Alley,  and  reach- 
ing Patrick  Street  about  half  a  square  to 
the  west  of  Barbara  Frietchie's  house. 
Of  this  a  member  of  that  staff,  himself  a 
gallant  son  of  Maryland,  has  again  and 
again  testified.  The  poet  Whittier  re- 
ceived his  materials  from  Mrs.  South- 
worth  of  Georgetown,  D.  C.,  and  used 
but  little  license  in  working  them  up,  as 
the  letter  written  to  him,  and  quoted  in 
full  in  his  Life,  well  shows.  That  Mr. 
Cornelius  Ramsburg,  also  of  Georgetown, 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


719 


but  visiting  in  Frederick  at  the  time, 
exercised  his  imagination  somewhat  in 
giving  the  matter  to  Mrs.  Southworth  and 
to  the  press  is  probable,  though  whether 
the  little  touches  necessary  to  make  the 
story  tell  well  were  given  at  first  hand 
or  were  the  work  of  an  imaginative  re- 
porter is  now  in  doubt.  Whittier,  though 
besieged  repeatedly,  was  always  conserv- 
ative in  giving  out  anything  that  might 
cast  suspicion  on  the  facts  as  set  forth  in 
the  poem.  And  this  is  much  the  atti- 
tude of  the  average  Fredericktonian  to- 
day. As  the  late  Dr.  Daniel  Zacharias, 
Barbara's  pastor  during  the  last  fourth 
of  her  life,  remarked  when  questioned  as 
to  the  accuracy  of  the  poem,  "  Well,  Mrs. 
Frietchie  was  just  the  kind  of  woman  to 
do  that  kind  of  thing."  And  so  she  was, 
and  so  let  history  record  her. 

One  word  more.  It  has  been  said  that 
Whittier's  "  clustered  spires  of  Freder- 
ick "  contains  nothing  distinctively  local, 
and  could  as  well  have  been  applied  to 
almost  any  other  town  of  its  size.  Quite 
the  contrary.  Frederick  is  decidedly 
unique  in  having  its  churches  with  spires 
all  located  at  that  time  on  Church  Street 
extending  east  and  west,  and  from  any 
point  on  the  "  hills  of  Maryland "  on 
either  side  the  observer  will  almost  in- 
voluntarily exclaim,  "  See  the  '  clustered 
spires  ' !  "  as  he  looks  upon  the  little  city 
lying  in  the  valley  below. 

Whittier  wrote  the  poem  soon  after 
the  receipt  of  Mrs.  Southworth's  letter  in 
June,  1863,  and  forwarded  it  to  the  At- 
lantic Monthly.  The  enthusiastic  editor 
sent  him  in  acknowledgment  a  check  for 
fifty  dollars,  saying,  "  Barbara  is  worth 
its  weight  in  gold." 

Barbara's  grave  is  much  visited  by 
strangers,  and  there  is  a  well-worn  path 
to  it  across  the  now  almost  abandoned 
burying-ground.  But  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  no  decorations  are  ever  placed  upon 
it,  nor  does 

"  Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave." 

In  another  direction  in  the  beautiful  Mt. 


Olivet  Cemetery  on  the  hill  just  at  the 
city  limits  ono  will  see,  as  he  enters,  the 
flag  with  its  "  silver  stars  "  and  its  "  crim- 
son bars  "  floating  near  the  statue  of 
Francis  Scott  Key,  under  which  his  re- 
mains repose,  and  thus  is  the  poet's  pray- 
er still  answered :  — 

"  And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  !  " 

THE  very  best  of  the  newer  Caroline 
Milton  and  anthologies  is  A  Book  of  Sev- 
his  Elm.  enteenth  Century  Lyrics,  Se- 
lected and  Edited,  with  an  Introduc- 
tion, by  Felix  E.  Schelling,  Professor  of 
English  Literature  in  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania :  the  compiler  of  it  knows 
and  loves  his  ground.  But  as  an  Ameri- 
can, and  in  the  most  innocent  way,  he 
has  fallen  foul,  in  one  instance,  of  no 
less  a  person  than  John  Milton.  Mr. 
Schelling  quotes,  as  he  was  bound  to  do, 
songs  from  Cornus  and  Arcades,  fairy- 
land numbers :  — 

"  Follow  me,  as  I  sing 
And  touch  the  warbled  string  ; 
Under  the  shady  roof 
Of  branching  elm,  star-proof, 
Follow  me !  " 

The  comment  on  these  glorious  descrip- 
tive lines  about  the  elm  is  instructive. 
"38.  vi.  Star-proof  elm.  Cf.  Faery 
Queene,  I.,  1,  7.  This  is  one  of  several 
of  Milton's  trivial  inaccuracies  in  the  ob- 
servation of  Nature,  as  the  foliage  of  the 
elm  is  notably  light."  The  paragraph 
must  seem  a  cryptic  curiosity  to  any  one 
who  has  ever  noticed  in  its  natural  home 
the  dense  impervious  green  of  Milton's 
tree  by  day,  its  black  majestic  mass  at 
night,  triumphantly  "  star-proof."  Ah, 
but  Ulmus  Americana  is  "notably  light," 
though  it  was  never  in  the  mind  or  eye 
of  the  non-clairvoyant  bard.  An  en- 
snared editor  has  made  the  right  remark 
upon  the  wrong  occasion,  has  deduced  the 
"  trivial  inaccuracy  "  of  a  master  pen, 
out  of  his  own  totally  irrelevant  land- 
scape. In  short  (to  make  a  cruel  pun), 
the  premises  are  defective  ! 

The  American  elm,  as  we  all  know,  is 


720 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


most  graceful,  feathery,  fountain-like. 
Even  the  more  ancient  trees,  immense  in 
girth,  and  hale  in  old  age,  never  lose  this 
exquisite  character.  Far  from  being 
"  star-proof,"  they  hang  every  star  in  the 
firmament  as  a  festal  lantern  in  between 
their  spraying  midsummer  boughs. 
Meanwhile,  on  Boston  Common  itself, 
stand  aligned  on  the  east  and  west  malls 
some  survivors  of  the  sturdy  English 
elms,  set  there,  as  imported  saplings, 
while  Milton  was  still  young,  by  his  co- 
Puritans,  the  first  colonists :  a  noble 
dogged  company,  lopped  and  neglected, 
which  look  quite  as  they  might  look  in 
the  Weald  of  Kent.  Each  of  these  lame 
giants,  holding  his  ancestral  traditions, 
might  claim,  with  our  friend  in  Pinafore, 
that,  in  spite  of  all  temptations  to  belong 
to  other  nations,  he  remains  an  English- 
man. He  puts  on  leaf  in  April,  ere  his 
native-born  colleagues  are  ready  ;  he  di- 
vests himself  in  the  autumn  with  decency, 
with  gravity,  with  abhorrence  of  that 
gayly  golden  display  dear  to  those  others, 
and  he  does  so  weeks  after  they  have  gone 
to  rest.  Despite  the  Subway's  abomina- 
ble shaking  of  his  vitals,  he  keeps  all  the 
old  distinctive  and  unpopular  habits ;  this 
conservative  is,  of  course,  "  star-proof." 
Did  Mr.  Schelling  never  raise  his  eyes, 
when  he  went  to  see  his  publishers  at  the 
Athenaeum  Press  in  Boston,  to  the  living 
witness  that  Milton  sang  truly  of  what  he 
saw  ?  Familiarity  with  our  own  charm- 
ing woodland  sophists  has  led  him,  a 
scholar,  to  undervalue  an  immortal  re- 
port of  elms  as  they  are  in  the  British 
isles. 

Indeed,  one  might  follow  further,  with 
some  profit,  such  vegetable  differences 
between  the  transatlantic  and  the  cisat- 
lantic apprehension.  On  such  a  topic,  it 
is  more  civil,  perhaps,  to  criticise  our- 
selves. Mr.  Gosse  has  just  announced, 
with  "  a  certain  condescension  in  for- 
eigners," that  the  landscape  of  Kentucky, 
as  it  lies  in  Mr.  Madison  Cawein's  beau- 
tiful books,  "  would  have  scandalized 


neither  Spenser  nor  Keats ! "  Let  us 
not  depreciate  our  mercies.  But  to  re- 
turn to  the  argument :  the  word  "  may," 
for  instance,  meaning  the  blossomed  haw- 
thorn bush,  in  American  editions  of  Eng- 
lish poets,  is  invariably  set  up,  to  its 
lasting  damage,  with  the  capital  letter  ; 
for  the  bewitching  month  of  that  name 
is  not,  like  the  white  hedgerow  which 
everywhere  in  England  gives  it  the  crown- 
ing grace,  a  stranger  to  our  printers. 
What  untraveled  reader,  under  our  daz- 
zling sunset  sky,  can  make  out  what  Cole- 
ridge was  thinking  of  when  he  named 

"  That  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west  "  ? 

The  dying  day,  with  us,  is  orange,  is  pur- 
ple, is  carmine,  opal,  and  gold;  it  is 
everything  that  is  brilliant  and  exciting, 
but  it  certainly  is  not  green.  "  Green 
light "  is  the  one  phrase,  however,  proper 
to  the  tender,  even,  gradual,  melancholy 
English  even-fall,  especially  in  summer- 
time. Meredith,  again,  uses  the  same 
lovely  coloring  in  those  lines  which  seem 
to  some  so  full  of  extravagance  and  af- 
fectation :  — 

"  And  Love  remembers  how  the  sky  was  green, 
And  how  the  grasses  glimmered  palest  blue." 

Yes,  English  grass  has  its  racial  "  ways." 
In  the  low-lying  districts  particularly,  say 
in  Oxford  or  in  Cambridge,  every  vista 
from  a  bridge  (and  what  vistas  they 
are !)  will  spread  for  you,  a  little  be- 
yond, its  sward  of  misted  unmistakable 
blue.  Coleridge,  again,  writes  of 

"  Cloud  land,  gorgeous  land." 

It  is  not  our  nimbus  and  cirrus,  but  the 
whole  firmament  of  tumbling  violet-gray, 
an  endless  pageant  of  shadow,  which  fills 
the  year  in  Devon,  and  which  his  boy- 
hood knew.  Great  poets,  it  may  be  add- 
ed, glory  in  keeping  this  matter  of  fact 
record  of  the  natural  world.  They  are 
not  impressionists,  not  rhetoricians :  they 
sometimes  love  a  commonplace,  because 
they  love  truth.  Would  it  not  be  well, 
as  an  international  move,  to  trust  them  ? 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


$flaga?ine  of  literature^  ^cience,  &rt>  ana 

VOL.  XC.  —  DECEMBER,  1902.  —  No. 


THE   IDEALS   OF  AMERICA.1 


WE  do  not  think  or  speak  of  the  War 
for  Independence  as  if  we  were  aged 
men  who,  amidst  alien  scenes  of  change, 
comfort  themselves  with  talk  of  great 
things  done  in  days  long  gone  by,  the 
like  of  which  they  may  never  hope  to  see 
again.  The  spirit  of  the  old  days  is  not 
dead.  If  it  were,  who  amongst  us  would 
care  for  its  memory  and  distant,  ghostly 
voice  ?  It  is  the  distinguishing  mark, 
nay  the  very  principle  of  life  in  a  nation 
alive  and  quick  in  every  fibre,  as  ours  is, 
that  all  its  days  are  great  days,  —  are  to 
its  thought  single  and  of  a  piece.  Its 
past  it  feels  to  have  been  but  the  prelude 
and  earnest  of  its  present.  It  is  from  its 
memories  of  days  old  and  new  that  it 
gets  its  sense  of  identity,  takes  its  spirit 
of  action,  assures  itself  of  its  power  and 
its  capacity,  and  knows  its  place  in  the 
world.  Old  colony  days,  and  those 
sudden  days  of  revolution  when  debate 
turned  to  action  and  heady  winds  as  if 
of  destiny  blew  with  mighty  breath  the 
long  continent  through,  were  our  own 
days,  the  days  of  our  childhood  and  our 
headstrong  youth.  We  have  riot  forgot- 
ten. Our  memories  make  no  effort  to 
recall  the  time.  The  battle  of  Trenton 
is  as  real  to  us  as  the  battle  of  San  Juan 
hill. 

We  remember  the  chill,  and  the  ar- 
dor too,  of  that  gray  morning  when  we 
came  upon  the  startled  outposts  of  the 

1  An  address  delivered  on  the  one  hundred 
and  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  battle  of 
Trenton,  December  26,  1901. 


town,  the  driving  sleet  beating  at  our 
backs  ;  the  cries  and  hurrying  of  men  in 
the  street,  the  confused  muster  at  our 
front,  the  sweeping  fire  of  our  guns  and 
the  rush  of  our  men,  Sullivan  coming  up 
by  the  road  from  the  river,  Washington 
at  the  north,  where  the  road  to  Prince- 
ton is  ;  the  showy  Hessian  colonel  shot 
from  his  horse  amidst  his  bewildered 
men ;  the  surrender ;  the  unceasing 
storm.  And  then  the  anxious  days  that 
followed  :  the  recrossing  of  the  icy  river 
before  even  we  had  rested ;  the  troop  of 
surly  prisoners  to  be  cared  for  and  sent 
forward  to  Philadelphia ;  the  enemy  all 
the  while  to  be  thought  of,  and  the  way 
to  use  our  advantage. 

How  much  it  meant  a  third  time  to 
cross  the  river,  and  wait  here  in  the  town 
for  the  regiments  Sir  William  Howe 
should  send  against  us!  How  sharp 
and  clear  the  night  was  when  we  gave 
Cornwallis  the  slip  and  took  the  silent, 
frosty  road  to  Allentown  and  Princeton  ! 
Those  eighteen  miles  between  bedtime 
and  morning  are  not  easily  forgot,  nor 
that  sharp  brush  with  the  redcoats  at 
Princeton  :  the  moving  fight  upon  the 
sloping  hillside,  the  cannon  planted  in 
the  streets,  the  gray  old  building  where 
the  last  rally  was  made,  —  and  then  the 
road  to  Brunswick,  Cornwallis  at  our 
heels  ! 

How  the  face  of  things  was  changed 
in  those  brief  days  !  There  had  been 
despair  till  then.  It  was  but  a  few  short 
weeks  since  the  men  of  the  Jersey  towns 


722 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


and  farms  had  seen  us  driven  south 
across  the  river  like  fugitives ;  now  we 
came  back  an  army  again,  the  Hessians 
who  had  but  the  other  day  harried  and 
despoiled  that  countryside  beaten  and 
scattered  before  us,  and  they  knew  not 
whether  to  believe  their  eyes  or  not.  As 
we  pushed  forward  to  the  heights  at 
Morristown  we  drew  in  the  British  lines 
behind  us,  and  New  Jersey  was  free  of 
the  redcoats  again.  The  Revolution  had 
had  its  turning  point.  It  was  easy  then 
to  believe  that  General  Washington  could 
hold  his  own  against  any  adversary  in 
that  terrible  game  of  war.  A  new  heart 
was  in  everything ! 

And  yet  what  differences  of  opinion 
there  were,  and  how  hot  and  emphatic 
every  turn  of  the  war  made  them  among 
men  who  really  spoke  their  minds  and 
dissembled  nothing!  It  was  but  six 
months  since  the  Congress  had  ventured 
its  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  the 
brave  words  of  that  defiance  halted  on 
many  lips  that  read  them.  There  were 
men  enough  and  to  spare  who  would  not 
speak  them  at  all ;  who  deemed  the 
whole  thing  madness  and  deep  folly,  and 
even  black  treason.  Men  whose  names 
all  the  colonies  knew  held  off  and  would 
take  no  part  in  armed  resistance  to  the 
ancient  crown  whose  immemorial  sov- 
ereignty kept  a  great  empire  together. 
Men  of  substance  at  the  ports  of  trade 
were  almost  all  against  the  Revolution ; 
and  where  men  of  means  and  principle 
led,  base  men  who  played  for  their  own 
interest  were  sure  to  follow.  Every 
movement  of  the  patriotic  leaders  was 
spied  upon  and  betrayed  ;  everywhere 
the  army  moved  there  were  men  of  the 
very  countryside  it  occupied  to  be  kept 
close  watch  against. 

Those  were  indeed  "  times  that  tried 
men's  souls  "  !  It  was  no  light  matter  to 
put  the  feeling  as  of  a  nation  into  those 
scattered  settlements  :  to  bring  the  high- 
spirited  planters  of  the  Carolinas,  who 
thought  for  themselves,  or  their  humble 
neighbors  on  the  upland  farms,  who 


ordered  their  lives  as  they  pleased,  to 
the  same  principles  and  point  of  view 
that  the  leaders  of  Virginia  and  Massa- 
chusetts professed  and  occupied,  —  the 
point  of  view  from  which  everything 
wore  so  obvious  an  aspect  of  hopeful  re- 
volt, where  men  planned  the  war  at  the 
north.  There  were  great  families  at 
Philadelphia  and  in  Boston  itself  who 
were  as  hard  to  win,  and  plain  men  with- 
out number  in  New  York  and  the  Jerseys 
who  would  not  come  for  the  beckoning. 
Opinion  was  always  making  and  to  be 
made,  and  the  campaign  of  mind  was 
as  hard  as  that  of  arms. 

To  think  of  those  days  of  doubt  and 
stress,  of  the  swaying  of  opinion  this  way 
and  that,  of  counsels  distracted  and  plans 
to  be  made  anew  at  every  turn  of  the 
arduous  business,  takes  one's  thoughts 
forward  to  those  other  days,  as  full  of 
doubt,  when  the  war  had  at  last  been 
fought  out  and  a  government  was  to  be 
made.  No  doubt  that  crisis  was  the  great- 
est of  all.  Opinion  will  form  for  a  wajr, 
in  the  face  of  manifest  provocation  and 
of  precious  rights  called  in  question.  But 
the  making  of  a  government  is  another 
matter.  And  the  government  to  be  made 
then  was  to  take  the  place  of  the  govern- 
ment cast  off :  there  was  the  rub.  It 
was  difficult  to  want  any  common  gov- 
ernment at  all  after  fighting  to  be  quit 
of  restraint  and  overlordship  altogether ; 
and  it  went  infinitely  hard  to  be  obliged 
to  make  it  strong,  with  a  right  to  com- 
mand and  a  power  to  rule.  Then  it  was 
that  we  knew  that  even  the  long  war, 
with  its  bitter  training  of  the  thoughts 
and  its  hard  discipline  of  union,  had  not 
made  a  nation,  but  only  freed  a  group  of 
colonies.  The  debt  is  the  more  incalcu- 
lable which  we  owe  to  the  little  band  of 
sagacious  men  who  labored  the  summer 
through,  in  that  far  year  1787,  to  give 
us  a  constitution  that  those  heady  little 
commonwealths  could  be  persuaded  to 
accept,  and  which  should  yet  be  a  frame- 
work within  which  the  real  powers  of  a 
nation  might  grow  in  the  fullness  of  time, 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


723 


and  gather  head  with  the  growth  of  a 
mighty  people. 

They  gave  us  but  the  outline,  the  for- 
mula, the  broad  and  general  programme 
of  our  life,  and  left  us  to  fill  it  in  with 
such  rich  store  of  achievement  and  sober 
experience  as  we  should  be  able  to  gather 
in  the  days  to  come.  Not  battles  or  any 
stirring  scene  of  days  of  action,  but  the 
slow  processes  by  which  we  grew  and 
made  our  thought  and  formed  our  pur- 
pose in  quiet  days  of  peace,  are  what  we 
find  it  hard  to  make  real  to  our  minds 
again,  now  that  we  are  mature  and  have 
fared  far  upon  the  road.  Our  life  is  so 
broad  and  various  now,  and  was  so  simple 
then ;  the  thoughts  of  those  first  days  seem 
crude  to  us  now  and  unreal.  We  smile 
upon  the  simple  dreams  of  our  youth  a 
bit  incredulously,  and  seem  cut  off  from 
them  by  a  great  space.  And  yet  it  was 
by  those  dreams  we  were  formed.  The 
lineage  of  our  thoughts  is  unbroken. 
The  nation  that  was  making  then  was 
the  nation  which  yesterday  intervened  in 
the  affairs  of  Cuba,  and  to-day  troubles 
the  trade  and  the  diplomacy  of  the  world. 

It  was  clear  to  us  even  then,  in  those 
first  days  when  we  were  at  the  outset  of 
our  life,  with  what  spirit  and  mission  we 
had  come  into  the  world.  Clear-sighted 
men  over  sea  saw  it  too,  whose  eyes  were 
not  holden  by  passion  or  dimmed  by 
looking  steadfastly  only  upon  things  near 
at  hand.  We  shall  not  forget  those 
deathless  passages  of  great  speech,  com- 
pact of  music  and  high  sense,  in  which 
Edmund  Burke  justified  us  and  gave  us 
out  of  his  riches  our  philosophy  of  right 
action  in  affairs  of  state.  Chatham  re- 
joiced that  we  had  resisted.  Fox  clapped 
his  hands  when  he  heard  that  Cornwallis 
had  been  trapped  and  taken  at  Yorktown. 
Dull  men  without  vision,  small  men  who 
stood  upon  no  place  of  elevation  in  their 
thoughts,  once  cried  treason  against  these 
men,  —  though  no  man  dared  speak  such 
a  taunt  to  the  passionate  Chatham's  face  ; 
but  now  all  men  speak  as  Fox  spoke,  and 
our  Washington  is  become  one  of  the 


heroes  of  the  English  race.  What  did 
it  mean  that  the  greatest  Englishmen 
should  thus  cheer  us  to  revolt  at  the  very 
moment  of  our  rebellion  ?  What  is  it 
that  has  brought  us  at  last  the  verdict  of 
the  world  ? 

It  means  that  in  our  stroke  for  inde- 
pendence we  struck  a  blow  for  all  the 
world.  Some  men  saw  it  then ;  all  men 
see  it  now.  The  very  generation  of  Eng- 
lishmen who  stood  against  us  in  that  day 
of  our  struggling  birth  lived  to  see  the 
liberating  light  of  that  day  shine  about 
their  own  path  before  they  made  an  end 
and  were  gone.  They  had  deep  reason 
before  their  own  day  was  out  to  know 
what  it  was  that  Burke  had  meant  when 
he  said,  "  We  cannot  falsify  the  pedigree 
of  this  fierce  people,  and  persuade  them 
that  they  are  not  sprung  from  a  nation 
in  whose  veins  the  blood  of  freedom  cir- 
culates. The  language  in  which  they 
would  hear  you  tell  them  this  tale  would 
detect  the  imposition,  your  speech  would 
betray  you.  An  Englishman  is  the  un- 
fittest  person  on  earth  to  argue  another 
Englishman  into  slavery."  ..."  For,  in 
order  to  prove  that  the  Americans  have 
no  right  to  their  liberties,  we  are  every 
day  endeavoring  to  subvert  the  maxims 
which  preserve  the  whole  spirit  of  our 
own.  To  prove  that  the  Americans 
ought  not  to  be  free,  we  are  obliged  to 
depreciate  the  value  of  freedom  itself ; 
and  we  never  seem  to  gain  a  paltry  ad- 
vantage over  them  in  debate,  without 
attacking  some  of  those  principles,  or 
deriding  some  of  those  feelings,  for  which 
our  ancestors  have  shed  their  blood." 

It  turned  out  that  the  long  struggle  in 
America  had  been  the  first  act  in  the 
drama  whose  end  and  culmination  should 
be  the  final  establishment  of  constitu- 
tional government  for  England  and  for 
English  communities  everywhere.  It  is 
easy  now,  at  this  quiet  distance,  for  the 
closeted  student  to  be  puzzled  how  to  set 
up  the  legal  case  of  the  colonists  against 
the  authority  of  Parliament.  It  is  pos- 
sible now  to  respect  the  scruples  of  the 


724 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


better  loyalists,  and  even  to  give  all  hon- 
or to  the  sober  ardor  of  self-sacrifice  with 
which  they  stood  four-square  against  the 
Revolution.  We  no  longer  challenge 
their  right.  Neither  do  we  search  out 
the  motives  of  the  mass  of  common  men 
who  acted  upon  the  one  side  or  the  oth- 
er. Like  men  in  all  ages  and  at  every 
crisis  of  affairs,  they  acted  each  accord- 
ing to  his  sentiment,  his  fear,  his  inter- 
est, or  his  lust.  We  ask,  rather,  why  did 
the  noble  gentlemen  to  whom  it  fell  to 
lead  America  seek  great  action  and  em- 
bark all  their  honor  in  such  a  cause  ? 
What  was  it  they  fought  for  ? 

A  lawyer  is  puzzled  to  frame  the  an- 
swer ;  but  no  statesman  need  be.  "  If  I 
were  sure,"  said  Burke,  "  that  the  colo- 
nists had,  at  their  leaving  this  country, 
sealed  a  regular  compact  of  servitude, 
that  they  had  solemnly  abjured  all  the 
rights  of  citizens,  that  they  had  made  a 
vow  to  renounce  all  ideas  of  liberty  for 
them  and  their  posterity  to  all  genera- 
tions, yet  I  should  hold  myself  obliged 
to  conform  to  the  temper  I  found  uni- 
versally prevalent  in  my  own  day,  and 
to  govern  two  millions  of  men,  impatient 
of  servitude,  on  the  principles  of  free- 
dom. I  am  not  determining  a  point  of 
law  \  .  .  .  the  general  character  and  situ- 
ation of  a  people  must  determine  what 
sort  of  government  is  fit  for  them."  It 
was  no  abstract  point  of  governmental 
theory  the  leaders  of  the  colonies  took 
the  field  to  expound.  Washington,  Hen- 
ry, Adams,  Hancock,  Franklin,  Morris, 
Boudinot,  Livingston,  Rutledge,  Pinck- 
ney,  —  these  were  men  of  affairs,  who 
thought  less  of  books  than  of  principles  of 
action.  They  fought  for  the  plain  right 
of  self-government,  which  any  man  could 
understand.  The  government  over  sea 
had  broken  faith  with  them,  —  not  the 
faith  of  law,  but  the  faith  that  is  in 
precedents  and  ancient  understandings, 
though  they  be  tacit  and  nowhere  spoken 
in  any  charter.  Hitherto  the  colonies 
had  been  let  live  their  own  lives  according 
to  their  own  genius,  and  vote  their  own 


supplies  to  the  crown  as  if  their  assem- 
blies were  so  many  parliaments.  Now, 
of  a  sudden,  the  Parliament  in  England 
was  to  thrust  their  assemblies  aside  and 
itself  lay  their  taxes.  Here  was  too  new 
a  thing.  Government  without  precedent 
was  government  without  license  or  limit. 
It  was  government  by  innovation,  not 
government  by  agreement.  Old  ways 
were  the  only  ways  acceptable  to  English 
feet.  The  revolutionists  stood  for  no 
revolution  at  all,  but  for  the  maintenance 
of  accepted  practices,  for  the  inviolable 
understandings  of  precedent,  — in  brief, 
for  constitutional  government. 

That  sinister  change  which  filled  the 
air  of  America  with  storm  darkened  the 
skies  of  England  too.  Not  in  America 
only  did  George,  the  king,  and  his  coun- 
selors make  light  of  and  willfully  set 
aside  the  ancient  understandings  which 
were  the  very  stuff  of  liberty  in  English 
eyes.  That  unrepresentative  Parliament, 
full  of  place-men,  which  had  taxed  Amer- 
ica, contained  majorities  which  the  king 
could  bestow  at  his  will  upon  this  minis- 
ter or  that ;  and  the  men  who  set  Amer- 
ica by  the  ears  came  or  went  from  their 
places  at  his  bidding.  It  was  he,  not  the 
Parliament,  that  made  and  unmade  min- 
istries. Behind  the  nominal  ministers  of 
the  crown  stood  men  whom  Parliament 
did  not  deal  with,  and  the  nation  did  not 
see  who  were  the  king's  favorites,  and 
therefore  the  actual  rulers  of  England. 
There  was  here  the  real  revolution. 
America,  with  her  sensitive  make-up,  her 
assemblies  that  were  the  real  representa- 
tives of  her  people,  had  but  felt  sooner, 
than  the  mass  of  Englishmen  at  home 
the  unhappy  change  of  air  which  seemed 
about  to  corrupt  the  constitution  itself. 
Burke  felt  it  in  England,  and  Fox,  and 
every  man  whose  thoughts  looked  sober- 
ly forth  upon  the  signs  of  the  times. 
And  presently,  when  the  American  war 
was  over,  the  nation  itself  began  to  see 
what  light  the  notable  thing  done  in 
America  shed  upon  its  own  affairs.  The 
king  was  to  be  grappled  with  at  home, 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


725 


the  Parliament  was  to  be  freed  from  his 
power,  and  the  ministers  who  ruled  Eng- 
land were  to  be  made  the  real  servants 
of  the  people.  Constitutional  govern- 
ment was  to  be  made  a  reality  again. 
We  had  begun  the  work  of  freeing  Eng- 
land when  we  completed  the  work  of 
freeing  ourselves. 

The  great  contest  which  followed  over 
sea,  and  which  was  nothing  less  than  the 
capital  and  last  process  of  making  and 
confirming  the  constitution  of  England, 
kept  covert  beneath  the  surface  of  affairs 
while  the  wars  of  the  French  Revolution 
swept  the  world.  Not  until  1832  was 
representation  in  Parliament  at  last  re- 
formed, and  the  Commons  made  a  verit- 
able instrument  of  the  nation's  will.  Days 
of  revolution,  when  ancient  kingdoms 
seemed  tottering  to  their  fall,  were  no 
days  in  which  to  be  tinkering  the  con- 
stitution of  old  England.  Her  statesmen 
grew  slow  and  circumspect  and  moved  in 
all  things  with  infinite  prudence,  and 
even  with  a  novel  timidity.  But  when 
the  times  fell  quiet  again,  opinion,  ga- 
thering head  for  a  generation,  moved 
forward  at  last  to  its  object ;  and  govern- 
ment was  once  more  by  consent  in  Eng- 
land. The  Parliament  spoke  the  real 
mind  of  the  nation,  and  the  leaders  whom 
the  Commons  approved  were  of  neces- 
sity also  the  ministers  of  the  crown.  Men 
could  then  look  back  and  see  that  Amer- 
ica had  given  England  the  shock,  and 
the  crown  the  opportune  defeat,  which 
had  awakened  her  to  save  her  constitu- 
tion from  corruption. 

Meanwhile,  what  of  America  herself  ? 
How  had  she  used  the  independence  she 
had  demanded  and  won?  For  a  little 
while  she  had  found  it  a  grievous  thing 
to  be  free,  with  no  common  power  set 
over  her  to  hold  her  to  a  settled  course  of 
life  which  should  give  her  energy  and 
bring  her  peace  and  honor  and  increase 
of  wealth.  Even  when  the  convention 
at  Philadelphia  had  given  her  the  ad- 
mirable framework  of  a  definite  consti- 
tution, she  found  it  infinitely  hard  to  hit 


upon  a  common  way  of  progress  under  a 
mere  printed  law  which  had  no  sanction 
of  custom  or  affection,  which  no  ease  of 
old  habit  sustained,  and  no  familiar  light 
of  old  tradition  made  plain  to  follow. 
This  new  law  had  yet  to  be  filled  with 
its  meanings,  had  yet  to  be  given  its  tex- 
ture of  life.  Our  whole  history,  from 
that  day  of  our  youth  to  this  day  of  our 
glad  maturity,  has  been  filled  with  the 
process. 

It  took  the  war  of  1812  to  give  us 
spirit  and  full  consciousness  and  pride  of 
station  as  a  nation.  That  was  the  real 
war  of  independence  for  our  political  par- 
ties. It  was  then  we  cut  our  parties  and 
our  passions  loose  from  politics  over  sea, 
and  set  ourselves  to  make  a  career  which 
should  be  indeed  our  own.  That  accom- 
plished, and  our  weak  youth  turned  to 
callow  manhood,  we  stretched  our  hand 
forth  again  to  the  west,  set  forth  with  a 
new  zest  and  energy  upon  the  western 
rivers  and  the  rough  trails  that  led  across 
the  mountains  and  down  to  the  waters 
of  the  Mississippi.  There  lay  a  conti- 
nent to  be  possessed.  In  the  very  day 
of  first  union  Virginia  and  her  sister 
states  had  ceded  to  the  common  govern- 
ment all  the  great  stretches  of  western 
land  that  lay  between  the  mountains  and 
that  mighty  river  into  which  all  the  west- 
ern waters  gathered  head.  While  we 
were  yet  weak  and  struggling  for  our 
place  among  the  nations,  Mr.  Jefferson 
had  added  the  vast  bulk  of  Louisiana, 
beyond  the  river,  whose  boundaries  no 
man  certainly  knew.  All  the  great  spaces 
of  the  continent  from  Canada  round 
about  by  the  great  Rockies  to  the  warm 
waters  of  the  southern  Gulf  lay  open  to 
the  feet  of  our  young  men.  The  forests 
rang  with  their  noisy  march".  What 
seemed  a  new  race  deployed  into  those 
broad  valleys  and  out  upon  those  long, 
unending  plains  which  were  the  common 
domain,  where  no  man  knew  any  gov- 
ernment but  the  government  of  the  whole 
people.  That  was  to  be  the  real  making 
of  the  nation. 


726 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


There  sprang  up  the  lusty  states 
which  now,  in  these  days  of  our  full 
stature,  outnumber  almost  threefold  the 
thirteen  commonwealths  which  formed 
the  Union.  Their  growth  set  the  pace 
of  our  life  ;  forced  the  slavery  question 
to  a  final  issue;  gave  us  the  civil  war 
with  its  stupendous  upheaval  and  its  re- 
settlement of  the  very  foundations  of  the 
government ;  spread  our  strength  from 
sea  to  sea  ;  created  us  a  free  and  mighty 
people,  whose  destinies  daunt  the  ima- 
gination of  the  Old  World  looking  on. 
That  increase,  that  endless  accretion, 
that  rolling,  resistless  tide,  incalculable 
in  its  strength,  infinite  in  its  variety, 
has  made  us  what  we  are  ;  has  put  the 
resources  of  a  huge  continent  at  our  dis- 
posal ;  has  provoked  us  to  invention  and 
given  us  mighty  captains  of  industry. 
This  great  pressure  of  a  people  moving 
always  to  new  frontiers,  in  search  of  new 
lands,  new  power,  the  full  freedom  of  a 
virgin  world,  has  ruled  our  course  and 
formed  our  policies  like  a  Fate.  It  gave 
us,  not  Louisiana  alone,  but  Florida  also. 
It  forced  war  with  Mexico  upon  us,  and 
gave  us  the  coasts  of  the  Pacific.  It 
swept  Texas  into  the  Union.  It  made  far 
Alaska  a  territory  of  the  United  States. 
Who  shall  say  where  it  will  end  ? 

The  census  takers  of  1890  informed 
us,  when  their  task  was  done,  that  they 
could  no  longer  find  any  frontier  upon 
this  continent ;  that  they  must  draw  their 
maps  as  if  the  mighty  process  of  settle- 
ment that  had  gone  on,  ceaseless,  dra- 
matic, the  century  through,  were  now 
ended  and  complete,  the  nation  made 
from  sea  to  sea.  We  had  not  pondered 
their  report  a  single  decade  before  we 
made  new  frontiers  for  ourselves  beyond 
the  seas,  accounting  the  seven  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  that  lie  between  us  and 
the  Philippine  Islands  no  more  than  the 
three  thousand  which  once  lay  between 
us  and  the  coasts  of  the  Pacific.  No 
doubt  there  is  here  a  great  revolution  in 
our  lives.  No  war  ever  transformed  us 
quite  as  the  war  with  Spain  transformed 


us.  No  previous  years  ever  ran  with  so 
swift  a  change  as  the  years  since  1898. 
We  have  witnessed  a  new  revolution. 
We  have  seen  the  transformation  of 
America  completed.  That  little  group 
of  states,  which  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  years  ago  cast  the  sovereignty  of 
Britain  off,  is  now  grown  into  a  mighty 
power.  That  little  confederation  has 
now  massed  and  organized  its  energies. 
A  confederacy  is  transformed  into  a 
nation.  The  battle  of  Trenton  was  not 
more  significant  than  the  battle  of  Ma- 
nila. The  nation  that  was  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  years  in  the  making  has 
now  stepped  forth  into  the  open  arena 
of  the  world. 

I  ask  you  to  stand  with  me  at  this 
new  turning-point  of  our  life,  that  we 
may  look  before  and  after,  and  judge 
ourselves  alike  in  the  light  of  that  old 
battle  fought  here  in  these  streets,  and 
in  the  light  of  all  the  mighty  processes 
of  our  history  that  have  followed.  We 
cannot  too  often  give  ourselves  such 
challenge  of  self-examination.  It  will 
hearten,  it  will  steady,  it  will  moralize 
us  to  reassess  our  hopes,  restate  our 
ideals,  and  make  manifest  to  ourselves 
again  the  principles  and  the  purposes 
upon  which  we  act.  We  are  else  with- 
out chart  upon  a  novel  voyage. 

What  are  our  thoughts  now,  as  we 
look  back  from  this  altered  age  to  the 
Revolution  which  to-day  we  celebrate  ? 
How  do  we  think  of  its  principles  and 
of  its  example  ?  Do  they  seem  remote 
and  of  a  time  not  our  own,  or  do  they 
still  seem  stuff  of  our  thinking,  principles 
near  and  intimate,  and  woven  into  the 
very  texture  of  our  institutions  ?  What 
say  we  now  of  liberty  and  of  self-gov- 
ernment, its  embodiment?  What  les- 
sons have  we  read  of  it  on  our  journey 
hither  to  this  high  point  of  outlook  at 
the  beginning  of  a  new  century  ?  Do 
those  old  conceptions  seem  to  us  now  an 
ideal  modified,  of  altered  face,  and  of  a 
mien  not  shown  in  the  simple  days  when 
the  government  was  formed  ? 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


727 


Of  cours  t  forms  have  changed.  The 
form  of  the  Union  itself  is  altered,  to  the 
model  that  was  in  Hamilton's  thought 
rather  than  to  that  which  Jefferson  once 
held  before  us,  adorned,  transfigured,  in 
words  that  led  the  mind  captive.  Our 
ways  of  life  are  profoundly  changed 
since  that  dawn.  The  balance  of  the 
states  against  the  Federal  government, 
however  it  may  strike  us  now  as  of  capi- 
tal convenience  in  the  distribution  of 
powers  and  the  quick  and  various  exer- 
cise of  the  energies  of  the  people,  no 
longer  seems  central  to  our  conceptions 
of  governmental  structure,  no  longer 
seems  of  the  essence  of  the  people's  lib- 
erty. We  are  no  longer  strenuous  about 
the  niceties  of  constitutional  law ;  no 
longer  dream  that  a  written  law  shall 
save  us,  or  that  by  ceremonial  cleanli- 
ness we  may  lift  our  lives  above  corrup- 
tion. But  has  the  substance  of  things 
changed  with  us,  also  ?  Wherein  now 
do  we  deem  the  life  and  very  vital  prin- 
ciple of  self-government  to  lie  ?  Where 
is  that  point  of  principle  at  which  we 
should  wish  to  make  our  stand  and  take 
again  the  final  risk  of  revolution  ?  What 
other  crisis  do  we  dream  of  that  might 
bring  in  its  train  another  battle  of 
Trenton  ? 

These  are  intensely  practical  ques- 
tions. We  fought  but  the  other  day  to 
give  Cuba  self-government.  It  is  a  point 
of  conscience  with  us  that  the  Philip- 
pines shall  have  it,  too,  when  our  work 
there  is  done  and  they  are  ready.  But 
when  will  our  work  there  be  done,  and 
how  shall  we  know  when  they  are  ready  ? 
How,  when  our  hand  is  withdrawn  from 
her  capitals  and  she  plays  her  game  of 
destiny  apart  and  for  herself,  shall  we 
be  sure  that  Cuba  has  this  blessing  of 
liberty  and  self-government,  for  which 
battles  are  justly  fought  and  revolutions 
righteously  set  afoot  ?  If  we  be  apostles 
of  liberty  and  of  self-government,  surely 
we  know  what  they  are,  in  their  essence 
and  without  disguise  of  form,  and  shall 
not  be  deceived  in  the  principles  of  their 


application  by  mere  differences  between 
this  race  and  that.  We  have  given 
pledges  to  the  world  and  must  redeem 
them  as  we  can. 

Some  nice  tests  of  theory  are  before 
us,  —  are  even  now  at  hand.  There  are 
those  amongst  us  who  have  spoken  of 
the  Filipinos  as  standing  where  we  stood 
when  we  were  in  the  throes  of  that  great 
war  which  was  turned  from  fear  to  hope 
again  in  that  battle  here  in  the  streets 
of  Trenton  which  we  are  met  to  speak 
of,  and  who  have  called  Aguirialdo,  the 
winning,  subtile  youth  now  a  prisoner 
in  our  hands  at  Manila,  a  second  Wash- 
ington. Have  they,  then,  forgot  that 
tragic  contrast  upon  which  the  world 
gazed  in  the  days  when  our  Washington 
was  President :  on  the  one  side  of  the 
sea,  in  America,  peace,  an  ordered  gov- 
ernment, a  people  busy  with  the  tasks 
of  mart  and  home,  a  group  of  common- 
wealths bound  together  by  strong  cords 
of  their  own  weaving,  institutions  sealed 
and  confirmed  by  debate  and  the  suf- 
frages of  free  men,  but  not  by  the  pour- 
ing out  of  blood  in  civil  strife,  —  on  the 
other,  in  France,  a  nation  frenzied,  dis- 
tempered, seeking  it  knew  not  what,  — 
a  nation  which  poured  its  best  blood  out 
in  a  vain  sacrifice,  which  cried  of  liberty 
and  self-government  until  the  heavens 
rang  and  yet  ran  straight  and  swift  to 
anarchy,  to  give  itself  at  last,  with  an 
almost  glad  relief,  to  the  masterful  tyr- 
anny of  a  soldier  ?  "I  should  suspend 
my  congratulations  on  the  new  liberty 
of  France,"  said  Burke,  the  master  who 
had  known  our  liberty  for  what  it  was, 
and  knew  this  set  up  in  France  to  be 
spurious,  —  "I  should  suspend  my  con- 
gratulations on  the  new  liberty  of  France 
until  I  was  informed  how  it  had  been 
combined  with  government ;  with  public 
force ;  with  the  discipline  and  obedience 
of  armies;  with  the  collection  of  an 
effective  and  well-distributed  revenue ; 
with  morality  and  religion  ;  with  the 
solidity  of  property ;  with  peace  and 
order ;  with  social  and  civil  manners," 


728 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


Has  it  not  taken  France  a  century  to 
effect  the  combination  ;  and  are  all  men 
sure  that  she  has  found  it  even  now? 
And  yet  were  not  these  things  combined 
with  liberty  amongst  us  from  the  very 
first? 

How  interesting  a  light  shines  upon 
the  matter  of  our  thought  out  of  that 
sentence  of  Burke's  !  How  liberty  had 
been  combined  with  government !  Is 
there  here  a  difficulty,  then?  Are  the 
two  things  not  kindly  disposed  toward 
one  another  ?  Does  it  require  any  nice 
art  and  adjustment  to  unite  and  recon- 
cile them  ?  Is  there  here  some  cardinal 
test  which  those  amiable  persons  have 
overlooked,  who  have  dared  to  cheer 
the  Filipino  rebels  on  in  their  stubborn 
resistance  to  the  very  government  they 
themselves  live  under  and  owe  fealty  to  ? 
Think  of  Washington's  passion  for  order, 
for  authority,  for  some  righteous  public 
force  which  should  teach  individuals 
their  place  under  government,  for  the 
solidity  of  property,  for  morality  and 
sober  counsel.  It  was  plain  that  he 
cared  not  a  whit  for  liberty  without 
these  things  to  sustain  and  give  it  dig- 
nity. "  You  talk,  my  good  sir,"  he  ex- 
claimed, writing  to  Henry  Lee  in  Con- 
gress, "  you  talk  of  employing  influence 
to  appease  the  present  tumults  in  Massa- 
chusetts. I  know  not  where  that  influ- 
ence is  to  be  found,  or,  if  attainable, 
that  it  would  be  a  proper  remedy  for  the 
disorders.  Influence  is  no  government. 
Let  us  have  one  by  which  our  lives, 
liberties,  and  properties  will  be  secured, 
or  let  us  know  the  worst  at  once."  In 
brief,  the  fact  is  this,  that  liberty  is  the 
privilege  of  maturity,  of  self-control,  of 
self-mastery  and  a  thoughtful  care  for 
righteous  dealings,  —  that  some  peoples 
may  have  it,  therefore,  and  others  may 
not. 

We  look  back  to  the  great  men  who 
made  our  government  as  to  a  generation, 
not  of  revolutionists,  but  of  statesmen. 
They  fought,  not  to  pull  down,  but  to 
preserve,  —  not  for  some  fair  and  far- 


off  thing  they  wished  for,  but  for  a  fa- 
miliar thing  they  had  and  meant  to  keep. 
Ask  any  candid  student  of  the  history 
of  English  liberty,  and  he  will  tell  you 
that  these  men  were  of  the  lineage  of 
Pym  and  Hampden,  of  Pitt  and  Fox; 
that  they  were  men  who  consecrated 
their  lives  to  the  preservation  intact  of 
what  had  been  wrought  out  in  blood  and 
sweat  by  the  countless  generations  of 
sturdy  freemen  who  had  gone  before 
them. 

Look  for  a  moment  at  what  self-gov- 
ernment really  meant  in  their  time. 
Take  English  history  for  your  test.  I 
know  not  where  else  you  may  find  an 
answer  to  the  question.  We  speak,  all 
the  world  speaks,  of  England  as  the 
mother  of  liberty  and  self-government; 
and  the  beginning  of  her  liberty  we 
place  in  the  great  year  that  saw  Magna 
Charta  signed,  that  immortal  document 
whose  phrases  ring  again  in  all  our  own 
Bills  of  Rights.  Her  liberty  is  in  fact 
older  than  that  signal  year;  but  1215 
we  set  up  as  a  shining  mark  to  hold  the 
eye.  And  yet  we  know,  for  all  we  boast 
the  date  so  early,  for  how  many  a  long 
generation  after  that  the  monarch  ruled 
and  the  Commons  cringed ;  haughty 
Plantagenets  had  their  way,  and  indom- 
itable Tudors  played  the  master  to  all 
men's  fear,  till  the  fated  Stuarts  went 
their  stupid  way  to  exile  and  the  scaf- 
fold. Kings  were  none  the  less  kings 
because  their  subjects  were  free  men. 

Local  self-government  in  England 
consisted  until  1888  of  government  by 
almost  omnipotent  Justices  of  the  Peace 
appointed  by  the  Lord  Chancellor.  They 
were  laymen,  however.  They  were 
country  gentlemen  and  served  without 
pay.  They  were  of  the  neighborhood 
and  used  their  power  for  its  benefit 
as  their  lights  served  them ;  but  no  man 
had  a  vote  or  choice  as  to  which  of  the 
country  gentlemen  of  his  county  should 
be  set  over  him  ;  and  the  power  of  the 
Justices  sitting  in  Quarter  Sessions  cov- 
ered almost  every  point  of  justice  and 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


729 


administration  not  directly  undertaken 
by  the  officers  of  the  crown  itself.  "  Long 
ago,"  laughs  an  English  writer,  "  law- 
yers abandoned  the  hope  of  describing 
the  duties  of  a  Justice  in  any  methodic 
fashion,  and  the  alphabet  has  become 
the  only  possible  connecting  thread.  A 
Justice  must  have  something  to  do  with 
4  Railroads,  Rape,  Rates,  Recognizances, 
Records,  and  Recreation  Grounds ; ' 
with  '  Perjury,  Petroleum,  Piracy,  and 
Playhouses  ; '  with  '  Disorderly  Houses, 
Dissenters,  Dogs,  and  Drainage.'  "  And 
yet  Englishmen  themselves  called  their 
life  under  these  lay  masters  self-govern- 
ment. 

The  English  House  of  Commons  was 
for  many  a  generation,  many  a  century 
even,  no  House  of  the  Commons  at  all, 
but  a  house  full  of  country  gentlemen 
and  rich  burghers,  the  aristocracy  of  the 
English  counties  and  the  English  towns  ; 
and  yet  it  was  from  this  House,  and  not 
from  that  reformed  since  1832,  that  the 
world  drew,  through  Montesquieu,  its 
models  of  representative  self-govern- 
ment in  the  days  when  our  own  Union 
was  set  up. 

In  America,  and  in  America  alone, 
did  self-government  mean  an  organiza- 
tion self-originated,  and  of  the  stuff  of 
the  people  themselves.  America  had 
gone  a  step  beyond  her  mother  country. 
Her  people  were  for  the  most  part  picked 
men :  such  men  as  have  the  energy  and 
the  initiative  to  leave  old  homes  and  old 
friends,  and  go  to  far  frontiers  to  make 
a  new  life  for  themselves.  They  were 
men  of  a  certain  initiative,  to  take  the 
world  into  their  own  hands.  The  king 
had  given  them  their  charters,  but  within 
the  broad  definitions  of  those  charters 
they  had  built  as  they  pleased,  and  com- 
mon men  were  partners  in  the  govern- 
ment of  their  little  commonwealths. 
At  home,  in  the  old  country,  there  was 
need,  no  doubt,  that  the  hand  of  the 
king's  government  should  keep  men 
within  its  reach.  The  countrysides  were 
full  of  yokels  who  would  have  been 


brutes  to  deal  with  else.  The  counties 
were  in  fact  represented  very  well  by 
the  country  gentlemen  who  ruled  them  : 
for  they  were  full  of  broad  estates  where 
men  were  tenants,  not  freehold  farmers, 
and  the  interests  of  masters  were  gener- 
ally enough  the  interests  of  their  men. 
The  towns  had  charters  of  their  own. 
There  was  here  no  democratic  commu- 
nity, and  no  one  said  or  thought  that  the 
only  self-government  was  democratic 
self-government.  In  America  the  whole 
constitution  of  society  was  democratic, 
inevitably  and  of  course.  Men  lay  close 
to  their  simple  governments,  and  the 
new  life  brought  to  a  new  expression  the 
immemorial  English  principle,  that  the 
intimate  affairs  of  local  administration 
and  the  common  interests  that  were  to 
be  served  in  the  making  of  laws  should 
be  committed  to  laymen,  who  would 
look  at  the  government  critically  and 
from  without,  and  not  to  the  king's 
agents,  who  would  look  at  it  profession- 
ally and  from  within.  England  had 
had  self-government  time  out  of  mind  ; 
but  in  America  English  self-government 
had  become  popular  self-government. 

"  Almost  all  the  civilized  states  de- 
rive their  national  unity,"  says  a  great 
English  writer  of  our  generation,  "  from 
common  subjection,  past  or  present,  to 
royal  power;  the  Americans  of  the 
United  States,  for  example,  are  a  nation 
because  they  once  obeyed  a  king." 
That  example  in  such  a  passage  comes 
upon  us  with  a  shock :  it  is  very  unex- 
pected, —  "  the  Americans  of  the  United 
States,  for  example,  are  a  nation  because 
they  once  obeyed  a  king !  "  And  yet, 
upon  reflection,  can  we  deny  the  ex- 
ample ?  It  is  plain  enough  that  the 
reason  why  the  English  in  America  got 
self-government  and  knew  how  to  use  it, 
and  the  French  in  America  did  not,  was, 
that  the  English  had  had  a  training  un- 
der the  kings  of  England  and  the  French 
under  the  kings  of  France.  In  the  one 
country  men  did  all  things  at  the  bidding 
of  officers  of  the  crown ;  in  the  other, 


730 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


officers  of  the  crown  listened,  were  con- 
strained to  listen,  to  the  counsels  of  lay- 
men drawn  out  of  the  general  body  of 
the  nation.  And  yet  the  kings  of  Eng- 
land were  no  less  kings  than  the  kings 
of  France.  Obedience  is  everywhere 
the  basis  of  government,  and  the  Eng- 
lish were  not  ready  either  in  their  life 
or  in  their  thought  for  a  free  regime 
under  which  they  should  choose  their 
kings  by  ballot.  For  that  regime  they 
could  be  made  ready  only  by  the  long 
drill  which  should  make  them  respect 
above  all  things  the  law  and  the  author- 
ity of  governors.  Discipline  —  disci- 
pline generations  deep  —  had  first  to  give 
them  an  ineradicable  love  of  order,  the 
poise  of  men  self-commanded,  the  spirit 
of  men  who  obey  and  yet  speak  their 
minds  and  are  free,  before  they  could 
be  Americans. 

No  doubt  a  king  did  hold  us  together 
until  we  learned  how  to  hold  together  of 
ourselves.  No  doubt  our  unity  as  a  na- 
tion does  come  from  the  fact  that  we 
once  obeyed  a  king.  No  one  can  look 
at  the  processes  of  English  history  and 
doubt  that  the  throne  has  been  its  cen- 
tre of  poise,  though  not  in  our  days  its 
centre  of  force.  Steadied  by  the  throne, 
the  effective  part  of  the  nation  has,  at 
every  stage  of  its  development,  dealt 
with  and  controlled  the  government  in 
the  name  of  the  whole.  The  king  and 
his  subjects  have  been  partners  in  the 
great  undertaking.  At  last,  in  our 
country,  in  this  best  trained  portion  of 
the  nation,  set  off  by  itself,  the  whole 
became  fit  to  act  for  itself,  by  veritable 
popular  representation,  without  the  make- 
weight of  a  throne.  That  is  the  history 
of  our  liberty.  You  have  the  spirit  of 
English  history,  and  of  English  royalty, 
from  King  Harry's  mouth  upon  the 
field  of  Agincourt :  — 

"  We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 
For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me 
Shall  be  my  brother;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 
This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition : 
And  gentlemen  in  England  now  a-bed 


Shall  think  themselves  accursed  they  were  not 

here, 
And  hold  their  manhoods   cheap  whiles  any 

speaks 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day." 

It  is  thus  the  spirit  of  English  life  has 
made  comrades  of  us  all  to  be  a  nation. 

This  is  what  Burke  meant  by  combin- 
ing government  with  liberty,  —  the  spirit 
of  obedience  with  the  spirit  of  free  ac- 
tion. Liberty  is  not  itself  government. 
In  the  wrong  hands,  —  in  hands  un- 
practiced,  undisciplined,  —  it  is  incom- 
patible with  government.  Discipline 
must  precede  it,  —  if  necessary,  the  dis- 
cipline of  being  under  masters.  Then 
will  self-control  make  it  a  thing  of  life 
and  not  a  thing  of  tumult,  a  tonic,  not 
an  insurgent  madness  in  the  blood. 
Shall  we  doubt,  then,  what  the  condi- 
tions precedent  to  liberty  and  self-gov- 
ernment are,  and  what  their  invariable 
support  and  accompaniment  must  be,  in 
the  countries  whose  administration  we 
have  taken  over  in  trust,  and  particular- 
ly in  those  far  Philippine  Islands  whose 
government  is  our  chief  anxiety  ?  We 
cannot  give  them  any  quittance  of  the 
debt  ourselves  have  paid.  They  can 
have  liberty  no  cheaper  than  we  got  it. 
They  must  first  take  the  discipline  of 
law,  must  first  love  order  and  instinc- 
tively yield  to  it.  It  is  the  heathen,  not 
the  free  citizen  of  a  self-governed  coun- 
try, who  "  in  his  blindness  bows  down 
to  wood  and  stone,  and  don't  obey  no 
orders  unless  they  is  his  own."  We  are 
old  in  this  learning  and  must  be  their 
tutors. 

But  we  may  set  them  upon  the  way 
with  an  advantage  we  did  not  have  un- 
til our  hard  journey  was  more  than  half 
made.  We  can  see  to  it  that  the  law 
which  teaches  them  obedience  is  just 
law  and  even-handed.  We  can  see  to 
it  that  justice  be  free  and  unpurchasable 
among  them.  We  can  make  order 
lovely  by  making  it  the  friend  of  every 
man  and  not  merely  the  shield  of  some. 
We  can  teach  them  by  our  fairness  in 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


731 


administration  that  there  may  be  a 
power  in  government  which,  though  im- 
perative and  irresistible  by  those  who 
would  cross  or  thwart  it,  does  not  act 
for  its  own  aggrandizement,  but  is 
the  guarantee  that  all  shall  fare  alike. 
That  will  infinitely  shorten  their  painful 
tutelage.  Our  pride,  our  conscience 
will  not  suffer  us  to  give  them  less. 

And,  if  we  are  indeed  bent  upon  ser- 
vice and  not  mastery,  we  shall  give  them 
more.  We  shall  take  them  into  our 
confidence  and  suffer  them  to  teach  us, 
as  our  critics.  No  man  can  deem  him- 
self free  from  whom  the  government 
hides  its  action,  or  who  is  forbidden  to 
speak  his  mind  about  affairs,  as  if  gov- 
ernment were  a  private  thing  which  con- 
cerned the  governors  alone.  Whatever 
the  power  of  government,  if  it  is  just, 
there  may  be  publicity  of  governmental 
action  and  freedom  of  opinion ;  and 
public  opinion  gathers  head  effectively 
only  by  concerted  public  agitation. 
These  are  the  things  —  knowledge  of 
what  the  government  is  doing  and  lib- 
erty to  speak  of  it  —  that  have  made 
Englishmen  feel  like  free  men,  whether 
they  liked  their  governors  or  not :  the 
right  to  know  and  the  right  to  speak 
out,  —  to  speak  out  in  plain  words  and 
in  open  counsel.  Privacy,  official  re- 
ticence, governors  hedged  about  and  in- 
accessible, —  these  are  the  marks  of  ar- 
bitrary government,  under  which  spirited 
men  grow  restive  and  resentful.  The 
mere  right  to  criticise  and  to  have  mat- 
ters explained  to  them  cools  men's  tem- 
pers and  gives  them  understanding  in 
affairs.  This  is  what  we  seek  among 
our  new  subjects  :  that  they  shall  under- 
stand us,  and  after  free  conference  shall 
trust  us:  that  they  shall  perceive  that 
we  are  not  afraid  of  criticism,  and  that 
we  are  ready  to  explain  and  to  take  sug- 
gestions from  all  who  are  ready,  when 
the  conference  is  over,  to  obey. 

There  will  be  a  wrong  done,  not  if 
we  govern  and  govern  as  we  will,  govern 
with  a  strong  hand  that  will  brook  no 


resistance,  and  according  to  principles 
of  right  gathered  from  our  own  experi- 
ence, not  from  theirs,  which  has  never 
yet  touched  the  vital  matter  we  are  con- 
cerned with ;  but  only  if  we  govern  in 
the  spirit  of  autocrats  and  of  those  who 
serve  themselves,  not  their  subjects.  The 
whole  solution  lies  less  in  our  methods 
than  in  our  temper.  We  must  govern 
as  those  who  learn  ;  and  they  must  obey 
as  those  who  are  in  tutelage.  They  are 
children  and  we  are  men  in  these  deep 
matters  of  government  and  justice.  If 
we  have  not  learned  the  substance  of 
these  things  no  nation  is  ever  likely  to 
learn  it,  for  it  is  taken  from  life,  and 
not  from  books.  But  though  children 
must  be  foolish,  impulsive,  headstrong, 
unreasonable,  men  may  be  arbitrary, 
self-opinionated,  impervious,  impossible, 
as  the  English  were  in  their  Oriental 
colonies  until  they  learned.  We  should 
be  inexcusable  to  repeat  their  blunders 
and  wait  as  long  as  they  waited  to  learn 
how  to  serve  the  peoples  whom  we 
govern.  It  is  plain  we  shall  have  a 
great  deal  to  learn;  it  is  to  be  hoped 
we  shall  learn  it  fast. 

There  are,  unhappily,  some  indica- 
tions that  we  have  ourselves  yet  to  learn 
the  things  we  would  teach.  You  have 
but  to  think  of  the  large  number  of  per- 
sons of  your  own  kith  and  acquaintance 
who  have  for  the  past  two  years  been 
demanding,  in  print  and  out  of  it,  with 
moderation  and  the  air  of  reason  and 
without  it,  that  we  give  the  Philippines 
independence  and  self-government  now, 
at  once,  out  of  hand.  It  were  easy 
enough  to  give  them  independence,  if  by 
independence  you  mean  only  discon- 
nection with  any  government  outside  the 
islands,  the  independence  of  a  rudder- 
less boat  adrift.  But  self-government  ? 
How  is  that  "given"?  Can  it  be 
given  ?  Is  it  not  gained,  earned,  gradu- 
ated into  from  the  hard  school  of  life  ? 
We  have  reason  to  think  so.  I  have 
just  now  been  trying  to  give  the  reasons 
we  have  for  thinking  so. 


732 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


There  are  many  things,  things  slow 
and  difficult  to  come  at,  which  we  have 
found  to  be  conditions  precedent  to 
liberty,  —  to  the  liberty  which  can  be 
combined  with  government  ;  and  we 
cannot,  in  our  present  situation,  too 
often  remind  ourselves  of  these  things,  in 
order  that  we  may  look  steadily  and 
wisely  upon  liberty,  not  in  the  uncertain 
light  of  theory,  but  in  the  broad,  sun- 
like,  disillusioning  light  of  experience. 
We  know,  for  one  thing,  that  it  rests  at 
bottom  upon  a  clear  experimental  know- 
ledge of  what  are  in  fact  the  just  rights 
of  individuals,  of  what  is  the  equal  and 
profitable  balance  to  be  maintained  be- 
tween the  right  of  the  individual  to  serve 
himself  and  the  duty  of  government  to 
serve  society.  I  say,  not  merely  a  clear 
knowledge  of  these,  but  a  clear  experi- 
mental knowledge  of  them  as  well.  We 
hold  it,  for  example,  an  indisputable 
principle  of  law  in  a  free  state  that  there 
should  be  freedom  of  speech,  and  yet  we 
have  a  law  of  libel.  No  man,  we  say, 
may  speak  that  which  wounds  his  neigh- 
bor's reputation  unless  there  be  public 
need  to  speak  it.  Moreover  we  will 
judge  of  that  need  in  a  rough  and  ready 
fashion.  Let  twelve  ordinary  men,  em- 
paneled as  a  jury,  say  whether  the 
wound  was  justly  given  and  of  necessity. 
"  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  very  simple 
when  stripped  of  all  ornaments  of 
speech,"  says  an  eminent  English  judge. 
"  It  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  this : 
that  a  man  may  publish  anything  which 
twelve  of  his  fellow  countrymen  think  is 
not  blamable."  It  is  plain,  therefore, 
that  in  this  case  at  least  we  do  not  in- 
quire curiously  concerning  the  Rights  of 
Man,  which  do  not  seem  susceptible  of 
being  stated  in  terms  of  social  obliga- 
tion, but  content  ourselves  with  asking, 
"  What  are  the  rights  of  men  living  to- 
gether, amongst  whom  there  must  be 
order  and  fair  give  and  take?"  And 
our  law  of  libel  is  only  one  instance  out 
of  many.  We  treat  all  rights  in  like 
practical  fashion.  But  a  people  must 


obviously  have  had  experience  to  treat 
them  so.  You  have  here  one  image  in 
the  mirror  of  self-government. 

Do  not  leave  the  mirror  before  you 
see  another.  You  cannot  call  a  miscel- 
laneous people,  unknit,  scattered,  diverse 
of  race  and  speech  and  habit,  a  nation,  a 
community.  That,  at  least,  we  got  by 
serving  under  kings  :  we  got  the  feeling 
and  the  organic  structure  of  a  commu- 
nity. No  people  can  form  a  community 
or  be  wisely  subjected  to  common  forms 
of  government  who  are  as  diverse  and  as 
heterogeneous  as  the  people  of  the  Phil- 
ippine Islands.  They  are  in  no  wise 
knit  together.  They  are  of  many  races, 
of  many  stages  of  development,  economi- 
cally, socially,  politically  disintegrate, 
without  community  of  feeling  because 
without  community  of  life,  contrasted 
alike  in  experience  and  in  habit,  having 
nothing  in  common  except  that  they 
have  lived  for  hundreds  of  years  together 
under  a  government  which  held  them 
always  where  they  were  when  it  first 
arrested  their  development.  You  may 
imagine  the  problem  of  self-government 
and  of  growth  for  such  a  people,  —  if  so 
be  you  have  an  imagination  and  are  no 
doctrinaire.  If  there  is  difficulty  in  our 
own  government  here  at  home  because 
the  several  sections  of  our  own  country 
are  disparate  and  at  different  stages  of 
development,  what  shall  we  expect,  and 
what  patience  shall  we  not  demand  of 
ourselves,  with  regard  to  our  belated 
wards  beyond  the  Pacific  ?  We  have 
here  among  ourselves  hardly  sufficient 
equality  of  social  and  economic  condi- 
tions to  breed  full  community  of  feeling. 
We  have  learned  of  our  own  experience 
what  the  problem  of  self-government  is 
in  such  a  case. 

That  liberty  and  self-government  are 
things  of  infinite  difficulty  and  nice  ac- 
commodation we  above  all  other  peoples 
ought  to  know  who  have  had  every  ad- 
venture in  their  practice.  Our  very  dis- 
content with  the  means  we  have  taken  to 
keep  our  people  clear-eyed  and  steady  in 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


733 


the  use  of  their  institutions  is  evidence 
of  our  appreciation  of  what  is  required 
to  sustain  them.  We  have  set  up  an 
elaborate  system  of  popular  education, 
and  have  made  the  maintenance  of  that 
system  a  function  of  government,  upon 
the  theory  that  only  systematic  training 
can  give  the  quick  intelligence,  the 
"  variety  of  information  and  excellence 
of  discretion  "  needed  by  a  self -governed 
people.  We  expect  as  much  from  school- 
teachers as  from  governors  in  the  Phil- 
ippines and  in  Porto  Rico  :  we  expect 
from  them  the  morale  that  is  to  sustain 
our  work  there.  And  yet,  when  teach- 
ers have  done  their  utmost  and  the 
school  bills  are  paid,  we  doubt,  and 
know  that  we  have  reason  to  doubt,  the 
efficacy  of  what  we  have  done.  Books 
can  but  set  the  mind  free,  can  but  give 
it  the  freedom  of  the  world  of  thought. 
The  world  of  affairs  has  yet  to  be  at- 
tempted, and  the  schooling  of  action  must 
supplement  the  schooling  of  the  writ- 
ten page.  Men  who  have  an  actual 
hand  in  government,  men  who  vote  and 
sustain  by  their  thoughts  the  whole  move- 
ment of  affairs,  men  who  have  the  mak- 
ing or  the  confirming  of  policies,  must 
have  reasonable  hopes,  must  act  within 
the  reasonable  bounds  set  by  hard  ex- 
perience. 

By  education,  no  doubt,  you  acquaint 
men,  while  they  are  yet  young  and  quick 
to  take  impressions,  with  the  character 
and  spirit  of  the  polity  they  live  under ; 
give  them  some  sentiment  of  respect  for 
it,  put  them  in  the  air  that  has  always 
lain  about  it,  and  prepare  them  to  take 
the  experience  that  awaits  them.  But 
it  is  from  the  polity  itself  and  their  own 
contact  with  it  that  they  must  get  their 
actual  usefulness  in  affairs,  and  only 
that  contact,  intelligently  made  use  of, 
makes  good  citizens.  We  would  not 
have  them  remain  children  always  and 
act  always  on  the  preconceptions  taken 
out  of  the  books  they  have  studied. 
Life  is  their  real  master  and  tutor  in 
affairs. 


And  so  the  character  of  the  polity  men 
live  under  has  always  had  a  deep  sig- 
nificance in  our  thoughts.  Our  greater 
statesmen  have  been  men  steeped  in  a 
thoughtful  philosophy  of  politics,  men 
who  pondered  the  effect  of  this  institu- 
tion and  that  upon  morals  and  the  life 
of  society,  and  thought  of  character  when 
they  spoke  of  affairs.  They  have  taught 
us  that  the  best  polity  is  that  which  most 
certainly  produces  the  habit  and  the 
spirit  of  civic  duty,  and  which  calls  with 
the  most  stirring  and  persuasive  voice  to 
the  leading  characters  of  the  nation  to 
come  forth  and  give  it  direction.  It 
must  be  a  polity  t  which  shall  stimulate, 
which  shall  breed  emulation,  which  shall 
make  men  seek  honor  by  seeking  ser- 
vice. These  are  the  ideals  which  have 
formed  our  institutions,  and  which  shall 
mend  them  when  they  need  reform.  We 
need  good  leaders  more  than  an  excel- 
lent mechanism  of  action  in  charters  and 
constitutions.  We  need  men  of  devotion 
as  much  as  we  need  good  laws.  The  two 
cannot  be  divorced  and  self-government 
survive. 

It  is  this  thought  that  distresses  us 
when  we  look  upon  our  cities  and  our 
states  and  see  them  ruled  by  bosses. 
Our  methods  of  party  organization  have 
produced  bosses,  and  they  are  as  natural 
and  inevitable  a  product  of  our  politics, 
no  doubt,  at  any  rate  for  the  time  being 
and  until  we  can  see  our  way  to  better 
things,  as  the  walking  delegate  and  the 
union  president  are  of  the  contest  be- 
tween capital  and  federated  labor.  Both 
the  masters  of  strikes  and  the  masters  of 
caucuses  are  able  men,  too,  with  whom 
we  must  needs  deal  with  our  best  wits 
about  us.  But  they  are  not,  if  they  will 
pardon  me  for  saying  so,  the  leading 
characters  I  had  in  mind  when  I  said 
that  the  excellence  of  a  polity  might  be 
judged  by  the  success  with  which  it  calls 
the  leading  characters  of  a  nation  forth 
to  its  posts  of  command.  The  polity 
which  breeds  bosses  breeds  managing 
talents  rather  than  leading  characters,  — 


734 


The  Ideals  of  America. 


very  excellent  things  in  themselves,  but 
not  the  highest  flower  of  politics.  The 
power  to  govern  and  direct  primaries, 
combine  primaries  for  the  control  of  con- 
ventions, and  use  conventions  for  the 
nomination  of  candidates  and  the  formu- 
lation of  platforms  agreed  upon  before- 
hand is  an  eminently  useful  thing  in  it- 
self, and  cannot  be  dispensed  with,  it 
may  be,  in  democratic  countries,  where 
men  must  act,  not  helter  skelter,  but  in 
parties,  and  with  a  certain  party  disci- 
pline, not  easily  thrown  off  ;  but  it  is  not 
the  first  product  of  our  politics  we  should 
wish  to  export  to  Porto  Rico  and  the 
Philippines. 

No  doubt  our  study  of  these  things 
which  lie  at  the  front  of  our  own  lives, 
and  which  must  be  handled  in  our  own 
progress,  will  teach  us  how  to  be  better 
masters  and  tutors  to  those  whom  we 
govern.  We  have  come  to  full  maturity 
with  this  new  century  of  our  national 
existence  and  to  full  self-consciousness  as 
a  nation.  And  the  day  of  our  isolation 
is  past.  We  shall  learn  much  ourselves 
now  that  we  stand  closer  to  other  na- 
tions and  compare  ourselves  first  with  one 
and  again  with  another.  Moreover,  the 
centre  of  gravity  has  shifted  in  the  action 
of  our  Federal  government.  It  has  shift- 
ed back  to  where  it  was  at  the  opening  of 
the  last  century,  in  that  early  day  when 
we  were  passing  from  the  gristle  to  the 
bone  of  our  growth.  For  the  first  twenty- 
six  years  that  we  lived  under  our  Federal 
constitution  foreign  affairs,  the  sentiment 
and  policy  of  nations  over  sea,  dominated 
our  politics,  and  our  Presidents  were  our 
leaders.  And  now  the  same  thing  has 
come  about  again.  Once  more  it  is  our 
place  among  the  nations  that  we  think 


of ;  once  more  our  Presidents  are  our 
leaders. 

The  centre  of  our  party  management 
shifts  accordingly.  We  no  longer  stop 
upon  questions  of  what  this  state  wants 
or  that,  what  this  section  will  demand 
or  the  other,  what  this  boss  or  that  may 
do  to  attach  his  machine  to  the  govern- 
ment. The  scale  of  our  thought  is  na- 
tional again.  We  are  sensitive  to  airs 
that  come  to  us  from  off  the  seas.  The 
President  and  his  advisers  stand  upon 
our  chief  coign  of  observation,  and  we 
mark  their  words  as  we  did  not  till  this 
change  came.  And  this  centring  of  our 
thoughts,  this  looking  for  guidance  in 
things  which  mere  managing  talents  can- 
not handle,  this  union  of  our  hopes,  will 
not  leave  us  what  we  were  when  first  it 
came.  Here  is  a  new  world  for  us.  Here 
is  a  new  life  to  which  to  adjust  our 
ideals. 

It  is  by  the  widening  of  vision  that 
nations,  as  men,  grow  and  are  made 
great.  We  need  not  fear  the  expand- 
ing scene.  It  was  plain  destiny  that  we 
should  come  to  this,  and  if  we  have  kept 
our  ideals  clear,  unmarred,  commanding 
through  the  great  century  and  the  mov- 
ing scenes  that  made  us  a  nation,  we 
may  keep  them  also  through  the  century 
that  shall  see  us  a  great  power  in  the 
world.  Let  us  put  our  leading  charac- 
ters at  the  front ;  let  us  pray  that  vision 
may  come  with  power ;  let  us  ponder  our 
duties  like  men  of  conscience  and  tem- 
per our  ambitions  like  men  who  seek  to 
serve,  not  to  subdue,  the  world  ;  let  us 
lift  our  thoughts  to  the  level  of  the  great 
tasks  that  await  us,  and  bring  a  great 
age  in  with  the  coming  of  our  day  of 
strength. 

Woodrow  Wilson. 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


735 


ALL  SORTS  OF  A  PAPER. 


BEING   STKAY   LEAVES   FKOM   A   NOTE-BOOK. 


EVERY  living  author  has  a  projection 
of  himself,  a  sort  of  eidolon,  that  goes 
about  in  near  and  remote  places  making 
friends  or  enemies  for  him  among  per- 
sons who  never  lay  eyes  upon  the  writer 
in  the  flesh.  When  he  dies,  this  phan- 
tasmal personality  fades,  away,  and  the 
author  lives  only  in  the  impression  cre- 
ated by  his  own  literature.  It  is  only 
then  that  the  world  begins  to  perceive 
what  manner  of  man  the  poet,  the  nov- 
elist, or  the  historian  really  was.  Not 
until  he  is  dead,  and  perhaps  some  long 
time  dead,  is  it  possible  for  the  public 
to  take  his  exact  measure.  Up  to  that 
point  contemporary  criticism  has  either 
overrated  him  or  underrated  him,  or  ig- 
nored him  altogether.  Contemporary 
criticism  has  been  misled  by  the  eido- 
lon, which  always  plays  fantastic  tricks 
with  the  author  temporarily  under  its 
dominion.  It  invariably  represents  him 
as  either  a  greater  or  a  smaller  person- 
age than  he  actually  is.  Presently  the 
simulacrum  works  no  more  spells,  good 
or  evil,  and  the  deception  is  unveiled. 
The  hitherto  disregarded  poet  is  recog- 
nized, and  the  flimsy  idol  of  yesterday, 
which  seemed  so  genuine,  is  taken  down 
from  his  too  large  pedestal  and  carted 
off  to  the  dumping-ground  of  inadequate 
things.  To  be  sure,  if  he  chances  to 
have  been  not  entirely  flimsy,  and  on 
cool  examination  is  found  to  possess 
some  appreciable  degree  of  merit,  then 
he  is  set  up  on  a  new  slab  of  appropri- 
ate dimensions.  The  late  colossal  statue 
shrinks  to  a  modest  bas-relief.  On  the 
other  hand,  some  scarcely  noticed  bust 
may  suddenly  become  a  revered  full- 
length  figure.  Between  the  reputation 
of  the  author  living  and  the  reputation 
of  the  same  author  dead  there  is  ever 
a  wide  discrepancy.  It  is  the  eidolon 
that  does  it. 


SAVE  us  from  our  friends  —  our  ene- 
mies we  can  take  care  of.  The  well- 
meaning  rector  of  the  little  parish  of 
Woodgates,  England,  and  several  of 
Robert  Browning's  local  admirers  have 
recently  busied  themselves  in  erecting 
a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  "the  first 
known  forefather  of  the  poet."  This 
lately  turned  up  ancestor  was  also  named 
Robert  Browning,  and  is  described  on 
the  mural  marble  as  "  formerly  footman 
and  butler  to  Sir- John  Bankes  of  Corfe 
Castle."  Now,  Robert  Browning  the 
poet  had  as  good  a  right  as  Abou  Ben 
Adhem  himself  to  ask  to  be  placed  on 
the  list  of  those  who  love  their  fellow 
men;  but  if  the  poet  could  have  been 
consulted  in  the  matter  he  probably 
would  have  preferred  not  to  have  that 
particular  footman  exhumed.  However, 
it  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good.  Sir  John  Bankes  would  scarcely 
have  been  heard  of  in  our  young  cen- 
tury if  it  had  not  been  for  his  footman. 
As  Robert  stood  day  by  day,  sleek  and 
solemn,  behind  his  master's  chair  in 
Corfe  Castle,  how  little  it  entered  into 
the  head  of  Sir  John  that  his  highly  re- 
spectable name  would  be  served  up  to 
posterity  —  like  a  cold  relish  —  by  his 
own  butler !  By  Robert ! 

A  MAN  is  known  by  the  company 
his  mind  keeps.  To  live  continually 
with  noble  books,  with  "high-erected 
thoughts  seated  in  the  heart  of  cour- 
tesy, "  teaches  the  soul  good  manners. 

THE  deceptive  Mr.  False  and  the 
volatile  Mrs.  Giddy  who  figure  in  the 
pages  of  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
century  fiction  are  not  tolerated  in  mod- 
ern novels  and  plays.  Steal  the  bur- 
glar and  Palette  the  artist  have  passed 
on.  A  name  indicating  the  quality  or 


736 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


occupation  of  the  bearer  strikes  us  as  a 
too  transparent  device.  Yet  there  are 
such  names  in  contemporary  real  life. 
That  of  our  worthy  Adjutant-General 
Drum,  for  example.  Neal  and  Pray 
are  a  pair  of  deacons  who  linger  in  the 
memory  of  my  boyhood.  The  old-time 
sign  of  Ketchum  &  Cheetam,  Brokers, 
in  Wall  Street,  New  York,  seems  almost 
too  good  to  be  true.  But  it  was  once, 
if  it  is  not  now,  an  actuality. 

LOWELL  used  to  find  food  for  a  great 
deal  of  mirth  in  General  George  P. 
Morris's  line, 

"  Her  heart  and  morning  broke  together." 
Lowell's  well-beloved  Dr.  Donne,  how- 
ever, had  an  attack  of  the  same  plati- 
tude, and  probably  inoculated  poor  Mor- 
ris with  it.  Even  literature  seems  to 
have  its  mischief -making  bacilli.  The 
late  "  incomparable  and  ingenious  Dean 
of  St.  Paul's  "  says,  — 

"  The  day  breaks  not,  it  is  my  heart." 
I  think  Dr.  Donne's  case  rather  worse 
than  Morris's.      Chaucer  had  the  dis- 
ease in  a  milder  form  when  he  wrote : 

"  Up  roos  the  sonne,  and  up  roos  Emelye." 

THE  thing  one  reads  and  likes,  and 
then  forgets,  is  of  no  account.  The 
thing  that  stays,  and  haunts  one,  and  re- 
fuses to  be  forgotten,  that  is  the  sincere 
thing.  I  am  describing  the  impression 
left  upon  me  by  Mr.  Howells's  blank- 
verse  sketch  called  Father  and  Mother : 
A  Mystery  —  a  strangely  touching  and 
imaginative  piece  of  work,  not  unlike 
in  effect  to  some  of  Maeterlinck's  psy- 
chical'dramas.  As  I  read  on,  I  seemed 
to  be  standing  in  a  shadow  cast  by  some 
half-remembered  experience  of  my  own 
in  a  previous  state  of  existence.  When 
I  went  to  bed  that  night  I  had  to  lie 
awake  and  think  it  over  as  an  event  that 
had  befallen  me.  I  should  call  the  ef- 
fect weird,  if  the  word  had  not  lately 
been  worked  to  death.  The  gloom  of 
Poe  and  the  spirituality  of  Hawthorne 
touch  cold  finger-tips  in  those  three  or 
four  pages. 


No  man  has  ever  yet  succeeded  in 
painting  an  honest  portrait  of  himself 
in  an  autobiography,  however  sedulous- 
ly he  may  have  set  to  work  about  it. 
In  spite  of  his  candid  purpose  he  omits 
necessary  touches  and  adds  superfluous 
ones.  At  times  he  cannot  help  draping 
his  thought,  and  the  least  shred  of  dra- 
pery is  a  disguise.  It  is  only  the  diarist 
who  accomplishes  the  feat  of  self -por- 
traiture, and  he,  without  any  such  end 
in  view,  does  it  unconsciously.  A  man 
cannot  keep  a  daily  record  of  his  com- 
ings and  goings  and  the  little  items 
that  make  up  the  sum  of  his  life,  and 
not  inadvertently  betray  himself  at 
every  turn.  He  lays  bare  his  heart 
with  a  candor  not  possible  to  the  self- 
consciousness  that  inevitably  colors  pre- 
meditated revelation.  While  Pepys 
was  filling  those  small  octavo  pages  with 
his  perplexing  cipher  he  never  once  im- 
agined that  he  was  adding  a  photographic 
portrait  of  himself  to  the  world's  gal- 
lery of  immortals.  We  are  more  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Mr.  Samuel 
Pepys,  the  inner  man  —  his  little  mean- 
nesses and  his  generosities  —  than  we 
are  with  half  the  persons  we  call  our 
dear  friends. 

EVERY  one  has  a  bookplate  these 
days,  and  the  collectors  are  after  it. 
The  fool  and  his  bookplate  are  soon 
parted.  To  distribute  one's  ex-libris 
is  inanely  to  destroy  the  only  signifi- 
cance it  has,  thafr"of  indicating  the  past 
or  present  ownership  of  the  volume  in 
which  it  is  placed. 

AMONG  the  delightful  men  and  wo- 
men whom  you  are  certain  to  meet  at 
an  English  country  house  there  is  gen- 
erally one  guest  who  is  supposed  to  be 
preternaturally  clever  and  amusing  — 
"so  very  droll,  don't  you  know."  He 
recites  things,  tells  stories  in  coster- 
monger  dialect,  and  mimics  public  char- 
acters. He  is  a  type  of  a  class,  and  I 
take  him  to  be  one  of  the  elementary 
forms  of  animal  life,  like  the  acalephae. 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


737 


His  presence  is  capable  of  adding  a 
gloom  to  an  undertaker's  establishment. 
The  last  time  I  fell  in  with  him  was  on 
a  coaching  trip  through  Devon,  and  in 
spite  of  what  I  have  said  I  must  con- 
fess to  receiving  an  instant  of  enter- 
tainment at  his  hands.  He  was  de- 
livering a  little  dissertation  on  "the 
English  and  American  languages. "  As 
there  were  two  Americans  on  the  back 
seat  —  it  seems  we  term  ourselves 
"Amurricans  "  — his  choice  of  subject 
was  full  of  tact.  It  was  exhilarating 
to  get  a  lesson  in  pronunciation  'from  a 
gentleman  who  said  boult  for  bolt,  called 
St.  John  Sin'  J~un,  and  did  not  know 
how  to  pronounce  the  beautiful  name 
of  his  own  college  at  Oxford.  Fancy  a 
perfectly  sober  man  saying  Maudlin  for 
Magdalen!  Perhaps  the  purest  Eng- 
lish spoken  is  that  of  the  English  folk 
who  have  resided  abroad  ever  since  the 
Elizabethan  period,  or  thereabouts. 

IN  the  process  of  dusting  my  study, 
the  other  morning,  the  maid  replaced 
an  engraving  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain  up- 
side down  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  his 
majesty  has  remained  in  that  undigni- 
fied posture  ever  since.  I  have  no  dis- 
position to  come  to  his  aid.  My  abhor- 
rence of  the  wretch  is  as  hearty  as  if 
he  had  not  been  dead  and  otherwise  pro- 
vided for  these  last  three  hundred  years. 
Bloody  Mary  of  England  was  nearly  as 
cruel,  but  she  was  sincere  and  uncom- 
promising in  her  extirpation  of  heretics. 
Philip  II.,  when  it  was  politic  to  do  so, 
could  mask  his  fanaticism  or  drop  it  for 
the  time  being.  Queen  Mary  was  a 
maniac;  but  the  successor  of  Torque- 
mada  was  the  incarnation  of  cruelty  pure 
and  simple,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  let 
my  counterfeit  presentment  of  him  stand 
on  its  head  for  the  rest  of  its  natural 
life.  I  cordially  dislike  several  persons, 
but  I  hate  nobody,  living  or  dead,  ex- 
cepting Philip  II.  of  Spain.  He  seems 
to  give  me  as  much  trouble  as  the  head 
of  Charles  I.  gave  the  amiable  Mr. 
Dick. 


THE  average  Historical  Novel  is  won- 
derfully and  fearfully  made.  The  stage 
itself  at  its  worst  moments  is  not  so 
melodramatic.  In  romance- world  some- 
body is  always  somebody's  wholly  unsus- 
pected father  or  mother  or  child  —  and 
the  reader  is  not  deceived  five  minutes. 
The  "caitiff"  is  always  hanged  from 
"the  highest  battlement "  —  the  second 
highest  battlement  would  not  do  at  all; 
or  else  he  is  thrown  into  "the  deepest 
dungeon  of  the  castle  "  —  the  second 
deepest  dungeon  was  never  known  to  be 
used  on  these  occasions.  The  hero  in- 
variably "  cleaves  "  his  foeman  "  to  the 
midriff  "  —  the  "midriff  "  being  what 
the  properly  brought  up  hero  always  goes 
for.  A  certain  fictional  historian  of  my 
acquaintance  makes  his  swashbuckler 
exclaim :  "  My  sword  will  [shall]  kiss  his 
midriff;  "  but  that  is  an  exceptionally 
lofty  flight  of  diction.  His  heroine 
dresses  as  a  page,  and  in  the  course  of 
long  interviews  with  her  lover  remains 
unrecognized  —  a  diaphanous  literary 
invention  that  must  have  been  old  when 
the  Pyramids  were  young.  The  hero- 
ine's small  brother  —  with  playful  ar- 
chaicism  called  "a  springald  " — puts 
on  her  skirts  and  things  and  passes  him- 
self off  for  his  sister  or  anybody  else  he 
pleases.  In  brief,  there  is  no  puerility 
that  is  not  at  home  in  this  particular 
realm  of  ill-begotten  effort.  Listen  — 
a  priest,  a  princess,  and  a  young  man  in 
woman's  clothes  are  on  the  scene:  — 

The  Princess  rose  to  her  feet 
and  approached  the  priest. 

"Father,"  she  said  swiftly, 
"this  is  not  the  Lady  Joan,  my 
brother's  wife,  but  a  youth  mar- 
vellously like  her,  who  hath  of- 
fered himself  in  her  place  that 
she  might  escape.  .  .  .  He  is  the 
Count  von  Loen,  a  lord  of  Kerns- 
burg.  And  I  love  him.  We  want 
you  to  marry  us  now,  dear  Father 
—  now,  without  a  moment's  de- 
lay ;  for  if  you  do  not  they  will 
kill  him,  and  I  shall  have  to  mar- 
ry Prince  Wasp  !  " 

This  is  from  Joan  of  the  Sword  Hand, 


VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542. 


47 


738 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


and  if  I  ever  read  a  more  silly  perform- 
ance I  have  forgotten  it. 

BOOKS  that  have  become  classics  — 
books  that  have  had  their  day  and  now 
get  more  praise  than  perusal  —  always 
remind  me  of  venerable  colonels  and 
majors  and  captains  who,  having  reached 
the  age  limit,  find  themselves  retired 
upon  half  pay. 

FORTUNATE  was  Marcus  Aurelius  An- 
toninus who  in  early  youth  was  taught 
"to  abstain  from  rhetoric,  and  poetry, 
and  fine  writing  "  —  especially  the  fine 
writing.  Simplicity  is  art's  last  word. 

THERE  is  a  phrase  spoken  by  Hamlet 
which  I  have  seen  quoted  innumerable 
times,  and  never  once  correctly.  Ham- 
let, addressing  Horatio,  says :  — 

"  Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart" 

The  words  italicized  are  invariably  writ- 
ten "  heart  of  hearts  "  —  as  if  a  person 
possessed  that  organ  in  duplicate.  Per- 
haps no  one  living,  with  the  exception 
of  Sir  Henry  Irving,  is  more  familiar 
with  the  play  of  Hamlet  than  my  good 
friend  Mr.  Bram  Stoker,  who  makes  his 
heart  plural  on  two  occasions  in  his  re- 
cent novel,  The  Mystery  of  the  Sea. 

WHAT  is  slang  in  one  age  sometimes 
goes  into  the  vocabulary  of  the  purist  in 
the  next.  On  the  other  hand,  phrases 
that  once  were  not  considered  inelegant 
are  looked  at  askance  in  the  period  fol- 
lowing. The  word  "brass  "  was  for- 
merly an  accepted  synonym  for  money ; 
but  at  present,  when  it  takes  on  that 
significance,  it  is  not  admitted  into  the 
politer  circles  of  language.  It  may  be 
said  to  have  seen  better  days,  like  another 
word  I  have  in  mind  —  a  word  that  has 
become  slang,  used  in  the  sense  which 
once  did  not  exclude  it  from  very  good 
company.  A  friend  lately  informed  me 
that  he  had  "fired  "  his  housekeeper  — 
that  is,  dismissed  her.  He  little  dreamed 


that  he  was  speaking  excellent  Eliza- 
bethan. 

THIS  is  the  golden  age  of  the  inven- 
tor. He  is  no  longer  looked  upon  as  a 
madman  or  a  wizard,  incontinently  to  be 
made  away  with.  Two  or  three  centu- 
ries ago  Marconi  would  not  have  escaped 
a  ropeless  end  with  his  wireless  telegra- 
phy. Even  so  late  as  1800,  the  friends 
of  one  Robert  Fulton  seriously  enter- 
tained the  luminous  idea  of  hustling  the 
poor  man  into  an  asylum  for  the  unsound 
before  he  had  a  chance  to  fire  up  the 
boiler  of  his  tiny  steamboat  on  the  Hud- 
son River.  In  olden  times  the  pillory 
and  the  whipping-post  were  among  the 
gentler  forms  of  encouragement  await- 
ing the  inventor.  If  a  man  devised  an 
especially  practical  apple-peeler  he  was 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  peeled  with 
it  by  an  incensed  populace.  To-day  we 
hail  a  scientific  or  a  mechanical  discov- 
ery with  enthusiasm,  and  stand  ready  to 
make  a  stock  company  of  it. 

THE  man  is  clearly  an  adventurer. 
In  the  seventeenth  century  he  would 
have  worn  huge  pistols  stuck  into  a  wide 
leather  belt,  and  been  something  in  the 
seafaring  line.  I  shall  end  badly  some 
day  by  writing  an  historical  novel  with 
him  for  hero.  The  fellow  is  always 
smartly  dressed,  but  where  he  lives  and 
how  he  lives  are  as  unknown  as  "what 
song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what  name 
Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  himself 
among  women."  He  is  a  man  who  ap- 
parently has  no  appointment  with  his 
breakfast  and  whose  dinner  is  a  chance 
acquaintance.  His  probable  banker  is 
the  next  person.  A  great  city  like  this 
is  the  only  geography  for  such  a  charac- 
ter. He  would  be  impossible  in  a  small 
country  town,  where  everybody  knows 
everybody  and  what  everybody  has  for 
lunch. 

THE  unconventional  has  ever  a  mor- 
bid attraction  for  a  certain  class  of  mind. 
There  is  always  a  small  coterie  of  highly 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


739 


intellectual  men  and  women  eager  to 
give  welcome  to  whatever  is  eccentric, 
obscure,  or  chaotic.  Worshipers  at  the 
shrine  of  the  Unpopular,  they  tingle  with 
a  sense  of  their  tolerant  superiority  when 
they  say,  "  Of  course  this  is  not  the  kind 
of  thing  you  would  like."  Sometimes 
these  impressionable  souls  almost  seem 
to  make  a  sort  of  reputation  for  their 
fetish. 

WHENEVER  I  take  up  Emerson's  po- 
ems I  find  myself  turning  automatically 
to  his  Bacchus.  Elsewhere,  in  detach- 
able passages  embedded  in  mediocre 
verse,  he  rises  for  a  moment  to  heights 
not  reached  by  any  other  of  our  poets ; 
but  Bacchus  is  in  the  grand  style 
throughout.  Its  texture  can  bear  com- 
parison with  the  world's  best  in  this 
kind.  In  imaginative  quality,  austere 
richness  of  diction,  and  subtilty  of 
phrase,  what  other  verse  of  our  period 
approaches  it  ?  The  day  Emerson  wrote 
Bacchus  he  had  in  him,  as  Michael 
Dray  ton  said  of  Marlowe,  "  those  brave 
translunary  things  that  the  first  poets 
had." 

I  HAVE  thought  of  an  essay  to  be 
called  On  the  Art  of  Short-Story  Writ- 
ing, but  have  given  it  up  as  smacking 
too  much  of  the  shop.  It  would  be  too 
intime,  since  I  should  have  to  deal 
chiefly  with  my  own  ways,  and  so  give 
myself  the  false  air  of  seeming  to  con- 
sider them  of  importance.  It  would  in- 
terest nobody  to  know  that  I  always 
write  the  last  paragraph  first,  and  then 
work  directly  up  to  that,  avoiding  all 
digressions  and  side  issues.  Then  who 
on  earth  would  care  to  be  told  about 
the  trouble  my  characters  cause  me  by 
talking  too  much?  They  will  talk, 
and  I  have  to  let  them.  But  when  the 
story  is  finished,  I  go  over  the  dialogue 
and  strike  out  four  fifths  of  the  long 
speeches.  I  fancy  that  it  makes  my 
characters  pretty  mad. 

1  This  page,  the  lightness  of  which  has  turned 
to  sadness  on  my  hands,  was  written  a  few  days 


SHAKESPEARE  is  forever  coming  into 
our  affairs  —  putting  in  his  oar,  so  to 
speak  —  with  some  pat  word  or  phrase. 
The  conversation,  the  other  evening, 
had  turned  on  the  subject  of  watches, 
when  one  of  the  gentlemen  present,  the 
manager  of  a  large  watch-making  estab- 
lishment, told  us  a  rather  interesting 
fact.  The  component  parts  of  a  watch 
are  produced  by  different  workmen,  who 
have  no  concern  with  the  complex  piece 
of  mechanism  as  a  whole,  and  possibly, 
as  a  rule,  understand  it  imperfectly. 
Each  worker  needs  to  be  expert  in  only 
his  own  special  branch.  When  the 
watch  has  reached  a  certain  advanced 
state,  the  work  requires  a  touch  as  del- 
icate and  firm  as  that  of  an  oculist  per- 
forming an  operation.  Here  the  most 
skilled  and  trustworthy  artisans  are  em- 
ployed; they  receive  high  wages,  and 
have  the  benefit  of  a  singular  indul- 
gence. In  case  the  workman,  through 
too  continuous  application,  finds  himself 
lacking  the  steadiness  of  nerve  demand- 
ed by  his  task,  he  is  allowed  without 
forfeiture  of  pay  to  remain  idle  tem- 
porarily, in  order  that  his  hand  may 
recover  the  requisite  precision  of  touch. 
As  I  listened,  Hamlet's  courtly  criti- 
cism of  the  grave-digger's  want  of  sen- 
sibility came  drifting  into  my  memory. 
"The  hand  of  little  employment  hath 
the  daintier  sense, "  says  Shakespeare, 
who  has  left  nothing  unsaid. 

I  SOMETIMES  get  a  kind  of  surrepti- 
tious amusement  out  of  inventing  short- 
story  plots  that  are  of  no  service  to  me 
personally  as  they  do  not  lend  them- 
selves to  my  method.  They  are  tanta- 
lizingly  apt  to  be  the  sort  of  scheme  that 
would  fit  some  other  writer's  hand  like 
a  glove.  Awhile  ago,  in  the  idle  mood 
that  constitutes  the  only  soil  capable  of 
producing  such  trivial  plants,  I  evolved 
a  plot  which  Mr.  Frank  Stockton 1  could 
have  made  much  of  with  his  droll  gift  of 
presenting  impossibilities  in  so  natural 

before  the  death  of  that  delightful  story-teller 
and  most  lovable  man. 


740 


All  Sorts  of  a  Paper. 


a  way  as  to  make  them  appear  matters 
of  course.  The  same  indolence  that  gen- 
erated the  plot  kept  me  from  placing  the 
outline  of  it,  the  scenario,  at  his  disposal. 

The  story  was  to  be  called  The  Re- 
formed Microbe,  and  dealt  with  a  young 
scientist,  Dr.  Mildew,  who  had  set  up 
a  laboratory  in  a  country  village,  say  in 
western  Massachusetts.  Before  long  he 
detects  the  presence  of  a  peculiar  and 
unclassified  species  of  microbe  that  is 
getting  in  its  work  among  the  rural 
maidens.  As  there  is  a  Young  Ladies' 
Academy  in  the  neighborhood,  no  rea- 
sonable microbe  could  ask  for  pleasanter 
environment.  The  premonitory  symp- 
tom in  those  infected  by  the  new  mal- 
ady —  which  in  fact  is  only  an  exagger- 
ated phase  of  a  well-known  complaint 
—  is  a  certain  disconcerting  levity  of 
demeanor  followed  by  acute  attacks  of 
candor.  Affianced  young  damsels  im- 
mediately grow  so  flirtatious  that  all 
matrimonial  engagements  are  broken 
off;  and  disconnected  buds,  previously 
noted  for  sedateness  and  shyness  of  de- 
portment, become  a  fascinating  menace 
to  society.  It  would  seem  as  if  a  per- 
petual leap  year  had  set  in.  The  con- 
tagion quickly  spreads  to  widows  of 
every  age  and  rank.  None  but  happily 
married  women  are  immune. 

The  young  scientist  drops  his  indoor 
experiments,  and  sallies  forth  to  capture 
this  interesting  and  vivacious  microbe  — 
the  exigencies  of  fiction  require  that  it 
should  be  comparatively  gigantic.  The 
doctor  finally  captures  it  and  takes  it  to 
his  laboratory,  where  he  talks  to  it,  so 
to  speak,  like  a  father.  He  points  out 
the  dire  distress  and  embarrassments  re- 
sulting from  its  thoughtless  behavior, 
and  succeeds  in  impressing  the  creature 
with  a  proper  sense  of  its  iniquity.  It 
begins  to  see  itself  as  others  see  it  — 
through  a  microscope.  The  little  ani- 
mal, or  vegetable  —  it  may  be  either 
one  —  bitterly  repents,  promises  to  re- 
form, and  is  set  at  liberty.  It  deter- 
mines to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  in- 


dulges in  as  many  fine  resolutions  as  a 
pensive  man  on  the  first  of  January.  It 
seriously  thinks  of  attempting  to  carry 
out  the  agreeable  idea  of  the  late  Mr. 
Ingersoll,  who  said  that  if  he  had  cre- 
ated the  world  he  would  have  made  good 
health  contagious. 

The  village  now  resumes  its  normal 
tranquillity;  broken  engagements  are 
gradually  mended  and  look  as  good  as 
new ;  the  young  ladies  of  the  neighbor- 
ing academy,  when  they  walk  abroad, 
two  abreast,  might  be  taken  for  so  many 
nuns ;  Ghloe  and  Daphne  are  shy  once 
more,  and  the  doctor  goes  back  to  his 
absorbing  investigations.  He  is  on  the 
point  of  discovering  and  heading  off  the 
playful  germ  that  impels  young  sprigs 
of  the  aristocracy  to  seek  spangled  brides 
in  the  front  rank  of  the  corps  de  ballet, 
and  is  giving  his  days  and  nights  to  it. 
Presently,  however,  there  are  fresh  in- 
dications of  the  old  disturbance  in  the 
village,  and  the  flirtatious  affection  of 
the  heart  breaks  out  with  more  than  its 
original  virulence.  "Mic  is  at  it  again, 
yer  honor,"  remarks  the  janitor  of  the 
sanitarium  to  Dr.  Mildew,  as  that  gen- 
tleman ascends  the  front  steps  one  morn- 
ing. The  fact  is  painfully  apparent. 
The  reformed  microbe  has  fallen  in  with 
some  of  its  former  roistering  boon  com- 
panions, and  is  up  to  its  old  pranks.  It 
is  no  easy  business  this  time  to  catch 
the  little  imp,  made  cautious  by  its  live- 
ly recollection  of  the  doctor's  disinfec- 
tants ;  but  it  is  ultimately  caught,  and 
confined  in  a  crystal  cell  in  the  labora- 
tory, where  it  is  now  undergoing  a  life 
sentence. 

This  is  only  the  merest  outline  and 
filament  of  the  narrative.  The  compli- 
cated character  of  the  microbe,  its  so- 
liloquies, its  temptations,  its  struggles, 
and  the  final  cause  of  its  relapse  —  a 
young  widow  who  eventually  marries 
the  young  specialist  —  were  matters  to 
be  fully  elaborated.  And  how  ingen- 
iously and  divertingly  Mr.  Stockton 
would  have  done  it  all ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


741 


THE  ATLANTIC  FISHERIES  QUESTION. 

[The  present  phase  of  the  important  Atlantic  Fisheries  Question  is  here  discussed  from  the 
Newfoundland  point  of  view  by  Mr.  P.  T.  McGrath,  a  journalist  and  publicist  residing  in  St. 
John's.  THE  EDITORS.] 


A  RENEWAL  of  the  ancient  Atlantic 
Fisheries  dispute  is  rendered  imminent 
by  the  recent  visit  to  Washington  of 
Newfoundland's  Premier,  with  a  propo- 
sal to  revive  the  much  discussed  Bond- 
Elaine  Convention.  He  may  succeed  in 
inducing  the  State  Department  to  in- 
dorse a  newly  drafted  instrument,  but 
whether  the  Senate  will  prove  equally 
amenable  to  reason  is  the  crucial  point. 
Matters  of  much  greater  moment  than 
a  mere  economic  arrangement  between 
an  obscure  British  colony  and  the  Unit- 
ed States  are  involved ;  the  Convention 
is  really  the  kernel  of  the  whole  fish- 
eries difficulty,  and  no  other  issue  of 
to-day  so  vitally  affects  Canada- Ameri- 
can relations  as  that  which  a  deadlock 
with  Newfoundland  may  give  rise  to. 
The  effect  of  Sir  Robert  Bond's  mis- 
sion must  be  far-reaching,  in  one  way  or 
another;  if  he  succeeds,  the  New  Eng- 
land and  Newfoundland  fishing  inter- 
ests will  be  allied  against  Canada,  while, 
if  he  fails,  Newfoundland  may  make 
common  cause  with  Canada  and  work 
great  harm  to  the  American  fishing  in- 
dustry. 

This  Bond  -  Blaine  Convention  was 
framed  in  1890,  and  provided  for  re- 
ciprocity in  fishery  products  between 
the  United  States  and  the  colony  of 
Newfoundland,  irrespective  of  Canada. 
Canada  having  sought  a  similar  con- 
cession, and  been  refused,  protested  to 
the  Imperial  Cabinet  against  our  being 
permitted  to  make  such  a  compact  with- 
out her  inclusion,  and  the  protest  was 
so  effective  that  the  ratification  of  the 
treaty  was  postponed  in  order  that  Can- 
ada might  have  an  opportunity  of  secur- 
ing like  terms.  If  she  failed  in  this, 
after  a  reasonable  interval,  the  embargo 
on  our  agreement  was  to  be  withdrawn. 


The  hiatus  having  lasted  twelve  years, 
and  all  Canada's  overtures  during  that 
time  having  been  rejected,  Newfound- 
land declined  to  remain  quiescent  any 
longer,  and  at  the  recent  Conference  of 
Colonial  Premiers  in  London,  Sir  Rob- 
ert Bond  was  permitted  to  reopen  the 
suspended  negotiations. 

The  other  issues  between  the  coun- 
tries all  hang  upon  this  fisheries  ques- 
tion, which  antedates  them  in  existence 
as  it  overshadows  them  in  importance. 
Before  the  War  for  Independence,  the 
British  colonies  in  common  enjoyed 
these  fisheries,  and  by  the  treaty  of 
1783,  the  United  States  fishermen  were 
continued  the  privilege,  subject  to  cer- 
tain restrictions.  This  treaty  lapsed 
with  the  war  of  1812,  and  the  Ameri- 
cans failed  to  secure  a  renewal  of  the 
concession  when  the  treaty  of  Ghent 
closed  the  war.  Naturally,  friction 
arose  before  long,  and  in  1818  a  con- 
ference was  held  at  Washington,  when 
the  treaty  was  signed,  which  represents 
the  last  official  deliverance  on  the  ques- 
tion, and  fixes  the  status  of  the  parties 
down  to  the  present  day.  By  it  the 
United  States  abandoned  all  its  claims 
to  British  North  American  waters  in 
return  for  the  right,  on  the  same  terms 
as  British  subjects,  to  catch  fish  on 
the  west  coast  of  Newfoundland  and 
the  shores  of  Labrador.  But  in  mod- 
ern times  the  scene  of  the  fishing  has 
changed,  and  it  is  now  mainly  carried  on 
off  the  eastern  coast  of  Newfoundland, 
near  the  Grand  Banks,  in  which  vicinity 
the  American  fishermen  are  not  bene- 
fited by  this  treaty  at  all,  as  they  have 
no  coastwise  rights  there. 

The  question  as  we  now  understand 
it  is  one  of  peculiar  difficulty  because 
there  are  three  parties  to  it,  —the 


742 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


United  States,  Canada,  and  Newfound- 
land. The  last  named,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  is  the  predominant  factor.  This 
she  owes  to  her  inexhaustible  bait  sup- 
ply, her  proximity  to  the  Grand  Banks, 
and  her  political  independence  of  Can- 
ada, which  she  has  steadfastly  refused 
to  surrender.  Were  Newfoundland  ab- 
sorbed in  the  Dominion,  the  federal  gov- 
ernment would  assume  control  of  her 
fisheries,  and  then  it  would  be  a  clear  and 
well-defined  issue,  —  the  United  States 
against  Canada.  But  Newfoundland's 
part  in  the  dispute  introduces  the  dis- 
concerting element,  and  provides  three 
parties,  each  with  its  own  distinct  and 
antagonistic  interests. 

The  only  fisheries  at  issue  are  those 
of  the  coastline  within  the  three-mile 
limit.  The  deep-sea  fisheries  on  the 
Grand  Banks  are  free  to  all  nationali- 
ties, and  no  power  has  any  jurisdiction 
over  them.  At  present  they  are  prose- 
cuted by  the  Newfoundlanders,  Cana- 
dians, Americans,  and  French.  But  the 
coast  fishes  are  used  as  bait  for  the  larger 
denizens  of  the  outer  waters,  and  this 
bait  is  indispensable  to  successful  off- 
shore fishing.  The  bait  fisheries  are  the 
property  of  the  particular  country  in 
whose  territorial  waters  they  are  ob- 
tained, and  the  finest  bait  supply  of  the 
North  Atlantic  is  in  Newfoundland. 

The  Americans  are  so  dependent  upon 
this  that  they  are  willing  to  concede  us 
free  entry  for  our  fish  to  United  States 
markets  in  return  for  unrestricted  ac- 
cess to  these  bait  fishes,  yet  Canada,  on 
the  strength  of  being  a  fellow  colony, 
with  kindred  interests  and  a  small  bait 
supply  herself,  has  been  insisting  upon 
sharing  in  the  benefits  of  such  a  conces- 
sion. 

In  order  that  a  more  intelligent  un- 
derstanding of  the  whole  subject  may 
be  obtained,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  ex- 
plain, first,  the  different  fishery  indus- 
tries concerned,  and,  second,  how  these 
acquire  an  international  aspect.  The 
deep-sea  fisheries  of  commercial  impor- 
tance, which  exercise  a  bearing  upon  this 


question,  are  the  cod,  halibut,  haddock, 
and  mackerel  fisheries,  because  they 
rely  upon  the  coast  fisheries  for  bait, 
and  because  they  are  sometimes  pursued 
within  the  three-mile  limit. 

The  mackerel  are  first  hunted  in 
American  waters  in  the  early  spring, 
then  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy  later,  whence 
they  work  their  way  along  the  Nova 
Scotia  coast  during  the  summer,  the 
fishing  ending  off  Cape  Breton  in  the 
fall.  It  frequently  happens  that  as  the 
shoals  or  schools  of  these  fish  make  their 
way  along  the  Nova  Scotia  coast  pur- 
sued by  American  fishing  craft,  they 
approach  the  shore  too  closely,  only  to 
be  followed  by  the  eager  fishermen,  who 
are  pounced  upon  by  the  Canadian  cruis- 
ers which  patrol  the  coast  for  that  pur- 
pose. This  is  the  origin  of  the  an- 
nouncements from  time  to  time  in  the 
United  States  papers  of  American  fish- 
ing vessels  being  seized  for  violating  the 
Canadian  laws.  The  halibut  fishery  has 
two  branches, — the  "fresh"  halibut 
fishery  off  the  eastern  coast  of  New- 
foundland and  Labrador,  and  the 
"fletched  "  (partly  salted  for  smoking) 
halibut  fishery  off  Greenland  and  Ice- 
land, which  is  declining  of  late.  The 
haddock  fishery  is  pursued  all  over  the 
Banks  and  adjacent  "Deeps."  The  fa- 
mous cod  fishery  is  of  course  too  well 
known  to  require  detailed  explanation. 
All  these  different  pursuits  employ  about 
400  American  vessels,  which  fit  out 
from  Gloucester,  Boston,  and  other  New 
England  ports,  about  one  third  operat- 
ing on  the  fishing-grounds  directly  off 
that  coast,  while  the  other  two  thirds 
ply  their  calling  on  the  Grand  Banks. 

The  bait  fishes  are  the  herring,  cap- 
lin,  and  squid.  The  herring  are  avail- 
able during  the  winter  and  early  spring, 
the  caplin  strike  the  shore  in  the  early 
summer,  and  the  squid  follow  them  in 
August,  and  can  be  had  until  boisterous 
weather  compels  a  cessation  of  the  deep- 
sea  trawling  in  the  autumn.  The  habits 
of  all  these  fishes,  both  inshore  and 
offshore,  are  almost  a  mystery  to  both 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


743 


fishermen  and  scientists.  All  that  is 
known  with  certainty  is  that  they  ap- 
pear along  the  coast  or  on  the  Banks  at 
certain  seasons,  and  that  their  coming 
can  be  counted  upon  at  the  stated  pe- 
riods, and  fishing  operations  planned 
accordingly. 

The  fishing  year  for  the  Americans 
begins  in  November,  when  fifty  or  sixty 
of  their  vessels  leave  Gloucester  for  our 
southern  bays,  to  load  frozen  herring. 
These  fish  are  then  abundant  in  the  shal- 
lows, and  are  netted  and  exposed  to  the 
chill  winter  air,  which  freezes  them 
solid.  They  are  in  large  demand  for 
food  in  New  England,  because  during 
the  winter  no  fresh  herring  can  be  got 
anywhere  else  in  the  world;  and  they 
are  also  the  mainstay  of  the  cod  and  hal- 
ibut catchers  on  the  southern  Banks 
during  the  winter  and  spring,  who  use 
them  as  bait.  We  allow  the  Americans 
to  conduct  this  winter  herring  fishery  as 
a  commercial  venture ;  they  merely  buy 
the  herring,  which  are  really  caught  by 
our  own  people.  Our  regulations  fix  the 
minimum  price  at  $1.25  a  barrel,  and 
the  Americans  take  away  about  200,- 
000  barrels  every  season.  It  may  be 
observed  in  passing  that  these  herring 
are  entered  in  American  ports  as  the 
products  of  American  fisheries,  as  hav- 
ing been  taken  by  American  subjects, 
assisted  by  Newfoundlanders,  and  there- 
by entitled  to  free  entry.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  they  are  sometimes  frozen  and 
stored  before  the  ships  leave  Gloucester ; 
yet  if  a  Newfoundland  vessel,  with  a 
cargo  of  frozen  herring  from  the  very 
same  bulk,  enters  an  American  port,  she 
has  to  pay  an  import  duty  of  one  half 
cent  a  pound  on  all  the  fish. 

In  April  it  is  possible  to  fish  on  the 
Grand  Banks  without  fear  of  the  ice 
floes,  and  from  then  until  November 
vessels  of  the  countries  previously  men- 
tioned will  be  found  there  pursuing  their 
business  as  best  they  may.  They  have 
all  to  obtain  their  supplies  of  bait  from 
our  coast.  Our  bait  Act  requires  every 
fishing  vessel  to  procure  a  license  after 


April  1.  With  our  local  schooners 
there  is  little  trouble.  The  Canadians, 
being  British  subjects  also,  enjoy  the 
same  privileges.  The  Americans  obtain 
bait  through  a  modus  Vivendi  arranged 
at  Washington  in  1889,  granting  them 
free  access  to  our  waters  for  this  pur- 
pose by  paying  a  license  fee  of  $1.50 
per  ton  of  the  vessel's  register.  The 
French  we  exclude  altogether,  and  they 
have  to  depend  upon  salted  squid 
brought  from  the  "  French  Shore, "  or 
such  meagre  quantities  of  fresh  bait  as 
they  can  get  smuggled  to  them  from  our 
coast. 

The  significance  of  Newfoundland's 
attitude  toward  France  should  not  be 
lost  sight  of  in  considering  the  Ameri- 
can aspect  of  this  question.  France  has 
fishing  rights  over  our  western  seaboard, 
the  same  strip  where  the  Americans 
are  recognized,  and  commonly  known  as 
the  "  French  Shore, "  or  "  Treaty  Coast. " 
But  the  fishing  there  is  depleted,  so  that 
the  French  have  virtually  abandoned  it, 
and  concentrate  all  their  efforts  on  the 
fisheries  of  the  Grand  Banks.  They  pos- 
sess the  St.  Pierre-et-Miquelon  islets, 
off  the  southern  seaboard,  as  a  shelter- 
port  and  outfitting  base,  and  their  fleet 
numbers  about  300  sail,  with  7000 
men.  A  decade  ago  the  numbers  were 
nearly  twice  as  great.  The  explanation 
of  the  decline  is  that  France,  to  make 
these  fisheries  a  nursery  of  seaman  for 
her  navy,  subsidized  them  so  liberally 
with  bounties  and  drawbacks,  equaling 
almost  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  catch, 
that  they  could  undersell  us  in  every 
market  in  Europe,  and  came  near  driv- 
ing us  therefrom. 

In  self-defense  we  retaliated  by  pass- 
ing an  Act  prohibiting  the  sale  or  ex- 
port of  bait  by  our  people  to  the  French, 
and  we  enforce  it  so  vigorously  every 
year  that,  in  spite  of  the  bounties,  the 
French  are  being  slowly  but  surely  driven 
to  the  wall. 

What  gives  Newfoundland  such  a 
predominant  place  in  this  Canada- 
American  fisheries  dispute  is  the  know- 


744 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


ledge  that  we  can  cripple  the  American 
fisheries  in  the  same  manner  by  refusing 
bait  to  them.  If  we  closed  the  winter 
herring  business  against  the  Yankees, 
their  southern  banking  fleet  would  have 
to  tie  up  at  the  wharves,  and  by  can- 
celing the  modus  vivendi  we  would  force 
the  northern  fleet  to  abandon  the  Grand 
Banks.  It  is  true  that  Canada  has  a 
trifling  bait  supply,  and  that  American 
vessels  sometimes  avail  themselves  of  it. 
But  in  addition  to  the  200, 000  barrels 
of  herring  taken  from  our  waters  last 
winter,  sixty-six  out  of  seventy  Amer- 
ican vessels  on  the  Grand  Banks  baited 
here  during  1901,  and  ninety-nine  Ca- 
nadian vessels,  out  of  a  fleet  of  146, 
also  obtained  their  bait  from  us.  This 
latter  fact  is  the  best  evidence  of  the 
relative  values  of  our  bait  supply  and 
their  own.  The  geographical  situation 
will  make  this  clearer.  Our  coast  is 
but  half  a  day's  sail  from  the  Banks, 
while  it  is  a  week's  run  to  and  from 
Nova  Scotia.  Our  waters  always 
abound  in  bait,  while  Canada's  coast  is 
but  sparsely  stocked.  Therefore  both 
Americans  and  Canadians  come  to  us, 
and  only  those  vessels  which  follow  the 
mackerel  along  the  Nova  Scotia  sea- 
board visit  the  Canadian  coast. 

Further,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  Canadians  are  decidedly  hostile  to 
American  fishermen,  and  only  grant 
them  Jhe  present  concessions  because  we 
do  so,  as  Canada  has  not  wished  to  pro- 
voke too  bitter  a  feeling  with  her  south- 
ern rival,  particularly  as  we  could  meet 
all  the  needs  of  the  United  States  fish- 
ing interests.  Our  relations  with  them 
have  been  most  friendly,  and  nobody  in 
the  island  desires  anything  to  the  con- 
trary. But  we  contend  that  for  the 
valuable  bait  concessions  we  grant  them 
we  are  very  inadequately  recompensed 
in  the  $6000  of  license  fees  received 
by  us  each  year.  We  maintain  that  in 
return  for  the  immense  stock  of  frozen 
herring  the  Americans  take  away,  and 
the  bait  privileges  they  enjoy,  we  should 
be  given  free  entry  for  fish  products  in 


their  markets.  Mr.  (now  Sir  Robert) 
Bond  convinced  the  late  Mr.  Blaine  of 
the  force  of  this  argument  in  1890,  and 
it  was  upon  this  basis  that  they  con- 
cluded the  Convention  which  now  bears 
their  names,  of  which  the  revival  is  being 
urged  upon  Secretary  Hay. 

Mr.  Blaine  was  influenced  by  several 
considerations  of  special  moment  in  es- 
pousing the  policy  of  reciprocal  trade 
in  fish  between  the  republic  and  this 
island.  First,  he  recognized  that  New- 
foundland, by  her  bait,  controlled  the 
situation,  and  that  if  France,  with  a 
fishing  base  near  our  coast,  was  unable 
to  cope  with  us,  the  Americans,  who 
would  be  a  thousand  miles  from  their 
own  territory,  would  be  helpless  alto- 
gether. Second,  he  was  aware  that 
Newfoundland,  because  of  her  insular 
position,  her  remoteness,  and  the  vary- 
ing character  of  her  fishery  pursuits, 
would  not  ship  very  largely  to  the  Amer- 
ican market.  This  demands  its  own  cure 
of  fish,  which  the  Newfoundlanders  do 
not  practice.  All  the  cod  we  take  on 
Labrador  and  the  northern  coast  is  cured 
specially  for  the  European  markets,  and 
is  sent  there  direct,  so  that  only  the  fish 
taken  on  our  southern  seaboard,  and  a 
portion  of  the  lobster  catch,  would  be 
forwarded  to  New  England  for  sale. 
Third,  he  foresaw  that  by  an  arrange- 
ment with  Newfoundland  the  American 
fishermen  would  be  released  completely 
from  all  dependence  upon  Canada,  and 
be  able  to  disregard  any  hostile  enact- 
ments she  might  propose. 

Canada's  protest  against  our  Conven- 
tion was  the  fullest  admission  of  the  su- 
periority of  our  case.  She  declared  the 
pact  an  injustice  to  her  fishermen  and 
their  interests,  basing  this  argument 
upon  their  right  to  enter  our  waters  and 
procure  bait  on  the  same  terms  as  our 
own  people.  Canada  asserted  that  these 
bait  fishes  were  the  joint  possession  of 
all  the  British  American  colonies,  which 
contention  Newfoundland  met  by  the 
obvious  reply  that  as  British  subjects  the 
Australians  had  an  equal  theoretical 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


745 


right  to  them.  Yet,  as  a  practical  pro- 
position, the  bait  fishes  were  ours,  with- 
in our  waters,  and  subject  to  our  laws. 
We,  and  we  alone,  could  make  all  regu- 
lations for  the  catching  and  conserving 
of  them,  and  so  long  as  we  did  not  at- 
tempt to  discriminate  against  the  Cana- 
dians, they  had  no  ground  for  complaint 
and  no  right  to  interfere.  If  we  chose 
to  admit  the  French  or  Americans  to 
the  same  privileges  as  the  Canadians, 
that  was  our  own  business,  for  we  did 
not  hamper  the  Canadians,  nor  deprive 
them  of  their  rights.  We  might,  in- 
deed, prohibit  all  "baiting,"  and  none 
of  these  applicants  could  object.  The 
logic  of  this  was  unassailable,  and  al- 
though, to  placate  Canada,  our  treaty 
was  "side-tracked  "  for  the  time,  Pre- 
mier Bond's  present  mission  to  put  it 
in  motion  again,  if  the  United  States 
proves  willing  now,  attests  the  sound- 
ness of  the  position  Newfoundland  as- 
sumed from  the  start.  Canada  was 
eager  to  secure  access  to  the  American 
market,  and  finding  herself  unable  to 
accomplish  this,  was  unwilling  that  we 
should  be  allowed  to  gain  what  she  had 
failed  to  achieve. 

Canada  is  unable  to  plead  that  her 
bait  supply,  her  bonding  privilege,  or 
her  coastwise  advantages  figure  to  any 
appreciable  extent  as  an  inducement  for 
the  United  States  fishermen.  Indeed, 
every  authority  on  the  subject  agrees 
that  Canada  has  little  or  nothing  to  of- 
fer in  exchange  for  reciprocity  on  the 
subject,  especially  as  compared  with 
Newfoundland.  As  the  Americans  only 
require  a  bait  supply,  and  to  the  coun- 
try alone  from  which  they  should  seek 
this  would  they  be  called  upon  to  offer 
a  recompense,  it  is  clear  that  there  is 
no  need  for  them  to  traffic  in  terms  with 
Canada.  For  all  the  advantage  the  Ca- 
nadian waters  are  to  the  New  England 
fishing  craft  the  Nova  Scotia  coast  might 
be  absolutely  barred  against  them.  So 
clearly  was  this  recognized  that  New- 
foundland was  accorded  the  right  of 
special  representation  on  the  Anglo- 


American  Joint  High  Commission  of 
1898,  for  the  express  purpose  of  safe- 
guarding her  own  interests  in  this  mat- 
ter. Sir  James  Winter,  then  Premier, 
was  our  representative. 

The  position  of  the  United  States  is 
easily  understood  from  the  foregoing. 
She  is  not  yearning  for  reciprocity,  but 
is  willing  to  concede  it  to  Newfoundland 
through  fear  that  the  latter  will  cut  off 
the  bait  supply.  But  reciprocity  with 
Canada  is  not  palatable,  because  it  would 
mean  swamping  the  home  product  with 
the  immense  volume  of  Canadian  fish 
that  would  then  be  let  into  American 
markets.  In  other  words,  the  United 
States  is  in  the  position  of  having  to 
choose  the  lesser  of  two  evils.  If  she 
were  satisfied  that  she  could  contrive 
an  indefinite  continuance  of  the  present 
status  of  matters,  that  her  fishermen 
could  get  bait  and  herring  for  a  mere 
bagatelle,  she  would  never  consent  to 
revise  her  existing  fishery  policy,  but 
because  it  is  a  moral  certainty  that  New- 
foundland will  adopt  a  new  course  if  re- 
ciprocity fails,  Uncle  Sam  may  be  in- 
clined to  accept  the  lesser  obligation  and 
make  terms  with  the  little  colony  from 
which  he  will  gain  most,  and  which  yet 
will  be  his  least  formidable  competitor. 

The  United  States,  like  France,  has 
been  bonusing  her  fleet  with  the  idea  of 
making  it  a  naval  auxiliary.  The  as- 
sistance takes  the  form  of  an  import  duty 
of  one  half  cent  a  pound  on  all  foreign 
caught  fish.  This  has  sufficed  to  main- 
tain a  fairly  vigorous  activity  in  the 
home  fishing  fleet.  The  New  England 
fisheries  are  valued  at  $10,000,000, 
being  one  fourth  of  the  total  valuation  of 
the  fisheries  of  the  republic.  The  deep- 
sea  fisheries  of  the  Atlantic,  which  in- 
volve this  question,  are  themselves  worth 
$4, 500, 000  to  the  United  States.  They 
maintain  to  a  large  extent  the  prosper- 
ity of  the  seaports  which  are  the  centres 
of  the  industry,  and  they  provide  an  oc- 
cupation for  large  numbers  in  the  enter- 
prise itself  and  its  subsidiary  pursuits. 
But  the  New  England  fisheries  are  de- 


746 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


clining  steadily  under  the  competition 
of  the  more  modern  canned  foods.  All 
this  fish  has  to  be  brought  home  either 
fresh  or  partly  salted,  and  in  the  spring 
and  summer  it  is  difficult  to  preserve  and 
dispose  of  large  stocks  of  such  perish- 
able commodities.  Nor  will  the  Amer- 
ican people  themselves  continue  to  pros- 
ecute the  industry  now.  It  is  too  haz- 
ardous and  toilsome;  they  find  easier 
work  on  shore,  and  they  crew  their  ships 
with  Scandinavians  and  Provincialists. 
Newfoundlanders  form  their  largest  con- 
tingent. The  naval  nursery  theory  is 
not  of  much  value  in  the  light  of  these 
facts,  but  it  serves  to  stimulate  con- 
gressional sympathy,  and  the  fishing 
ports  —  Gloucester,  Boston,  etc.  —  are 
a  unit  in  opposing  reciprocity  with  Can- 
ada, because  they  say  that  if  such  came 
to  pass  they  "might  as  well  put  their 
shutters  up."  They  view  the  Bond- 
Blaine  Convention  differently,  for  the 
reasons  I  have  already  set  forth,  and 
may  not  oppose  it  therefore,  certainly 
not  so  actively. 

They  have  cause  to  fear  Canadian 
competition,  however.  The  Canadians 
can  prosecute  the  industry  much  more 
advantageously  than  the  Americans. 
The  fishermen  along  the  coast  can  se- 
cure fresh  fish  every  day  with  their  small 
boats  and  ship  it  by  train  across  the  bor- 
der, so  that  it  may  be  on  sale  in  New 
York  within  twenty-four  hours.  The 
Canadian  schooners  can  ply  to  and  from 
the  Banks  every  fortnight  or  so,  running 
into  their  home  ports  and  unloading 
their  catch  for  shipment  in  the  same 
way.  The  American  coast  fishers  have 
no  supply  to  depend  upon,  and  their  off- 
shore fishers  are  hundreds  of  miles  from 
home.  "The  Canadians  are  also  helped 
by  their  less  expensive  methods  of  fish- 
ing. Their  vessels,  outfits,  and  upkeep 
are  cheaper,  and  their  crews  receive  less 
wages,  so  that  they  would  handicap  the 
Americans  not  a  little  from  this  cause. 
They  operate  about  one  third  cheaper 
than  the  Americans,  and  they  have  a  sum 
of  $180,000  distributed  among  them  in 


fishing  bounties  every  year.  It  is  cer- 
tain, therefore,  that  if  the  United  States 
tariff  did  not  "protect  "  the  home  catch 
there  would  be  much  more  Canadian  fish 
marketed  in  New  England. 

Canada's  position  with  regard  to  this 
international  dispute  is  becoming  more 
untenable  every  season.  Her  existing 
markets  are  inadequate  to  absorb  her 
yearly  catch,  and  the  American  control 
of  Cuba  and  Porto  Rico  has  increased 
her  difficulties  by  depriving  her  almost 
wholly  of  two  large  and  profitable  mar- 
kets. Her  fish  in  these  territories  must 
now  face  an  adverse  duty  of  eighty-four 
cents  a  hundred  pounds,  and  this  accen- 
tuates the  congestion  at  home.  Hence, 
Canada  strives  hard  for  reciprocity,  al- 
leging that  the  removal  of  the  American 
tariff  will  cheapen  fresh  food  for  the 
American  consumer,  and  thus  increase 
the  demand  in  the  republic,  not  only 
for  Canadian,  but  also  for  American  fish. 
But  the  American  treaty  makers  have 
not  been  satisfied  that  the  advantages 
of  free  trade  would  outweigh  the  detri- 
ments of  unlimited  Canadian  competi- 
tion, and  so  have  declined  all  overtures 
from  the  Dominion.  This  was  the  rea- 
son that  the  Joint  High  Commission 
failed  in  1898  ;  the  United  States,  while 
willing  to  make  terms  with  Newfound- 
land, would  not  treat  with  Canada,  be- 
cause this  could  not  be  done  without 
crippling  the  New  England  fishing  in- 
dustry. The  principle  underlying  the 
whole  problem  is  the  all-important  one 
of  preserving  the  home  pursuit  from  dis- 
aster while  yet  providing  some  allevia- 
tion for  the  masses  of  fish  consumers  who 
pay  so  heavily  for  this  edible. 

It  might  be  supposed  from  the  fact  of 
Newfoundland  giving  no  bounties,  like 
the  Canadians,  and  having  no  protective 
tariff,  like  the  Americans,  that  she 
would  be  unable  to  effectively  compete 
with  them.  Yet  the  island  is  the  great- 
est fishing  centre  in  the  world.  Its  ad- 
vantages as  regards  bait  have  already 
been  shown,  its  catches  of  cod  near  its 
coast  are  very  large,  and  it  takes  im- 


The  Atlantic  Fisheries   Question. 


747 


mense  quantities  of  fish  from  the  Grand 
Banks,  which  are  only  a  few  hours'  sail 
from  its  southeastern  seaboard.  Its 
people  are  the  most  expert  fishermen 
afloat,  and  the  proximity  of  the  coast 
enables  them  to  use  it  to  an  unusual  ex- 
tent and  as  a  convenience  of  decided  ad- 
vantage over  other  nationalities.  The 
codfish,  too,  is  all  cured  by  being  soaked 
in  brine  and  then  dried  in  the  sun  and 
air.  The  Americans  and  Canadians  cure 
their  fish  differently,  and  have  other 
markets  for  it.  Practically  none  of  the 
Newfoundland  catch  is  exported  fresh, 
because  the  insularity  of  the  region 
forbids  this  being  done  advantageous- 
ly. The  catch  of  our  rivals  is  partly 
marketed  fresh,  and  it  is  this  non-com- 
petition in  foreign  markets  which  en- 
ables us  to  approach  the  Americans  and 
ask  for  terms  which  shall  be  mutually 
beneficial  and  avert  clashing. 

This  is  the  complication  which  the 
Bond-Blaine  Convention  proposes  to  un- 
ravel in  part.  If  a  treaty  is  concluded, 
the  United  States  and  Newfoundland 
will  have  free  trade  in  fish  products,  and 
Canada  will  be  excluded  from  the  com- 
pact. The  United  States  fishermen  will 
then  be  able  not  only  to  procure  bait 
in  our  waters,  but  also  to  enter  them  in 
order  to  transport  their  catch  by  fast 
steamers,  with  cold  storage  chambers, 
direct  to  Boston  and  New  York.  The 
frozen  herring  industry  can  be  developed 
in  the  same  manner,  and  so  far  from 
reciprocity  being  detrimental  to  the 
New  England  fishery  interests,  it  will 
be  positively  advantageous  to  them. 
We  would,  of  course,  compete  against 
them  to  some  extent,  but  the  lessening 
of  their  expenses  consequent  upon  being 
able  to  use  our  coast  as  an  advanced  base 
would  enable  them  to  meet  us  upon  more 
equal  terms.  Canada  will  resent  our 
success,  if  we  do  succeed,  but  the  British 
government  seem  to  be  satisfied  that 
Canada's  objections  are  not  valid,  else 
Premier  Bond  would  never  have  been 
permitted  to  resume  negotiations  with 
the  object  he  has  now  in  view. 


If,  however,  we  fail  to  secure  reci- 
procity, the  result  must  be  to  throw 
us  into  the  arms  of  Canada,  ever  open 
to  embrace  us.  In  such  a  contingency 
the  Canadian  federal  government  would 
take  over  the  control  of  our  fisheries 
from  the  provincial  administration,  and 
a  united  policy  would  be  possible.  The 
fisheries  of  British  North  America  would 
be  absolutely  barred  to  the  Americans, 
because  Canada  would  then  have  in  her 
own  hands  the  lever  by  which  to  force 
them  to  grant  her  reciprocity,  or  else 
she  would  do  her  best  to  destroy  the  New 
England  fishing  industry.  The  existing 
modus  vivendi,  which  was  originally  only 
intended  to  be  two  years,  has  been  con- 
tinued season  after  season  in  the  hope 
that  some  transformation  in  the  status 
of  the  problem  might  take  place  which 
would  give  an  opportunity  for  effecting 
a  compromise  between  the  three  contrib- 
utories.  Canada  has  already  come  to  see 
that  there  is  no  prospect  of  her  being 
able  to  make  terms  for  herself,  and  she 
stands  ready  to  denounce  the  modus 
vivendi  as  soon  as  she  is  satisfied  that 
Newfoundland  will  do  the  same.  If 
reciprocity  fails,  there  will  be  no  longer 
any  reason  why  we  should  continue  to 
recognize  that  makeshift,  and  our  can- 
celing it  would  leave  the  American  fleet 
without  a  solitary  means  of  procuring 
bait,  or  of  availing  itself  of  the  facili- 
ties which,  although  not  specifically  pro- 
vided for  by  treaty,  Newfoundland  nev- 
ertheless accords  to  the  Yankee  fishing 
vessels.  The  effects  of  this  policy  it 
is  not  difficult  to  forecast.  The  Amer- 
ican fishermen,  deprived  of  bait,  would 
be  but  poorly  able  to  maintain  their  mar- 
itime industry,  and  would  gradually  be 
driven  from  the  Grand  Banks.  Neither 
Newfoundland  nor  Canada  would  suffer 
seriously,  as  their  only  loss  would  be  the 
sums  paid  for  licenses,  and  these  would 
be  very  much  more  than  offset  by  the 
prospect  which  there  would  be  of  secur- 
ing a  large  slice  of  the  American  mar- 
ket by  the  decline  of  the  New  England 
fishery.  As  the  latter  condition  would 


748  Two  Sonnets  from  the  Hebrew. 

become  acute,  the  price  of  fish  in  the  other  respects,  has  clearly  the  chief  voice 
United  States  would  run  high,  so  high  in  this  Atlantic  Fisheries  Question,  and 
that  the  import  duty  would  become  but  if  the  present  negotiations  are  of  no 
a  small  matter,  and  with  the  cheaper  effect  she  will  probably  give  a  vigorous 
maintenance  of  our  vessels  we  should  demonstration  of  this  fact.  While,  for 
be  able  to  hold  our  own  even  in  the  head  the  sake  of  the  better  feeling  which  now 
centres  of  the  American  fishing  busi-  manifests  itself  between  Great  Britain 
ness.  and  the  United  States,  it  is  to  be  regret- 
It  can  be  seen  from  this  presentation  ted  that  any  ill  feeling  should  be  pro- 
of the  case  that  the  Bond-Blaine  Con-  voked  over  the  subject,  nevertheless  it 
vention  is  of  much  greater  importance  is  only  just  that  Newfoundland  should 
than  appears  at  first  sight.  Newfound-  use  her  manifold  advantages  in  order  to 
land,  though  she  may  be  insignificant  in  secure  larger  concessions  for  herself. 

P.  T.  McGrath. 


TWO   SONNETS   FROM   THE   HEBREW. 

I.  THE  PREPARATION. 

"  And  he  said,  I  will  not  destroy  it  for  the  ten's  sake." 

LOOK  back  and  see  this  brooding  tenderness ! 
Ye  wait  till  Bethlehem?     Nay  then,  not  I! 
Under  the  law  doth  Israel  ever  sigh  ? 
Is  there  no  mercy  till  the  great  redress  ? 
See  now,  amid  the  nameless  wickedness 
Love  dreadeth  lest  one  soul  of  his  should  die, 
Spareth  and  faltereth  and  passeth  by, 
Soft'ning  the  law  to  ease  a  son's  distress. 

Shall  not  the  judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right? 

Ay,  child,  and  more  !  thou  hast  not  learned  to  spell 

Love's  first  great  letter :  centuries  of  pain 

Still  leave  him  terrible  in  thy  scared  sight 

Who  quencheth  with  his  tears  the  fires  of  hell, 

And  yearneth  o'er  the  cities  of  the  Plain! 

II.  THE  INCARNATION. 

"  Yea,  they  may  forget,  yet  will  I  not  for  get  thee  I " 

"  Speak  thou  for  us :  with  God  we  will  not  speak  !  " 
Ye  will  have  prophet,  yea,  and  Saviour  too, 
And  saint  and  creed  and  priest  to  worship  through, 
Whereat  Love  smiles  and  gives  them,  ye  being  weak. 
And  most  ye  clutch  at  her,  that  Virgin  meek 
With  cradling  arms :  ah,  child  of  Love,  but  who 


Whar  my   Chris* mus? 

Curved  her  soft  breast,  and  taught  the  dove  to  coo, 
And  sent  the  shepherd  forth  the  lamb  to  seek? 


749 


Surely  great  wings  are  wrapped  around  our  world  ! 
And  the  one  pulse  that  in  us  ebbs  and  flows 
Leaps  at  her  name,  for  she  has  understood : 
In  our  hearts'  lowest  leaves  her  love  is  curled; 
Unshrined,  she  yet  hath  comfort  for  all  woes, 
If  not  God's  mother,  still  God's  motherhood ! 

Josephine  Dodge  Daskam. 


WHAR  MY  CHRIS'MUS? 


THE  night  was  cold,  and  the  howling 
storm,  like  a  blustering  bully  bent  upon 
forcing  admission,  beat  in  angry  gusts 
upon  the  doors  and  windows  of  a  white- 
washed frame  house,  standing  alone  by 
the  side  of  a  country  road,  and  through 
the  cracks  of  its  ill-constructed  walls  of 
cheap,  unseasoned  lumber  crept  like  a 
sneak  in  chill  drafts  and  tiny  drifts  of 
snow. 

In  the  open  fireplace  of  a  room  upon 
the  upper  floor,  half  green  pine  logs 
were  smouldering,  and  in  a  rough  bed, 
drawn  close  to  the  hearth,  lay  a  young 
boy,  stricken,  like  many  of  his  dusky 
race,  with  consumption. 

The  sickly  flame  of  a  dimly  burning 
lamp  suggested,  rather  than  disclosed, 
the  squalor  of  the  room  and  the  poverty 
of  its  furniture. 

Seated  in  a  split-bottom  chair,  and 
bending  over  the  struggling  fire,  was 
an  old  negro.  His  figure,  warped  and 
twisted  by  rheumatism  into  a  grotesque 
shape,  was  clad  in  tattered  garments  of 
an  age  as  great,  apparently,  as  his  own. 
His  feet,  wrapped  about  with  many 
cloths,  had  the  appearance  of  two  large 
bundles  of  woolen  rags.  Upon  his  face 
hopelessness  and  sorrow  had  furrowed 
their  history,  yet  his  expression  was 
sweet  and  benevolent. 

Snow-white  hair  crowned  him  with 
dignity. 

"Honey,"  said  the  old  man  to  the 


boy,  "I  des  put  on  de  las'  log  dar  is, 
an'  de  fire  ain'  gwine  las'  much  longer; 
yit  it  ain'  gret  while  atter  sun-down. 
I  ax  dat  man  ter  gimme  few  mo'  sticks, 
kaze  dis  yer  Chris 'mus  Day,  an'  he  say 
he  reck'n  he  would,  but  he  in  sich  a 
hurry  to  git  off  dat  he  done  forgit  it." 

"Whar  he  gone,  Unc'  Dan'l?  "  asked 
the  boy. 

"He  gone  a-junkettin'  an'  a-jolli- 
fyin'  wid  he  frien's,dat  whar  he  gone, " 
replied  the  old  man,  "an'  he  done 
lock  Crazy  Dick  in  he  room.  Dat  he 
a-moanin'  to  hisse'f  right  now." 

"I  spec'  he  cole,"  said  the  boy. 

"An'  hongry,  too,"  rejoined  the  old 
man.  "De  vittles  dat  man  done  lef 
us  warn't  'miff  fur  good  dinner,  let  'lone 
supper: " 

"I  ain'  never  hongry  no  mo',"  said 
the  boy,  "but  I  cole." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  compas- 
sionately, and  when  he  spoke  again  his 
voice  was  beautiful  in  its  tenderness. 

"Son,"  said  he,  "I  ain'  been  h'yer 
but  a  mont',  'scusin'  two  days,  yit  it 
seem  like  I  been  h'yer  a  coon's  age ;  an* 
dar  you  is.  You  wuz  borned  in  de  ole 
po' house,  an'  you  wuz  raised  in  dis  h'yer 
po'house,  an'  now  yer  sick  abed  an'  ain' 
never  have  no  good  times. 

"I  so  stiff  an'  rickety  wid  dis  h'yer 
rheumatizdat  I  cyahn  rastle  'roun'  same 
like  I  useter  could,  but  it  brek  my  heart 
ter  see  yer  a-lyin'  dar  sufferin'  an'  do 


750 


Whar  my   Chris* mus? 


nuthin'  fur  yer  'musement.  Does  yer 
wan'  me  tell  yer  'bout  de  good  ole  times 
agin,  'fo'  I  git  ter  bed?  " 

"Fofe  July  or  Chris'mus?"  asked 
the  boy.  "You  done  tell  me  'bout  dem 
befo'." 

"  Dey  wuz  bof  e  good  times, "  said  the 
old  man  musingly,  "but  mo'  speshully 
wuz  I  studyin'  'bout  Chris'mus,  kaze 
dis  h'yer  Chris'mus  night.  When  I 
study  'bout  Fofe  July  I  recterlec'  mo' 
'bout  young  niggers  an'  barb'cue,  an' 
when  I  study  'bout  Chris'mus  I  recter- 
lec' mo'  'bout  Marse  George  an'  Ole 
Miss  an'  de  ole  niggers  what  done  daid ; 
but  de  mo'  I  study  'bout  dem  times,  hit 
'pears  like  dey  wuz  all  good  times." 

"Tell  'bout  whar  you  live  when  yer 
little,"  said  the  boy,  "an'  'bout  dem 
folks  yer  studyin'  'bout  dat  done  daid." 

"I  wuz  borned  on  Marse  George  plan- 
tation,"  began  the  old  man,  after  a 
pause,  —  "borned  when  he  father  wuz 
'live  an'  Marse  George  wuz  mos'  grow'd 
up.  Hit  wuz  way  over  yonder  at  de 
yuther  en'  of  dis  h'yer  county,  by  de 
water,  whar  de  Ian'  wuz  mos'ly  of  de 
bes',  like  eve'ything  what  Marse  George 
have; — not  po'  Ian'  like  'roun'  'bout 
h'yer.  Marse  George  had  a  heap  o' 
Ian'.  'T  warn't  de  bigges'  plantation 
in  de  county,  kaze  Colonel  Jones  dat 
live  on  nex'  place  had  mo'  Ian',  an' 
Marse  Ned  Brent  'cross  de  river,  he 
had  mo'  Ian',  but  yit  it  wuz  mighty  big 
plantation;  an'  Marse  George  had  bet- 
ter Ian'  dan  dem  gen'muns,  an'  he  own 
mo'  niggers,  an'  he  have  de  bigges'  mort- 
gages in  dis  h'yer  county,  Marse  George 
did,  kaze  I  done  hearn  a  gen'mun  say 
so;  but  dat  wuz  atter  de  war;  an'  de 
gret  house,  —  I  spec'  dar  am'  no  bigger 
house  nowhar  dan  Marse  George  house, 
'scusin'  de  Cote-House  in  de  town,  but 
dat  ain'  no  house  't  all,  kaze  hit  mo' 
like  a  hdtel. 

"My  daddy  he  wuz  de  driver  fur 
Marse  George,  an*  my  mammy,  she  he'p 
'bout  de  washin',  an'  dey  had  der  own 
cab'n  an'  gyard'n;  an'  when  dey  git 
ole,  dey  des  live  dar  in  dat  same  cab'n, 


an'  dey  had  de  bes'  ter  eat  an'  warm 
flannel  an'  cloze,  an'  when  dey  sick, 
Marse  George  doctor  'tended  'em,  an' 
Ole  Miss  'ud  bring  'em  sump'n  nice  ter 
eat  f  um  her  own  table,  —  bring  hit  her- 
se'f,  or  sen'  one  o'  dechillun;  an'  my 
daddy,  when  he  too  ole  ter  wuk,  he  des 
do  what  he  please;  — he  go  fishin',  an' 
he  smoke  he  pipe,  an'  chaw  he  chawin' 
terbaccer  what  Marse  George  gun  him, 
an'  he  cuss  de  young  niggers  kaze  dey 
ain'  so  peart  as  he  wuz  when  he  young 
nigger,  an'  kaze  dey  lazy  an'  ain'  got  no 
sense.  He  sut'ny  did  'njoy  hisse'f,  fur 
de  good  Lord  gun  him  grace  an'  peace 
in  his  ole  age.  An'  when  dey  die,  which 
dey  wuz  took'n  sick  'bout  same  time,  an' 
die  one  on  dis  day  an'  turrer  on  nex', 
Marse  George  gun  'em  de  fines'  shrouds, 
which  he  promust  fo'  dey  done  daid,  an' 
mighty  han'some  pine  coffins;  an'  all 
de  niggers  what  'tended  de  funer'l  say 
dat  it  de  bigges'  an'  de  fines'  funer'l 
in  der  recterlec tion,  an'  dat  dey  git  mo' 
'njoyment  out'n  dat  funer'l  dan  any 
befo',  'cep'n'  whende  las'  preacher  done 
daid. 

"Now'days,"  continued  the  old  man 
in  a  tone  of  anguish,  sinking  his  voice 
that  the  boy  might  not  hear  him,  — 
"now 'days  de  nigger  cyahn  die  happy 
like  dey  useter  could,  kaze  dese  h'yer 
grave  robbers  is  eve'ywhar,  an'  dar  ain' 
no  perfec'  safety  for  no  nigger,  when 
he  daid;  an'  when  nigger  die  in  po'- 
house,  O  Lord!  de  doctors  cuts  him 
up  wid  long  knife.  Nigger  cyahn  mek 
he  peace  wid  he  Maker  'bout  he  soul, 
when  he  studyin'  all  time  'bout  how  de 
doctors  gwine  cyarve  he  body." 

"What  dat  yer  sayin',Unc'  Dan'l?  " 
inquired  the  boy. 

"I  wuz  des  a-studyin'  to  myse'f, " 
answered  the  old  man,  forcing  a  look 
and  tone  of  cheerfulness.  "Folks  does 
dat  when  dey  gits  ole.  Lemme  see  whar 
I  is.  I  mos'  done  come  to  de  en'  o'  my 
tale  befo'  I  git  started. 

"Well, I  wuz  borned  an'  raised  in  dat 
dar  cab'n  what  I  tell  you  un,  an'  when 
I  git  big  'nuff  I  play  wid  de  yuther  lit- 


Whar  my   Chris'mus? 


751 


tie  niggers,  an'  I  fish  in  de  river,  an' 
I  cotch  catfish  an'  eels  out'n  it,  an' 
cotch  rabbits  in  de  brier  patch  wid  rab- 
bit gum.  An'  when  Marse  George  'way 
fum  home,  I  steal  fruit  out'n  he  gyard'n 
an'  git  cotched,  which  Unc'  Hez'kiah 
dat  wuk  de  gyard'n  he  cotch  me,  an' 
he  done  gin  me  a  whalin'  dat  mek  me 
mo'  blue  dan  black.  I  ain'  forgit  dat 
whalin'  yit,  kaze  Unc'  Hez'kiah  sut'ny 
mek  it  clar  ter  me  dat  I  mus'  quit  steal- 
in'  fruit  out'n  Marse  George  gyard'n, 
dat  he  did." 

"  Dem  wuz  times, "  said  the  boy. 

"  Dey  mos'  sholy  wuz, "  responded  the 
old  man  with  emphasis ;  "an'  when  dey 
kill  hogs,  which  hog-killin'  time  come 
des  'fo'  Chris 'mus,  eve'y  little  nigger 
on  de  plantation  have  a  pigtail  fur  his- 
se'f,  an'  all  de  niggers  have  dat  'mount 
o'  spar-rib  an'  chine  an'  sausage  an' 
blood-pudd'n,an'  all  dem  yuther  things, 
which  dey  comes  in  hog-killin'  time,  dat 
dey  mos'  bus'  deyse'f  wid  eatin'. 

"An'  Fofe  July  dar  wuz  barb 'cue 
what  I  done  tole  yer  un  befo',  wid  ox 
roasted  whole  an'  races  fur  little  nig- 
gers, which  dey  run  'em  deyse'f,  an' 
mule -race  fur  big  niggers,  an'  de  las' 
mule  git  de  prize,  kaze  eve'y  nigger 
whip  'nuther  nigger's  mule,  an'  try  to 
mek  yuther  nigger's  mule  come  in  fus', 
so  his  mule  come  in  las',  an'  he  win  de 
prize.  I  recterlec'  one  Fofe  July  when 
my  daddy  win  de  prize,  which  he  rode 
Blin'  Billy,  dat  so  ole,  he  go  slow  like 
a  mud  turkle,  an'  he  balky  besides ;  an* 
de  prize  wuz  a  gret  big  watermillion, 
which  hit  tuk  two  niggers  to  tote  it ; 
but  I  spec'  I  done  tole  yer  'bout  Blin' 
Billy  an'  dat  watermillion  befo',  an* 
how  Unc'  Hannibal  win  de  prize  fur 
ploughin'  straightes'  furrer.  When  I 
gun  ter  git  bigger  I  did  n'  fool  'way  my 
time  wid  no  spellin'-book,  like  little 
niggers  does  dese  days,  an'  my  Marse 
George  he  did  n'  larn  me  no  sich  stuff 
as  dat,  but  I  larn  ter  weed  de  gyard'n 
an'  hoe  an'  pick  veg'tables,  an'  I  wuz 
handy  man  in  de  gyard'n,  an'  when  Unc' 
Hez'kiah  git  too  ole  ter  wuk  an'  did  n' 


hatter  do  nothin'  'cep'n'  ter  'muse  his- 
se'f,  Marse  George  mek  me  de  gyar- 
d'ner,  an'  I  wuz  a  proud  nigger  when 
he  done  dat,  dat  I  wuz. 

"Dar  wuz  a  mighty  spry  yaller  gal 
what  he'p  Marse  George  ole  mammy 
tek  care  he  chillun.  She  mighty  skit- 
tish gal,  an'  she  pester  me  a  heap,  dat 
gal  did.  When  I  toiler  atter  her  she  run 
'way,  an'  when  I  quit  bodderin'  'long 
o'  her,  kaze  she  too  stuck  up,  den  she 
run  atter  me.  One  day  'twuz  up  an' 
nex'  day  't  wuz  down  wid  me,  twel  I 
mos'  lose  my  patience;  but  one  mornin' 
when  I  wuz  a-pick'n'  peaches  in  de  gyar- 
d'n, dat  gal  pass,  an'  I  ain'  noticin' 
her,  but  she  gun  to  sass  me,  an'  den  I 
git  mad  an'  run  atter  her,  an'  I  cotch 
her,  an'  I  kiss  her  mos'  a  hunderd  times, 
an',  when  I  kiss  her  'bout  fifty  times, 
she  'low  she  gwine  marry  me  ef  Marse 
George  willin',  an'  when  I  look  up  'gin, 
dar  wuz  Marse  George  a'stannin'  in 
de  grape  arbor,  which  hit  close  by.  I 
sut'ny  feel  like  a  fool  nigger,  an'  Susan, 
she  squeal  an'  run  up  to  de  house,  an' 
Marse  George  mek  out  like  he  ain'  seen 
us.  But  dat  atternoon,  when  I  wuz 
a- to  tin'  some  veg'tables  up  to  de  kitch- 
'n,  Marse  George  met  me  an'  he  sez, 
'  Dan'l, '  sezee,  'dem  wuz  de  bigges' 
an'  de  mos'  juicies'  peaches  what  I  seen 
yer  he'p'n'  yerse'f  to  dis  mornin'  out'n 
my  gyard'n  dat  I  mos'  ever  see, '  sezee, 
an'  den  he  laugh  an'  laugh  fit  ter  kill 
hisse'f.  He  wuz  a  joker  dat  pull  de 
laughin'  string,  wuz  Marse  George. 
When  he  done  laughin',  I  up  'n'  ax  'im 
kin  I  have  de  cab'n  what  Unc'  Hez'- 
kiah useter  live  in,  an'  which  he  done 
move  out'n,  kaze  Marse  George  done 
built  him  new  cab'n;  an'  Marse  George 
say  I  kin ;  an'  dat  gal  Susan  an'  me  wuz 
married  in  a  mont',  but  she  did  n'  live 
mor'n  a  yer,  an'  I  ain'  never  had  no 
chile  'scusin'  one  which  he  done  daid 
when  Susan  wuz  took'n.  I  ole,  but  I 
ain'  fergit  Susan,  kaze  I  spec'  ter  chune 
my  harp  an'  lif '  my  voice  in  de  heavenly 
choir,  along  o'  her,  when  de  good  Lord 
call  me  ter  come." 


752 


Whar  my   Chris'mus? 


"Ain'  yer  fergit  tellin'  'bout  Chris'- 
mus times,  Unc'  Dan'l?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"Hit  seem  like  I  have,"  said  the  old 
man.  "Clar  ter  gracious,  when  I  git 
ter  talk'n'  'bout  ole  times,  I  fotch  up  so 
much  to  my  'membunce  dat  I  ramble 
'long  an'  ramble  'long  twel  I  dunno 
whar  I  is. 

"In  dem  days,"  continued  the  old 
man,  "Chris'mus  times  wuz  a  nigger 
heav'n  on  earf .  Dar  wuz  holiday  times 
fur  mos'  three  weeks,  an'  no  nigger  ain' 
do  no  wuk  twel  de  backlog  in  de  big 
fireplace  wuz  who'ly  ashes.  An'  de  nig- 
ger what  fotch  dat  log  tek  good  care 
dat  hit  mighty  green  log,  so  hit  cyahn 
burn  fas'.  Chris'mus  mornin'  de  ole 
niggers  git  up  early  an'  'sprise  Marse 
George  an  Ole  Miss  an'  de  chillun  an' 
cotch  'em  Chris'mus  gif.  Eve'y  nig- 
ger on  de  plantation,  big  'n'  little,  have 
he  Chris'mus  gif,  'sides  mighty  good 
Chris'mus  dinner  an'  sumpustuous  vit- 
tles  all  de  time.  Marse  George  an'  Ole 
Miss  tek  de  Chris'mus  gif's  fur  de  ole 
niggers  down  to  de  cab'ns  deyse'f,  an' 
young  niggers  tote  de  baskits.  Atter 
dinner  all  de  white  folks  what  spen'nin' 
Chris'mus  wid  we  -  alls,  kaze  Marse 
George  have  a  house  full  o'  de  quality 
all  de  time,  but  mo'  speshully  endurin' 
Chris'mus  times,  —  all  de  white  folks 
come  wid  Marse  George  an'  Ole  Miss 
inter  de  kitch'n,  whar  all  de  niggers 
waitin',  what  wuk  in  de  house  an'  roun' 
de  house,  an'  den  dey  drink  Marse 
George  and  Ole  Miss  health  an*  de 
health  of  yuther  ladies  an'  gen'muns 
what  stayin'  wid  we- alls.  Dey  drinks 
dey  health  out'n  a  gret  big  bowl  o'  egg- 
nogg,  an'  Marse  George  sen'  plenty  mo' 
down  to  de  cab'ns,  an'  I  tell  yer  dis, 
honey,  dat  dat-dar  egg-nogg,  which 
Marse  George  mix  hit  hisse'f,  wuz  fitten 
fur  a  regal  king  to  squench  his  thirs' 
out'n,  an'  when  de  niggers  dance  dat 
night  in  de  kerridge  house,  which  dey 
move  de  kerridges  so  dey  kin  dance,  de 
fiddle  furnish  de  music,  but  de  toddy 
done  mek  de  frolic. 


"Dis  yer  kep'  up  eve'y  Chris'mus 
'fo'  dewar,  but  endurin'  de  war  Marse 
George  wuz  'way  fum  home  fightin',  an' 
I  hearn  tell  dat  he  fit  same  like  a  lion, 
but  he  boun'  ter  fight  brave,  kaze  he 
quality.  De  war  ain'  tech  us  much  whar 
we  live,  kaze  we  wuz  out'n  de  way,  but 
all  de  gen'muns  in  de  neighborhoods 
went  'way  an'  fit. 

"Bymeby  de  news  reach  us  dat  Marse 
Lincoln  done  set  all  de  niggers  free.  At 
fus'  dis  doan  mek  much  diffunce  'cep'n' 
de  niggers  mighty  glad  dat  dey  free  now 
same  like  white  folks.  I  spec'  mos'  un 
'em  think  dat  freedom  gwine  mek  der 
skin  white  des  like  dey  marseters.  How 
nigger  gwine  know  dat  when  he  own 
hisse'f  he  gotter  rastle  'roun'  an'  tek 
care  hisse'f  an'  buy  his  own  cloze  an' 
vittles  an'  chawin'  terbaccer  ?  How  nig- 
ger gwine  know  what  freedom  is,  when 
he  cyahn  spell  freedom,  an'  he  cyahn 
read  freedom,  an'  he  cyahn  write  free- 
dom ?  Yit  he  think  he  know,  an'  hit 
mek  him  mighty  peart  and  biggity  to 
hoi'  he  head  high  an'  say,  '  I  ain'  slave 
no  mo'.  I  free  same  like  white  gen'- 
mun.'  Dat  de  way  dey  feel,  an' 
'twarn't  long  'fo'  mos'  de  niggers  gun 
ter  git  ras'less  an'  leave  de  plantation 
an'  ramble  off  to  'njoy  deyse'f  an'  seek 
dey  forchun.  But  I  stay  whar  I  wuz, 
an'  some  o'  de  yuther  niggers  stay  dar 
too, — mo'  speshully  de  ole  niggers, 
kaze  we  hatter  stay  dar  an'  tek  care  Ole 
Miss  an'  de  chillun  when  Marse  George 
'way  fum  home.  Yit  I  feel  mighty 
proud  kaze  I  free. 

"Marse  George  come  back  when  de 
war  over,  an'  live  on  de  plantation. 
He  live  dar  'bout  fo'teen  yers,  an'  I  live 
dar,  too,  an'  wuk  in  de  gyard'n.  But 
times  wuz  changed.  Dar  warn 't  no  nig- 
gers in  mos'  o'  de  cab'ns;  an'  Marse 
George  kep'  one  buggy  an'  one  kerridge 
an'  two  horses  stid  o'  big  stable  full  like 
he  useter  keep.  An'  atter  while  de 
craps  did  n'  fotch  de  prices  no  mo'  what 
dey  useter  fotch,  an'  Marse  George  hat- 
ter borrer  money  which  he  spected  ter 
pay  back  nex'  yer  when  prices  riz,  an' 


Whar  my   Chris* mus? 


753 


when  nex'  yer  come,  prices  done  drap 
mo',  an'  he  hatter  borrer  mo'  money. 

"Den  come  de  day  when  he  call  me 
inter  de  dinm'-room  an'  de  yuther  nig- 
gers what  stayed  wid  'im  atter  de  war, 
an'  Ole  Miss  wuz  dar,  an'  de  tears  wuz 
in  he  eyes,  an'  he  clar  he  throat  an'  say, 
'  Dan'l  an'  Tobe, '  sezee,  an'  de  yuther 
niggers,  which  he  call  'em  by  name,  '  I 
done  ruint,  an'  de  she 'iff  gwine  sell  dis 
place  nex'  mont'.  I  gwine  tek  yo'  Mis- 
tis  an'  de  chillun  to  de  city  whar  I  got 
wuk  promust.  You  all  is  my  black  chil- 
lun, eve'y  one,  an'  hit  brek  my  heart 
to  leave  yer,  but  I  ain'  got  money  'nuff 
ter  tek  no  one  'cep'n'  ole  mammy  an' 
Rachel, '  which  wuz  de  cook.  Den  we- 
all  bus'  loose  a-cryin',  an'  we  beg  Marse 
George  not  ter  go  'way  an'  leave  us,  an' 
ef  he  boun'  ter  go  to  de  city,  to  tek  us 
wid  him.  But  he  say  he  cyahn  do  dat, 
kaze  he  too  po'.  He  might  tek  Small- 
pox Tobe  dat  wait  on  table,  an'  Nancy 
what  wuk  in  de  house,  an'  git  'em  place 
wid  some  quality  folks  in  de  city,  but 
he  cyahn  tek  me  'long,  kaze  I  ain'  got 
no  larnin'  an'  dunno  nothin'  but  'bout 
wuk  in  gyard'n,  an'  Marse  George  say 
dar  ain'  no  gyard'ns  in  de  city;  yit  all 
de  quality,  what  'quainted  wid  me,  'low 
my  manners  wuz  of  de  bes',  kaze  I  bin 
raised  right. 

"So  nex'  mont'  de  plantation  wuz 
sole,  an'  de  house  an'  all  de  furnicher 
an'  de  kerridge  an'  horses ;  an'  Marse 
George  an'  he  fambly,  an'  ole  mammy 
an'  Rachel,  an'  Smallpox  Tobe  an' 
Nancy  move  to  de  city,  an'  I  stay  dar 
on  de  plantation,  kaze  de  man  what 
bought  it,  he  hired  me  to  wuk  de  gyar- 
d'n, an'  Marse  George  done  tell  him  dat 
I  fus'-class  gyard'ner. 

"De  man  what  bought  we-alls'  place 
wuz  po'  white  trash,  an'  he  wife,  she  po' 
white  trash,  too;  an'  dey  wuz  de  mean- 
es'  white  folks  dat  I  ever  run  up  wid 
atter  soshiatin'  wid  de  quality  all  my 
born  days.  Dey  useter  keep  market  stall 
in  de  town,  an'  dey  live  po'  an'  save 
money  'fo'  dey  buy  our  plantation,  which 
hit  brung  less  'n  half  what  it  wurf .  Dey 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  48 


warn't  real  bad  people  what  de  debbil 
loves,  but  dey  mean,  an'  dey  ain'  got  no 
breed'n'.  Dey  wuz  des  trash,  dat  what 
dey  wuz,  yit  dey  git  'long  better  'n 
Marse  George. 

"De  ve'y  fus'  thing  dat  man  done, 
he  tek  de  marble  statchers  off 'n  de  lawn 
an'  sell  'em  in  de  town  at  auction  sale; 
an'  he  plough  up  de  lawn  mos'  up  to 
de  front  do'  an'  sow  wheat  dar;  an'  de 
graveyard,  which  hit  had  mos'  un  de 
graves  took'n  out'n  hit,  but  not  all,  he 
riz  a  wire  nettin'  fum  de  groun  up  'bove 
de  iron  pailin's  an'  mek  chicken-yard 
out'n  hit.  He  plough  up  mos'  o'  de  flow- 
er gyard'n  an'  mek  veg' table  gyard'n 
bigger ;  an'  atter  fo'  er  five  yer,  des  'fo' 
Chris 'mus,  he  cut  down  de  gret  big  box- 
wood hedges,  what  wuz  'long  o'  de  gyar- 
d'n walks  an'  wuz  higher  dan  tall  man's 
head,  an'  he  sen'  'em  to  de  city  an'  sell 
'em  fur  Chris 'mus  fixin's;  an'  he  rent 
de  right  to  haul  seine  on  his  sho'  by  de 
river,  which  Marse  George  allus  'lowed 
'em  to  haul  free,  when  dey  please.  Yas, 
honey!  He  done  des  what  I  tells  you 
un;  an'  f  udder  mo',  in  summertime  his 
wife  took'n  in  po'  white  trash  bo'ders 
in  de  gret  house  whar  Marse  George  an' 
Ole  Miss  useter  live,  an'  whar  de  bes' 
o'  de  quality  useter  stay  all  de  time. 

"Hit  seem  like  I  cyahn  stan'  dat 
man,  an'  I  cyahn  stan'  he  wife  fum  de 
fus',  an'  when  he  come  in  my  gyard'n 
an'  cut  down  my  boxwood  hedges,  I 
mek  up  my  min'  dat  I  mus'  sholy  leave 
'n'  go  to  de  city  an'  fin'  Marse  George 
an'  tell  'im  dat  I  cyahn  stay  on  de  ole 
place  no  mo',  but,  des  'bout  dat  time, 
Marse  George  wuz  took'n  sick,  which 
de  wuk  in  de  city  ain'  never  'gree  wid 
his  systums,  an'  'fo'  long  de  good  Lord 
tuk  him  to  hisse'f,  an'  Ole  Miss  ain* 
live  mor'n  fo'  five  mont's  atter  him. 
Dat  man  read  me  dat  out'n  de  news- 
paper, kaze  he  know  dat  I  studyin'  'bout 
leavin',  an'  he  know  I  fus'-class  gyar- 
d'ner. 

"Atter  Marse  George  an'  Ole  Miss 
done  daid,  I  mek  up  my  min'  dat  I  stay 
whar  I  is,  an'  die  dar  too,  kaze  I  love 


754 


Whar  my   Chris'mus? 


dat  place,  yit  I  feel  mighty  lonesome. 
I  ain'  seen  Marse  George  an'  Ole  Miss 
sence  dey  move  to  de  city,  but  eve'y 
Chris 'mus  atter  dey  done  gone  an'  whiles 
dey  wuz  livin',  dey  sont  me  a  gret  big 
box  fur  Chris 'mus  gif  same  like  ole 
times,  wid  good  cloze  an'  chawin'  ter- 
baccer  an'  cole  vittles  an'  little  money. 

"Atter  while  I  feel  like  I  get  tin'  ole 
myse'f,  an'  when  winter  come,  sho' 
'miff,  de  rheumatiz  cotch  me,  an'  hit 
cotch  me  mighty  bad.  I  wuz  kep'  in 
bed  endurin'  all  dat  winter,  an'  dat  man 
ain'  treat  me  so  bad  twel  de  spring  gun 
ter  commence.  Den  I  git  out'n  bed  an' 
hobble  'roun',  but  I  so  lame  an'  stiff 
wid  de  rheumatiz  dat  I  cyahn  do  no 
wuk;  an'  de  doctor  say  he  spec'  I  gwine 
git  wuss  but  he  doan  spec'  I  gwine  git 
no  better. 

"Dat  wuz  dis  yer  las'  spring.  When 
de  doctor  say  I  gwine  be  lame  an'  cyahn 
do  no  wuk,  dat  man  come  down  ter  my 
cab'n  an'  say  he  sorry,  but  ef  I  don'  git 
strong  an'  limber  some  by  de  fall,  so  I 
kin  wuk  'gin,  he  hatter  sen'  me  to  de 
county  po' house. 

"Den  I  git  mad,  I  did,  an'  I  up  'n' 
ax  him  what  he  doin'  talkin'  to  free  nig- 
ger like  dat;  an'  I  tell  'im  dat  dis  h'yer 
cab'n  's  my  cab'n,  kaze  Marse  George 
gun  hit  to  me  'n'  Susan  atter  Unc'  Hez'- 
kiah  done  move  out,  an'  I  done  live  dar 
all  my  life  an'  I  gwine  die  dar,  too. 

"Den  he  laugh  an'  say  he  bought  de 
cab'n  when  he  bought  de  Ian',  an'  he 
ax  me  fuddermo'  what  I  gwine  do  fur 
vittles. 

"Dat  upsot  my  min'  when  he  up  'n' 
ax  me  what  I  gwine  do  fur  vittles,  yit 
I  know  dat  de  cab'n  's  my  cab'n. 

"Dar  I  wuz.  I  kep'  a-studyin'  an' 
a-studyin'  'bout  what  I  gwine  do.  All 
de  quality  what  wuz  frien's  of  Marse 
George  an'  dat  I  'quainted  wid,  an'  dat 
useter  live  in  de  neighborhoods,  wuz  bus' 
up  like  Marse  George  was  bus'  up,  an' 
done  moved  'way  wid  dey  fambleys  like 
him,  or  wuz  done  daid.  All  'roun', 
whar  I  wuz  'quainted,  po'  white  trash 
hadboughtde  Ian',  leas 'wise  dey  warn 't 


quality,  an'  dey  wuk  de  Ian'  like  dat 
man  what  gwine  tek  my  cab'n  'way  fum 
me,  an'  ain'  gwine  gin  me  no  vittles, 
kaze  I  cyahn  do  no  wuk,  an'  what  gwine 
sen'  me  to  po' house. 

"An'  all  de  ole  niggers  what  I  know 
is  moved  'way  deyse'f,  or  took'n  'way 
by  dey  marseters,  like  we-alls,  Small- 
pox Tobe  an'  ole  mammy  an'  Rachel  an' 
Nancy,  or  dey  done  daid;  an'  as  fur  de 
young  niggers  what 's  growed  up  sence 
de  war,  I  ain'  never  had  no  use  fur  dem, 
wid  dar  spellin' -books  an'  dar  readin' 
an'  writin'  an'  dar  uppity  manners. 

"I  kep'  on  a-studyin'  what  I  gwine 
do,  an'  I  pray  to  de  good  Lord,  an'  I 
ax  him  ter  he'p  me  out'n  dis  yer  trou- 
ble an'  triberlation,  an'  ter  ferry  me 
over  de  deep  waters  what  all  'roun'  me. 
An'  den  hit  come  to  my  'membunce  dat 
Marse  George  clone  lef '  a  son  what  live 
in  de  city ;  an'  I  git  dat  man  ter  write 
him  a  letter,  an'  tell  him  in  dar,  dat  I 
ole  an'  got  rheumatiz  an'  cyahn  wuk  no 
mo' ;  an'  I  say  I  mus'  go  ter  county 
po'house  'cep'n'  I  took'n  care  of  by  de 
quality  what  love  ole  nigger  dat  cyahn 
wuk  better  'n  young  nigger  dat  kin. 
An'  I  tell  him  all  de  quality  done  move 
'way  fum  our  neighborhoods,  an'  he 
Marse  George  son,  an'  I  feared  ter  go 
ter  po'house. 

"Atter  while  I  git  a  letter  back  an' 
dat  man  read  hit  to  me.  Hit  say  he 
mighty  sorry  dat  I  mus'  go  to  po'house, 
but  he  cyahn  tek  care  o'  me,  fur  he  got 
big  f  ambly  to  tek  care  un ;  an'  he  sont 
me  five  dollars.  But  dat  man  tek  de 
five  dollars  hisse'f,  kaze  he  say  he  done 
tek  care  me  free  fur  mos'  a  yer,  an'  I 
owe  'im  mor'n  five  dollars  a'ready. 

"  Den  I  think  de  good  Lord  done  f  er- 
git  de  ole  nigger  sho'  'miff,  an'  den  dey 
brung  me  h'yer." 

"I  spec'  de  good  Lord  sont  yer  h'yer 
fur  ter  keep  comp'ny  wid  me,  kaze  I 
sick  an'  gwine  die,"  said  the  boy. 
"When  yer  tells  me  'bout  dem  good 
times,  hit  mek  me  mos'  fergit  dis 
h'yer." 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  boy  affec- 


Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


755 


tionately.  "Honey,"  said  he,  "de  fire 
gone  out  an'  I  spec'  I  better  kiver  yer 
up  de  bes'  I  kin  'fo'  I  say  de  Lord's 
Pra'r,  what  Ole  Miss  larn  me  when  I 
little  nigger,  an'  git  ter  bed  myse'f." 

With  many  a  grunt  and  groan  of  pain 
he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  with  the  aid 
of  a  home-made  crutch  and  hickory 
walking-stick  hobbled  painfully  to  the 
boy's  side.  He  tucked  the  clothes  about 
him,  smoothed  his  straw  pillow,  and 
stood  for  the  moment  of  prayer  with  his 
hand  resting  caressingly  on  the  boy's 
head.  Then  he  blew  out  the  light, 
stretched  himself  upon  his  own  rude  bed, 
and  drew  the  tattered  blankets  about 
him. 

Outside  the  wind  howled  and  the 
storm  beat  upon  the  house.  Within  was 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  coughing  of 


the  sick  boy  and  the  dismal  moaning  of 
Crazy  Dick. 

After  a  while  the  boy  called  softly, 
"Unc'  Dan'l!  Is  yer  'sleep?" 

The  old  man's  pillow  was  wet  with 
tears,  and  his  voice  shook  when  he  an- 
swered. 

"I  ain'  git  ter  sleep  yit,  son,"  said 
he.  "I  des  bin  lyin'  h'yer  an'  studyin' 
'bout  dem  ole  times  what  I  bin  tellin' 
yer  'bout.  Mebbe  dese  yer  times  is  good 
times  fur  young  nigger  dat  brung  up 
sence  de  war.  But  I  bin  studyin'  'bout 
fool  nigger  what  wuz  raised  a 'ready 
when  he  git  he  freedom,  an'  dat  glad 
when  de  news  come.  Now  he  ole,  an' 
he  cole,  an'  he  hongry,  an'  he  ain'  got 
nochawin'  terbaccer;  an'  he  ax  hisse'f 
dis  h'yer  question :  '  Marse  Lincoln  gun 
me  freedom.  Whar  my  Chris 'mus  ?  ' 
Beirne  Lay. 


LOCKHART'S  LIFE  OF  SCOTT.1 


THE  praise  "  he  deserved  well  of  his 
country  "  is  an  exceeding  great  reward, 
and  should  be  bestowed  only  after  grave 
deliberation.  Some  men  prefer  a  wider 
reach,  and  nurse  a  hope  that  their 
memories  will  pass  beyond  national 
boundaries,  unhindered  as  by  the  line 
of  a  meridian.  There  are  others  whose 
pride  is  to  have  deserved  well  of  some 
ideal  person,  to  have  been  "  friend  to 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,"  disciple  to  Socrates ; 
"  to  have  deserved  well  of  his  country  "  is 
commendation,  to  be  given  sparingly,  and 
when  given  not  to  be  forgotten.  We  are 
too  ready  with  this  phrase,  as  if  it  were 
the  cross  of  St.  Olaf,  a  ribbon  with  the 
Black  Eagle,  or  the  Order  of  the  Bath  ; 
we  give  it  too  prodigally  to  those  who 
gratify  the  appetite  of  the  hour,  to  the 

1  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  By 
JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART.  Boston  and  New 
York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1902.  5  vols. 


man  who  gains  a  battle,  or  extends  the 
landmarks  of  empire,  or,  may  be,  with 
heaped -up  wealth  founds  a  university. 
Such  men  may  merit  the  epitaph,  but 
there  is  a  risk,  in  that  first  cheerfulness 
begotten  by  dissipated  alarms,  by  length- 
ened purse,  or  by  the  comfortable  pros- 
pect of  a  royal  road  to  learning,  lest  our 
tongues  should  be  too  quickly  loosed.  It 
is  so  easy  and  seems  so  generous  to  grant 
great  epithets  to  men  who  have  staked 
their  lives  or  hazarded  their  fortunes  for 
the  very  complacent  and  laudable  end 
that  our  lives  and  fortunes  be  made 
easier.  The  men  who  have  indeed  de- 
served well  of  their  country  are  they  who 
have  set  up  a  loftier  standard  for  its  gen- 
tlemen, who  have  in  prosperity  and  ad- 
versity consistently  followed  the  strait 
ways  of  honor,  who  have  bestowed  upon 
their  fellow  countrymen  new  cause  to  be 
proud  of  their  native  land,  who  have  en- 
deared her  to  other  nations,  or  have  given 
enjoyment  to  millions  of  her  children. 


756 


Lockhartfs  Life  of  Scott. 


This  is  true  service,  and  all  this  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  did. 

Three  generations  ago  lived  four  very 
famous  British  men,  of  Westminster  Ab- 
bey mortuary  measure :  Nelson,  who 
from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  the 
Arctic  Ocean  made  England  mistress  of 
the  seas  ;  Wellington,  who  from  Tala- 
vera  to  Waterloo  added  glory  upon  glory 
to  the  British  flag ;  Byron,  who  carried 
the  breath  of  English  liberty  to  down- 
trodden Italy  and  enslaved  Greece ;  and 
Walter  Scott,  who  made  Britain  beloved 
by  men  of  other  countries,  who,  by  his 
ideals  of  manhood,  of  chivalry,  of  honor, 
gave  new  incentives  to  Englishmen,  and 
on  his  joyous  and  painful  path  through 
life  bestowed  more  happiness  upon  his 
fellow  men  than  any  other  British  man 
has  ever  done. 

It  is  wholly  fit  that  Americans  should 
go  on  pilgrimage  to  Abbotsford.  A 
remembrance  of  virtue  is  there  which 
we,  at  least,  cannot  find  at  Canterbury, 
Lourdes,  or  Loreto.  There  is  but  one 
comparable  spot  in  Great  Britain,  and 
that  is  on  the  banks  of  Avon ;  but  at 
Stratford,  encompassed  by  memorials  of 
idolatry,  surrounded  by  restoration  and 
renovation,  harried  and  jostled  by  tour- 
ists, the  pilgrim  wearily  passes  from 
bust  to  portrait,  from  Halliwell  to  Fur- 
ness,  from  sideboard  to  second-best  bed- 
stead, with  a  sick  sense  of  human  im- 
mortality, till  his  eye  lights  upon  the 
"  W.  Scott  "  scrawled  on  the  window- 
pane.  If  Walter  Scott  made  this  pil- 
grimage, if  his  feet  limped  through  the 
churchyard  of  Holy  Trinity,  if  he  looked 
at  the  ugly  busts,  if  he,  too,  was  elbowed 
by  American  women  there,  then  wel- 
come all,  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Stratford 
again. 

Abbotsford  has  discomforts  of  its  own, 
but  there  one  has  glimpses  of  Scott's 
abounding  personality.  How  wonderful 
was  that  personality  ;  how  it  sunned  and 
warmed  and  breathed  balm  upon  the 
lean  and  Cassius-like  Lockhart,  till  that 
sweetened  man  became  transfigured,  as 


it  were,  and  wrote  one  of  the  most  ac- 
ceptable and  happy  books  of  the  world  ; 
—  a  personality,  so  rich  and  ripe,  that 
nature  of  necessity  encased  it  in  lovable 
form  and  features.  In  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery  is  a  good  picture  of 
Scott,  large-browed,  blue-eyed,  ruddy- 
hued,  the  great  out  of  door  genius  ;  one 
of  his  dogs  looks  up  at  him  with  saga- 
cious appreciation.  There  is  the  large 
free  figure,  the  benevolent  man,  the 
mirthful  host,  the  honest  counselor,  the 
chivalric  friend  ;  but  what  can  a  painter 
with  all  his  art  tell  us  of  a  person  whom 
we  love  ?  How  can  he  describe  the 
noble  career  from  boyhood  to  death; 
how  can  he  narrate  the  wit,  the  laughter, 
the  generosity,  the  high  devotion,  the 
lofty  character,  the  dogged  resolution, 
and  the  womanly  tenderness  of  heart  ? 
The  biographer  has  the  harder  task.  A 
hundred  great  portraits  have  been  paint- 
ed, from  Masaccio  to  John  Sargent,  but 
the  great  biographies  are  a  half  dozen, 
and  one  of  the  best  is  this  book  of  Lock- 
hart's. 

As  generations  roll  on,  the  past  drifts 
more  and  more  from  the  field  of  our 
vision ;  the  England  of  Scott's  day  has 
become  a  classic  time,  the  subjects  of 
George  III.  are  strangers  of  foreign 
habits ;  tastes  change,  customs  alter, 
books  multiply,  and  with  all  the  rest  the 
Waverley  Novels  likewise  show  their 
antique  dress  and  betray  their  mortal- 
ity ;  but  the  life  of  a  great  man  never 
loses  its  interest.  As  a  time  recedes  into 
remoteness,  its  books,  saving  the  few  on 
which  time  has  no  claim,  become  un- 
readable, but  a  man's  life  retains  and 
tightens  its  hold  upon  us.  It  is  hardly 
too  much  to  say  that  Lockhart  has  done 
for  Scott's  fame  almost  as  much  as 
Scott  himself.  The  greatest  of  Scots- 
men in  thirty  novels  and  half  a  dozen 
volumes  of  poetry  has  sketched  his  own 
lineaments,  but  Lockhart  has  filled  out 
that  sketch  with  necessary  amplification, 
admiring  and  just.  What  would  we 
not  give  for  such  a  biography  of  Homer 


Lockhcui?B  Life  of  Scott. 


757 


or  Cicero,  of  Dante  or  Shakespeare  ?  But 
if  we  possessed  one,  dare  we  hope  for  a 
record  of  so  much  virtue  and  happiness, 
of  so  much  honor  and  heroic  duty  ? 

Walter  Scott  is  not  only  a  novelist, 
not  only  a  bountiful  purveyor  of  enjoy- 
ment ;  his  life  sheds  a  light  as  well  as  a 
lustre  on  England.  Of  right  he  ought 
to  be  seated  on  St.  George's  horse,  and 
honored  as  Britain's  patron  saint,  for  he 
represents  what  Britain's  best  should  be, 
he,  the  loyal  man,  the  constant  friend, 
joyous  in  youth,  laborious  in  manhood, 
high-minded  in  the  sad  decadent  years, 
thinking  no  evil,  and  faithful  with  the 
greatest  faith,  that  in  virtue  for  virtue's 
sake.  Every  English-speaking  person 
should  be  familiar  with  that  noble  life. 

One  sometimes  wonders  if  a  change 
might  not  without  hurt  be  made  in  the 
studies  of  boys ;  whether  Greek  com- 
position, or  even  solid  geometry,  — 
studies  rolled  upward  like  a  stone  to 
roll  down  again  at  the  year's  end  with 
a  glorious  splash  into  the  pool  of  obliv- 
ion, —  might  not  be  discontinued,  and 
in  its  stead  a  course  of  biography  be 
put.  I  would  have  my  boys  read  and 
read  again  the  biographies  of  the  men 
who  to  my  thinking  deserved  well  of 
their  country.  The  first  two  should  be 
the  History  of  Don  Quixote  and  Lock- 
hart's  Life  of  Scott.  In  young  years, 
so  fortified  against  enclitics  and  angles, 
yet  unfolding  and  docile  to  things  which 
touch  the  heart,  would  not  the  boy  de- 
rive as  much  benefit  from  an  enthusias- 
tic perusal  of  Lockhart's  volumes  as 
from  disheartening  attempts  to  escalade 
the  irregular  aorist?  It  was  not  for 
nothing  that  the  wise  Jesuits  bade  their 
young  scholars  read  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints.  Are  there  no  lessons  to  be  learned 
for  the  living  of  life  ? 

Don  Quixote  and  Sir  Walter  Scott 
look  very  unlike,  one  with  his  cracked 
brain  and  the  other  with  his  shrewd 
good  sense,  but  they  have  this  in  com- 
mon, that  the  one  is  an  heroic  man 
whose  heroism  is  obscured  by  craziness 


and  by  the  irony  under  which  Cervantes 
hid  his  own  great  beliefs,  and  the  other 
is  an  heroic  man,  whose  heroism  is  ob- 
scured by  success  and  by  the  happiness 
under  which  Scott  concealed  daily  duty 
faithfully  done.  In  the  good  school  of 
hero-worship  these  men  supplement  one 
another,  the  proud  Spaniard,  the  can- 
ny Scot,  great-hearted  gentlemen  both. 
Our  affection  for  them  is  less  a  matter 
of  argument  than  of  instinct ;  their 
worthiness  is  demonstrated  by  our  love. 
I  cannot  prove  to  you  my  joy  in  the  month 
of  May ;  if  you  feel  dismal  and  Novem- 
brish,  why,  turn  up  your  collar  and  shiver 
lustily.  The  Spaniard  is  rather  for  men 
who  have  failed  as  this  world  judges; 
the  Scot  for  those  who  live  in  the  sun- 
shine of  life. 

English  civilization,  which  with  all 
its  imperfections  is  to  many  of  us  the 
best,  is  a  slow  growing  plant ;  though 
pieced  and  patched  with  foreign  graft- 
ings, it  still  keeps  the  same  sap  which 
has  brought  forth  fruit  this  thousand 
years.  It  has  fashioned  certain  ideals 
of  manhood,  which,  while  changing 
clothes  and  speech  and  modes  of  action, 
maintain  a  resemblance,  an  English 
type,  not  to  be  likened  to  foreign  ideals, 
beautiful  as  those  may  be ;  we  have 
much  to  learn  from  their  great  examples, 
but  the  noble  type  of  the  English  is  dif- 
ferent. Sir  Thomas  Malory's  Round 
Table,  Philip  Sidney,  Falkland,  Rus- 
sell, Howard  the  philanthropist,  Robert- 
son the  priest,  Gordon  the  soldier,  — 
choose  whom  you  will,  —  have  a  national 
type,  not  over  -  flexible,  but  of  a  most 
enduring  temper.  The  traditions  which 
have  gathered!  about  these  men  have 
wrought  a  type  of  English  gentleman, 
which  we  honor  in  our  unreasonable 
hearts.  Our  ideals  are  tardy  and  anti- 
quated ;  they  savor  of  the  past,  of  the 
long  feudal  past.  We  listen  politely  to 
the  introducer  of  new  doctrines  of  right- 
eousness, of  new  principles  of  morality, 
and  nod  a  cold  approval,  "  How  no- 
ble !  "  "  What  a  fine  fellow  !  "  «  Excel- 


758 


Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


lent  man !  "  but  there  is  no  touch  of  that 
enthusiasm  with  which  we  cry,  "  There  ! 
there  is  a  gentleman  !  "  A  foolish  meth- 
od, no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  raps  and 
raillery  it  receives,  but  it  is  the  Eng- 
lish way.  Educated  men,  with  their 
exact  training  in  sociology  and  science, 
smile  at  us,  mock  us,  bewail  us,  and  still 
our  cheeks  flush  with  pleasure  as  we  be- 
hold on  some  conspicuous  stage  the  old 
type  of  English  hero ;  and  we  feel,  igno- 
rantly,  that  there  is  no  higher  title  than 
that  of  gentleman,  no  better  code  of 
ethics  than  that  of  chivalry,  rooted 
though  it  be  on  the  absurd  distinction 
between  the  man  on  horseback  and  the 
man  on  foot. 

The  great  cause  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
popularity  during  life  and  fame  after 
death  is  that  he  put  into  words  the 
chivalric  ideas  of  England,  that  he  de- 
clared in  poem,  in  romance,  and  in  his 
actions  the  honorable  service  rendered 
by  the  Cavalier  to  society,  because  his 
stories  stirred  the  deep  instinctive  af- 
fections —  prejudices  if  you  will  —  of 
British  conservatism.  He  founded  the 
Romantic  School  in  Great  Britain,  not 
because  he  was  pricked  on  by  Border 
Ballads  or  by  G5tz  von  Berlichingen,  but 
because,  descended  from  the  Flower  of 
Yarrow  and  great-grandson  of  a  Killie- 
crankie  man,  he  had  been  born  and  bred 
a  British  gentleman,  with  all  his  poetic 
nature  sensitive  to  the  beauty  and  charm 
of  chivalry.  History  as  seen  by  a  poet  is 
quite  different  from  history  as  seen  by  a 
Social  Democrat,  and  the  Cavalier  —  if 
we  may  draw  distinctions  that  do  not 
touch  any  question  of  merit  —  requires 
a  historian  of  different  temper  and  of 
different  education  from  the  historian  of 
the  clerk  or  the  ploughman.  The  youth 
filled  with  rich  enthusiasm  for  life,  kin- 
dled into  physical  joy  by  a  hot  gallop, 
quickened  by  a  fine  and  tender  sympa- 
thy between  man  and  beast,  crammed 
with  fresh  air,  health,  and  delight,  vivi- 
fied with  beauty  of  April  willows  and 
autumnal  heather,  is  remote,  stupidly  re- 


mote perhaps,  from  the  scrivener  at  his 
desk,  or  the  laborer  with  his  hoe.  The 
difference  is  not  just,  it  is  not  in  accord 
with  sociological  theories,  it  must  pass 
away  ;  yet  it  has  existed  in  the  past  and 
still  survives  in  the  present,  and  a  Cava- 
lier to  most  of  us  is  the  accepted  type  of 
gentleman,  and  "  chivalric  "  is  still  the 
proudest  adjective  of  praise.  Of  this  sec- 
tion of  life  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  the  great 
historian,  and  he  became  its  historian, 
not  so  much  because  he  was  of  it,  as  be- 
cause he  delighted  in  it  with  all  his  quali- 
ties of  heart  and  head. 

We  still  linger  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
shadow  cast  by  the  Feudal  Period ;  we 
cannot  avoid  its  errors,  let  us  not  for- 
get the  virtues  which  it  prescribes ;  let  us 
remember  the  precepts  of  chivalry,  truth- 
telling,  honor,  devotion,  enthusiasm,  com- 
passion, reckless  self  -  sacrifice  for  an 
ideal,  love  of  one  woman,  and  affection 
for  the  horse.  For  such  learning  there 
is  no  textbook  like  this  Life  of  Scott. 
Moreover,  in  Lockhart's  biography,  we 
are  studying  the  English  humanities,  we 
learn  those  special  qualities  which  di- 
rected Scott's  genius,  those  tastes  and 
inclinations  which,  combining  with  his 
talents,  enabled  him  to  shift  the  course 
of  English  literature  from  its  eighteenth- 
century  shallows  into  what  is  known  as 
the  Romantic  movement. 

It  is  a  satisfaction  that  America  should 
render  to  Scott's  memory  this  homage  of 
generous  print,  broad  margin,  and  that 
comfortable  weight  that  gives  the  hand 
a  share  in  the  pleasure  of  the  book  and 
yet  exacts  no  further  service.  What 
would  the  boy  Walter  Scott  have  said, 
if  in  vision  these  stately  volumes,  like 
Banquo's  issue  royally  appareled,  had 
risen  before  him  one  after  one,  to  inter- 
rupt his  urchin  warfare  in  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh  ?  But  the  physical  book,  ad- 
mirable as  it  is,  equipped  for  dress  parade 
and  somewhat  ostentatious  in  its  pride  of 
office,  is  but  the  porter  of  its  contents. 
Miss  Susan  M.  Francis,  with  pious  care, 
excellent  judgment,  and  sound  discrimi- 


Lockharfs  Life  of  Scott. 


759 


nation,  worthy  indeed  of  the  true  disci- 
ple, has  done  just  what  other  disciples 
have  long  been  wishing  for.  At  appro- 
priate places  in  the  text,  as  if  Lockhart 
had  paused  to  let  Miss  Francis  step  for- 
ward and  speak,  come,  in  modest  guise  as 
footnotes,  pertinent  passages  from  Scott's 
Journal,  and  letters  from  Lady  Louisa 
Stuart,  John  Murray,  and  others.  The 
Familiar  Letters,  the  Journal,  and  many 
another  book  to  which  Lockhart  had  no 
access,  have  supplied  Miss  Francis  with 
the  material  for  these  rich  additions. 
The  reader's  pleasure  is  proof  of  the 
great  pains,  good  taste,  and  long  experi- 
ence put  to  use  in  compiling  these  notes. 
The  editor's  is  an  honest  service  hon- 
orably performed.  As  a  consequence  — 
and  perhaps  I  speak  as  one  of  many  — 
I  now  possess  an  edition  of  Lockhart, 
which,  strong  in  text,  notes,  and  form, 
may  make  bold  to  stand  on  the  shelf 
beside  what  for  me  is  the  edition  of  the 
Waverley  Novels.  This  edition  pub- 
lished in  Boston  —  it  bears  the  name 
Samuel  H.  Parker  —  has  a  binding,  which 
by  some  ordinance  of  Nature  or  of  Time, 
the  two  great  givers  of  rights,  has  come 
to  be  the  proper  dress  of  the  Waverley 
Novels.  Its  color  varies  from  a  deep 
mahogany  to  the  lighter  hues  of  the  horse- 
chestnut  ;  what  it  may  have  been  before 
it  was  tinted  by  the  hands  of  three  gen- 
erations cannot  be  guessed.  This  ripe 
color  has  penetrated  within  and  stained 
the  pages  with  its  shifting  browns.  It 
is  plain  that  Time  has  pored  and  paused 
over  these  volumes,  hesitating  whether  he 
should  not  lay  aside  his  scythe  ;  he  will 
travel  far  before  he  shall  find  again  so 
pleasant  a  resting-place.  This  Parker  edi- 
tion used  to  stand  on  a  shelf  between  two 
windows,  with  unregarded  books  above 
and  below.  On  another  bookcase  stood 
the  Ticknor  and  Fields  edition  of  Lock- 
hart,  1856,  according  to  my  Benedict 
Arnold  memory,  its  back  bedecked  with 
claymores  and  a  filibeg,  or  some  such 
thing ;  the  designer  seems  to  have  thought 
that  Scott  was  a  Highland  chief.  But, 


though  exceeding  respectable,  that  edi- 
tion was  obviously  of  lower  rank  than 
the  Parker  edition  of  the  novels  ;  be-clay- 
mored  and  filibegged  it  stood  apart  and 
ignored,  while  the  novels  were  taken  out 
as  if  they  had  been  ballroom  belles.  In 
fact,  there  is  something  feminine,  some- 
thing almost  girlish,  about  a  delightful 
book ;  without  wooing  it  will  not  yield 
the  full  measure  of  its  sweetness.  In 
those  days  we  always  made  proper  pre- 
paration—  a  boy's  method  of  courtship 

—  to  read  Scott.   The  proper  preparation 

—  but  who  has  not  discovered  it  for  him- 
self ?  —  is  to  be  young  and  to  put  an  ap- 
ple, a  gillyflower,  into  the  right  pocket, 
two  slices  of  buttered  bread,  quince  jam 
between,  into  the  left,  thrust  the  mahoga- 
ny volume  into  the  front  pouch  of  the 
second-best   sailor   suit,   then,  carefully 
protecting   these    protuberant    burdens, 
shinny  up  into  a  maple  tree,  and  there 
among  the  branches,  hidden  by  the  leaves, 
which  half   hinder  and  half  invite  the 
warm,  green  sunshine,  sit  noiseless ;  the 
body  be-appled  and  be-jammed  into  qui- 
escent sympathy,  while  the  elated  spirit 
swims  dolphin-like  over  the  glorious  sea 
of    romance.     That  one    true    way    of 
reading  the  Waverley  Novels  poor  Mr. 
Howells   never   knew.     He   must  have 
read  them,  if  he  has  read  them  at  all, 
seated  on  a  high  stool,  rough  and  hard, 
with  teetering  legs,  in  a  dentist's  parlor. 
He  has  had  need  to  draw  a  prodigal  por- 
tion from  his  Fortunatus'  purse  of  our 
respect  and  affection  to  justify  his  way- 
ward  obliquity  toward    Scott.     I  wish 
that  I  were  in  a  sailor's  blouse  again, 
that  I  might  shinny  back  into  that  ma- 
ple tree,  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Howells, 
with  Miss  Francis's  volumes  of  Lock- 
hart  (one  at  a  time),  to  read  and  re-read 
the  story  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  feel 
again  the  joy  which  comes  from  the  pe- 
rusal of  a  biography  written  by  a  wise 
lover  and  edited  by  a  wise  disciple,  with 
no  break  in  the  chain  of  affection  between 
us  and  the  object  of  our  veneration.    Per- 
haps Miss  Francis  would  do  us  the  honor 


760 


LocJchart's  Life  of  Scott. 


to  take  a  ladder  and  join  our  party.  But 
youth  and  jam  and  gillyflowers  are  luxu- 
ries soon  spent,  and  Miss  Francis  has 
done  her  best  to  make  amends  for  their 
evanescence.  She  has  done  a  public 
kindness,  and  she  has  had  a  double  re- 
ward, first,  in  living  in  familiar  converse 
with  Scott's  spirit,  second,  in  the  thanks 
which  must  come  to  her  thick  and  fast 
from  all  Scott  lovers. 

We  might  well  wish  that  every  young 
man  and  every  boy  were  reading  these 
big-printed  volumes,  adorned  with  pic- 
tures of  our  hero,  of  his  friends,  both 
men  and  dogs,  and  of  the  places  where 
he  lived.  Let  a  man  economize  on  his 
sons'  clothes,  on  their  puddings,  and 
toys,  but  the  wise  father  is  prodigal  with 
books.  A  good  book  should  have  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  its  rank,  it 
should  betray  its  gentle  condition  to  the 
most  casual  beholder,  so  that  he  who 
sees  it  on  a  shelf  shall  be  tempted  to 
stretch  forth  his  hand,  and  having  grasped 
this  fruit  of  an  innocent  tree  of  knowledge, 
shall  eat,  digest,  and  become  a  wiser,  a 
happier,  and  a  better  man  or  boy. 

II. 

Without  meaning  to  disparage  the  Fu- 
ture, —  it  will  have  its  flatterers,  —  or 
the  Present,  which  is  so  importunately 
with  us  always,  there  is  much  reason  with 
those  who  think  that  the  home  of  poetry 
is  in  the  Past.  There  our  sentiments 
rest,  like  rays  of  light  which  fall  through 
storied  windows  and  lie  in  colored  melan- 
choly upon  ancient  tombs.  That  which 
was  once  a  poor,  barren  Present,  no 
better  than  our  own,  gains  richness  and 
mystery,  and,  as  it  drifts  through  twi- 
light sha4es  beyond  the  disturbing  reach 
of  human  recollection,  grows  in  refine- 
ment, in  tenderness,  in  nobility.  Mem- 
ory is  the  great  purgatory ;  in  it  the 
commonness,  the  triviality  of  daily  hap- 
penings become  cleansed  and  ennobled, 
and  our  petty  lives,  gliding  back  into  the 
Eden  from  which  they  seem  to  issue,  be- 
come altogether  innocent  and  beautiful. 


In  this  world  of  memory  there  is  an 
aristocracy  ;  there  are  ephemeral  things 
and  long-lived  things,  there  is  existence 
in  every  grade  of  duration,  but  almost 
all  on  this  great  backward  march  gain  in 
beauty  and  interest.  It  is  so  in  the  mem- 
ory of  poets,  it  is  so  with  everybody. 
There  is  a  fairy,  benevolent  and  solemn, 
who  presides  over  memory  ;  she  is  capri- 
cious and  fantastic,  too,  and  busies  her- 
self with  the  little  as  well  as  with  the  big 
things  of  life.  If  we  look  back  on  our 
boarding-school  days,  what  do  we  remem- 
ber ?  Certainly  not  our  lessons,  nor  the 
rebukes  of  our  weary  teachers,  nor  the 
once  everlasting  study  hour  ;  but  we  re- 
call every  detail  of  the  secret  descent 
down  the  fire-escape  to  the  village  pastry- 
cook's, where,  safeguarded  by  a  system 
of  signals  stretching  continuous  to  the 
point  of  danger,  we  hurriedly  swallowed 
creamcakes,  Washington  pies,  raspberry 
turnovers,  and  then  with  smeared  lips 
and  skulking  gait  stealthily  crept  and 
climbed  back  to  a  sleep  such  as  few  of 
the  just  enjoy. 

This  fairy  of  memory  was  potent  with 
Walter  Scott.  He  loved  the  Past,  he 
never  spoke  of  it  but  with  admiration  and 
respect,  he  studied  it,  explored  it,  hon- 
ored it ;  not  the  personal  Past,  which  our 
egotism  loves,  but  the  great  Past  of  his 
countrymen.  This  sentiment  is  the  mas- 
ter quality  in  his  novels,  and  gives  them 
their  peculiar  interest.  There  have  been 
plenty  of  historical  novels,  butnone  others 
bear  those  tender  marks  of  filial  affection 
which  characterize  the  Waverley  Novels. 

There  is  another  quality  in  Scott  close- 
ly connected  with  his  feeling  for  the 
Past,  which  we  in  America,  with  our  de- 
mocratic doctrines,  find  it  more  difficult 
to  appreciate  justly.  This  quality,  re- 
spect for  rank,  —  a  very  inadequate  and 
inexact  phrase,  —  is  part  and  parcel  of  a 
social  condition  very  different  from  our 
own.  Scott  had  an  open,  generous  ad- 
miration for  that  diversity  which  gave 
free  play  to  the  virtues  of  loyalty  and 
gratitude  on  one  side,  and  of  protection 


Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


761 


and  solicitude  on  the  other.  The  Scot- 
tish laird  and  his  cotters  had  reciprocal 
duties  ;  instead  of  crying  "  Each  man  for 
himself  !  "  they  enjoyed  their  mutual  de- 
pendence. The  tie  of  chieftain  and  clans- 
man bore  no  great  dissimilarity  to  that 
of  father  and  son,  new  affections  were 
called  out,  a  gillie  took  pride  in  his  chief, 
and  the  chief  was  fond  of  his  gillie. 

Scott's  respect  for  rank  was  as  far  re- 
moved from  snobbery  as  he  from  Hec- 
uba ;  it  was  not  only  devoid  of  all  mean- 
ness, but  it  had  a  childlike,  a  solemn,  and 
admirable  element,  a  kind  of  acceptance 
of  society  as  established  by  the  hand  of 
God.  Added  to  this  solemn  acceptance 
was  his  artistic  pleasure  in  the  pictur- 
esque variety  and  gradation  of  rank,  as 
in  a  prospect  where  the  ground  rises  from 
flatness,  over  undulating  meadows,  to  roll- 
ing hills  and  ranges  of  mountains.  It 
is  exhilarating  to  behold  even  seeming 
greatness,  and  the  perspective  of  rank 
throws  into  high  relief  persons  of  birth 
and  office,  and  cunningly  produces  the 
effect  of  greatness.  That  patriotism 
which  clings  to  flag  or  king,  with  Scott 
attached  itself  to  the  social  order.  He 
was  intensely  loyal  to  the  structure  of 
society  in  which  he  lived,  not  because  he 
was  happy  and  prosperous  under  it,  but 
because  to  him  it  was  noble  and  beauti- 
ful. When  a  project  for  innovations  in 
the  law  courts  was  proposed,  he  was 
greatly  moved.  "No,  no,"  said  he  to 
Jeffrey,  "little  by  little,  whatever  your 
wishes  may  be,  you  will  destroy  and  un- 
dermine, until  nothing  of  what  makes 
Scotland  Scotland  shall  remain  ; "  and 
the  tears  gushed  down  his  cheeks.  The 
social  system  of  clanship,  "We  Scots 
are  a  clannish  body,"  made  this  senti- 
ment easy  ;  he  felt  toward  his  chief  and 
his  clan  as  a  veteran  feels  toward  his 
colonel  and  his  regiment. 

To  Scott's  historic  sentiment  and  ten- 
derness of  feeling  for  the  established  so- 
cial order  was  added  a  love  of  place, 
begotten  of  associations  with  pleasant 
Teviotdale,  the  Tweed,  Leader  Haughs, 


the  Braes  of  Yarrow,  bequeathed  from 
generation  to  generation.  We  Ameri- 
cans, men  of  migratory  habits,  who  do 
not  live  where  our  fathers  have  lived,  or, 
if  so,  pull  their  houses  down  that  we  may 
build  others  with  modern  luxury,  are 
strangers  to  the  deep  sentiment  which  a 
Scotsman  cherishes  for  his  home  ;  —  not 
the  mere  stones  and  timber,  which  keep 
him  dry  and  warm,  but  the  hearth  at 
which  his  mother  and  his  forefathers  sat 
and  took  their  ease  after  the  labor  of  the 
day,  the  ancient  trees  about  the  porch, 
the  heather  and  honeysuckle,  the  high- 
road down  which  galloped  the  post  with 
news  of  Waterloo  and  Culloden,  the  lit- 
tle brooks  of  border  minstrelsy,  and  the 
mountains  of  legend  ;  we  do  not  share 
his  inward  feeling  that  his  soul  is  bound 
to  the  soul  of  the  place  by  some  rite  cele- 
brated long  before  his  birth,  that  for  bet- 
ter or  worse  they  two  are  mated,  and  not 
without  some  hidden  injury  can  anything 
but  death  part  them.  Perhaps  such  feel- 
ings are  childish,  they  certainly  are  not 
modish  according  to  our  American  no- 
tions, but  over  those  who  entertain  them 
they  are  royally  tyrannical.  It  was  so 
with  Scott,  and  though  when  left  to  our- 
selves we  may  not  feel  that  feeling,  he 
teaches  us  a  lively  sympathy  with  it,  and 
gives  us  a  deeper  desire  to  have  what  we 
may  really  call  a  home. 

Scott  also  possessed  a  great  theatrical 
imagination.  He  looked  on  life  as  from 
an  upper  window,  and  watched  the  vast 
historical  pageant  march  along  ;  his  eye 
caught  notable  persons,  dramatic  inci- 
dents, picturesque  episodes,  with  the  skill 
of  a  sagacious  theatre  manager.  Not 
the  drama  of  conscience,  not  the  meetings 
and  maladjustments  of  different  tempera- 
ments and  personalities,  not  the  whims 
of  an  over-civilized  psychology,  not  the 
sensitive  indoor  happenings  of  life :  but 
scenes  that  startle  the  eye,  alarm  the  ear, 
and  keep  every  sense  on  the  alert ;  the 
objective  bustle  and  much  ado  of  life; 
the  striking  effects  which  contrast  clothes 
as  well  as  character,  bringing  together 


762 


LockharCs  Life  of  Scott. 


Highlander  and  Lowlander,  Crusader 
and  Saracen,  jesters,  prelates,  turnkeys, 
and  foresters.  That  is  why  the  Waverley 
Novels  divide  honors  with  the  theatre  in 
a  boy's  life.  I  can  remember  how  easy 
seemed  the  transition  from  my  thumbed 
and  dog-eared  Guy  Mannering  to  the 
front  row  of  the  pit,  which  my  impatience 
reached  in  ample  time  to  study  the  cur- 
tain resplendent  with  Boccaccio's  gar- 
den before  it  was  lifted  on  a  wonderful 
world  of  romance  wherein  the  jeune 
premier  stepped  forward  like  Frank  Os- 
baldistone,  Sir  Kenneth,  or  any  of  "  my 
insipidly  imbecile  young  men,"  as  Scott 
called  them,  to  play  his  difficult,  ungrate- 
ful part,  just  as  they  did,  with  awkward- 
ness and  self-conscious  inability,  while  the 
audience  passed  him  by,  as  readers  do 
in  the  Waverley  Novels,  to  gaze  on  the 
glittering  mise  en  scene,  and  watch  the 
real  heroes  of  the  piece. 

The  melodramatic  theatre  indicates 
certain  fundamental  truths  of  human  na- 
ture. We  have  inherited  traits  of  the 
savage,  we  delight  in  crimson  and  sound- 
ing brass,  in  soldiers  and  gypsies,  nor  can 
we  conceal,  if  we  would,  that  other  and 
nearer  ancestry,  betrayed  by  the  poet ;  — 
"  The  child  is  father  to  the  man  :  "  the 
laws  of  childhood  govern  us  still,  and  it 
is  to  this  common  nature  of  Child  and 
Man  that  Scott  appeals  so  strongly. 

"  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife ! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 

Scott  was  a  master  of  the  domain  of 
simple  theatrical  drama.  What  is  there 
more  effective  than  his  bravado  scenes, 
which  we  watch  with  that  secret  sympa- 
thy for  bragging  with  which  we  used  to 
watch  the  big  boys  at  school,  for  we  know 
that  the  biggest  words  will  be  seconded 
by  deeds.  "Touch  Ralph  de  Vipont's 
shield  —  touch  the  Hospitaller's  shield  ; 
he  is  your  cheapest  bargain."  "  *  Who 
has  dared,'  said  Richard,  laying  his  hands 
upon  the  Austrian  standard,  '  who  has 
dared  to  place  this  paltry  rag  beside 


the  banner  of  England  ? ' "  « <  Die,  blood- 
thirsty dog  ! '  said  Balfour,  '  die  as  thou 
hast  lived  !  die,  like  the  beasts  that  per- 
ish —  hoping  nothing  —  believing  no- 
thing '  —  « And  fearing  nothing  !  '  said 
Bothwell."  These,  and  a  hundred  such 
passages,  are  very  simple,  but  simple  with 
a  simplicity  not  easy  to  attain ;  they  touch 
the  young  barbarian  in  us  to  the  quick. 
In  addition  to  these  traits,  Scott  had  that 
shrewd  practical  understanding,  which  is 
said  to  mark  the  Scotsman.  Some  acute 
contemporary  said  that  "  Scott's  sense 
was  more  wonderful  than  his  genius." 
In  fact,  his  sense  is  so  all-pervasive  that  it 
often  renders  the  reader  blind  to  the  im- 
aginative qualities  that  spread  their  great 
wings  throughout  most  of  the  novels.  It 
was  this  good  sense  that  enabled  Scott 
to  supply  the  admirable  framework  of 
his  stories,  for  it  taught  him  to  under- 
stand the  ways  of  men,  —  farmers,  shop- 
keepers, lawyers,  soldiers,  lairds,  gra- 
ziers, smugglers,  —  to  perceive  how  all 
parts  of  society  are  linked  together,  and 
to  trace  the  social  nerves  that  connect  the 
shepherd  and  the  blacksmith  with  his- 
toric personages.  Scott  had  great  pow- 
ers of  observation,  but  these  powers,  in- 
stead of  being  allowed  to  yield  at  their 
own  will  to  the  temptation  of  the  moment, 
were  always  under  the  control  of  good 
sense.  This  controlled  observation,  aided 
by  the  extraordinary  healthiness  of  his 
nature,  enabled  him  to  look  upon  life  with 
*  so  much  largeness,  and  never  suffered  his 
fancy  to  wander  off  and  fasten  on  some 
sore  spot  in  the  body  social,  or  on  some 
morbid  individual ;  but  held  it  fixed  on 
healthy  society,  on  sanity  and  equilib- 
rium. Natural,  healthy  life  always  drew 
upon  Scott's  abundant  sympathy.  Dan- 
die  Dinmont,  Mr.  Oldbuck,  Baillie  Jar- 
vie,  and  a  hundred  more  show  the  great- 
est pigment  of  art,  the  good  color  of 
health.  Open  a  novel  almost  at  random 
and  you  meet  a  sympathetic  understand- 
ing. For  example,  a  fisherwoman  is 
pleading  for  a  dram  of  whiskey  :  "  Ay, 
ay,  —  it 's  easy  for  your  honor,  and  like 


Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


763 


o'  you  gentlefolks,  to  say  sae,  that  hae 
stouth  and  routh,  and  fire  and  fending, 
and  meat  and  claith,  and  sit  dry  and 
canny  by  the  fireside.  But  an'  ye  wanted 
fire  and  meat  and  dry  claise,  and  were 
deeing  o'  cauld,  and  had  a  sair  heart, 
whilk  is  warst  ava',  wi'  just  tippence  in 
your  pouch,  wadna  ye  be  glad  to  buy  a 
dram  wi'  it,  to  be  eilding  and  claise,  and 
a  supper  and  heart's  ease  into  the  bar- 
gain till  the  morn's  morning  ?  " 

It  is  easy  to  disparage  common  sense 
and  the  art  of  arousing  boyish  interest, 
just  as  it  is  easy  to  disparage  romantic 
affections  for  the  past,  for  rank,  and  for 
place,  but  Scott  had  a  power  which 
transfigured  common  sense,  theatrical  im- 
agination, and  conservative  sentiments; 
Scott  was  a  poet.  His  poetic  genius  has 
given  him  one  great  advantage  over  all 
other  English  novelists.  As  we  think  of 
the  famous  names,  Fielding,  Richardson, 
Jane  Austen,  Thackeray,  Dickens,  Char- 
lotte Bronte,  George  Eliot,  Meredith ;  ac- 
cording to  our  taste,  our  education,  or 
our  whimsies,  we  prefer  this  quality  in 
one,  we  enjoy  that  in  another,  and  we 
may,  as  many  do,  put  others  above  Scott 
in  the  hierarchy  of  English  novelists, 
but  nobody,  not  even  the  most  intemper- 
ate, will  compare  any  one  of  them  with 
Scott  as  a  poet.  Scott  had  great  lyrical 
gifts.  It  has  been  remarked  how  many 
of  his  poems  Mr.  Palgrave  has  inserted 
in  the  Golden  Treasury.  Palgrave  did 
well.  There  are  few  poems  that  have 
the  peculiar  beauty  of  Scott's  lyrics. 
Take,  for  example,  — 

"  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew." 

What  maiden  could  resist,  — 

"  A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 
A  feather  of  the  blue  "  ? 


Scott's  poetic  nature,  delicate  and 
charming  as  it  is  in  his  lyrics,  pictur- 
esque and  vigorous  as  it  is  in  his  long 
poems,  finds  its  sturdier  and  most  nat- 
ural expression  in  his  novels  ;  in  them 
it  refines  the  prodigal  display  of  picto- 
rial life,  it  bestows  lightness  and  vivid- 
ness, it  gives  an  atmosphere  of  beauty, 
and  a  joyful  exhilaration  of  enfranchise- 
ment from  the  commonplace  ;  it  mingles 
the  leaven  of  poetry  into  ordinary  life, 
and  causes  what  we  call  romance.  Take, 
for  example,  a  subject  like  war.  War, 
as  it  is,  commissariat,  dysentery,  mule- 
trains,  six-pounders,  disemboweled  boys, 
reconcentration,  water-cure,  lying,  and 
swindling,  has  been  described  by  Zola 
and  Tolstoi  with  the  skill  of  that  genius 
which  is  faithful  to  the  nakedness  of  fact. 
But  for  the  millions  who  do  not  go  to 
the  battlefield,  hospital,  or  burial-ditch, 
war  is  another  matter ;  for  them  it  is 
a  brilliant  affair  of  colors,  drums,  uni- 
forms, courage,  enthusiasm,  heroism,  and 
victory  ;  it  is  the  most  brilliant  of  stage- 
shows,  the  most  exciting  of  games.  This 
is  the  familiar  conception  of  war;  and 
Scott  has  expressed  his  thorough  sympa- 
thy with  immense  poetical  skill.  Let  the 
sternest  Quaker  read  the  battle  scene  in 
Marmion,  and  he  will  feel  his  temper 
glow  with  warlike  ardor  ;  and  the  fight- 
ing in  the  novels,  for  instance  the  battle 
in  Old  Mortality,  is  still  better.  In  like 
manner  in  the  pictures  of  Highland  life 
the  style  may  be  poor,  the  workmanship 
careless,  but  we  are  always  aware  that 
what  we  read  has  been  written  by  one 
who  looked  upon  what  he  describes  with 
a  poet's  eye. 

The  poetry  that  animates  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels  was  not,  as  with  some  men,  a 
rare  accomplishment  kept  for  literary 
use,  but  lay  deep  in  Scott's  life.  As 
a  young  man  he  fell  in  love  with  a  lady 
who  loved  and  married  another,  and  all 
his  life  her  memory,  etherealized  no 
doubt  after  the  manner  of  poets  and 
lovers,  stayed  with  him,  so  that  despite 
the  greatest  worldly  success,  his  finer 


764 


Lockhartfs  Life  of  Scott. 


happiness  lay  in  imagination.  But  as  he 
appeared  at  Abbotsford,  gayest  among 
the  gay,  prince  of  good  fellows,  what 
comrade  conjectured  that  the  poet  had 
not  attained  his  heart's  desire  ? 

ill. 

It  is  easy  to  find  fault  with  Scott ;  he 
has  taken  no  pains  to  hide  the  bounds 
of  his  genius.  He  was  careless  to 
slovenliness,  he  hardly  ever  corrected 
his  pages,  he  worked  with  a  glad  animal 
energy,  writing  two  or  three  hours  be- 
fore breakfast  every  morning,  chiefly  in 
order  to  free  himself  from  the  pressure  of 
his  fancy.  So  lightly  did  he  go  to  work 
that  when  taken  sick  after  writing  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor  he  forgot  all  but 
the  outline  of  the  plot.  His  pen  coursed 
like  a  greyhound;  at  times  it  lost  the 
scent  of  the  story  and  strayed  away  into 
tedious  prologue  and  peroration,  or  in 
endless  talk,  and  then,  the  scent  re- 
gained, it  dashed  on  into  a  scene  of  un- 
equaled  vigor  and  imagination.  There 
are  few  speeches  that  can  rank  with  that 
of  Jeanie  Deans  to  Queen  Caroline : 
"  But  when  the  hour  of  trouble  comes  to 
the  mind  or  to  the  body  —  and  seldom 
may  it  visit  your  Leddyship  —  and  when 
the  hour  of  death  comes,  that  comes  to 
high  and  low  —  lang  and  late  may  it  be 
yours  —  O  my  Leddy,  then  it  isna  what 
we  hae  dune  for  oursells,  but  what  we 
hae  dune  for  others,  that  we  think  on 
maist  pleasantly.  And  the  thoughts  that 
ye  hae  intervened  to  spare  the  puir 
thing's  life  will  be  sweeter  in  that  hour, 
come  when  it  may,  than  if  a  word  of 
your  mouth  could  hang  the  haill  Porte- 
ous  mob  at  the  tail  of  ae  tow." 

Scott  was  a  vigorous,  happy  man, 
who  rated  life  far  higher  than  literature, 
and  looked  upon  novel  -  writing  as  a 
money-getting  operation.  "  *  I  'd  rather 
be  a  kitten  .  and  cry  Mew,'  "  he  said, 
"  than  write  the  best  poetry  in  the  world 
on  condition  of  laying  aside  common 
sense  in  the  ordinary  transactions  and 
business  of  the  world."  He  would  have 


entertained  pity,  not  untouched  by  scorn, 
for  those  novelists  who  apply  to  a  novel 
the  rules  that  govern  a  lyric,  and  come 
home  fatigued  from  a  day  spent  in 
seeking  an  adjective.  Scott  wrote  with 
what  is  called  inspiration  ;  when  he  had 
written,  his  mind  left  his  manuscript 
and  turned  to  something  new.  No 
doubt  we  wish  that  it  had  been  other- 
wise, that  Scott,  in  addition  to  his  im- 
aginative power,  had  also  possessed  the 
faculty  of  self-criticism  ;  perhaps  Nature 
has  adopted  some  self-denying  ordi- 
nance, that,  where  she  is  so  prodigal  with 
her  right  hand,  she  will  be  somewhat 
niggard  with  the  left.  We  are  hard  to 
please  if  we  demand  that  she  shall  add 
the  delicate  art  of  Stevenson  to  the 
virile  power  of  Walter  Scott. 

There  is  a  second  fault;  archaeolo- 
gists tell  us  that  no  man  ever  spoke  like 
King  Richard,  Ivanhoe,  and  Locksley. 
Scott,  however,  has  erred  in  good  com- 
pany. Did  Moses  and  David  speak  as 
the  Old  Testament  narrates  ?  Did 
knights  -  errant  ever  utter  such  words 
as  Malory  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Perce- 
val? Or  did  the  real  Antony  have  the 
eloquence  of  Shakespeare  ?  Historical 
and  archaeological  mistakes  are  serious 
in  history  and  archaeology,  and  shocking- 
ly disfigure  examination  papers,  but  in 
novels  the  standards  are  different.  Per- 
haps men  learned  in  demonology  are 
put  out  of  patience  by  Paradise  Lost 
and  the  Inferno,  and  scholars  in  fairy 
lore  vex  themselves  over  Ariel  and 
Titania ;  but  Ivanhoe  is  like  a  picture, 
which  at  a  few  feet  shows  blotches  and 
daubs,  but  looked  at  from  the  proper 
distance,  shows  the  correct  outline  and 
the  true  color.  The  raw  conjunction  of 
Saxon  and  Norman,  the  story  how  the 
two  great  stocks  of  Englishmen  went 
housekeeping  together,  is  told  better 
than  in  any  history.  A  multitude  of 
little  errors  congregate  together  and  yet 
leave  a  historic  whole,  which  if  not  true 
to  Plantagenet  England,  is  yet  correct 
in  its  delineation  of  a  great  period  of 


Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


765 


social  change,  and  of  those  phenomena 
that  attend  the  struggle  of  social  orders 
for  self-preservation  and  dominion.  So 
it  is  with  The  Talisman.  The  picture 
of  the  crusading  invasion  of  Palestine 
is  no  doubt  wholly  incorrect  in  all  de- 
tails, and  yet  what  book  equals  it  in 
enabling  us  to  understand  the  romantic 
attitude  of  Europe  and  the  great  popu- 
lar Christian  sentiment  which  expressed 
itself  in  unchristian  means  and  built  so 
differently  from  what  it  knew  ?  But 
we  need  not  quarrel  in  defense  of  Ivan- 
hoe,  or  Quentin  Durward,  or  The  Talis- 
man. Unquestionably  the  Scottish  nov- 
els are  the  best,  Rob  Roy,  Guy  Manner- 
ing,  The  Antiquary,  Old  Mortality,  The 
Heart  of  Mid-Lothian  ;  in  them  we  find 
portraiture  of  character,  drawn  with  an 
art  that  must  satisfy  the  most  difficult 
advocate  of  studies  from  life  ;  and  prob- 
ably all  of  Scott's  famous  characters  were 
drawn  from  life. 

A  more  serious  charge  is  that  Scott 
is  not  interested  in  the  soul,  that  the 
higher  domains  of  human  faculties,  love 
and  religion,  are  treated  not  at  all  or 
else  inadequately.  At  first  sight  there 
seems  to  be  much  justice  in  this  com- 
plaint, for  if  our  minds  run  over  the 
names  of  the  Waverley  Novels,  —  the 
very  titles,  like  a  romantic  tune,  play  a 
melody  of  youth,  —  we  remember  no 
love  scene  of  power,  nor  any  lovable  wo- 
man except  Diana  Vernon,  and  the  re- 
ligion in  them  is  too  much  like  that 
which  fills  up  our  own  Sunday  mornings 
between  the  fishballs  of  breakfast  and 
the  cold  roast  beef  of  dinner.  Carlyle  has 
expressed  his  dissatisfaction  with  Scott's 
shortcomings,  after  the  manner  of  an  elo- 
quent advocate  who  sets  forth  his  case, 
and  leaves  the  jury  to  get  at  justice  as 
best  they  may.  He  denies  that  Scott 
touches  the  spiritual  or  ethical  side  of 
life,  and  therefore  condemns  him.  But 
Carlyle  does  not  look  for  ethics  except  in 
exhortations,  nor  for  spiritual  life  except 
in  a  vociferous  crying  after  God ;  where- 
as the  soul  is  wayward  and  strays  outside 


of  metaphysics  and  of  righteous  indig- 
nation. That  Scott  himself  was  a  good 
man,  in  a  very  high  and  solemn  signifi- 
cance of  those  words,  cannot  be  ques- 
tioned by  any  one  who  has  read  his  bio- 
graphy and  letters.  No  shadow  of  self- 
deception  clouded  his  mind  when,  in 
moments  of  great  physical  pain,  he  said  : 
"I  should  be  a  great  fool,  and  a  most 
ungrateful  wretch,  to  complain  of  such 
inflictions  as  these.  My  life  has  been  in 
all  its  private  and  public  relations  as  for- 
tunate, perhaps,  as  was  ever  lived,  up  to 
this  period;  and  whether  pain  or  mis- 
fortune may  lie  behind  the  dark  curtain 
of  futurity,  I  am  already  a  sufficient 
debtor  to  the  bounty  of  Providence  to 
be  resigned  to  it ;  "  nor  when  he  thought 
he  was  dying :  "  For  myself  I  am  uncon- 
scious of  ever  having  done  any  man  an 
injury  or  omitted  any  fair  opportunity 
of  doing  any  man  a  benefit."  Every  one 
knows  his  last  words  :  "  Lockhart,  be  a 
good  man  —  be  virtuous  —  be  religious 
—  be  a  good  man.  Nothing  else  will  give 
you  any  comfort  when  you  come  to  lie 
here." 

Ethics  has  two  methods,  one  is  the 
way  of  the  great  Hebrew  prophets  who 
cry,  "  Woe  to  the  children  of  this  world ! 
Repent,  repent !  "  and  Carlyle's  figure, 
as  he  follows  their  strait  and  narrow 
way,  shows  very  heroic  on  the  skyline 
of  life  ;  but  there  is  still  room  for  those 
teachers  of  ethics  who  follow  another 
method,  who  do  not  fix  their  eyes  on 
the  anger  of  God,  but  on  the  beautiful 
world  which  He  has  created.  To  them 
humanity  is  not  vile,  nor  this  earth  a 
magnified  Babylon  ;  they  look  for  virtue 
and  they  find  it ;  they  see  childhood 
ruddy-cheeked  and  light-hearted,  youth 
idealized  by  the  enchantment  of  first 
love  ;  they  rejoice  in  a  wonderful  world  ; 
they  laugh  with  those  who  laugh,  weep 
with  mourners,  dance  with  the  young, 
are  crutches  to  the  old,  tell  stories  to  the 
moping,  throw  jests  to  the  jolly,  com- 
fort cold  hearts,  and  leave  everywhere 
a  ripening  warmth  like  sunlight,  and  a 


766 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


faith  that  happiness  is  its  own  justifica- 
tion. This  was  the  way  of  Walter  Scott. 
No  doubt  spiritual  life  can  express  it- 
self in  cries  and  prophecies,  yet  for  most 
men,  looking  over  chequered  lives,  or 
into  the  recesses  of  their  own  hearts,  the 
spiritual  life  is  embodied  not  in  loud 
exhortations  and  threats,  but  rather  in 
honor,  loyalty,  truth ;  and  those  who 
let  this  belief  appear  in  their  daily  life 
are  entitled  to  the  name,  toward  which 
they  are  greatly  indifferent,  of  spiritual 
teachers.  Honor,  loyalty,  truth,  were 
very  dear  to  Walter  Scott ;  his  love  for 
them  appears  throughout  his  biography. 
He  says,  "  It  is  our  duty  to  fight  on,  doing 
what  good  we  can  and  trusting  to  God 
Almighty,  whose  grace  ripens  the  seeds 
we  commit  to  the  earth,  that  our  bene- 


factions shall  bear  fruit."  Among  the 
good  seeds  Scott  committed  to  the  earth 
are  his  novels,  which,  if  they  are  not  spir- 
itual, according  to  the  significance  of  that 
word  as  used  by  prophet  and  priest,  have 
that  in  them  which  has  helped  genera- 
tions of  young  men  to  admire  manliness, 
purity,  fair  play,  and  honor,  and  has 
strengthened  their  inward  resolutions  to 
think  no  unworthy  thoughts,  to  do  no 
unworthy  deeds.  Literature,  not  preach- 
ing, has  been  the  great  civilizer ;  if  it  has 
not  been  as  quick  to  kindle  enthusiasm 
for  large  causes,  it  has  acted  with  greater 
sureness  and  has  built  more  permanent- 
ly ;  and  of  all  the  great  names  in  litera- 
ture as  a  power  for  good,  who  shall  come 
next  to  Shakespeare,  Dante,  and  Cer- 
vantes, if  not  Walter  Scott  ? 

H.  D.  Sedgwick,  Jr. 


A  DELICATE  TRIAL. 


I. 


THE  smoky  atmosphere  of  a  Western 
city  darkens  the  windows  of  a  gray  stone 
building  in  which  the  local  Art  Stu- 
dents' League  is  housed,  —  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  over,  under,  and  side  by  side 
with  the  quieter  sort  of  business  offices. 
A  cheerless  place,  even  at  noon,  is  the 
principal  room  of  this  league,  and  now, 
at  the  approach  of  night,  in  the  silence 
that  pervades  the  entire  building  after 
business  hours,  the  plaster  casts  and  the 
unfinished  drawings  abandoned  on  easels 
are  like  spectres  in  the  twilight  watch- 
ing the  agony  of  the  only  real  person 
here  present. 

This  solitary  occupant,  a  man  not 
more  than  twenty-four  or  twenty-five 
years  old,  has  been  drawing  a  head  of 
Dante  and  quarreling  desperately  with 
his  own  work;  as  yet,  however,  sup- 
pressing outward  signs  of  this  conflict. 
You  will  notice  merely  that  the  hollows 


in  his  cheeks  are  deepened  by  the  firm 
set  of  a  resolute  jaw,  and  that  under 
the  spectacles,  which  look  almost  gro- 
tesquely large  on  his  thin,  smooth-shav- 
en face,  his  eyes  are  burning  with  con- 
centrated purpose,  or  fever,  or  both. 
It  is  the  culmination  of  a  long  struggle 
of  the  will  to  have  its  way,  in  spite  of 
failing  strength  and  the  assaults  of  a 
rabble  of  cares  (taking  advantage  of  this 
weakness)  upon  his  heart, —  which  "cit- 
adel of  courage  "  is  in  imminent  danger 
of  being  captured  by  the  enemy.  The 
decisive  moment  in  the  career  of  an 
artist  has  arrived. 

If  one  of  us,  now,  should  be  able  to 
steal  forward  tmperceived  into  the  room, 
impelled  by  sympathy,  it  would  be  to 
hear,  on  coming  nearer,  the  art  stu- 
dent's short,  quick  breathing,  and  to 
notice  that  his  whole  frame  is  shaken 
from  time  to  time  by  a  tremor,  though 
this  may  be  only  the  natural  effect  of  the 
chilly  air  upon  his  overworked  and,  I 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


767 


fear,  half-starved  body.  And,  in  fact, 
while  we  cannot  interpose,  something 
which  amounts  to  an  actual  diversion 
does  take  place,  a  familiar  counselor  of 
the  young  man  —  none  other  than  com- 
mon sense  —  beginning  to  advise  him 
almost  as  distinctly  as  though  a  separate 
person  had  entered  into  conversation 
with  him. 

"You  have  set  a  task  for  yourself 
that's  far  beyond  your  powers,"  this 
counselor  begins.  "Your  own  head  is 
crowded  with  the  people  of  Dante's  In- 
ferno ;  but  must  you  try  to  suggest  in 
the  expression  of  the  poet's  face,  as  you 
draw  it,  his  vision  of  hell  ?  Be  content 
to  draw  his  features  as  they  are  shown  in 
the  bust  before  you,  —  really  an  excel- 
lent piece  of  work ;  and  do  not  even  go  on 
with  that  moderate  task  until  you  have 
had  dinner  and  a  good  night's  sleep." 

The  young  man  grins  unpleasantly 
when  the  expression  "dinner  and  a  good 
night's  sleep, "  a  formula  with  rather 
different  and  not  very  recent  associa- 
tions, slips  into  his  thoughts.  The  coun- 
selor goes  on :  — 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  since  you 
are  bent  on  showing  Dante  face  to  face 
with  all  those  ingeniously  tortured  souls 
he  has  described,  that  after  years  of  pa- 
tient study,  provided  you  have  genius, 
such  things  may  be  done.  But  do  you 
insist  that  it  is  of  the  essence  of  por- 
traiture to  interpret  your  subject  so  com- 
pletely, and  that  you  must  and  will  do 
it  immediately?  Nonsense,  my  dear 
boy !  A  few  years  of  waiting  are  no- 
thing at  all  to  a  young  man  like  you. 
Come  away  to  rest." 

By  way  of  reply  to  this  easy-going 
plan  the  art  student's  face  takes  on  an 
immovable  look ;  it  is  set  like  another 
grim  image  opposite  Dante's.  From 
time  to  time  he  adds  to  the  drawing. 

Presently  he  directs  a  perplexed  and 
startled  look  toward  his  right  hand. 

"  Go  on !  "  he  commands,  but  it  will 
not  budge  in  the  work.  "Not  another 
line, "  it  replies  in  effect,  by  falling  at 
his  side. 


For  a  little  while  the  demons  his  fancy 
conceives,  with  Fear  and  Despair  in  the 
lead,  have  him  at  their  mercy.  Mutiny 
among  the  members  he  has  experienced 
often  enough  before  this  moment,  but 
now  his  will  stands  alone,  with  no  ser- 
vant to  do  its  bidding,  deserted  by  its 
forces ;  still  he  does  not  yield,  with  gal- 
lant unreason  refusing  to  accept  defeat, 
even  when  defeat  is  proved. 

And  now,  without  any  conscious  ef- 
fort, but  as  though  by  some  extraneous 
force,  his  hand  is  lifted  up ;  and  while 
it  goes  on  with  the  interrupted  work 
still  under  this  extraneous  guidance,  he 
listens  to  a  voice  of  authority,  most 
agreeably  distinguished  from  that  of  the 
first  counselor,  a  voice  so  full  of  con- 
fidence that  its  accent  is  well -nigh 
humorous :  — 

"A  few  knowing  touches  with  pen- 
cil, crayon,  or  brush  are  all  we  need. 
Omit  this  line ;  put  one  here.  Strength- 
en this  shadow.  Here,  nothing  at  all : 
give  the  imagination  its  chance.  There 
a  rub  —  so :  a  little  laying  on  of  hands, 
as  though  you  would  conjure  the  work 
to  grow,  not  compel  or  drive  it. 

"Now  is  n't  he  almost  alive!  See 
how  the  old  fellow  stares  and  wonders. 
Doesn't  it  make  you  glance  over  your 
shoulder  in  the  direction  his  eyes  take, 
expecting  to  see  Count  Ugolino  of  the 
gruesome  repast,  poor  Francesca,  and 
the  rest?  At  any  rate,  your  portrait 
is  finished." 

"My  portrait!"  cries  the  art  stu- 
dent, "rbwmadeit." 

"But  you  made  me, "  says  the  other. 

"I  believe  you  are  the  devil,"  says 
the  art  student. 

"  My  name, "  the  newcomer  replies, 
"is  Genius,  and  I  have  come  at  the  com- 
mand of  your  will,  to  serve  you  always. " 


II. 


Genius  and  the  art  student  have  such 
a  time  of  it  as  you  might  expect  when 
they  look  for  professional  advancement 


768 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


in  New  York.  The  former,  being  un- 
seen, at  first  naturally  counts  for  no- 
thing in  the  metropolis,  while  the  lat- 
ter, though  actually  ready  (thanks  to 
his  invisible  and  now  inseparable  asso- 
ciate) to  give  abundantly,  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  Western  person  in  need 
of  everything.  So  the  best  part  of 
Edward  Lawton,  artist,  is  ignored,  and 
the  obvious  part  shunned  for  a  little 
while.  He  paints  as  though  to  save  his 
soul  every  day  while  there  is  light,  and 
after  dark  with  equal  passionateness 
studies  music.  He  is  painter  by  day, 
musician  by  night,  working  at  art,  play- 
ing with  music. 

III. 

Another  resident  in  New  York  who 
devotes  his  evenings  to  music  (and  his 
days,  too,  whenever  he  is  out  of  work) 
is  a  gentleman  past  middle  life,  Mr. 
Charles  Brentford.  There  is  no  hint 
of  foreign  ancestry  in  his  name,  but 
in  New  York  we  must  always  reckon 
with  the  possibility  that  a  Latin  strain, 
prone  to  art  and  supine  to  music,  may 
lurk  under  a  sterling  Anglo-Saxon  pa- 
tronym. 

As  our  story  runs,  Mr.  Brentford 
used  to  take  his  little  daughter  to  the 
opera  even  if  there  had  been  no  meat 
for  dinner;  nor  did  Charlotte  suppose 
that  this  was  a  mere  coincidence,  al- 
though nothing  was  ever  said  on  the 
subject.  To  the  child,  as  well  as  to  her 
father,  the  tickets  admitting  them  to 
the  gallery  seemed  infinitely  more  im- 
portant than  a  hearty  meal,  especially 
since  this  deprivation  and  indulgence 
did  not  occur  every  evening. 

At  the  time  we  have  now  reached  she 
is  still  her  father's  companion,  with  the 
heart  and  simple  manners  of  a  child, 
but,  in  an  emergency,  coming  to  the  res- 
cue with  something  of  the  wisdom  of  a 
mature  woman,  as  beseems  a  maiden  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years. 

On  one  occasion  the  music  of  an  opera 
which  they  are  hearing  for  the  first  time 


is  so  delightful,  and  Mr.  Brentford's 
enjoyment  of  it  becomes  so  apparent, 
that  Charlotte  begins  to  look  uneasy. 
Finally,  when  he  takes  a  lead  pencil 
from  his  pocket,  she  clutches  his  arm 
and  whispers,  — 

"Where  is  the  writing  paper  you 
promised  to  bring  ?  " 

"I  forgot  it,"  he  whispers  in  reply, 
swiftly  jotting  down  notes  of  the  music 
on  his  cuff ;  and  Charlotte  nearly  laughs 
aloud  as  she  recalls  the  akimbo  request 
of  an  Irish  laundress  who  had  asked  Miss 
Charlie,  dear,  to  tell  her  father  he  must 
shtop  writin'  on  his  linen  shurrts,  that 
were  all  wore  out  with  scrubbin'  av  the 
pencil  marks. 

There  are  so  many  fetching  arias  that 
the  white  cuff  is  soon  dotted  all  over 
with  notes,  and  then  the  point  of  Mr. 
Brentford's  nimble  pencil  continues  its 
records  on  his  shirt-bosom.  Charlotte 
fears  these  marks  will  be  rather  too  con- 
spicuous, and,  indeed,  they  do  attract 
the  attention  of  a  man  in  the  next  row 
of  seats  who  leans  forward,  putting  out 
his  hand  and  tapping  his  thumb  with 
the  fore  and  middle  fingers,  to  show  that 
he  wants  the  pencil. 

Mr.  Brentford  looks  at  him  gravely 
and  makes  up  his  mind  about  him  be- 
fore complying. 

"Allow  me,"  says  this  critic,  lean- 
ing still  nearer  and  adding  a  little  stroke 
to  the  cluster  of  notes  written  on  the 
shirt-front.  "  A  half  note, "  he  explains, 
and  raises  his  eyebrows  behind  his  spec- 
tacles, and  smiles. 

Mr.  Brentford  looks  down  at  the  cor- 
rection; then  nods  and  smiles  in  his 
turn. 

And  now,  as  Mr.  Brentford  and  his 
critic,  who  introduces  himself  as  Ed- 
ward Lawton,  have  thus  met  on  the  com- 
mon ground  of  a  knowledge  and  love  of 
music,  it  comes  to  pass  quite  naturally 
that  others  sitting  near  are  subject,  with- 
out knowing  or  caring  why,  to  a  certain 
contagion  of  friendliness.  It  is  not  long 
before  the  children  of  an  Italian  family 
party,  who  have  brought  a  quantity  of 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


769 


oranges  and  bananas  (which  they  eat 
quite  fearlessly  in  this  part  of  the  house), 
share  their  fruit  with  Carlotta:  very 
easily  they  persuade  the  pretty  stranger, 
whose  big  eyes  seem  to  promise  all  the 
future  for  her  thrilling  slip  of  a  body, 
to  take  her  part  in  the  feast.  Moreover 
the  spectacles  of  the  young  man  who 
understands  music  so  well  beam  upon 
her  at  short  intervals. 

So  then,  at  the  end  of  the  opera, 
Charlotte  laughs  merrily  as  she  says  to 
her  father,  "I'm  glad  you  did  not  bring 
writing  paper !  " 

IV. 

:  During  the  months  that  follow  fa- 
ther and  daughter  have  small  occasion 
to  be  glad  about  anything.  The  former 
loses  the  use  of  his  eyes  almost  entirely, 
as  the  result  of  a  malady  which  does  not 
yield  to  simple  treatment ;  he  is  forced 
to  give  up  his  business  position  and  to 
grope  around  in  search  of  some  new  em- 
ployment which  may  be  compatible  with 
his  infirmity.  For  days  together  they 
are  wholly  without  money,  and  once 
Charlotte  has  a  rather  severe  illness. 

Never  mind  the  other  dreary  happen- 
ings of  these  months ;  we  may  learn  all 
that  is  worth  knowing  if  we  give  our  at- 
tention to  the  two  people  for  just  one 
minute  in  a  single  day. 

It  is  the  evening  of  Mr.  Brentford's 
birthday,  and  Charlotte  has  been  suffer- 
ing because  she  has  no  birthday  gift  for 
him,  —  suffering,  too,  from  the  thought 
that  in  her  illness  and  weakness  she  is 
a  burden  to  him ;  and  he  cannot  persuade 
her  that  the  burden  is  light  because  she 
would  rather  break  her  heart  in  silence 
than  challenge  his  affection  by  express- 
ing what  is  in  her  mind. 

The  dim-sighted  man,  waiting  on  the 
sick  girl,  brings  her  a  bottle  of  some 
sparkling  tonic  water  that  the  doctor 
has  prescribed ;  and  now  her  bedside  be- 
comes a  borderland  between  discourage- 
ment and  native  cheerfulness.  Nor  can 
I  tell  which  of  the  two  people  resists 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  49 


discouragement  most  unselfishly.  Their 
conversation  we  must  hear  just  as  it  is 
caught  from  their  lips,  with  its  charac- 
teristic blending  of  humor  and  pathos. 

First  she  says  that  he  must  have  a 
glass  of  the  precious  water;  and  then 
she  cannot  finish  her  own  glass  because 
the  thought  of  the  expense  of  it  chokes 
her ;  and  will  he  not  drink  it  for  her  ? 
It  will  spoil  otherwise. 

And  he  begins,  "You  dear  little 
girl  »  — 

But  she  stops  him  with  "Don't  say 
anything  kind,  Charles  Brentford, 
Charles  "  —  reaching  out  through  the 
oppression  of  their  circumstances  to  find 
a  strange  pleasure  in  the  use  of  his  given 
name.  "I  shall  cry  if  you  do." 

And  he  says,  "Sleep  well;  "  but  im- 
mediately corrects  himself :  "  No,  that 's 
too  kind.  Be  as  uncomfortable  as  you 
can." 

Then  she :  "  Will  you  kiss  me  good- 
night?" 

And  he :  "Not  for  worlds.  Nothing 
kind,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Charles  Brentford  —  father!  " 
she  says,  pulling  his  head  down  on  the 
coverlet  and  laying  her  finger  tips  on 
his  eyelids. 

So  they  part  for  the  night,  each  to 
pray  for  the  other's  happiness. 


V. 


Mr.  Brentford  is  amazed  every  day 
at  his  good  fortune  in  having  managed 
to  pay  the  rent  of  their  apartment  until 
now.  The  cheap  rooms  become  so  en- 
deared to  him  through  fear  of  their  loss 
that  when  he  comes  home  in  the  even- 
ing after  his  day's  groping,  he  presses 
his  breast  against  the  walls  and  caresses 
the  shabby  old  chairs. 

He  will  not  play  connectedly  now,  but 
at  most  improvises  things  which  hurt 
one's  feelings  incredibly.  Lawton,  when 
he  comes  to  see  these  friends  of  his,  is 
made  utterly  miserable  by  such  uncon- 
scious confessions  of  suffering ;  still  he 


770 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


comes  again  and  again,  for  the  sake  of 
receiving  from  Charlotte  and  making  to 
her  another  confession,  —  a  confession 
of  mutual  trust,  perfect  understanding 
and  sympathy,  with  some  element  in 
the  feeling  which  is  unfamiliar  to  both 
the  young  people,  and  more  delightful 
than  anything  they  will  ever  again  ex- 
perience :  it  is  like  entering  a  luminous 
cloud  of  sentiments  —  all  generous  — 
when  they  are  near  each  other.  There 
is  never  a  word  of  love  spoken,  partly 
because  they  have  not  yet  discovered 
that  this  common  little  word  may  define 
emotions  which  seem  to  them  absolutely 
without  a  precedent. 

One  afternoon  when  father  and 
daughter  are  alone  Mr.  Brentford's  im- 
provisation fairly  dies  of  its  own  mis- 
ery; he  stops  playing  in  order  to  ex- 
press himself  to  Charlotte  in  words  so 
full  of  regret  and  longing  not  clearly 
defined  that  they  may  fairly  be  called  a 
translation  from  the  music,  —  in  words 
such  as  these :  — 

"It  seems  to  me  (and  you  must  ima- 
gine this,  Charlotte)  that  you  and  I  are 
walking  hand  in  hand  through  all  this 
little  world,  looking  for  happiness.  And 
on  the  earth  there  are  houses,  houses, 
more  than  we  have  ever  seen  before ;  and 
they  all  stand  empty,  though  crowded 
one  against  another,  with  scarce  room 
for  them  upon  the  ground.  And  there 
is  no  living  creature  except  ourselves. 
Then  we  say,  'We  will  look  in  the  sea; 
perhaps  the  happy  creatures  are  there.' 
And  on  the  seashore  are  heaped  shells, 
shells,  more  than  we  have  ever  seen  be- 
fore. And  we  look  again,  and  the  water 
is  full  of  sea-houses,  all  the  shells  that 
ever  were.  And  they  are  all  empty. 
There  is  not  another  living  creature  in 
the  sea  or  on  the  shore. 

"Then  a  great  storm  arises,  so  that 
ocean  and  land  are  blended  and  become 
one  distressful  place 

"And  then  we  see,  very  far  away,  a 
wide-roofed  house.  It  stands  straining 
against  wind  and  rain,  like  a  man,  with 
its  shoulders  hunched  and  its  hat -brim 


drawn  over  its  windows  to  keep  off  the 
pelting  weather.  And  a  little  light  and 
warmth  and  life  begin  within  the  shel- 
tering walls  of  that  house.  The  other 
houses  disappear,  and  all  the  shells  van- 
ish. That  one  familiar  house,  your 
birthplace,  stands  for  them  all. 

"  But  when  we  join  hands  more  firmly 
and  run  toward  our  old  home  it  also 
vanishes ;  and  where  we  had  fancied  it 
stood,  we  come  upon  your  mother's 
grave. " 

After  this  outburst  both  are  silent  for 
a  minute  or  two.  Then  Charlotte  says 
very  gently,  — 

"  I  think  I  understand,  father.  When 
we  went  out  to  see  the  house  agent  this 
morning,  and  came  back  so  much  earlier 
than  usual,  he  told  you  that  he  had 
rented  our  apartment  to  some  one  else, 
and  we  must  move  out.  Is  that  the 
trouble?" 

"Yes." 

"How  soon?" 

"Within  a  few  days." 

Charlotte  fetches  her  father's  hat  and 
stick,  and  next  she  makes  her  own  pre- 
parations for  going  out. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  a  walk  with  me, " 
she  says. 

VI. 

As  they  are  walking  slowly  up  Park 
Avenue,  just  beyond  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  people  who  pass  them,  as  well  as 
the  shopkeepers  and  their  gossiping  cus- 
tomers, turn  to  look  at  them  in  a  fash- 
ion far  removed  from  the  usual  free, 
staring  curiosity;  and  yet  this  marked 
deference  is  not  occasioned  by  the  eld- 
erly man's  gentle  dignity  or  his  evident 
weakness,  nor  has  it  any  relation  to  his 
companion's  delicate  beauty.  Nearly 
everybody  in  this  neighborhood  can  tell 
at  a  glance  that  the  young  lady  is  say- 
ing in  her  heart,  over  and  over  again, 
"Dear  Saint  Anne,  hear  my  prayer. 
Good  Saint  Anne,  help  my  poor  father !  " 

For  the  whole  neighborhood  is  atten- 
tive during  this  week  in  July  to  the  sto- 


A  Delicate  Trial 


771 


ries  of  miraculous  cures  which  the  relic 
of  Saint  Anne,  enshrined  in  the  little 
church  of  Saint  Jean  Baptiste,  is  said  to 
work.  Hundreds  of  the  blind,  the  deaf, 
the  lame,  arrive  every  day,  to  utter  a 
prayer  kneeling  before  the  altar  in  the 
crypt,  to  kiss  the  relic,  to  touch  it  with 
their  hands,  to  press  against  it  (as  the 
priest  holds  it  out  to  them  in  a  small 
circular  box  with  a  glass  cover)  their 
foreheads,  their  eyes. 

"I  read  about  it  in  the  paper, "  Char- 
lotte says,  "and  yesterday  I  went  to 
see  for  myself.  It  is  really  wonderful 
what  a  stack  of  crutches  the  lame  peo- 
ple have  left  behind ;  and  all  the  can- 
dles that  are  kept  burning  —  every  one 
of  them  a  sign  of  somebody's  faith.  I 
saw  mothers  bring  their  sick  babies  in 
their  arms ;  perhaps  that  is  n't  so  impor- 
tant, but  grown  men  were  there,  too,  — 
crowds  of  them,  — helping  their  parents 
up  to  the  railing ;  not  young  parents  like 
you,  dearest,  but  really  old  people.  Oh, 
father,  don't  you  think  it  is  worth  try- 
ing?" 

("Dear  Saint  Anne,  help  my  poor 
father.  ...  You  must !  ") 

Her  eyes  are  aflame. 

They  have  reached  the  corner  of  Sev- 
enty-sixth Street.  The  church  and  the 
crowd  in  front  of  it,  with  groups  of 
sight -seers  across  the  way,  are  in  plain 
view.  Mr.  Brentford  hesitates. 

"I  certainly  want  my  eyesight  badly 
enough,"  he  says;  "but,  child,  we  are 
not  even  Catholics." 

"  I  said  that  to  the  priest, "  she  an- 
swers eagerly.  "  He  told  me  that  Jesus 
and  his  disciples  worked  almost  exclu- 
sively among  non-Catholics.  And  he 
laughed :  he  is  a  nice  man. " 

("Dear  Saint  Anne,  hear  me,  help 
us!") 

VII. 

Even  while  they  stand  at  the  corner 
waiting  till  Mr.  Brentford  shall  recover 
from  his  hesitancy,  a  glad  voice  calls 
out,  "Hello!"  and  "What  luck!— I 


was  just  starting  out  to  see  you.  But 
who  ever  heard  of  your  being  so  far  up 
town  at  this  hour  of  the  day  ?  " 

Mr.  Brentford  begins  to  say  some- 
thing in  a  rather  frightened  undertone, 
but  Lawton  will  not  let  him  finish. 

"  Come  along.  Oh,  come  along  with 
me, "  he  continues.  "I  live  in  the  very 
next  street,  and  I  've  good  news  to  tell 
you."  Placing  himself  between  them, 
he  takes  Mr.  Brentford's  arm,  and  has 
them  moving  off  toward  his  studio  be- 
fore there  is  time  to  protest. 

"  You  know  those  pictures  of  mine  ?  " 
he  suggests,  confident  that  they  will  re- 
member the  subject  of  their  last  talk 
together. 

Of  course  they  do  know  precisely 
which  ones  he  means. 

"  Sold  —  for  a  price  so  large  I  am 
afraid  to  mention  it.  I  did  n't  suppose 
I  should  ever  have  so  much  money. 
And,  better  still,  Fairlie  —  you  know 
Fairlie?" 

"Oh  yes,"  says  Mr.  Brentford. 

—  "has  given  me  an  order.  That 
makes  the  future  all  right :  his  approval 
is  a  fortune  in  itself.  Besides,  he  's 
been  saying  such  things  about  my 
work.  .  .  . 

"Well,  here  we  are  already,  and  I 
am  mighty  glad  to  have  you.  —  Look 
out  for  this  broken  step." 


VIII. 

Several  hours  later  they  are  still  in 
the  studio,  which  is  Lawton 's  home  as 
well.  Evidently  some  pleasant  under- 
standing has  been  arrived  at,  for  Mr. 
Brentford  is  contentedly  smoking,  when 
he  is  not  dozing,  in  his  chair  beside  a 
table  which  even  now  bears  up  the  last 
course  of  a  splendid  and  protracted  feast, 
—  such  a  feast  as  only  happiness  knows 
how  to  enjoy  from  beginning  to  end, 
though  when  such  happiness  as  this  is 
present  the  nearest  German  caterer  can 
send  in  food  and  drink  for  the  gods,  not 
forgetting  that  smallest  divinity  whose 


772 


A  Delicate  Trial. 


appetite  is  well  known  to  be  in  propor- 
tion to  his  size. 

Precisely  how  the  young  people  have 
employed  every  minute  of  these  hours, 
important  though  they  are,  I  do  not 
know,  nor  do  they ;  but  at  the  moment 
we  have  now  reached  it  happens  that 
Lawton  (not  at  the  table)  is  speaking  as 
reasonably  as  any  one^could  wish  on  a 
subject  no  less  technical  and  —  as  one 
not  initiated  might  suppose  —  unsuited 
to  the  occasion  than  that  of  diseases 
of  the  eyes;  though,  to  tell  the  truth, 
it  may  convey  a  false  impression  if  I 
let  the  word  "speaking"  stand  as  just 
written,  without  adding  that  Lawton' s 
voice,  and  Charlotte's,  too,  when  she 
questions  or  answers  in  words,  resem- 
bles whispering  or  murmuring  rather 
than  the  clear  tones  of  ordinary  speech, 
and  the  whisperers  seem  to  be  drawn  to 
each  other  uncommonly  by  this  subject, 
of  all  others.  Lawton  is  saying,  as  we 
contrive  to  hear  by  straining  our  atten- 
tion, — 

"You  know  my  own  eyes  were  none 
of  the  best  for  a  while,  and  I  ym  sure 
I  can't  imagine  what  I  should  have 
done  if  I  had  not  found  this  "  —  (The 
name  of  the  oculist  escapes  us.)  "A 
wonderful  fellow!  set  me  right  in  no 
time  at  all.  No,  with  his  skill,  you 
see,  and  rest  and  nursing,  there  's  no 
reason  to  doubt  that  "  —  (Here  again 
his  voice  is  an  inarticulate  murmur  to 
us,  but  we  notice  that  both  glance  to- 
ward the  silent  figure  at  the  table.)  The 
girl  throws  back  her  head  as  though  she 
would  like  to  reply,  but  her  lip  trem- 
bles, and  she  keeps  that  word  in  reserve 
for  use  at  another  moment. 

Presently  Lawton 's  voice  grows  more 
distinct  as  he  asks  pointedly,  "Where 
were  you  yesterday,  in  the  morning?  " 

"At  church  —  or,  rather,  at  a 
church." 


"Rather  a  funny  thing  happened," 
he  goes  on.  "I  fancied  you  were  —  it 
came  into  my  head  that  you  were  in 
distress  of  some  kind,  and  called  out  to 
me.  Did  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"Perhaps,  a  little,  now  and  then." 

"A  curious  experience,  anyhow.  It 
startled  me,  and  made  me  so  uneasy  I 
could  n't  keep  on  working.  So,  to  cure 
my  restlessness,  I  went  to  ask  Fairlie  to 
come  around  and  look  at  my  things; 
and  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  —  be- 
ginning. 

"And  so,"  he  continues,  musing,  "it 
appears  you  were  just  quietly  at  church. 
I  do  not  see  the  connection  —  What 's 
more,  to-day  —  this  afternoon,  in  fact 

—  I  felt  something  like  a  force  stronger 
than  my  will,  or  a  will  stronger  than 
my  own,  drawing  me  to  you ;  and  that, 
even  more  than  just  wanting  to  tell  the 
good  news,  made  me  start  away  to  see 
you.      And  there  you  were  with  your 

—  our  —  blessed  old  dad  at  the  corner  of 
Seventy-sixth  Street,  taking  a  mighty 
long  walk  for  such  warm  weather  .   .   . 
Can't  see  the  connection.    Are  you  sure 
you  were  not  thinking  of  me  or  wanting 
me  somehow  ?  " 

Charlotte  puts  an  arm  around  his 
neck  and  begins  to  cry  at  last.  "Oh, 
Anne,  Anne,  thank  you !  "  she  says,  and 
again,  "thank  you." 

Now  Lawton  has  still  to  learn  the  oc- 
casion for  her  choice  of  such  a  curious 
pet  name,  and  for  her  offering  of  thanks 
to  him  (who  fairly  goes  down  on  his 
knee  to  her  at  the  thought,  and  says 
that  must  be  a  mistake) ;  nor  will  he 
be  more  free  from  the  obligation  to  learn 
why,  having  once  pronounced  this  name 
so  deliciously,  she  never  will  apply  it 
to  him  again,  but  will  only  laugh  (as 
deliciously  and  as  irrelevantly,  he  will 
think)  whenever  he  asks  her  for  her 
good  reason. 

Marrion  Wilcox. 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


773 


CHINESE  DISLIKE  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

[Mr.  Francis  H.  Nichols,  who  has  prepared  this  article,  is  the  author  of  Through  Hidden 
Shensi.  Recently  he  has  had  the  advantage  of  making  an  extended  tour  through  several  little 
known  provinces  of  China  in  the  disbursement  of  a  famine  fund.  THE  EDITORS.] 

IT  is  now  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  since  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  a  man- 
darin of  Honan,  lived  in  Oliver  Gold- 
smith's brain,  and  wrote  letters  from 
London  to  his  friend  Fum  Hoam  in 
Pekin.  Altangi  was  exceptionally  for- 
tunate in  his  London  residence.  No 
mandarin's  yamen  in  all  the  Eighteen 
Provinces  was  ever  half  so  splendid  as 
were  the  halls  of  the  mind  where  lived 
Dr.  Primrose  and  The  Traveller.  When 
Altangi  was  writing  letters  the  West 
knew  even  less  of  China  than  it  does  to- 
day. Goldsmith  had  never  visited  the 
country  of  Fum  Hoam.  In  the  time  of 
Goldsmith  and  of  Altangi  the  arrogance 
of  patriotism  and  the  bitterness  of  bigo- 
try were  more  potent  forces  in  the  world 
than  now.  Yet  in  those  stubborn  years 
when  England  was  bullying  her  colonies 
and  when  Boswell  was  toadying  to  John- 
son, Altangi,  from  that  serene  height  of 
mind  that  "like  some  tall  cliff  .  .  . 
midway  leaves  the  storm,"  wrote  of 
Georgian  British  civilization  from  a 
Chinaman's  point  of  view. 

The  Powers  were  then  so  busy  in 
fighting  among  themselves  that  China 
had  not  yet  become  a  factor  in  world 
politics.  Europe  had  not  awakened  to 
a  practical  interest  in  Cathay.  It  may 
have  been  that  Goldsmith's  only  inten- 
tion in  writing  The  Citizen  of  the  World 
was  to  satirize  the  narrowness  of  the 
England  in  which  he  lived.  But  what- 
ever his  motive,  the  letters  of  imaginary 
Altangi  are  to-day  the  most  eloquent 
plea  in  the  English  language  for  fair 
play  for  the  Chinese,  —  their  civiliza- 
tion, their  institutions,  and  their  right 
to  think.  Many  times  after  listening 
to  an  explanation  by  a  Chinaman  of 
some  institution  of  his  country  I  have 
found  myself  mentally  inquiring,  — 


"Whom  of  my  acquaintances  have  I 
heard  speak  in  a  similar  vein  before  ?  " 
And  the  answer  was  always,  "  Yes,  my 
old  friend  Mr.  Altangi." 

"  When  I  had  just  quitted  my  native 
country  and  crossed  the  Chinese  wall, 
I  fancied  every  deviation  from  the  cus- 
toms and  manners  of  China  was  a  de- 
parting from  Nature.  But  I  soon  per- 
ceived that  the  ridicule  lay  not  in  them, 
but  in  me;  that  I  falsely  condemned 
others  for  absurdity,  because  they  hap- 
pened to  differ  from  a  standard  origi- 
nally founded  in  prejudice  or  partial- 
ity." So  wrote  Altangi  in  one  of  his 
first  letters,  as  a  notice  to  his  correspon- 
dent that  the  writer  had  ceased  to  be 
only  a  subject  of  the  Emperor  of  China, 
but  had  become  in  addition  a  citizen  of 
the  world. 

This  change  of  attitude  was  very 
exceptional  for  a  Chinaman.  In  the 
case  of  Altangi  it  can  be  accounted  for 
as  the  result  of  the  environment  of  his 
London  residence.  But  equally  excep- 
tional is  it  to  find  a  Western  modern 
who  can  ever  for  one  moment  forget 
the  prejudices  or  partiality  of  his  na- 
tivity when  he  crosses  the  wall  that 
separates  Chinese  civilization  from  his 
own.  His  experience  of  China  may  be 
lifelong,  his  information  of  men  and 
things  may  be  absolutely  truthful  and 
accurate,  but  his  point  of  view  is  never 
that  of  the  people  he  describes.  He 
may  be  a  man  of  the  world  at  home, 
but  he  is  never  a  citizen  of  the  world 
in  China.  Underlying  everything  that 
is  written  or  spoken  about  the  Middle 
Kingdom  is  the  foregone  conclusion  that 
the  Chinese  way  of  doing  everything  is 
wrong.  It  may  be  interesting,  pictur- 
esque, and  unique,  but  it  is  wrong  sim- 
ply because  it  is  Chinese.  It  is  always 


774 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


taken  for  granted  that  a  Chinaman  is 
an  inferior,  and  is  therefore  "absurd." 
The  thing  described  must  always  be  re- 
ferred to  as  though  it  were  a  mere  idi- 
osyncrasy. Reasons  if  given  at  all  are 
merely  foreign  generalizations  based  on 
the  sweeping  supposition  that  the  "ab- 
surd "  Chinaman  is  necessarily  wrong. 
By  good-natured  men  persons  and  things 
Chinese  are  referred  to  as  though  they 
constituted  something  in  the  nature  of 
a  huge  joke,  while  men  of  the  sterner 
missionary  nature  ascribe  differences 
from  their  own  standards  to  a  persist- 
ently low  state  of  prevailing  morality, 
which  they  hope  and  pray  may  some 
day  be  elevated  to  a  Western  level  by 
the  light  of  Christianity.  Only  very 
rarely  does  any  one  recognize  that  John 
Chinaman  is  a  human  being,  that  he  is 
a  man  and  a  brother,  that  God  created 
him  in  his  own  image  quite  as  much  as 
he  did  any  Christian  critic ;  that  he  has 
always  "honored  his  father  and  his  mo- 
ther,"  and  that  his  "days  have  been 
longer  in  his  land  "  than  the  days  of 
any  other  man  on  earth;  and  starting 
from  this  premise  ask  the  Chinaman 
"Why?" 

In  writing  of  England,  Altangi  al- 
ways attempted  to  find  the  reason  for 
everything  he  saw  about  him.  He  criti- 
cised when  he  was  unable  to  discover  a 
proper  relation  between  cause  and  ef- 
fect. Altangi 's  searching  for  reasons 
and  his  studying  of  causes  was  eminent- 
ly characteristic  of  his  Chinese  mind. 
For  every  detail  of  Chinese  government 
and  civilization  and  method  there  is  a 
reason  distinct,  clearly  defined,  and  per- 
manent ;  a  direct  relation  between  cause 
and  effect  that  is  much  more  easy  to  de- 
termine than  it  would  be  in  England  or 
the  United  States.  If  asked  why  we 
preferred  a  certain  kind  of  food,  most 
of  us  would  consider  it  sufficient  to  an- 
swer that  we  liked  it,  but  this  would 
never  do  for  a  Chinese  explanation  of 
a  motive  in  eating.  A  Chinaman  can 
explain  the  component  elements  of  every 
bowl  into  which  he  dips  his  chop-sticks. 


He  knows  the  relation  one  to  another  of 
different  foods  in  the  process  of  diges- 
tion, and  if  you  care  to  listen  to  him  long 
enough  he  can  perhaps  give  you  the  his- 
tory of  the  ancient  experiment  which 
resulted  in  the  production  of  the  food 
about  which  you  have  inquired.  In  New 
York  and  London  the  prevailing  width 
and  thickness  of  the  sole  of  a  man's  shoe 
are  prescribed  from  year  to  year  by  an 
arbitrary  fashion,  for  which  there  is  no 
reason  unless  it  be  a  restless  desire  for 
change .  In  China,  where  fashions  change 
about  once  in  every  dynasty,  the  soles 
of  shoes  worn  by  ordinary  citizens  must 
always  be  of  one  thickness  in  order  to 
be  proportionately  lower  than  the  sole  of 
a  mandarin's  boot,  whose  wearer  must 
always  tower  higher  than  his  fellow  men. 
These  are  the  reasons  for  trifling  details, 
but  with  equal  clearness  and  precision 
they  obtain  in  all  the  complicated  rela- 
tions of  law  and  government,  and  it  is 
these  same  causes  that  we  so  seldom  hear 
explained  either  by  the  Chinese  who  have 
produced  the  results,  or  by  some  West- 
ern citizen  of  the  world  who  can  speak 
of  them  from  Altangi 's  point  of  view. 
When,  as  the  result  of  my  environ- 
ment on  my  travels  through  China,  I  was 
forced  to  ask  "Why?  "  directly  of  the 
Chinese  without  the  mediation  of  for- 
eign trader,  foreign  consul,  or  foreign 
missionary,  I  always  found  that  "the 
ridicule  lay  .  .  .  in  me."  As  the  result 
of  my  encounters  with  reasons  my  preju- 
dices to  a  very  large  extent  vanished, 
and  I  began  to  see  the  Chinese  in  an  en- 
tirely new  light.  I  ceased  to  laugh  at 
chop-sticks  when  I  discovered  that  their 
use  prevented  too  large  mouthfuls  and 
too  rapid  eating.  I  forgot  the  clumsi- 
ness of  ferries  when  I  realized  that  most 
of  the  rivers  were  too  shallow  to  permit 
of  any  other  kind  of  craft,  and  I  really 
admired  the  people  who  could  devise  a 
boat  equally  capable  of  floating  on  water 
and  of  slipping  over  mud.  Instead  of 
ridicule  I  came  to  have  a  great  liking 
for  a  national  character  that  could  pro- 
duce the  things  I  saw  around  me. 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


lib 


I  have  met  foreigners  who  have  lived 
in  China  for  the  greater  part  of  their 
lives,  and  whose  knowledge  and  appre- 
ciation of  the  land  and  the  people  were 
far  less  than  Altangi  ever  obtained  of 
London.  They  had  never  put  them- 
selves in  John  Chinaman's  place.  They 
had  never  looked  at  anything  from  his 
point  of  view.  They  had  never  listened 
to  his  reason  for  anything.  And  these 
were  the  men  who  believed  that  nothing 
good  could  come  from  a  Chinaman,  al- 
though they  knew  him  very  well.  It  is 
like  the  old  story  of  the  relative  advan- 
tages of  being  a  man  and  a  dog.  The 
question  can  never  be  answered  satisfac- 
torily, because  we  shall  probably  never 
have  an  opportunity  of  hearing  the  dog's 
side.  But  we  could  hear  the  China- 
man's side.  He  could  tell  us  why  he 
thinks  and  acts  and  believes  as  he  does 
if  we  would  ask  him  "  Why  ?  "  Yet  that 
is  just  what  has  never  been  done.  The 
Black-Haired  People  are  ridiculed  and 
patronized  and  denounced,  but  never 
reasoned  with,  and  until  they  are  we 
shall  continue  to  misjudge  them  just  as 
they  misjudge  us. 

These  reasons  that  are  the  springs  of 
action  are  often  fallacies.  Superstition 
and  a  complacent  ignorance  sometimes 
play  a  prominent  part  in  them.  But 
just  as  in  the  march  of  all  civilizations 
fallacies  have  been  overthrown  only  by 
attacking  the  ideas  on  which  they  were 
founded,  so  we  can  never  hope  to  mod- 
ernize the  Chinese  until  we  meet  them 
on  their  own  ground  and  successfully 
controvert  their  reasons. 

Probably  no  Chinese  custom  or  insti- 
tution has  been  the  object  of  more  de- 
nunciation and  shuddering  than  the  prac- 
tice of  binding  the  feet  of  the  women. 
Per  se  it  undoubtedly  merits  all  the  con- 
demnation it  receives.  It  certainly  is 
cruel,  barbarous,  and  degrading.  The 
inference  usually  drawn  from  it  is  that  a 
parent  who  would  thus  deliberately  crip- 
ple his  daughter  for  life  can  be  little  less 
than  a  savage.  Yet  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  of  the  thousands  of  Americans  who 


have  heard  of  foot-binding  not  one  .in 
ten  has  a  clear  idea  of  the  Chinese  reason 
for  the  torture. 

For  foot-binding  has  its  reason.  It 
is  only  a  practical  application  of  the 
theory  that  "woman's  sphere  is  the 
home, "  a  belief  that  is  by  no  means  con- 
fined to  China,  but  which  in  less  active 
form  prevails  to  a  very  large  extent  in 
the  United  States.  The  premise  once 
admitted,  it  becomes  the  duty  of  all  re- 
spectable citizens  to  devise  some  means 
of  permanently  preventing  women  from 
escaping  from  their  sphere.  Other  Ori- 
ental nations  who  hold  in  a  practical 
form  the  same  belief  as  the  Chinese  make 
prisoners  of  their  women.  They  hide 
them  in  their  homes  and  compel  them 
to  appear  veiled  in  the  street.  As  a 
different  means  of  accomplishing  the 
same  end,  the  Chinese  make  it  physi- 
cally impossible  for  a  woman  to  walk 
far  from  home.  Founded  on  the  simple 
principle  that  every  good  woman's  life 
is  spent  within  certain  narrow  limits, 
foot-binding  has  become  a  universal  cus- 
tom which  can  be  transgressed  only  by 
the  lifelong  disgrace  of  the  woman 
whose  feet  are  allowed  to  remain  in  a 
natural  condition.  I  firmly  believe  that 
the  Chinese  appreciate  the  cruelties  of 
foot -binding  quite  as  much  as  we  do. 

A  woman  leading  a  little  girl  passed 
by  the  inn  where  we  were  resting  one 
afternoon.  On  the  child's  drawn  face 
were  depicted  some  of  the  agonies  which 
the  bandages  on  her  legs  were  causing 
her.  One  of  the  soldiers  of  my  escort 
sprang  up,  and  taking  the  child  in  his 
arms,  carried  her  to  her  home  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  down  the  road. 

"  It  must  be  terrible  to  be  a  woman, " 
he  said  to  me  as  he  reentered  the  kung 
kwan  courtyard. 

Several  educated  men  with  whom  I 
talked  of  the  practice  in  Shensi  agreed 
with  me  as  to  its  cruelty.  They  all  re- 
gretted it  as  a  painful  necessity.  Their 
argument  against  its  discontinuance  was 
always,  "  How  else  can  women  be  made 
to  stay  at  home  ?  " 


776 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


If,  instead  of  merely  shuddering  at 
foot-binding  and  of  calling  the  Chinese 
unpleasant  names  for  persisting  in  the 
practice,  the  advantages  of  an  enlight- 
ened idea  of  womanhood  could  be  de- 
monstrated to  them ;  if  the  majority  of 
parents  could  be  persuaded  that  their 
daughters  were  capable  of  living  in  oth- 
er spheres  than  home,  —  if  the  reason 
could  be  annihilated,  I  believe  that 
foot-binding  might  decline  in  popular- 
ity, and  might  ultimately  disappear. 
Such  a  course  would  at  least  be  inter- 
esting as  an  experiment  that  has  hereto- 
fore never  been  tried  in  attacking  any 
Chinese  institution  or  belief. 

Although  a  lack  of  appreciation  of 
native  reasons  is  a  fault  common  to  all 
foreigners  who  have  to  do  with  the  Chi- 
nese, none  more  seldom  consider  the 
Chinese  answer  to  the  "  Why  ?  "  than 
do  the  missionaries. 

China  needs  the  gospel.  She  needs 
it  far  more  than  she  needs  anything  else. 
Until  she  is  truly  converted  to  Chris- 
tianity she  can  never  take  the  place 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth  to  which 
her  great  resources,  her  vast  population, 
the  age  and  civilization  of  her  people 
entitle  her.  This  fact  is  so  obvious  to 
any  one  who  has  come  in  contact  with 
the  China  that  lies  outside  of  Treaty 
Ports  and  Foreign  Concessions,  that  I 
am  sometimes  inclined  to  wonder  why 
missionaries  spend  so  much  time  and  en- 
ergy in  arguing  about  this  first  premise 
of  the  proposition. 

Whatever  opinions  a  traveler  through 
the  interior  provinces  may  hold  on  the 
question  of  whether  or  not  religion  is  no 
longer  essential  for  his  own  fin  de  siecle 
nation  of  the  West,  he  must,  it  seems 
to  me,  admit  that  Christianity  is  a  ne- 
cessity for  China.  Twenty-five  hundred 
years  ago  Confucius  drew  a  complete 
and  elaborate  chart  for  the  guidance  of 
the  race  to  which  he  belonged.  The 
chart  was  intended  to  provide  for  every 
possible  contingency  that  might  ever 
arise  in  the  life  of  the  individual  or  the 
nation.  Confucius  fastened  his  chart 


on  the  wall  and  said,  "Follow  that." 
It  was  a  wonderfully  made  chart,  more 
nearly  perfect  than  any  that  modern 
altruist  or  student  of  ethics  has  ever 
devised.  As  the  chart  was  supposed  to 
describe  every  course  that  could  be 
sailed  with  safety,  the  Chinese  have 
never  thought  it  possible  to  discover  new 
continents.  They  have  never  looked  at 
the  stars  or  the  horizon,  always  at  the 
chart.  It  made  no  pretensions  to  the 
supernatural.  It  was  essentially  human 
and  matter  of  fact.  The  chart  related 
to  the  known,  not  to  the  unknown.  It 
took  little  account  of  hopes  or  inclina- 
tions. It  made  no  provision  for  a 
change  of  conditions  either  in  the  state 
or  in  the  individual,,  As  a  result  Chi- 
nese civilization  has  never  changed.  It 
is  restrained  from  drifting  or  turning 
aside  into  dangerous  channels  by  the 
Confucian  chart,  but  it  cannot  and  will 
not  go  forward  until  it  recognizes  a  soul, 
until  it  has  ideals  that  are  not  earth 
made,  until  it  "seeks  a  country  "  that 
is  not  like  Shensi,  eternal  on  earth, 
"but  eternal  in  the  heavens." 

It  is  true  that  China  needs  many 
other  things  besides  Christianity.  She 
would  be  greatly  better  off  if  she  had 
railroads  and  clean  hotels,  and  a  know- 
ledge of  geography  and  post  offices  and 
factories,  yet  the  lack  of  these  is  due 
not  to  the  inability  of  the  Chinese  to 
provide  them,  but  to  their  failure  to  see 
and  appreciate  their  need  of  them.  No 
mention  of  them  is  made  in  the  chart 
by  which  they  are  steering.  China  has 
succeeded  in  existing  almost  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world  without  them ; 
therefore  they  are  useless.  The  Chi- 
nese nature  is  patient,  and  the  Chinese 
brain  is  resourceful.  The  stories  oft 
told  in  Tientsin  of  how  native  engi- 
neers, with  very  crude  tools  and  compar- 
atively little  experience,  repaired  loco- 
motives that  the  Boxers  had  wrecked  are 
proof  that  the  Chinese  are  capable  with 
very  little  instruction  of  building  and 
operating  railroads.  The  Chinese  do 
not  build  railroads  because  they  do  not 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


Ill 


want  them,  just  as  they  do  not  want  any- 
thing that  would  necessitate  a  change  in 
their  methods  or  customs.  They  lack 
incentive,  not  ability ;  and  the  spiritual 
element  of  Christianity  is  the  only  in- 
centive that  will  ever  make  them  appre- 
ciate that  a  chart,  no  matter  how  per- 
fectly made,  can  never  include  all  of  the 
expanding  scope  of  human  life  and  en- 
deavor. 

Just  because  the  gospel  is  China's 
first  and  primary  need  to-day,  it  is  lam- 
entable that  Christianity  seems  to  be 
making  so  little  progress  throughout  the 
Eighteen  Provinces.  Perhaps  in  the 
higher  sense,  that  "no  power  is  lost  that 
ever  wrought  for  God, "  it  is  not  wholly 
correct  to  say  that  efforts  to  introduce 
Christianity  into  China  have  failed. 
But  humanly  speaking,  in  proportion  to 
the  amount  of  money,  lives,  and  effort 
expended,  they  have  apparently  not  met 
with  great  success.  The  small  number 
of  converts  after  one  century  of  Protes- 
tant and  three  centuries  of  Roman  Cath- 
olic endeavor  is  the  least  part  of  the 
failure  of  missions  in  China.  All  over 
the  empire  to-day  there  prevails  a  spirit 
of  hatred  and  antagonism  to  Christian- 
ity so  intense  and  so  peculiar  that  a  cer- 
tain brilliant  missionary  in  describing 
it  has  had  to  coin  a  new  word.  He 
has  called  the  feeling  of  the  provincial 
authorities  of  Shantung  toward  Chris- 
tianity "Christophobia."  Usually  it  is 
specially  stipulated  when  foreign  teach- 
ers are  engaged  for  recently  organized 
government  schools  that  they  shall  make 
no  reference  even  in  the  remotest  way 
to  the  Bible  or  to  anything  connected 
with  it.  In  the  gradual  subsiding  of 
the  Boxer  storm  the  one  kind  of  foreign- 
ers warned  to  keep  away  from  a  trou- 
bled district  are  always  missionaries. 
Except  in  the  few  places  where  they  are 
numerous  enough  to  form  a  community 
by  themselves  Christian  converts  are  os- 
tracized, boycotted,  and  sometimes  per- 
secuted. Tuan  Fang,  the  former  Gov- 
ernor of  Shensi*,  saved  the  lives  of  all  the 
missionaries  in  his  province.  He  is  re- 


garded, by  them,  as  more  favorable  to 
missionaries  than  almost  any  other 
prominent  official  of  the  government. 
In  a  recent  conversation  with  a  friend, 
he  said :  "  I  am  glad  that  I  did  not  per- 
mit murder.  I  know  much  more  of 
missionaries  now  than  I  did  before  the 
Boxer  uprising,  and  I  am  convinced 
that  the  less  heed  we  pay  to  their  teach- 
ing the  better  it  will  be  for  us.  Con- 
fucius is  better  for  China  than  Christ." 

While  missionaries  most  vigorously 
deny  anything  like  the  failure  of  their 
work  in  China,  they  sometimes  express 
regret  at  Christophobia.  They  most 
frequently  account  for  it  by  saying  that 
the  Chinese  hatred  of  Christianity  is 
only  a  part  of  their  dislike  of  everything 
foreign ;  that  the  objection  to  the  spread 
of  the  gospel  lies  only  in  the  fact  that 
it  is  a  foreign  religion. 

My  own  observations  in  Shansi  and 
Shensi  have  convinced  me  that  Chinese 
prejudices  against  foreign  religion  as 
such  do  not  obtain  to  anything  like  the 
extent  that  missionary  reports  and  writ- 
ings would  lead  us  to  believe.  In  the 
Province  of  Shensi  about  one  third  of 
the  population  are  Mohammedans.  Only 
thirty  years  ago  they  rose  in  revolt, 
burned  towns,  and  massacred  thousands 
of  helpless  men,  women,  and  children. 
Their  attitude  toward  the  existing  dy- 
nasty has  never  changed.  It  is  still  their 
hope  and  prayer  that  a  follower  of  the 
Prophet  may  some  day  sit  on  the  drag- 
on's throne.  Islam  is  essentially  a  for- 
eign religion,  and  it  is  far  more  a  men- 
ace to  the  peace  of  the  country  than 
was  ever  Christianity.  Yet  in  the  same 
province,  where  time  and  again  mission- 
aries have  been  expelled  and  their  chap- 
els destroyed,  it  is  no  more  to  a  man's 
discredit  to  be  a  Mohammedan  than  it 
would  be  for  a  British  subject  to  be  a 
Dissenter  from  the  Church  of  England. 
Mohammedans  have  their  schools  and 
mosques.  They  engage  in  business  with 
Confucians  and  Buddhists,  and  their 
lives  and  property  are  quite  as  secure  as 
those  of  any  other  of  the  population. 


778 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


Although  blended  with  and  to  some 
extent  overshadowed  by  Confucianism, 
Buddhism  is  one  of  the  three  great  re- 
ligions of  China,  yet  Buddhism  is  a  for- 
eign religion.  It  was  imported  from 
India  in  95  A.  D.  by  the  Emperor  Ming 
Ti,  who  had  heard  of  the  fame  of  Gau- 
tama, and  who  had  sent  messengers  to 
study  his  religion  and  to  report  to  him 
on  its  merits.  The  tolerance  of  a  Chi- 
nese who  belongs  to  any  one  of  the  three 
great  religions  toward  the  other  two 
faiths  of  his  country  is  so  proverbial  that 
it  is  sometimes  used  as  an  argument  to 
prove  that  China  has  no  real  religion  of 
any  kind.  Two  or  three  times  a  year 
a  Confucian  will  visit  a  temple  of  his 
faith  and  leave  an  offering  with  the 
priest.  He  will  then  in  turn  visit  the 
Buddhist  and  Taoist  temples  and  make 
equally  generous  offerings  on  the  theory 
that  if  a  little  religion  is  a  good  thing, 
more  of  it  is  better. 

If  the  hatred  of  the  Chinese  toward 
Christianity  is  due  only  to  a  national 
intolerance,  then  it  is  so  at  variance 
with  their  conduct  toward  all  other  re- 
ligions that  it  is  only  an  unaccountable 
exception,  without  precedent  and  with- 
out reason.  The  chief  obstacle  to  the 
spread  of  Christianity  in  China  is,  I 
believe,  not  any  especial  dislike  of  it 
as  an  imported  religion,  but  a  fear  and 
an  objection  to  certain  foreign  concomi- 
tants which,  because  of  a  mistaken  point 
of  view,  are  regarded  by  missionaries  as 
essentials.  Christophobia  is  due  not 
only  to  Chinese  hardness  of  heart,  but 
also  to  the  methods  by  which  the  mes- 
sage of  "Peace  on  earth  and  good  will 
to  men  "  has  been  presented  to  them. 

With  the  hackneyed  objections  to  mis- 
sionaries I  have  nothing  to  do ;  they  are 
as  cruel  and  unjust  as  they  are  untruth- 
ful. All  of  these  so-called  "lootings," 
for  which  Pekin  missionaries  have  been 
denounced  by  men  on  this  side  of  the 
world,  never  enriched  an  individual  mis- 
sionary or  his  mission  by  so  much  as  a 
single  tael.  When  "officers  and  gentle- 
men," legations'  attache's,  soldiers,  sail- 


ors, and  foreign  merchants  were  plun- 
dering and  helping  themselves  to  every- 
thing on  which  they  could  lay  their  hands 
during  the  chaotic  days  that  followed  the 
fall  of  Pekin,  it  is  really  surprising  that 
a  few  missionaries  did  not  loot  more 
as  the  only  means  of  providing  food  for 
the  hundreds  of  starving  converts  de- 
pendent upon  them.  Equally  outrageous 
is  the  charge  that  missionaries  are  as  a 
rule  men  of  little  education  and  of  less 
than  average  ability,  who  are  enabled  by 
their  calling  to  live  in  China  amid  a  lux- 
ury of  surroundings  that  would  be  im- 
possible for  them  in  any  occupation  at 
home.  In  wretched  little  Chinese  houses 
in  the  towns  of  Shansi  and  Shensi,  that 
are  visited  by  about  one  white  man  in 
two  years,  I  have  had  the  honor  of  din- 
ing with  missionaries  who  were  gradu- 
ates of  universities,  who  could  have  filled 
any  pulpit,  or  who  could  have  graced  any 
assemblage  in  New  York  or  London.  It 
is  true  that  in  the  educational  missions 
in  Foreign  Concessions  the  instructors 
live  very  comfortably  and  sometimes 
even  luxuriously.  The  institutions  as 
at  present  conducted  are  in  my  opinion 
a  very  serious  mistake,  but  the  environ- 
ment of  the  missionaries  who  teach  in 
them  is  in  no  degree  better  than  that  of 
the  humblest  student.  Of  all  the  mis- 
sionaries with  whom  I  came  in  contact 
in  the  interior,  I  did  not  find  one  who 
was  not  both  brave  and  honorable,  or 
who  would  not  willingly  have  given  his 
life  in  the  cause  of  the  Christianity  in 
which  he  believed.  The  faults  of  mis- 
sionaries are  all  of  the  head,  not  of  the 
heart. 

The  missionary  tells  the  Chinese  that 
they  need  the  gospel  above  and  beyond 
anything  else,  but  he  supplements  this 
announcement  with  the  idea  that  a  Chi- 
naman cannot  be  a  Christian  unless  his 
Christianity  finds  expression  in  exactly 
the  same  forms  and  observances  that  it 
would  in  the  land  from  which  the  mis- 
sionary has  emigrated.  The  missionary 
does  not  stop  with  the  statement  that 
the  Chinaman  is  a  non-believer  in  Chris- 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


779 


tianity.  He  goes  a  step  farther  and 
calls  the  Chinaman  a  "heathen." 

From  the  lips  of  the  few  English- 
speaking  men  who  are  leading  lives  of 
denial  and  self-sacrifice  in  the  interior 
of  China,  one  must  hear  this  word  fre- 
quently used  in  order  to  fully  appreciate 
what  a  heathen  is. 

"Heathen"  is  both  a  noun  and  an 
adjective.  As  a  noun  it  means  an  un- 
converted Chinaman,  of  whom  there  are 
more  than  three  hundred  millions.  He 
is  a  child  of  the  Devil,  on  the  road  to 
perdition.  All  of  his  ancestors  whom 
he  has  been  taught  to  worship  are  now 
living  in  a  fiery  lake.  Everything  that 
he  may  say  or  do  or  think  is  a  prompt- 
ing of  the  Evil  One.  He  is  the  heir  to 
countless  generations  of  inherited  sin. 
He  is  incapable  of  noble  aspirations  or 
of  any  real  goodness. 

In  the  adjectival  sense  just  about 
all  of  China  outside  of  mission  chapels 
and  schools  is  heathen.  All  the  world- 
old  literature  of  the  empire,  all  Confu- 
cian morality,  all  the  beauty  of  the 
temples,  even  the  extreme  honoring  of 
parents  by  their  children,  —  all  are  hea- 
then, and  must  receive  unqualified  con- 
demnation. The  conversion  of  a  hea- 
then to  Christianity  means  much  more 
than  it  would  in  the  case  of  an  Ameri- 
can. A  Chinaman  must  not  only  expe- 
rience a  change  of  heart,  he  must  also 
undergo  a  complete  revolution  of  opin- 
ions and  sentiments.  He  can  no  longer 
venerate  his  ancestors  and  pray  before 
their  tablets  that  he  may  keep  unsullied 
the  honored  name  they  have  left  him. 
It  is  not  permitted  to  him  to  take  pride 
in  the  traditional  glories  of  palaces  and 
gray-walled  cities;  he  must  learn  the 
history  of  his  country  over  again;  he 
must  discover  that  all  the  great  sages 
and  rulers  of  his  country's  past  are  eter- 
nally lost ;  he  must  experience  a  constant 
feeling  of  pity  if  not  of  contempt  for  the 
civilization  and  government  of  China 
and  for  his  friends  and  relatives  who 
persist  in  remaining  heathen.  In  other 
words,  in  order  to  become  a  Christian 


according  to  missionary  standards,  a 
Chinaman  must  be  denationalized.  In 
sentiment  he  must  become  a  foreigner. 
And  naturally  enough  his  "heathen" 
countrymen  who  still  love  their  country 
and  reverence  their  ancestors  do  not 
like  the  denationalizing  process. 

If,  as  is  frequently  the  case,  the  pro- 
cess of  conversion  to  Christianity  is 
begun  in  extreme  youth,  the  convert 
receives  a  supplementary  course  in  de- 
nationalization in  one  of  the  large  edu- 
cational missions  in  a  city  on  the  coast. 
Here  he  learns  the  English  language. 
Chop-sticks  are  relegated  to  the  past, 
and  he  uses  a  knife  and  fork.  He 
sleeps  between  sheets  on  an  American- 
made  spring  mattress.  He  learns  to 
sing  hymns.  He  may  be  a  godly  and 
righteous  man,  but  he  is  either  an  Eng- 
lishman or  an  American ;  he  is  no  longer 
a  Chinaman.  When  on  his  graduation 
he  returns  to  his  native  town,  he  is 
shunned  and  pitied  and  hated  by  his  re- 
latives and  former  friends.  They  point 
to  him  sadly  as  he  goes  on  his  way  re- 
joicing and  remarking,  "Few  there  be 
that  shall  be  saved. "  They  shake  their 
heads  and  say  one  to  another,  "  That  is 
what  the  missionary's  religion  does  for 
a  man." 

The  cause  of  all  this  denationalization 
is  the  missionary.  All  over  China  he  is 
regarded  as  the  man  who  teaches  disloy- 
alty, who  turns  Chinese  into  Ameri- 
cans or  Englishmen,  and  who  induces 
them  to  despise  their  country,  and  this 
purely  Chinese  reason  which  has  been 
explained  to  me  at  length  by  more  than 
one  Chinaman  I  believe  to  be  the  chief 
cause  of  the  hatred  of  Christianity  in 
the  Eighteen  Provinces  to-day. 

But  the  saddest  part  of  it  is  that  a 
missionary  as  a  rule  likes  to  be  hated. 
From  long  contact  with  the  Chinese  he 
knows  the  answer  to  their  "  Why  ?  "  for 
doing  everything,  but  their  explanations, 
arguments,  and  prejudices  he  brushes 
aside  as  "heathen  reasons, "  not  worthy 
of  serious  consideration.  His  attitude 
is  often  one  of  perpetual  hostility  to  the 


780 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


people  to  whom  he  ministers,  and  it  must 
be  admitted  that  from  his  standpoint  his 
conduct  is  perfectly  logical.  Assuming 
that  China  is  heathen,  for  him  to  in 
any  way  recognize  a  national  sentiment 
or  custom  would  be  for  him  to  compro- 
mise himself  with  the  children  of  the 
Devil.  From  the  very  nature  of  the  case 
he  can  never  see  any  good  in  the  Chi- 
nese, and  in  return  he  does  not  expect 
them  to  see  any  good  in  him  until  they 
shall  have  experienced  such  a  complete 
change  of  both  heart  and  mind  that  they 
are  really  Chinese  no  longer.  I  once 
asked  a  missionary  in  an  isolated  little 
town  what  progress  he  was  making  in  his 
work.  His  reply  was,  "Oh,  of  course 
they  hate  me.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
protection  insured  me  by  treaty  I  should 
have  been  driven  out  long  ago,  but  the 
Lord  of  Hosts  is  on  my  side,  and  I  re- 
vile them  in  their  sin."  There  is  some- 
thing magnificent  and  even  sublime  in 
a  man's  willingness  to  submit  to  a  life 
of  reviling  and  persecution  for  his  faith, 
but  that  is  not  what  a  missionary  is 
sent  to  China  to  do.  His  "mission  "  is 
to  "preach  the  gospel,"  nothing  more. 
He  is  not  engaged  to  be  a  reformer  or 
even  a  martyr.  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  in  the  observances  and  ser- 
vices of  the  Christian  faith,  the  mis- 
sionary rather  enjoyed  shocking  Chi- 
nese sensibilities  and  ideas  of  propriety. 
A  heathen's  feelings  do  not  count  for 
much.  He  has  no  business  to  be  a  hea- 
then. 

Perhaps  the  one  dominating  trait  in 
Chinese  character  is  a  striving  for  the 
maintenance  of  dignity  and  self-control. 
The  man  most  to  be  admired  is  he  who 
can  most  successfully  repress  his  feel- 
ings. Any  extreme  ebullition  of  joy  or 
of  sorrow  or  of  hatred  is  an  unpardona- 
ble breach  of  propriety.  This  is  the  rea- 
son why  the  Chinese  very  seldom  sing. 
When  they  do  it  is  in  a  subdued  chant- 
ing monotone  that  produces  an  effect  on 
the  listener  similar  to  hearing  a  man 
talking  to  himself.  Imagine  what  must 
be  the  feelings  of  a  Confucian  scholar 


on  seeing  and  hearing  a  Christian  con- 
vert standing  at  the  door  of  his  house 
singing  loudly  Beulah  Land,  or  Hal- 
lelujah 't  is  Done.  If  the  neighbors 
plead  with  the  convert  to  desist,  and 
tell  him  that  he  is  disgracing  his  family, 
he  only  sings  the  louder.  He  must  not 
"hide  his  light "  or  his  voice  "under  a 
bushel ;  "  of  course  not,  and  the  mis- 
sionary approvingly  reminds  him  that 
"so  persecuted  they  the  prophets  which 
were  before  you." 

By  and  by  some  gentlemen  of  Boxer 
proclivities  tear  up  the  convert's  hymn- 
books,  wreck  his  furniture,  and  perhaps 
drive  him  out  of  town  as  a  nuisance. 
Immediately  the  missionary  communi- 
cates with  the  consul  of  his  nation  in 
the  nearest  Treaty  Port  and  complains 
of  "malicious  persecution  of  Chris- 
tians." Things  have  been  altogether 
too  slow  for  the  consul  of  late.  He  has 
had  110  opportunity  of  entering  a  "man- 
ly and  vigorous  protest "  with  the  Chi- 
nese Foreign  Office  for  some  time.  He 
fears  that  the  government  which  he  re- 
presents will  begin  to  think  that  he  is 
not  doing  enough  to  "uphold  the  digni- 
ty of  his  flag."  The  missionary's  com- 
munication is  very  gratifying  to  the  con- 
sul. He  leaves  his  rubber  at  Bridge  to 
draw  up  a  demand  for  immediate  repa- 
ration for  "  this  outrage,  in  the  name  of 
the  Christian  government  I  have  the 
honor, "  etc.  The  members  of  the  Chi- 
nese Foreign  Office  know  by  bitter  expe- 
rience that  the  Christian  government 
has  warships  and  plenty  of  men  in  khaki 
uniforms  with  quick-firing  guns,  and 
also  that  the  Christian  government  has 
perhaps  a  longing  for  another  seaport  and 
some  more  "hinterland."  The  Chinese 
Foreign  Office  replies  to  the  consul's 
note  that  they  "  deplore  the  unfortunate 
occurrence. "  The  mandarin  of  the  town 
in  which  the  convert  sang  is  dismissed 
from  office  in  disgrace.  By  an  indem- 
nity tax  levied  on  the  townspeople  the 
cost  of  the  convert's  hymn-books  and 
furniture  is  restored  to  him,  sometimes 
"tenfold,"  sometimes  "an  hundred- 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


781 


fold. "  The  convert  will  not  be  molested 
again.  He  can  now  shout  in  loud  Chi- 
nese, "Sometimes  a  light  surprises  the 
Christian  as  he  sings, "  to  his  soul's  de- 
light. The  missionary  can  truthfully 
say,  "The  Lord  is  mighty,  he  will 
prevail ;  "  and  yet  strangely  enough  the 
people  of  the  town  are  praying  to  the 
idols  of  the  temple  that  the  missionary 
will  go  away  and  will  stay  away. 

As  a  prerogative  of  their  great  su- 
periority over  the  heathen,  missiona- 
ries have  a  habit  of  interpreting  the 
workings  of  Divine  Providence  in  a  way 
that,  to  say  the  least,  is  not  conducive 
to  inspiring  Chinese  listeners  with  kind- 
ly feelings  toward  the  Christian's  Al- 
mighty. Several  missionaries  have  told 
me  that  the  opium  traffic,  with  its  hor- 
rors, was  so  evidently  an  instrument  in 
God's  hands  for  the  salvation  of  Chi- 
nese souls  that  it  would  be  positively 
wrong  for  a  Christian  to  attempt  its 
suppression.  The  reasoning  by  which 
this  conclusion  was  reached  was  some- 
thing like  this.  In  a  town  we  will  sup- 
pose of  20,000  inhabitants,  about  2000 
are  hopeless  slaves  of  the  opium  habit, 
and  500  are  in  the  last  stages  of  rags 
and  degradation.  Of  the  500  perhaps 
twenty,  having  tried  every  other  avail- 
able remedy,  will  in  desperation,  as  a 
last  resort,  take  refuge  in  a  missionary 
opium  cure.  Here  their  spiritual  needs 
will  be  ministered  to.  During  their 
course  of  treatment  no  effort  will  be 
spared  to  convert  them  to  Christianity. 
Of  the  twenty  victims  thus  admitted  to 
the  refuge  in  the  course  of  a  year  per- 
haps half  that  number  will  leave  the  in- 
stitution not  only  cured,  but  with  "  saved 
souls  "  as  well.  "Therefore,"  explains 
the  missionary,  "it  is  plain  that  the 
opium  curse  was  sent  upon  the  2000  in 
order  that  the  ten  might  have  eternal 
life."  I  am  not  a  theologian,  and  I 
should  make  sad  work  of  it  were  I  to 
attempt  to  combat  this  reasoning  on 
theological  grounds;  but  I  know  that 
if  I  were  a  Chinaman  urged  to  believe 
in  a  God  who  would  wither  and  degrade 


and  destroy  the  minds  and  bodies  of 
2000  of  his  own  creatures  for  the  sake 
of  the  souls  of  ten,  no  better  than  the 
rest,  I  should  gladly  return  to  my  paint- 
ed idols  who  were  never  guilty  of  such 
a  crime. 

The  West  depends  very  largely  upon 
missionary  literature  for  its  knowledge 
of  China.  A  missionary's  statements 
are  almost  without  exception  truthful 
and  accurate  and  painstaking,  but  in  his 
writing,  as  in  his  teaching,  the  bias  of 
the  missionary's  mind  manifests  itself  in 
his  fondness  for  pointing  a  "moral  and 
adorning  a  tale  "  to  the  most  trifling  de- 
scription of  an  institution  or  a  method ; 
the  moral  being  often  a  sweeping  con- 
demnation of  the  Chinese  not  warranted 
by  the  limited  facts. 

Before  the  International  Suffrage 
Convention  recently  held  in  Washing- 
ton, D.  C.,  a  report  was  read  on  the 
Condition  of  Women  in  China.  The 
author  was  a  woman  and  a  missionary. 
To  the  extent  of  two  newspaper  columns 
she  confined  herself  to  a  careful  and  able 
exposition  of  this,  the  saddest  feature  of 
Chinese  civilization,  and  told  of  the  sor- 
rows of  her  own  sex  in  China  in  simple 
facts  that  the  most  ardent  admirer  of 
China  could  never  think  of  denying. 
But  near  the  close  of  the  report  the 
author  suddenly  expanded  her  subject 
and  said  :  — 

"This  is  a  dark  picture,  and  one  is 
tempted  to  ask,  '  Is  there  no  good  thing 
in  all  the  land  of  China  ?  '  Yes,  if  we 
look  at  the  bright  spots,  which  are  illu- 
minated by  the  light  of  the  gospel.  Here 
we  see  colleges,  universities,  schools  for 
the  rich  and  the  poor,  churches,  Sab- 
bath schools,  anti-foot-binding  socie- 
ties, Christian  Endeavor  and  missionary 
societies." 

This  is  an  excellent  example  of  mis- 
sionary literature ;  a  conclusion  cover- 
ing all  of  Chinese  civilization  deduced 
from  a  description  of  one  phase  of  it. 
On  any  hot  summer  afternoon  the  writer 
of  the  report  could  walk  for  hours 
through  streets  and  alleys  in  the  city  of 


782 


Chinese  Dislike  of  Christianity. 


New  York  where  she  could  see  pale- 
faced  little  children  lying  on  fire-es- 
capes of  tenements,  panting  for  a  breath 
of  God's  fresh  air.  She  could  pass  hun- 
dreds of  rum- shops  where  drunken  hus- 
bands and  fathers  spent  their  last  cent 
of  wages  and  let  their  families  starve. 
She  could  see  men  fighting,  and  she  could 
hear  women  cursing,  and  could  discover 
many  other  things  in  the  "  dark  picture  " 
which  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
find  in  China.  Would  she  then  be  war- 
ranted in  asking,  "  Is  there  no  good  thing 
in  all  the  United  States  ?  "  There  is 
no  more  reason  for  so  sweeping  an  in- 
quiry in  the  case  of  the  land  of  the  Black- 
Haired  People  than  in  our  own.  There 
certainly  are  "bright  spots  "  in  China 
besides  those  which  the  writer  of  the 
report  has  enumerated.  Is  not  the  uni- 
versal observance  of  the  fifth  command- 
ment —  the  love  of  children  for  their 
parents,  and  the  respect  for  old  age 
—  a  bright  spot  ?  Is  not  the  absence 
of  slums  and  saloons  a  bright  spot  ? 
If,  as  the  result  of  a  crusade,  the 
W.  C.  T.  U.  had  succeeded  in  closing 
all  the  saloons  in  an  interior  American 
town,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  writer 
of  the  report  would  agree  that  the  town 
in  question  was  the  brightest  spot  on 
the  map  of  the  state.  Outside  of  For- 
eign Concessions  there  are  no  saloons 
in  all  China,  although  the  population  is 
five  times  that  of  the  United  States,  and 
yet  the  total  absence  of  the  saloon  in 
no  way  lightens  the  dark  picture  of 
China.  The  United  States  is  —  or  is 
supposed  to  be  —  a  Christian  nation, 
and  China  is  heathen.  That  is  the  rea- 
son why  light  in  one  picture  is  dark- 
ness in  the  other. 

There  was  a  Divine  Man  on  earth 


once  who  "ate  with  publicans  and  sin- 
ners ;  "  who  said,  "  Render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  which  are  Caesar's,"  and 
"Judge  not  that  you  be  not  judged;  " 
who  taught  that  "Ye  shall  neither  in 
this  mountain,  nor  yet  at  Jerusalem, 
worship  the  Father,  but  the  true  wor- 
shippers shall  worship  the  Father  in 
spirit  and  in  truth ;  "  who  never  com- 
plained of  malicious  persecution  to  a 
tetrarch,  or  demanded  an  indemnity 
from  a  Sanhedrim ;  who  from  a  moun- 
tain preached  a  sermon  that  will  last 
forever,  and  afterwards  fed  his  five  thou- 
sand listeners  without  first  asking  them 
whether  or  not  they  agreed  with  him, 
and  without  announcing  a  hymn  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  services.  He 
"went  about  doing  good, "  and  "he  shall 
draw  all  men  unto  him." 

If  the  time  shall  ever  come  when  we 
hear  less  talk  about  a  missionary  spirit 
and  more  of  the  spirit  of  Christ  in 
mission  work,  then,  and  not  till  then, 
will  there  be  hope  for  the  gospel  in 
China.  From  present  indications  that 
time  is  a  long  way  off.  But  meanwhile 
we  can  at  least  sometimes  ask  the  Chi- 
naman "  Why  ?  "  before  we  condemn 
him.  We  can  listen  to  his  reasons  be- 
fore we  abandon  him  as  a  hopeless 
heathen.  We  can  judge  him  in  the 
spirit  of  fair  play  in  which  heathen 
Altangi  judged  England. 

My  experience  of  Fum  Hoam's  coun- 
try has  led  me  to  hope  that  some  day  an 
Anglo-Saxon  Altangi  will  ride  across 
the  gray  hidden  land,  and  from  it  will 
write  letters  to  some  friend  in  Christen- 
dom that  will  teach  the  world  that  al- 
though the  Chinese  is  yellow  and  a 
heathen,  he  is  yet  a  man  worthy  of 
fair  play. 

Francis  H.  Nichols. 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


783 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   PORTO   RICO   AND   HER   SCHOOLS. 


IT  was  less  than  a  week  after  receiv- 
ing an  invitation  from  Dr.  Lindsay  to 
join  him  in  an  inspection  of  Porto  Rican 
schools  that  I  found  myself  on  the  tidy 
little  steamer  Caracas,  bound  for  San 
Juan.  She  was  as  pretty  as  a  yacht, 
white  and  trim,  but  so  small  —  only  three 
thousand  tons  —  that  she  suggested  large 
possibilities  in  the  way  of  pitching  and 
tossing.  These  possibilities  were  all  re- 
alized, but  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth 
day,  when  Porto  Rico,  in  all  her  beauty 
of  color  and  form  and  foliage,  loomed 
up  over  the  bow,  the  discomforts  of  the 
voyage  seemed  as  nothing,  and  I  felt 
the  thrill  that  a  man  must  feel  on  first 
entering  the  tropics.  In  the  far  east 
rose  the  picturesque  summit  of  Yunque 
(the  Anvil),  the  highest  mountain  on 
the  island,  nearly  five  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  Smaller  billows  of  green 
surged  around  its  base  and  made  an  effec- 
tive setting.  Directly  in  front,  the  long 
mountainous  backbone  of  the  island 
presented  a  highly  varied  skyline,  and 
stretched  off  into  the  mists  of  the  west. 
Everything  was  intensely,  vividly  green, 
an  emerald  isle  if  ever  there  was  one. 
As  we  drew  nearer,  the  white  line  of 
surf  and  sandy  beaches  began  to  show 
itself,  with  here  and  there  a  bold  and 
rocky  headland.  Slowly  the  rocks  im- 
mediately ahead  resolved  themselves  into 
a  castle  and  beyond  that  into  a  city. 
We  were  pushing  toward  Morro  Castle 
and  San  Juan.  The  castle  seems  an  in- 
tegral part  of  nature ;  it  grows  out  of 
the  rock,  and  the  rock  out  of  the  sea. 
The  walls  are  a  warm  pinkish  yellow, 
turning  in  places  to  brown  and  reddish 
brown,  with  occasional  splashes  of  vivid 
green  moss.  Coming  still  nearer,  the 
foliage  begins  to  show  its  texture.  One 
sees  a  fringe  of  cocoanut  palms,  their 
drooping  leaves  and  bending  trunks  giv- 
ing that  aspect  of  melancholy  so  charac- 


teristic of  tropical  scenery.  It  is  an  ever 
present  minor  chord,  and  finds  its  hu- 
man counterpart  in  the  eyes  of  her  peo- 
ple, —  large,  beautiful,  even  happy  eyes, 
but  with  the  suggestion  of  sadness  and 
tragedy  under  their  brightest  smiles. 

The  sea  was  magnificently  beautiful 
in  its  blue  and  green  and  turquoise.  The 
sweeping  tide  that  carried  us  through 
the  narrow  and  at  times  dangerous 
channel  between  Morro  Castle  and  the 
low-lying  leper  island  to  the  west  bore 
an  enthusiastic  set  of  voyagers.  The 
castle  and  city  lie  on  a  narrow  island 
presenting  its  broader  sides  to  the  sea 
on  the  north  and  the  harbor  on  the 
south.  One  passes  almost  completely 
around  the  castle  and  half  around  the 
city  before  coming  to  anchor.  From 
the  harbor,  the  city  has  a  most  hospi- 
table look.  It  rises  from  the  water  to 
the  rocky  rampart  turned  seaward,  and 
seems  to  express  a  cordial  welcome. 
From  the  governor's  seventy-two  room 
palace  to  the  smallest  shack,  the  sun- 
light comes  streaming  back  from  the 
fully  illuminated  walls,  and  proclaims 
that,  for  the  moment  at  least,  you  are 
in  a  land  of  sunshine.  The  flat  roofs, 
projecting  eaves,  narrow  balconies,  walls 
of  white  and  blue  and  pink,  great  shut- 
tered windows,  all  suggest  the  architec- 
ture of  southern  Europe.  The  palm 
trees  add  to  the  foreign  aspect.  But 
the  most  striking,  not  to  say  startling 
object  in  all  this  gay  scene  is  our  own 
American  flag.  To  see  it  floating  from 
the  shipping,  from  Morro  and  San  Cris- 
tobal, from  school  and  public  building, 
fills  the  heart  with  mixed  emotions. 
The  flag  is  much  in  evidence  all  over 
the  island.  It  is  displayed,  paraded, 
and  loved  with  an  enthusiasm  quite  un- 
known in  Pennsylvania  or  Massachu- 
setts. To  the  younger  generation  it  is 
the  symbol  of  a  new  era. 


784 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


San  Juan  is  the  principal  shipping 
port  on  the  north,  as  Ponce  is  on  the 
south,  and  is  the  largest  city  on  the  is- 
land. It  has  with  the  islanders  the  re- 
putation of  being  very  densely  populat- 
ed, but  I  saw  no  evidence  of  it  myself. 
The  narrow  streets  are  not  unduly 
crowded.  The  plaza  and  marina  show 
only  scattered  handf  uls  of  people.  Those 
who  know  say  that  in  some  sections  of 
the  city  as  many  as  four  families  live  in 
one  room,  —  a  family  to  each  corner,  — 
and  get  on  very  happily  unless  one  of 
them  tries  to  take  boarders.  To  the 
outward  eye  the  city  is  clean,  attractive, 
and  progressive.  There  are  good  res- 
taurants and  hotels,  and  such  modern 
devices  as  trolleys,  electric  lights,  and 
telephones.  The  centre  of  city  life  is 
the  Plaza  Alfonso  XII.  One  finds  here 
many  lively  shops,  the  Alcaldia,  and  the 
substantial  Intendencia  Building,  which 
gives  excellent  quarters  for  both  the 
departments  of  education  and  of  the  in- 
terior. 

It  was  our  own  pleasure  not  to  stop 
directly  in  San  Juan,  but  at  Santurce, 
just  outside  the  city,  at  the  garden-be- 
girt Hotel  Olimpo.  As  the  trolley  runs 
from  the  plaza  directly  to  the  hotel  in 
twenty  minutes,  the  arrangement  proved 
entirely  convenient.  The  Olimpo  con- 
sists of  a  series  of  large  one-story  cot- 
tages, connected  by  a  long  porch.  Each 
cottage  contains  about  eight  bedrooms, 
a  common  drawing-room,  and  very  com- 
plete toilet  and  bathing  arrangements. 
The  rooms  are  furnished  with  European 
simplicity,  —  bare  floors,  iron  bedsteads, 
a  dressing  bureau,  washstand,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  chairs,  —  and  this  appears  to  be 
the  custom  throughout  the  island  in  both 
hotels  and  private  houses.  The  furni- 
ture is  all  European  and  mostly  Vien- 
nese. One  sees  more  bent-wood  rockers 
and  ebonized  cane  furniture  than  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  a  lifetime. 

The  day  after  our  arrival  we  visited 
the  Normal  School  at  Rio  Piedras,  some 
seven  miles  from  San  Juan,  and  reached 


by  the  same  convenient  trolley  that 
passes  Olimpo.  At  present  the  school  is 
held  in  the  old  summer  palace  of  the 
governor,  —  charming,  dilapidated,  and 
picturesque ;  and  backed  by  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  gardens.  The  palace 
is  of  wood  and  visibly  near  its  end,  but 
its  proportions  are  so  good,  and  its  set- 
ting so  fine,  that  it  seemed  to  me  one  of 
the  most  attractive  buildings  on  the  is- 
land. The  young  people  in  attendance 
were  equally  attractive,  bright-eyed,  in- 
telligent boys  and  girls,  with  a  keen  en- 
thusiasm for  education,  and  evidently 
going  in  for  it  heart  and  soul.  They 
were  very  well  dressed,  too;  the  boys 
for  the  most  part  in  neat  white  linen 
suits,  the  girls  in  pretty  wash  dresses. 
One  is  apt  to  gather  a  wrong  impression 
of  the  dress  from  reading  that  the  small 
children  are  quite  naked.  One  sees 
these  toddling  nudities  on  all  sides,  even 
in  the  cities,  and  sometimes  they  are 
distinctly  funny,  as  the  little  brown 
cherub  I  saw  one  Sunday  afternoon 
sporting  a  pair  of  red  kid  shoes  and 
wearing  nothing  else.  But,  on  the 
whole,  the  people  of  Porto  Rico  are 
more  tastefully  dressed  than  our  own 
people.  The  linen  suits  of  the  boys  and 
men  are  singularly  neat  and  clean,  while 
the  wash  dresses  of  the  women  are  not 
only  pretty,  but  seem,  to  masculine  eyes 
at  least,  to  be  very  skillfully  made.  I 
noticed,  for  example,  that  when  inser- 
tion was  used  around  the  neck  and 
sleeves,  the  lines  were  straight,  and 
that  there  were  no  untidy  gaps  between 
belt  and  skirt.  I  leave  it  to  the  women 
if  these  are  not  sure  signs  of  being  well 
gowned !  At  any  rate,  I  do  not  always 
discover  these  signs  at  home. 

At  Rio  Piedras  I  had  my  first  expe- 
rience in  speaking  through  an  interpre- 
ter, and  at  the  start  it  was  difficult.  The 
audience  was  typical  of  the  seventeen  that 
followed,  —  attentive,  courteous,  and  pa- 
tient. As  many  of  the  students  knew 
both  English  and  Spanish,  they  had  to 
listen  to  the  address  twice,  and  that  piece 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools.  785 


by  piece,  —  a  heavy  tax  on  the  good  in- 
tention. The  instruction  at  Rio  Piedras, 
so  far  as  could  be  gathered  from  a  single 
visit,  seemed  naturally  inferior  to  the  best 
that  we  have  in  the  states,  but  it  was  dis- 
tinctly in  advance  of  much  that  we  are 
doing.  Considering  the  newness  of  the 
school,  the  absence  of  adequate  prepara- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  students,  and  the 
difficulties  that  always  attend  two-lan- 
guage enterprises  not  fully  equipped -with 
well-trained  teachers,  the  outlook  is  full 
of  large  promise.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered that  the  Spanish  government  be- 
lieved very  feebly  in  popular  education, 
and  was  entirely  opposed  to  coeducation. 
At  the  time  of  the  American  occupation 
there  was,  I  believe,  but  one  building  on 
the  whole  island  especially  erected  for 
school  purposes,  and  that  was  the  gift  of 
a  private  citizen,  a  lady.  The  Americans 
have  had  to  build  from  the  very  founda- 
tions. 

It  is  a  short  distance  from  the  beauti- 
ful old  summer  palace  to  the  new  Nor- 
mal School,  if  you  measure  it  in  yards, 
but  in  the  matter  of  attractiveness  the 
distance  is  tremendous.  The  building 
stands  on  a  bare,  staring  hill,  and  looks 
quite  as  if  a  cyclone  had  brought  it  from 
the  most  unemotional  of  our  newest  fron- 
tier towns.  In  general,  all  the  new  school 
buildings  are  needlessly  ugly.  There  will 
soon  be  a  marked  improvement  in  this 
particular,  —  unless,  indeed,  the  guests 
of  the  commissioner  lost  their  cause  by 
too  much  speaking. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  the  Eng- 
lish High  School  at  San  Juan.  It  is  in 
the  old  Beneficencia  building,  on  the 
very  crown  of  the  rocky  sea  wall  built 
by  nature,  and  from  the  windows  one 
has  the  most  enchanting  views  of  sea 
and  harbor  and  vividly  green  hills  be- 
yond. Across  the  narrow  entrance  chan- 
nel lies  the  low  island  of  the  lepers,  the 
Isla  de  Cabras,  and  the  thought  turns  to 
Robert  Louis  and  the  strong,  gentle  face 
of  Father  Damien.  The  sun  is  shining 
brightly.  The  whole  scene  is  fairly 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  50 


aglow  with  color.  And  yet  one's  heart 
aches,  for  the  contrast  is  so  cruel,  —  over 
at  the  Isla  de  Cabras,  hopelessness  and 
death ;  here  at  the  High  School,  abundant 
life  and  hope. 

The  building  is  old  and  charming. 
One  thinks  unwillingly  of  the  approach- 
ing day  when,  unless  Minerva  intervene, 
it  will  give  place  to  another  architectural 
aberration  like  the  one  at  Rio  Piedras. 
The  rooms  are  grouped  around  a  large 
central  court,  an  eminently  suitable  ar- 
rangement for  this  climate,  and  quite 
worth  copying.  We  went  into  one  of  the 
large,  cool  rooms  where  the  seniors, 
boys  and  girls,  were  having  their  Friday 
afternoon  debate.  They  were  a  plea- 
sant-looking set  of  children.  One  lad,  a 
serious,  handsome  boy,  spoke  with  much 
eloquence.  He  was  describing  a  per- 
sonal experience,  —  his  first  going  away 
from  home,  —  and  spoke  so  touchingly 
that  he  and  several  of  his  hearers  were 
moved  to  tears.  When  he  sat  down,  his 
comrades  hurried  to  congratulate  him, 
but  he  could  only  bury  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  it  was  several  moments  before 
he  recovered  himself.  Then  another  lad 
played  very  sweetly  on  the  violin,  a  se- 
lection from  II  Trovatore.  It  was  now 
the  turn  of  the  commissioner  and  his 
guests  to  do  some  speaking.  It  was  less 
difficult  than  in  the  morning,  and  there 
was  the  same  courteous  attention,  even 
from  the  smaller  children  brought  in  from 
the  graded  school.  The  color-line  is  not 
drawn  in  Porto  Rico,  and  it  is  most  for- 
tunate that  this  is  the  case,  for  it  would 
lie  a  matter  so  delicate  as  to  be  impossi- 
ble. Between  pure  Castilian  and  pure 
negro  there  are  all  proportions  of  admix- 
ture. 

The  official  course  of  study  seemed  to 
me  somewhat  over-ambitious.  The  sec- 
ond year,  in  addition  to  the  humanities, 
drawing,  music,  and  calisthenics,  was 
freighted  in  mathematics  with  algebra, 
geometry,  and  trigonometry,  and  in  sci- 
ence with  biology  and  physics.  The  bet- 
ter practice  is  much  simpler  than  this. 


786 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


Trigonometry  is  thrown  to  the  fourth 
year  and  is  made  elective,  and  but  one 
branch  of  mathematics  and  of  science  is 
offered  at  a  time.  I  am  glad  to  hear  that 
the  course  has  since  been  revised  along  the 
line  of  this  more  wholesome  simplicity. 

On  the  following  day,  and  early 
enough  in  the  day  to  make  an  impres- 
sion, the  commissioner's  party,  accompa- 
nied by  our  excellent  interpreters,  Mr. 
Martinez  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  McCormick, 
started  out  on  a  tour  of  the  island.  The 
circuit  occupied  eight  days,  and  was  a 
most  unique  and  interesting  experience. 
Travel  in  Porto  Rico  is  varied.  There 
was  a  French  scheme  to  girdle  the  island 
with  a  narrow-gauge  railway,  but  it  was 
never  carried  to  completion.  At  the  pre- 
sent time  there  are  three  small  stretches 
of  road  :  one  on  the  north,  from  San 
Juan  to  Camuy  ;  one  on  the  west,  from 
Aguadilla  to  Hormigueros ;  and  one  on 
the  south,  from  Yuaco  to  Ponce.  On  the 
map,  they  look  like  remnants  of  a  partly 
destroyed  system,  rather  than  the  begin- 
ning of  anything.  The  first-class  car- 
riages are  comfortable,  but  the  fares  are 
high,  something  like  seven  cents  a  mile, 
I  believe.  Most  of  the  travel,  that  is  of 
the  quality,  is  by  post  coaches.  These  are 
low,  double  phaetons  drawn  by  two  horses 
so  phenomenally  small  and  so  shabby  that 
they  hardly  look  like  horses.  But  these 
tiny  animals  tear  along  at  a  full  gallop, 
and  make  better  time  than  our  larger 
steeds  at  home.  At  first,  one's  sympa- 
thies are  so  played  upon  that  the  journey 
is  genuinely  distressing,  but  later,  one 
feels  better  about  it  on  noticing  that  the 
horses  are  frequently  changed  and  on 
hearing  that  they  are  only  taken  out  once 
in  three  or  four  days.  The  country  peo- 
ple use  saddle-horses  where  they  can  af- 
ford them,  but  the  majority  walk.  It  is 
a  populous  land,  and  the  people  seem 
always  astir.  One  never  has  a  sense  of 
being  in  the  wilderness,  but  rather  of 
moving  about  in  an  unbroken  community. 
Even  in  crossing  the  island,  and  looking 
out  over  what  seems  to  be  unbroken  for- 


est, one  soon  learns  that  the  forest  is 
simply  the  shade  needed  for  the  coffee 
bushes,  and  really  teems  with  tiny  home- 
steads. There  are,  indeed,  about  a  mil- 
lion people  on  the  island,  and  this  in  a 
territory  a  little  smaller  than  Connecticut 
means  considerable  neighboiiiness. 

Porto  Rico  has  the  enthusiasm  for 
politics  and  political  activity  character- 
istic of  most  Latin  countries.  Her  pub- 
lic men  are  ready  speakers  and  under- 
stand the  art  of  touching  an  audience. 
To  an  outsider,  however,  it  would  seem 
that  the  first  duty  of  her  patriots  is  to  go 
in  less  for  politics  and  more  for  social 
work.  As  a  Pennsylvanian,  I  make  the 
suggestion  with  all  modesty  and  certainly 
in  no  spirit  of  more-righteous-than-thou ! 

At  present  there  are  two  political  par- 
ties, the  Federalists  and  the  Republicans. 
The  Federalists  are  aristocratic,  are  op- 
posed in  general  to  American  ways  and 
means,  and  represent  the  old  regime.  The 
Republicans  are  strongly  American  in 
their  sympathies,  and  democratic  in  their 
ideals.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  virtue 
does  not  reside  exclusively  in  either 
party.  The  American  who  wishes  to 
know  the  island  and  to  serve  it  must  be 
prepared  to  sympathize  with  both  parties, 
and  to  understand  their  point  of  view. 
While  I  believe  most  genuinely  myself 
that  both  destiny  and  advantage  are  on 
the  side  of  American  affiliation,  I  quite 
sympathize  with  the  Federalists.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  their  first  im- 
pressions of  America  and  Americans 
were  gathered  from  the  more  doubtful 
part  of  our  fellow  citizens,  in  many  cases 
from  persons  whom  we  ourselves  should 
be  unwilling  to  associate  with  at  home, 
—  adventurers,  rolling-stones,  army 
hangers-on,  carpetbaggers,  and  the  whole 
list  of  undesirable  and  less  desirable 
Americans.  From  what  I  heard,  and  in 
smaller  measure  from  what  I  saw,  I  judge 
the  first  importation  of  Americans  to 
have  been  a  curious  lot.  Happily  all  this 
is  rapidly  changing.  Men  like  the  pre- 
sent governor  and  the  present  commis- 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


787 


sioner,  and  others  of  their  stamp,  are 
representing  America  with  dignity  and 
worth.  But  our  task  now  is  not  the  sim- 
ple one  of  making  a  good  impression  ;  it 
is  the  more  difficult  task  of  overcoming  an 
unfavorable  impression.  The  five  thou- 
sand men  who  swore  allegiance  to  the 
Spanish  flag  within  the  two  years  pre- 
scribed by  law  are  among  the  best  people 
on  the  island,  and  are  quite  the  type  of 
people  we  should  like  to  win  over  to  the 
new  order  of  things.  Furthermore  we 
must  also  remember  that  for  the  moment 
we  have  taken  from  these  upper  classes 
more  than  we  have  given  them.  They 
had  practically  achieved  autonomy,  with 
due  representation  in  the  Cortes.  This 
was  all  swept  away  by  the  American  oc- 
cupation, and  in  return  we  have  given 
them  nothing  politically.  They  are 
more  truly  a  subject  people,  a  mere 
colony,  under  the  United  States  than 
they  were  under  Spain.  They  have  not 
even  citizenship.  They  are  inhabitants 
of  an  island  but  citizens  of  no  sovereign 
state.  If  they  journey  abroad,  they  may 
not  even  secure  a  passport.  The  real 
power  on  the  island  is  vested  in  the  Pre- 
sident, and  is  exercised  through  the  gov- 
ernor and  the  Executive  Council,  both  of 
which  he  appoints.  The  electoral  House 
of  Delegates  has  large  freedom  but  no 
final  powers. 

If  the  Porto  Ricans  were  inferior  to 
the  rank  and  file  in  America,  there  might 
be  some  excuse  for  this  course.  But  they 
are  a  superior  people,  and  I  maintain 
that  it  is  cavalier  treatment  to  leave 
them  without  political  status  in  the  great 
world  of  nations.  The  grievance  may 
seem  trivial  and  theoretical  to  bread  and 
butter  folk,  but  the  more  high-spirited 
a  people,  the  more  sensitive  they  are  to 
just  these  spiritual  slights.  We  must  not 
forget  our  own  colonial  experience,  and 
with  what  little  grace  we  could  stomach 
indignities  even  from  people  of  our  own 
race. 

Arecibo  is  the  Federalist  headquar- 
ters, the  most  "  disaffected  "  city  on  the 


island.  A  few  months  ago  the  feeling 
ran  so  strong  that  it  was  openly  threat- 
ened that  the  governor  could  not  safely 
enter  the  city.  Yet  when  he  did  go,  in 
February,  he  received  a  courteous  wel- 
come, and  left  many  friends  behind  him. 
The  welcome  given  our  own  little  party 
was  entirely  courteous,  but  also  somewhat 
chilly.  It  was  not  so  much  what  they  did, 
as  what  they  omitted  to  do.  The  evening 
meeting  at  the  Teatro  was  very  well  at- 
tended, and  the  speeches  were  listened 
to  with  close  attention.  When  any  of 
the  speakers  touched  upon  political  mat- 
ters there  was  a  general  sense  of  skating 
on  pretty  thin  ice  abroad,  —  if  such  an 
expression  is  applicable  in  the  tropics. 
The  local  speaker  quite  outdid  us.  He 
was  both  eloquent  and  impassioned.  He 
reviewed  the  substance  of  the  American 
addresses  most  ably,  touched  upon  the 
political  questions  of  the  hour,  and  sat 
down  amid  a  storm  of  applause.  Indeed, 
there  were  few  occasions  in  Porto  Rico 
where  the  natives  spoke  at  the  same 
meetings  as  ourselves  that  I  did  not  feel 
that  we  were  well  beaten  at  our  own 
game.  They  are  born  orators,  —  it  is 
the  Latin  blood,  I  suppose,  —  and  their 
oratory  is  unique.  Paragraph  succeeds 
paragraph,  each  full,  fervid,  flowery, 
leading  up  to  some  rhetorical  outburst 
that  is  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  ample  ap- 
plause which  separates  the  paragraphs 
into  so  many  little  speeches.  In  time, 
this  fervor  might  grow  wearisome,  but 
for  popular  occasions  it  is  highly  effec- 
tive, and  made  our  own  attempts  seem 
Anglo-Saxon. 

We  were  quartered  at  the  hotel,  and 
my  own  room  opened  on  a  roof  terrace. 
Night  in  the  tropics,  and  especially 
when  the  moon  shines,  is  an  affair  of 
enchantment.  In  the  north,  my  old 
friend  the  Dipper  spoke  of  home,  but 
the  Pole^  Star  was  much  nearer  the  hori- 
zon than  I  had  ever  seen  it  before.  In 
the  south,  the  Southern  Cross,  albeit  the 
false  one,  touched  the  emotions  with  a 
sense  of  wonder.  Below,  lay  the  sleep- 


788  Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


ing,  flat-roofed  city,  the  graceful  plaster 
facade  of  the  cathedral  rising  white  and 
magnificent  in  the  moonlight,  while  the 
straight  lines  of  the  buildings  were  bro- 
ken by  the  attractive,  melancholy  out- 
lines of  the  palms.  As  a  background  to 
it  all,  a  background  of  impressive  sound, 
came  the  constant  boom  of  the  northern 
ocean,  like  the  swelling  notes  of  a  uni- 
versal organ. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  I 
hope  we  did  not  desecrate  it,  but  this  is 
how  we  spent  it.  We  got  up  early  and 
drove  with  the  supervisor  of  the  district  to 
the  Jefferson  graded  school,  six-roomed, 
substantial  and  ugly,  but  made  pretty 
within  by  cheap,  well-chosen  pictures.  A 
short  railroad  ride  took  us  to  Camuy,  still 
on  the  north  coast,  where  we  spoke  to 
the  school-children  out  in  the  open  air. 
Many  of  them  were  barefooted,  but  they 
were  very  neat  and  clean.  They  made  a 
pretty  sight,  gathered  into  lines  on  the 
little  plaza  and  carrying  large  Ameri- 
can flags.  They  gave  us  good  coin  for 
our  speeches,  —  they  sang  the  national 
hymns  in  English.  A  short  westward 
drive  brought  us  to  the  straggling  town 
of  Quebradillas  in  time  for  dinner.  It 
was  my  good  fortune  to  dine  with  the 
Quaker  teacher,  and  to  breathe  in  his 
home  an  air  of  Sunday  peace  so  un- 
mistakable that  had  I  been  tired  it 
would  have  rested  me.  In  the  afternoon 
came  the  dedication  of  the  Horace  Mann 
Agricultural  School.  The  children  were 
out  in  full  force,  gayly  dressed,  carrying 
beautiful  flags,  and  singing  not  only  our 
American  airs,  but  also  the  Borinquen, 
that  plaintive  national  air  of  Porto  Rico, 
full  of  the  minor  chords  of  the  tropics. 

It  is  a  long  and  intensely  beautiful 
drive  around  the  northwestern  part  of 
the  island  to  Aguadilla.  The  villages 
are  back  from  the  sea,  so  placed  for 
greater  security  against  the  Carity  pirates 
who  not  so  many  years  gone  mixed  pic- 
turesqueness  and  wickedness  with  the 
life  of  these  southern  waters.  In  point 
of  beauty  the  drive  is  comparable  with 


the  Cornice  and  the  famous  coast  drives 
of  southern  Italy.  The  sea  is  as  blue,  the 
surf  as  dazzling,  the  sky  as  impenetrable, 
the  earth  as  fair.  Sometimes  a  river 
breaks  through  the  hills  and  makes  its 
way  to  the  sea,  its  broad  savannas  a 
tender  green  with  new-grown  sugar  cane. 
We  met  a  group  of  well-mounted  teach- 
ers under  the  captaincy  of  the  agreeable 
young  supervisor,  Mr.  Wells,  and  at- 
tended by  this  cavalcade  we  swept  over 
the  beauty-covered  hills  down  toward 
the  sea,  the  sunset,  and  Aguadilla.  My 
heart  fairly  sang  within  me.  A  shadow 
island  rose  against  the  sunset  much  as 
Capri  and  Ischia  and  the  Galli  rise  from 
out  the  western  sea.  Nor  was  the  even- 
ing less  charming.  The  little  plaza 
is  well  set  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and 
at  its  upper  end  rises  the  cathedral, 
beautiful  in  its  simplicity  and  fine  pro- 
portion. The  cathedral  was  open  and 
I  went  inside.  The  walls  are  a  pleasing 
light  blue,  the  columns  and  arches  white, 
while  the  flat  timbered  roof  is  white, 
chamfered  with  black.  A  sermon  was 
in  progress,  but  appeared  to  require  no 
very  close  thinking,  for  the  people  came 
and  went,  and  paid  scant  attention  to 
what  the  poor  old  priest  was  saying.  As 
it  was  Lent,  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  to 
which  he  so  constantly  appealed,  was  in 
mourning.  I  was  much  struck  with  the 
gentle,  well-bred  appearance  of  the  wo- 
men, they  were  so  tidily  gowned  and  had 
such  pleasant,  attractive  faces.  These 
were  becomingly  set  off  by  the  tiny  scarf 
or  dainty  handkerchief  which  kept  them 
from  the  offense  of  appearing  in  church 
with  uncovered  head. 

Outside,  the  plaza  quite  swarmed  with 
life,  and  a  very  pleasant  social  life  it 
seemed  to  be,  happy,  abundant,  frankly 
joyous,  but  without  any  touch  of  rude- 
ness. Taking  them  by  the  hundred,  the 
Porto  Ricans  are  a  better-mannered  peo- 
ple than  ourselves.  At  the  hotel,  the 
alcalde  and  the  school  board  were  wait- 
ing for  the  honorable  commissioner,  so 
I  stopped  with  them  until  he  could  be 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


789 


found.  Then  I  made  my  way  to  the 
Protestant  church.  Late  as  it  now  was, 
the  service  still  continued,  for  it  happened 
to  be  communion,  and  there  were,  I  be- 
lieve, between  two  and  three  hundred 
communicants.  A  roll  was  called,  and 
nearly  every  member  responded.  It  was 
a  quite  remarkable  church,  made  up  al- 
most exclusively  of  native  members,  and 
entirely  self-supporting.  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  individual  communion  cups  in 
use,  a  custom  no  doubt  hygienic  and  pro- 
per, but  taking  off  a  trifle  from  the  old- 
time  sense  of  brotherhood.  The  whole 
scene  was  very  earnest,  and  in  strong  con- 
trast with  the  more  sensuous  beauty  at 
the  cathedral. 

It  was  still  too  charming  to  go  to  bed. 
Mr.  McCormick  and  I  walked  down  on 
the  beach.  Some  of  the  better  houses 
had  balconies  overhanging  the  sands. 
The  lamplight  shining  through  the  great 
open  windows  looked  warm  and  yellow 
as  against  the  pale  moonlight.  The  music 
of  softly  spoken  Spanish  told  of  pleasant 
family  groups.  The  sea  added  its  solemn 
undertone.  Then  we  walked  on  to  the 
great  spring  which' gives  name  to  the  city, 
and  back  again  to  the  plaza,  where  we 
sat  on  the  benches  and  talked  philosophy 
with  Mr.  Wells  until  much  later  than  was 
proper.  If  ever  I  live  in  Porto  Rico  I 
hope  it  may  be  at  Aguadilla ! 

Our  route  continued  southward  along 
the  western  coast  through  the  friendly  and 
beautiful  city  of  Mayaguez,  and  the  little 
town  of  Cabo-rojo,  where  the  fine  straw 
hats  are  made,  and  landed  us  one  evening 
after  dark  at  a  small  city  among  the  hills. 
The  word  was  passed  that  we  were  to  be 
entertained  singly  by  the  natives.  I  was 
somewhat  appalled  at  the  prospect  of  be- 
ing without  an  interpreter,  but  my  host, 
a  tall,  well-dressed,  well-bred  man,  greet- 
ed me  most  hospitably  in  broken  English 
and  better  French,  and  not  only  said, 
"Our  house  is  yours,"  but  quite  lived 
up  to  it.  The  house  was  typical,  —  the 
ground  floor  given  over  to  store-rooms 
and  offices,  the  first  floor  containing  all 


the  living  rooms.  The  staircase  led  to 
a  roomy  reception  hall,  opening  into  the 
drawing-room,  a  large,  cool  apartment, 
with  ceilings  fourteen  or  fifteen  feet  high, 
clean  bare  floor,  comfortable  Vienna  fur- 
niture, and  two  large  French  windows 
leading  on  to  the  balcony  overhanging  the 
street.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was 
good,  suggesting  serenity  and  the  high 
mind.  On  one  side,  the  room  opened 
into  the  family  bedrooms  ;  on  the  other 
side,  into  the  large  and  exquisitely  neat 
guest  chamber  assigned  to  me. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  drawing-room 
I  was  presented  to  my  hostess.  I  have 
seldom  met  either  in  America  or  Europe 
so  charming  and  beautiful  a  woman.  She 
had  not  only  the  beauty  of  regular  fea- 
ture, fine  eyes  and  hair  and  teeth,  —  an- 
atomical beauty,  —  but  the  rare  beauty 
of  the  inner  spirit.  She  spoke  excellent 
English,  and  greeted  me  with  a  sweet 
comradeship  that  quite  won  my  heart. 
An  elaborate  dinner  had  been  prepared, 
but  the  hour  was  already  so  late  that  we 
could  only  touch  the  meal,  and  hurry  off 
to  the  Teatro.  The  building  was  crowd- 
ed with  children  and  teachers,  and  the 
friends  of  education  generally.  A  little 
girl  presented  the  commissioner  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers,  and  did  it  very  pretti- 
ly. When  we  reached  the  house  again 
it  was  after  'eleven,  but  a  supper  was 
waiting  for  us,  and  meanwhile  the  baby 
had  wakened.  He  was  only  six  months 
old,  but  much  more  precocious  than  our 
home  youngsters.  He  said  "  Mamma," 
came  to  me  without  the  least  hesitation, 
laughed  delightfully,  and  put  two  and 
two  together  in  a  most  surprising  way. 
Moreover,  he  omitted  to  cry.  In  spite 
of  a  man's  traditional  dread  of  babies  as 
somewhat  amorphous  creatures,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  have  run  off  with  this 
little  chap.  The  father  and  mother 
thought  none  the  less  of  me  for  this. 

The  following  morning,  my  host  took 
me  to  see  the  old  church,  and  then  to 
good  vantage  ground  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
surrounding  hills.  Later,  we  went  to 


,  790 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


the  new  schoolhouse  to  be  dedicated,  — 
the  Longfellow  School.  I  wondered  how 
much  the  name  meant  to  these  children 
of  another  tongue,  and  so  to  give  it  more 
human  meaning  I  ventured  to  tell  them, 
before  speaking  of  handicraft,  that  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  poet's  fami- 
ly, and  that  two  of  his  grandsons  were 
in  my  own  summer  school.  On  the  way 
home,  my  host  said  to  me  with  the  sim- 
ple courtesy  of  a  child,  "  The  people 
liked  very  much  what  you  said." 

When  I  told  the  sefiora  good-by,  she 
begged  me  to  give  her  kind  regards  to 
my  sister,  —  I  had  mentioned,  apropos  of 
the  baby,  that  I  had  a  sister  and  a  scrap 
of  a  nephew,  —  and  then  she  excused 
herself  for  a  moment.  When  she  came 
back  she  brought  an  elaborate,  hand- 
worked handkerchief,  and  said  to  me, 
"  Will  you  give  this  to  your  sister  for 
me  ?  "  It  seemed  to  me  singularly  gra- 
cious, this  sending  of  a  message  and  a 
token  to  a  lady  she  had  never  seen,  the 
one  bond  that  of  motherhood.  Besides 
name  and  address,  the  card,  inclosed  by 
request,  with  the  handkerchief,  carried 
very  proudly  "  (U.  S.  A.)."  It  was  also 
significant  of  their  spirit  that  the  boy  was 
presented  to  me  as  an  American  citizen, 
since  he  had  been  born  subsequent  to  the 
American  occupation. 

I  do  not  wish  to  present  these  delight- 
ful people  as  typical  Porto  Ricans.  It 
is  too  evident  that  they  would  be  rare 
and  unusual  persons  in  any  community, 
perhaps  even  in  Massachusetts,  but  that 
I  should  stumble  upon  them  out  of  the 
darkness  gave  added  promise  to  the  mul- 
titudes I  had  no  chance  of  meeting. 
And  neither  of  these  gentlefolk  had  ever 
had  the  inestimable  advantage  of  visiting 
the  United  States.  When  they  do  come 
may  some  friendly  hand  give  them  greet- 
ing and  good  cheer !  The  sefiora  had 
never  been  off  the  island  ;  the  sefior  had 
been  educated  at  Madrid,  and,  I  believe, 
had  been  in  Paris. 

And  I  recall  so  many  other  friendly 
touches,  —  the  afternoon  luncheon  at  re- 


mote Cabo-rojo,  where  the  beer  bottles 
(from  Cincinnati)  were  made  to  spell 
Salud,  —  Health  ;  the  impassioned  ad- 
dress of  welcome  delivered  from  the  bal- 
cony by  Sefiorita  Lopez  as  we  entered 
Sabana  Grande ;  the  hundred  would-be 
school-children  who  planned  to  parade 
there,  asking  that  they  might  be  provided 
with  a  school,  but  who  gave  over  the  plan 
lest  it  seem  discourteous  and  lacking  in 
appreciation  of  what  the  commissioner 
and  department  are  already  doing ;  the 
girl  in  pink  who  sang  so  lustily,  and  who 
afterwards  came  and  talked  with  us  so 
unaffectedly,  and  in  such  excellent  Eng- 
lish, while  we  were  being  banqueted  at 
the  Alcaldia ;  the  dignified  old  colored 
alcalde  who  presided  with  so  much  self- 
respect,  and  who  proved  such  an  admir- 
able toastmaster  ;  the  two  gentlemen  who 
took  me  to  drive  at  Ponce,  and  who  gave 
me  glimpses  of  charming  rose  gardens, 
fancy  pigeons,  well-regulated  hospitals, 
beautiful  scenery,  and  a  faultless  cour- 
tesy. 

One  other  instance  I  cannot  pass  over. 
It  was  on  the  great  military  road  coming 
back  from  Ponce,  at  a  primitive  country 
store.  We  were  hunting  native  products, 
and  came,  I  fear,  as  an  interruption. 
The  shopkeeper  was  doing  up  rice,  not 
in  a  bag,  but  in  a  simple  square  of  pa- 
per, a  most  exacting  operation.  He  was 
doing  it  with  great  skill  and  speed,  but 
the  packages  were  not  rectangular.  One 
of  our  party  attempted  to  show  him  bet* 
ter,  and  after  much  time  and  labor  pro- 
duced a  somewhat  neater  bundle  that 
would  not  carry  the  rice  across  the  street, 
much  less  over  the  mountain.  He  had 
to  confess  himself  beaten,  and  got  some- 
what laughed  at  for  his  pains.  The  shop- 
keeper only  smiled,  and  said,  with  what 
seemed  to  me  truly  Chesterfieldian  cour- 
tesy, "  We  have  learned  so  much  from 
the  Americans,  I  am  glad  if  we  can  teach 
them  even  so  small  a  thing  as  this." 

In  Porto  Rico  one  finds  an  astonish- 
ing enthusiasm  for  education.  The  school 
is  recognized  as  the  open  door  to  bet- 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools.  791 


ter  things.  The  commissioner  of  educa- 
tion and  the  secretary  of  the  interior,  be- 
tween them,  would  absorb  the  whole  in- 
sular budget,  the  secretary  maintaining 
that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  have  schools 
unless  you  have  roads  to  get  to  them,  and 
the  commissioner  retorting  that  no  road 
is  good  unless  it  lead  to  a  good  school. 
This  popular  enthusiasm  is  a  direct  re- 
sult of  American  influence,  and  too  much 
praise  cannot  be  given  to  the  former 
commissioner,  Dr.  Brumbaugh  and  his 
colleagues  for  having  created  so  rave- 
nous and  so  healthy  an  educational  ap- 
petite. 

Four  years  have  brought  about  a  great 
change,  not  only  in  sentiment,  but  in 
method.  Under  the  old  regime  each 
child  was  encouraged  to  study  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  so  that  the  alcalde  might 
know  that  the  school  was  open  ;  and  it 
is  even  reported  that  when  this  babble 
failed  to  reach  him,  he  would  send  a  po- 
liceman to  inquire  why  the  school  was 
closed.  The  boy  who  studied  the  loud- 
est and  made  the  most  noise  was  conse- 
quently the  best  scholar.  It  can  readily 
be  surmised  that  what  little  learning  was 
accomplished  under  such  conditions  was 
entirely  by  rote,  and  almost  worthless 
educationally. 

In  general,  the  Porto  Rican  children 
are  bright  and  quick,  and  have  excellent 
memories.  They  are  better  penmen  than 
are  American  children,  and  are  much 
quicker  at  languages.  I  heard  little  fel- 
lows of  ten  and  twelve  reading  English 
very  creditably  after  only  a  few  months' 
study.  I  wish  our  own  boys  were  as 
clever  with  their  French  and  German. 
Of  course,  the  incentive  in  Porto  Rico  is 
stronger  than  with  us,  for  so  many  di- 
rect and  material  benefits  follow  upon  a 
knowledge  of  English.  The  particular 
bete  noire  of  the  Porto  Rican  children  is 
arithmetic.  They  have  not  been  taught 
to  reason,  and  consequently  find  all 
mathematics  difficult. 

As  a  rule,  the  children  are  fully  as 
handsome  as  the  children  of  the  states, 


perhaps  handsomer,  but  they  are  less 
sturdy.  I  think  this  defect  is  not  due  to 
the  climate.  Aside  from  certain  fever 
districts,  the  constant  trade-winds  keep 
things  sweet  and  wholesome.  In  March, 
at  least,  the  climate  is  ideal,  and  though 
less  favorable  during  the  two  seasons  of 
the  year  when  the  sun  is  directly  over- 
head, I  am  disposed  to  believe  that  there 
is  less  suffering  from  heat  than  in  our 
own  northern  summer.  The  causes  for 
this  physical  inferiority  are  mostly  re- 
movable, —  poor  and  insufficient  food, 
absence  of  ventilation  in  the  sleeping- 
rooms,  and  lack  of  adequate  exercise  and 
baths.  The  first  recommendation  in  my 
own  report  was  for  the  appointment  of  a 
qualified  instructor  in  physical  culture. 
This  was  done  in  June.  A  graduate  of 
the  Posse  Gymnasium  in  Boston  was 
chosen  to  instruct  the  teachers  in  atten- 
dance at  the  summer  normal  school  at 
Rio  Piedras,  and  to  remain  throughout 
the  year,  a  wandering  apostle  of  good 
health,  organizing  the  physical  work  in 
the  sixteen  school  districts. 

The  great  difficulty  in  establishing  good 
schools  has  naturally  been  the  absence  of 
qualified  teachers.  Some  of  the  native 
teachers  had  rather  lax  ideas  of  both  dis- 
cipline and  morals.  The  solicitude  of  the 
old  alcaldes  was  not  entirely  without 
foundation.  But  the  personnel  of  the 
service  is  being  constantly  improved. 
Boys  and  girls  now  being  educated  in 
the  states  will  soon  return  as  teachers. 
The  summer  normal  schools  have  also 
proved  a  tremendous  help.  In  1901, 800 
candidates  enrolled  (maestros  and  aspi- 
rantes),  and  the  present  year  saw  a  simi- 
lar enthusiasm. 

At  the  present  time  there  are  nearly 
1000  schools  on  the  island,  with  about 
55,000  children  on  the  rolls,  —  55,000 
out  of  250,000  children  of  school  age. 
The  Normal  School  is  the  one  institution 
of  higher  grade.  I  cannot  help  wishing 
that  there  might  be  at  least  one  thorough, 
first-rate  college.  The  other  schools  are 
divided  into  high,  graded,  rural,  and 


792 


Some  Impressions  of  Porto  Rico  and  her  Schools. 


agricultural.  Of  the  latter,  I  can  only  say 
that  they  are  "  well-meant,"  yet  in  time 
they  will  doubtless  teach  the  children  to 
make  two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  one 
grew  before.  All  the  schools  remain  open 
during  nine  months  of  the  year,  and  may 
have  a  session  of  ten  months  if  the  muni- 
cipality, the  ayuntamiento,  cares  to  meet 
the  added  expense.  In  general,  it  may 
be  said  that  the  children  in  Porto  Rico 
who  do  go  to  school  are  better  provided 
for  in  every  way  than  the  children  in  the 
rural  districts  at  home. 

As  a  result  of  the  recent  interest,  three 
manual  training  and  industrial  schools 
are  now  being  established.  There  is 
large  need  of  mechanical  training.  The 
great  staples  of  the  island  are  sugar,  cof- 
fee, and  tobacco,  and  when  one  of  these 
crops  fails  there  is  widespread  hardship. 
Local  industries  and  diversified  agricul- 
ture would  be  a  great  boon.  At  present 
nearly  everything  manufactured  is  im- 
ported. When  I  tried  to  collect  samples 
of  Porto  Rican  handicraft,  I  found  a 
meagre  showing,  —  the  roughest  sort  of 
pottery  ;  water-bottles  which  turned  out 
afterwards  to  have  been  made,  the  one  in 
Spain  and  the  other  in  Germany ;  wood- 
carving  so  crude  as  hardly  to  deserve  the 
name  ;  drawn-work  distinctly  inferior  to 
the  Mexican  ;  decorated  gourds  and  co- 
coanut  dippers.  These,  with  the  straw 
hats  of  Cabo-rojo,  and  a  rough  fibre  belt, 
constituted  my  entire  find.  Yet  the  peo- 
ple must  have  large  aptitude  for  hand- 
work. Their  superior  penmanship,  their 
neat  clothing,  the  surprising  dexterity 
of  the  country  shopkeeper,  all  indicate 
latent  talent. 

In  Porto  Rico,  school  and  state  go  hand 
in  hand.  While  the  ayuntamientos  are 
expected  to  look  after  such  local  matters 
as  school  buildings  and  teachers'  salaries, 
the  control  is  vested  in  the  central  de- 


partment of  education.  The  commission- 
er occupies  a  position  similar  to  that  of 
the  minister  of  instruction  in  France.  He 
is  a  member  of  the  Executive  Council, 
the  real  governing  power  on  the  island, 
and  lias  consequently  the  two  sides  to  his 
activities,  educational  and  political. 

The  Sandwich  Islands  form  a  territory, 
the  Philippines  an  uncertainty,  but  Porto 
Rico  occupies  a  unique  political  position, 
—  she  is  our  one  colony,  and  our  treat- 
ment of  her  seems  to  me,  as  an  Ameri- 
can, wholly  without  precedent  and  rea- 
son. If  we  take  the  ground  that  she  is 
still  a  child,  and  needs  the  tutelage  of 
our  own  more  mature  civilization  before 
she  may  aspire  to  territorial  organiza- 
tion and  subsequent  statehood,  we  must, 
to  be  consistent,  remember  that  a  child 
is  never  self-supporting;  we  must  dip 
deep  into  the  national,  paternal  pocket  to 
make  this  period  of  tutelage  profitable. 
We  must  build  schoolhouses  and  railways 
and  wagon  roads,  and  otherwise  look  af- 
ter the  spiritual  and  material  well-being 
of  our  child.  Such  a  theory  and  prac- 
tice would  at  least  be  understandable. 
But  to  do  as  we  are  now  doing,  to  step 
in  and  spend  the  insular  revenue  as  we 
think  best,  is  a  bit  of  paternalism  which 
we  ourselves,  with  our  strong  Anglo- 
Saxon  bent  for  self-government,  would 
never  tolerate.  Either  Porto  Rico  ought 
to  be  immediately  organized  into  a  ter- 
ritory, with  the  prospect  of  speedy  state- 
hood, or  else  her  period  of  preparation  for 
these  responsibilities  ought  to  be  made 
effective  and  fruitful  by  more  adequate 
national  aid. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  the  Caracas 
came  back  from  Venezuela  and  carried 
us  home.  Porto  Rico  sank  below  the 
southern  horizon,  and  in  her  stead  there 
remained  an  agreeable  and  beautiful 
memory. 

C.  Hanford  Henderson. 


Ballade  of  Poor  Souls.  798 


BALLADE  OF  POOR  SOULS. 

SWEET  Christ,   who  gavest  Thy  blood  for  us, 

Tho'   we  have  missed  its  healing  grace, 
And  by  temptations  tenebrous, 

Come  all  to  meet  in  the  Evil  Place: 
Turn  not  from  us  Thy  tender  face, 

Now  when  the  Pit  yawns  foul  and  sheer; 
Ah,    think  how  long  th'   Eternal  Space  — 

And  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Poor  souls  are  we  that  might  not  climb, 

Ensnared  by  the  world's  iron  gin; 
Yet  have  we  known  the  Tale   Sublime 

Of  Him  who  died  our  souls  to  win. 
And  ofttimes  we  were  sick  of  sin, 

Yea,   heard  that  call  so  sweet  and  clear, 
But  sank  again  our  toils  within  — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Strong  bonds  of  circumstance  have  made 

The  Prison-House  that  held  us  fast; 
And  some  have  cursed  and  some  have  prayed, 

But  few  the  outer  doors  have  passed: 
And  some  do  watch  with  mien  aghast, 

The  while  their  fellows  flout  and  fleer, 
But  hope  leaves  all  alike  at  last  — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Yet  God's  o'er  all — and  Christ  doth  know 

Why  this  unequal  doom  we  bear, 
That  some,    like  plants,    in  virtue  grow, 

And  others  damn  themselves  with  care: 
Mayhap  His  providence  is  there, 

The  Riddle  Dark  at  last  to  clear, 
And  change  to  hope  this  Fell  Despair  — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Sweet  Mary's  Son,    turn  not  from  us, 

Tho'   we  have  missed  Thy  saving  grace, 
And  by  temptations  tenebrous, 

Come  all  to  meet  in  the  Evil  Place: 
Thy  mercy  shall  our  sins  efface, 

E'en  at  the  Pit's  mouth  yawning  sheer, 
For  pity  of  our  woeful  case  — 

Since  Hell  was  aye  our  portion  here! 

Michael  Monahan. 


794 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior    Workman. 


THE  TRADE  UNION  AND  THE  SUPERIOR  WORKMAN. 


THE  opposition  which  threatened  the 
infancy  of  trade  unions  has  greatly 
abated  or  ceased,  as  the  right  of  wage- 
earners  to  combine  is  to-day  seldom 
questioned.  But  the  old  hostility  has 
been  followed  by  a  new  antagonism  hard- 
ly less  bitter.  It  is  now  frequently  com- 
plained that  the  power  of  organization 
is  employed  tyrannically  and  ignorantly 
to  pervert  the  activities  of  workmen,  — 
to  incite  when  they  should  not  be  ag- 
gressive (in  contentiousness,  strikes, 
breach  of  contract,  and  physical  vio- 
lence), and  to  paralyze  their  energy  in 
its  legitimate  productive  uses,  by  op- 
posing devices  for  making  labor  effec- 
tive, by  preventing  young  men  from 
learning  the  trades,  and  by  stifling  the 
ambition  and  blighting  the  energy  of  the 
efficient,  since  none  is  permitted  to  do 
more  or  to  earn  more  than  the  less  ca- 
pable. 

Of  the  offenses  commonly  alleged  in 
this  indictment,  none  seem  more  per- 
nicious, if  the  accusation  is  true,  than 
those  practices  which  introduce  a  bane- 
ful equality  by  willfully  suppressing  su- 
perior strength  and  skill.  In  at  least 
two  ways,  it  is  said,  this  disastrous  ef- 
fect is  produced.  First,  a  limit  to  the 
day's  work  is  prescribed,  suited  to  the 
average  man,  and  this  relatively  small 
amount  of  work  even  the  best  men  are 
forbidden  to  exceed.  Beyond  this  (the 
complaint  runs),  the  intelligent  and  vig- 
orous are  compelled  to  endure  a  second 
sacrifice.  The  minimum  rate  of  wages 
established  by  the  union  is  so  high  that 
the  employer  withholds  from  the  better 
men  what  he  is  compelled  to  pay  to  the 
inferior  men  in  excess  of  their  merit. 
The  superior  men  are  thus  maimed  and 
dwarfed  in  their  character  as  workmen, 
and  in  their  personal  fortunes,  by  be- 
ing compelled  to  pattern  after  the  in- 
efficient. 

At  both  these  points,  perhaps,  there 


has  been  occasion  for  complaint ;  but  at 
neither  is  the  accusation  true  in  its  full 
force.  The  limit  of  work  is  harmful 
but  not  entirely  inexcusable ;  the  equal- 
ity of  wages  (if  all  its  effects  be  con- 
sidered) is  not  evidently  harmful. 

The  policy  of  trades  unions  in  these 
matters  is  often  frankly  enough  avowed. 
There  is  no  doubt,  for  instance,  that  in 
a  large  part  of  the  trade-union  world 
it  is  considered  desirable  to  restrain 
the  productive  energy  of  exceptionally 
capable  men.  By  a  rule  of  the  Amal- 
gamated Association  of  Iron,  Steel,  and 
Tin-Plate  Workers,  "when  it  is  found 
that  any  crew  has  violated  the  limit  of 
output  for  tin  and  black-plate  mills, 
the  lodge  shall  collect  the  equivalent  of 
the  overweight  from  roller  and  doubler, 
and  an  additional  fine  of  twenty-five 
cents  shall  be  imposed  on  the  roller  and 
doubler  for  each  offense. "  Also,  if  any 
mill  is  "known  to  be  continually  violat- 
ing the  limit  of  output,  it  shall  be  con- 
sidered '  black, '  and  the  charter  im- 
mediately revoked."  In  the  Window- 
Glass  Cutters'  League,  "no  cutter  shall 
be  allowed  to  cut  more  than  two  and  one 
half  pots  or  480  boxes  of  single  strength, 
or  360  boxes  of  double  strength."  The 
lathers  of  Chicago  limited  the  day's 
work  to  twenty-five  bundles  per  day. 
This  maximum,  by  the  way,  was  also  a 
minimum ;  if  a  workman  was  unable  to 
accomplish  this  prescribed  task,  his  com- 
panions would  help  him.  The  journey- 
men plumbers  forbade  the  use  of  a  bicy- 
cle during  working  hours.  The  Boston 
bricklayers  forbade  any  "rushing  or 
driving  that  will  injure  or  jeopardize 
the  interests  of  a  fellow  member,  such 
as  spreading  mortar  on  the  wall  before 
the  line  is  up,  repeatedly  slacking  the 
lime  before  it  is  laid  out  its  entire 
course,  or  putting  up  the  line  more  than 
one  course  at  a  time. "  Employees  of  a 
Massachusetts  textile  factory  formed  a 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior   Workman. 


795 


union,  and  immediately  attempted  to 
regulate  the  amount  of  a  fair  week's 
weaving ;  and  employees  of  the  National 
Glass  Company  are  said  to  have  en- 
gaged, without  success,  for  the  same 
purpose,  in  a  conflict  which  lasted  two 
or  three  years. 

Where  there  is  no  rule  limiting  the 
amount  of  work,  a  sentiment  no  less 
effective  frequently  prevails.  The 
"pacer"  and  the  offense  of  "rushing  a 
brother  "  are  detested,  and  a  too  eager 
workman  is  frequently  restrained  by  ad- 
monition from  a  shop  committee-man  or 
perhaps  by  the  complaint  of  a  slower 
neighbor.  This  aversion  to  extreme  ra- 
pidity in  work  is  actively  manifest  not 
only  where  there  is  no  trade-union  reg- 
ulation to  express  it,  but  often  where 
there  is  no  union.  The  labor  organiza- 
tion serves  merely  in  some  instances  to 
assert  it  formally,  or  to  enforce  it  with 
greater  thoroughness. 

Wages  payment  by  the  piece,  in  con- 
trast with  payment  by  the  unit  of  time, 
stimulates  the  effort  of  the  workman  to 
the  utmost,  as  he  knows  that  his  earn- 
ings increase  with  his  effort.  This 
method  is  correspondingly  opposed  by 
a  large  proportion  of  unionists.  The 
United  Garment  Workers  and  the 
Watch  Case  Engravers  declare  in  their 
constitutions  a  purpose  of  doing  away 
with  piece-work,  and  the  printers'  con- 
stitution calls  for  its  abolition  in  book 
printing  offices  wherever  this  is  practi- 
cable. The  machinists  have  waged  war 
against  it  for  years,  excluding  it  wher- 
ever their  strength  permitted,  expend- 
ing their  time  and  money  for  this  object 
more  freely  than  for  any  of  their  other 
interests,  and  preventing  its  introduc- 
tion in  one  hundred  shops  within  two 
years. 

The  actual  loss  of  productive  force 
through  limitation  of  output  cannot  well 
be  measured,  even  in  a  single  industry 
or  a  single  shop;  but  the  increase  in 
production  from  the  piece-work  system 
has  apparently  been  demonstrated  some- 
what definitely  by  comparison  of  results 


where  this  method  and  payment  by  time 
have  been  applied  consecutively  among 
the  same  workmen.  In  one  instance 
when  payment  by  the  piece  was  intro- 
duced in  a  car-shop,  and  the  price  of 
each  piece  of  work  fixed  at  its  estimated 
cost  under  the  time-payment  system, 
wages  were  at  once  increased  about  ten 
per  cent.  Formerly  sixty-six  men  had 
been  employed  seven  days  a  week,  work- 
ing on  some  days  overtime.  The  force 
was  now  reduced  to  forty-five,  and  they 
worked  only  five  and  one  half  days  each 
week.  The  expense  for  the  work  di- 
minished more  than  one  fifth.  A  body 
of  men  engaged  in  digging  clay  for 
making  brick  were  paid  $1.80  per  day. 
They  refused  to  accept  payment  instead 
at  the  rate  of  twenty  cents  per  ton  and 
struck.  Other  men  were  brought  in  to 
take  their  places,  and  in  a  short  time 
some  of  them  earned  $3.25  per  day, 
working  less  than  eight  hours,  while  the 
least  efficient  earned  $2.40.  The  brick 
company  gained  a  substantial  advan- 
tage, as  the  output  of  clay,  for  which 
need  was  urgent,  increased  by  one  half. 

Experiments  like  these  seem  to  most 
people  to  demonstrate  the  folly  of  dis- 
couraging effort ;  and  even  without  ex- 
perimental proof,  any  restraint  upon 
energy  is  commonly  regarded  as  self- 
evidently  harmful.  Yet  the  policy  thus 
condemned  is  not  pursued  in  a  wanton 
spirit  of  mischief-making.  In  its  de- 
fense are  offered  reasons  not  without 
weight,  and  it  is  a  superficial  study 
of  the  subject  which  will  permit  one 
to  dismiss  the  arguments  as  absurd  or 
to  condemn  the  practice  as  altogether 
blameworthy. 

These  arguments  are  of  unequal  force ; 
the  weakest  is  an  error  shared  with  the 
most  respectable,  with  great  men  of  af- 
fairs, with  kings  and  prime  ministers ; 
the  stronger  arguments,  which  must  be 
treated  with  respect,  have  been  evolved 
by  the  workmen  as  a  product  of  their 
own  feelings  and  reflections. 

It  seems  possible  to  single  out  from 
the  whole  range  of  motives  in  the  cur- 


796 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior    Workman. 


rent  economics  of  the  senate,  the  street, 
and  the  market-place  one  proposition 
which  is  more  widely  accepted  among 
all  nations  than  any  other.  Though  it 
is  almost  universally  accepted,  it  be- 
comes self-evidently  absurd  when  it  is 
plainly  set  forth;  it  is  so  absurd  that 
while  all  believe  it,  all  would  disavow 
it  when  charged  with  it,  though  they 
show  with  the  next  breath  that,  in  dis- 
guise, it  controls  them.  Absurd  and 
repudiated,  it  is  yet  perhaps  the  most 
influential  belief  in  the  whole  range  of 
economic  speculation. 

The  power  to  labor  abundantly,  it 
seems,  is  superabundant,  so  that  we  must 
seek  diligently  for  opportunities  to  em- 
ploy it.  Energy  exists  in  superfluity; 
needs  to  be  satisfied  by  its  exercise  are 
relatively  scant.  Workmen  for  this  rea- 
son, in  order  to  prevent  a  rapid  dimi- 
nution in  the  precious  opportunity  to 
toil,  think  it  necessary  to  limit  the  pro- 
ductivity of  labor,  to  hamper  the  satis- 
faction of  needs,  to  cherish  want.  Plain- 
ly, there  will  not  be  work  for  all  if  all 
work  with  the  utmost  energy. 

Within  the  last  year,  likewise,  an 
American  statesman  has  argued  in  favor 
of  building  many  war  vessels  because  the 
expenditure  of  time  and  money  for  that 
purpose  would  give  employment  to  la- 
bor, would  increase  not  the  sum  of  cap- 
ital that  is  available,  but  the  sum  of  oc- 
casions for  laborious  effort,  as  though 
the  sum  of  these  occasions,  which  is 
merely  the  sum  of  poverty,  were  not 
already  sufficient. 

In  the  argument  for  protective  tariffs 
and  for  shipping  subsidies  (mingled 
with  other  more  rational  considerations) 
there  appears  incessantly  this  same 
strange  doctrine,  veiled  but  unmistak- 
able. Recently  all  Europe  has  been 
agitated  by  the  fear  that  American  farm- 
ers and  American  manufacturers  will 
relieve  Europeans  of  the  primal  curse  by 
supplying  all  their  material  needs  (ask- 
ing, it  appears,  no  equivalent  of  goods 
or  services  in  return),  and  metropolitan 
editors  and  great  Continental  ministers 


of  state  have  even  proposed  an  armed 
attack  against  the  United  States  to 
ward  off  this  embarrassment  of  unearned 
riches,  to  "  limit  the  output  "  of  their 
energetic  Western  neighbors. 

The  desire  of  some  workingmen  for 
a  limit  upon  production  seems  at  times 
to  be  inspired  by  this  widespread  delu- 
sion, and  in  entertaining  it  the  wage- 
earners  are  at  any  rate  not  peculiarly 
at  fault.  Restrictions  upon  exertion 
have,  however,  a  defense  or  excuse  in 
other  considerations  less  certainly  falla- 
cious. In  some  kinds  of  work  rapidity 
is  attained  by  a  proportionate  increase 
of  muscular  force  expended;  in  such 
cases  the  greatest  possible  rapidity  may 
not  be  desirable.  It  is  alleged  that  in 
certain  trades,  as  in  the  building  trades, 
a  few  unusually  energetic  men  in  each 
group  are  encouraged  to  set  a  pace  which 
the  others  are  expected  to  follow,  but 
which  they  cannot  follow  without  over- 
exertion,  injurious  to  health,  and,  in  the 
long  run,  to  the  industry  for  whose  ser- 
vices they  become  prematurely  unfit.  If 
such  customs  prevail,  a  limit  to  the  day's 
work  cannot  well  be  condemned,  though 
there  is  of  course  extreme  difficulty  in 
determining  what  a  fair  day's  work  is, 
and  extreme  danger  that  the  maximum 
permitted  will  be  less  than  good  work- 
men ought  to  perform. 

There  is  yet  another  reason  for  lim- 
iting output  or  opposing  the  piece-work 
system.  Though  the  public  interest 
doubtless  requires  that  production 
should  be  energetic  and  products  there- 
fore abundant,  it  is  not  clear  that  an  in- 
crease of  productive  energy  is  always  of 
advantage  to  the  workmen.  The  usual 
assumption  that  wages  correspond  to 
efficiency,  taken  in  the  sense  in  which 
that  proposition  is  commonly  offered,  is 
not  true.  On  the  contrary,  incentives 
to  energy  may  actually  result  in  reducing 
wages  for  the  majority  of  workmen,  and 
there  is  no  certainty  that  even  the  more 
capable  minority  will  gain  in  wages  from 
their  accelerated  labor.  Let  us  notice 
first  how  this  effect  may  result  when  ef- 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior   Workman. 


797 


fort  is  stimulated  by  the  piece-work  sys- 
tem. When  wages  are  paid  by  the  piece, 
it  is  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  determine 
the  prices  to  be  allowed  for  the  several 
pieces  of  work.  A  schedule  is  fixed 
by  an  estimate,  perhaps,  of  the  amount 
previously  earned  for  each  task  under 
the  time-payment  system.  But  this 
schedule  is  always  provisional  and  sub- 
ject to  revision.  On  a  certain  rail- 
way system,  for  instance,  the  schedules 
for  car-shops  are  revisecl  every  three 
months.  Subordinate  officials  make 
changes  when  they  find  it  necessary,  and 
the  schedules  undergo  a  final  revision  by 
the  head  of  the  mechanical  department. 
What  is  to  serve  for  guidance  in  these 
modifications?  Under  what  circum- 
stances will  an  item  of  payment  be  aug- 
mented, under  what  circumstances  de- 
creased ? 

It  is  difficult  to  find  any  calculable 
elements  in  the  problem.  There  is  no 
obvious  equivalence  between  any  specific 
piece  of  work  and  a  specific  sum  of 
money  —  between  boring  or  turning  a 
piece  of  steel  and  any  assignable  number 
of  cents.  There  is,  however,  one  very 
indefinite  quantitative  relation  between 
a  particular  task  and  its  payment.  The 
wages  of  a  workman,  it  is  presumed, 
will  enable  him  to  maintain  himself  ac- 
cording to  a  suitable  standard  of  living. 
If  by  especial  energy  workmen  increase 
the  pieces  of  work  completed  and  thereby 
swell  their  earnings  under  an  established 
schedule  to  a  total  which  seems  extraor- 
dinarily high  for  that  class  of  labor, 
there  is  a  strong  presumption  that  the 
piece  rate  will  be  reduced.  It  is  a  habit 
of  the  public  to  regard  as  abnormal,  if 
not  improper,  exceptionally  high  earn- 
ings by  manual  laborers.  Persons  who 
declare  most  strongly  that  the  capable 
man  should  have  a  proportionate  reward 
will  nevertheless  protest,  not  literally, 
but  by  implication,  when  wages  attain 
dimensions  not  unusual  in  salaries  or 
profits. 

During  the  Homestead  strike  in 
1892,  for  example,  it  became  known 


that  certain  steel  mill  employees  earned 
high  wages,  and  the  fact  seemed  not 
merely  irregular,  but  ridiculous,  to  that 
influential  public  sentiment  which  re- 
flects itself  in  newspaper  jokes.  Em- 
ployers or  corporation  officials  are  pre- 
sumably not  exempt  from  the  conviction 
that  wages  should  conform  to  a  tradi- 
tionally befitting  standard,  and  they  are 
actually  subject  to  influences  tending 
toward  a  reduction  of  any  piece  rates 
which  have  permitted  large  earnings. 
Under  competition  rival  establishments 
are  strongly  impelled  to  accept  a  prin- 
ciple which  economizes  earnings  and  fa- 
cilitates lower  competitive  prices.  The 
honest  zeal  of  subordinates  adds  to  this 
tendency. 

Exceptional  workmen  are  the  ones 
whose  record  most  strongly  affects  the 
fixing  of  piece  rates,  but  the  rates  fixed 
must  determine  the  earnings  of  the  less 
capable.  Rates  which  suffice  for  the 
comfort  of  the  exceptional  may  mean 
poverty  for  the  workman  of  average 
speed.  The  rapid  workman,  therefore, 
threatens  with  grave  injury  his  less  capa- 
ble associates.  The  first  effect  of  piece- 
work may  be  very  probably  an  augmen- 
tation of  wages,  but  the  danger  is  ever 
present  that  a  revision  of  price  will  re- 
verse this  temporary  advantage.  Em- 
ployers have  sometimes  recognized  the 
danger  of  injury  to  workmen  from  the 
piece-work  system.  Thus  the  president 
of  the  National  Metal  Trade  Association 
(an  important  society  of  employers) 
announced  during  the  great  machinists' 
strike  in  1901  that  the  employers  in- 
sisted on  their  right  to  introduce  this 
system,  but  that  the  association  would 
not  permit  any  member  to  make  im- 
proper use  of  piece-work.  The  recogni- 
tion of  a  danger  that  the  system  might 
be  abused  is  plain  and  significant. 

There  is  thus  a  conflict  of  interests 
between  the  more  capable  and  less  capa- 
ble workmen,  between  the  public  which 
requires  abundant  production  and  the 
mass  of  producing  laborers  who  are  posi- 
tively injured  by  the  speed  of  the  excep- 


798 


The  Trade    Union  and  the  Superior    Workman. 


tional  men.  This  conflict  of  interest 
and  this  injury  appear  not  only  in  the 
piece-work  system,  but  also  in  a  large 
part  of  the  industrial  field,  where  wages 
are  apportioned  to  time,  for  time-wages 
are  frequently  piece- wages  in  disguise. 
In  a  shoe  factory,  for  example,  if  the 
business  is  well  managed,  careful  account 
is  kept  of  the  expense,  at  the  actual 
rate  of  time-wages,  for  each  portion  of 
the  work  of  making  a  pair  of  shoes.  In 
some  shoe  factories  there  is  formally  a 
"stint,"  —  an  amount  of  work  which 
each  person  must  perform  in  order  to 
earn  the  amount  established  as  a  day's 
wages.  But  in  any  case  it  is  definitely 
known  how  much  work  each  employee 
has  performed  each  week,  and  there  is 
necessarily  a  tendency,  like  that  in  the 
piece-work  system,  to  adjust  wages  from 
the  better  men,  or  women,  to  the  in- 
ferior, according  to  the  comparative 
amounts  of  work  completed  by  one  and 
another,  and  in  this  gradation  to  take 
the  task  performed  by  the  more  capable 
as  constituting  a  "fair  day's  work" 
which  gives  claim  to  a  "fair  day's  pay, " 
'so  that  those  who  are  unable  to  maintain 
the  standard  set  by  the  more  efficient 
appear  incompetent  and  likely  to  be 
judged  unworthy  of  good  wages.  If 
the  number  of  rapid  workmen  is  great, 
or  if  special  incentives  stimulate  a  large 
number  to  great  energy,  the  presumption 
against  those  unable  to  keep  pace  is  cor- 
respondingly stronger.  The  exception- 
ally capable  will  have  no  certainty  of 
greatly  augmenting  their  own  earnings, 
because  employers  will  not  pay  them 
more  than  "  fair  wages, "  and  their  ex- 
ceptional effort  serves  thus  only  to  de- 
press the  wages  of  their  inferiors.  Both 
the  employer  and  the  union  assume  "fair 
wages  "  as  a  standard,  but  the  union  at- 
tempts to  establish  this  standard  rate  as 
a  minimum ;  the  employer  is  tempted 
to  regard  it  almost  as  a  maximum. 

This  is  the  state  of  facts  assumed  by 
many  wage-earners  in  condemning  the 
rapid  workman  as  selfish,  and  in  at- 
tempting to  curb  his  energy.  Evidently 


a  restriction  of  output  has  this  ques- 
tionable excuse  only  when  it  restrains 
exceptional  speed,  which  may  tend  to 
lower  the  wages  of  the  average  work- 
man. There  is  evidence  that  in  some 
trades,  unions  have  forbidden  men  to 
exceed  in  a  day  an  amount  of  work 
which  a  fairly  able  man  should  perform 
in  half  or  two  thirds  of  a  day.  For 
such  a  policy  there  is  of  course  no  jus- 
tification. 

It  has  frequently  been  said  that  the 
trade-union  policy  operates  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  the  superior  men  not  only 
in  purposely  restraining  their  efforts, 
but  also  by  establishing  an  equality  of 
wages  between  the  abler  and  inferior 
workmen,  so  that  a  man  of  special  skill 
is  denied  the  hope  of  reward  for  conspic- 
uous service.  The  union,  it  is  said,  es- 
tablishes for  all  its  members  a  rate  of 
wages  higher  than  that  which  the  em- 
ployer would  pay  to  inferior  men  if  there 
were  no  union  scale.  The  employer 
seeks  to  recoup  himself  for  his  loss  in 
paying  this  rate  to  men  whose  services 
have  little  value  by  paying  to  the  abler 
men  less  than  the  amount  to  which  their 
comparative  efficiency  entitles  them. 
Where  there  are  no  unions  it  is  said 
men  are  paid  in  proportion  to  ability, 
as  every  employer  desires  to  procure  or 
to  retain  the  services  of  the  good  men. 

The  influence  of  unions  operates  in 
some  degree  to  the  effect  here  described, 
but  not  in  the  degree  commonly  alleged. 
The  usual  opinion,  which  has  just  been 
quoted,  seems  at  times  to  exaggerate  the 
uniformity  of  wages,  where  strong  unions 
exist;  it  certainly  is  inaccurate  in  as- 
suming that  wages  where  there  are  no 
unions  vary  in  close  correspondence  with 
difference  in  ability.  The  influence  of 
the  unions  in  equalizing  wages  is  lim- 
ited in  several  ways.  A  very  large  part 
of  the  work  done  by  members  of  unions 
is  paid  for  by  the  system  of  piece  rates, 
as  in  machine  shops,  printing  offices, 
and  shoe  factories.  This  necessarily 
gives  higher  earnings  to  the  more  rapid 
workmen.  Again  some  vigorous  unions 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior   Workman. 


799 


have  no  minimum  rate.  Even  where  a 
union  is  strong,  and  the  minimum  rate 
so  high  that  it  is  almost  the  universal 
rate,  there  are  often  or  usually  work- 
men of  marked  excellence  who  receive 
higher  wages.  In  a  certain  large  news- 
paper printing  office,  for  example,  near- 
ly one  tenth  of  the  printers  working  by 
the  week  were  paid  more  than  the  union 
scale,  some  as  much  as  one  fourth  be- 
yond the  agreed  minimum,  although  the 
union  scale  in  that  city  was  conspicuous- 
ly high.  Uniformity  is  thus  not  com- 
plete even  where  unions  exist. 

On  the  other  hand,  even  where  there 
are  no  unions,  wages  in  most  employ- 
ments correspond  but  roughly  to  varia- 
tions in  ability  or  energy.  This  is  true 
especially  of  unskilled  laborers.  Usual- 
ly in  a  farming  neighborhood  there  is  a 
customary  rate  of  wages  for  field  hands 
employed  by  the  month,  and  variations 
from  this  rate  are  as  infrequent  as 
variations  from  the  union  rate  in  the 
"  well  -  organized  "  trades.  A  rather 
feeble  youth  is  often  paid,  during  a 
whole  season,  the  full  amount  of  month- 
ly wages.  The  same  thing  is  true  of 
railway  track-hands.  Among  1680  such 
laborers  employed  by  one  railway,  not 
one  received  more  than  $1.15,  or  less 
than  $1.05.  On  another  railroad,  550 
trackmen  were  paid  a  uniform  rate  of 
$1  per  day,  and  yet  another  company 
paid  281  men  $1.25  each  per  day.  It 
is  certain  that  the  inequalities  of  these 
men  in  strength,  energy,  and  intelligence 
were  not  at  all  represented  by  the  in- 
equalities in  their  earnings.  Among 
workmen  of  this  class,  marked  inequal- 
ities of  wages  are  more  often  geograph- 
ical than  personal.  •  Where  miners  are 
paid  by  the  day,  their  wages  have  in 
some  instances  shown  the  same  uniform- 
ity before  the  establishment  of  unions. 
Thirty  laborers  employed  in  assisting 
masons  at  work  in  a  Michigan  town,  and 
having  no  union,  received  without  ex- 
ception $9  per  week.  In  the  same  town 
eighteen  plasterers,  who  were  members 
of  a  union,  received  uniformly  $18  per 


week,  excepting  one  (perhaps  a  fore- 
man) who  received  more.  In  a  neigh- 
boring town,  however,  almost  complete 
uniformity  of  wages  prevailed  among 
non-union  plasterers.  As  a  rule,  it  is 
true  that  the  whole  body  of  unskilled 
laborers  receive  wages  fixed  by  local 
custom,  with  no  very  critical  regard 
for  individual  efficiency.  Even  among 
skilled  laborers,  where  wages  are  paid 
by  the  day  or  week,  complete  or  ap- 
proximate uniformity  often  appears. 
Railway  engineers  and  firemen  have  fre- 
quently been  paid  by  a  uniform  scale  for 
a  day's  or  month's  service,  and  where 
their  wages  have  taken  the  form  of  mile- 
age payments  there  has  been  no  attempt 
to  vary  the  mileage  rate  to  suit  inequali- 
ties of  skill  or  trustworthiness.  It  is 
probably  true  that  for  nearly  all  occu- 
pations, where  there  is  a  system  of  time 
payment,  in  distinction  from  piece-work, 
the  advantage  in  wages  to  the  specially 
capable  is  less  than  adequate  to  their 
superior  ability. 

A  very  large  part  of  our  whole  labor- 
ing population  is  thus  exempt  from  the 
theoretical  conformity  of  wages  to  skill. 
The  inferior  laborer  receives  what  is 
needed  for  his  maintenance,  according 
to  a  customary  standard  of  living ;  the 
superior  men  contribute,  without  being 
distinctly  conscious  of  it,  to  the  support 
of  their  weaker  fellows,  while  the  em- 
ployer makes  his  calculations  according 
to  an  average  rate  of  wages  and  the 
amount  of  service  rendered  by  the  aver- 
age man.  Only  the  socialists  of  a  some- 
what extreme  type  have  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  income  should  depend  not  on 
ability,  but  on  needs.  Yet  to  a  certain 
not  inconsiderable  extent  we  have  al- 
ways realized  that  principle,  especially 
in  the  wages  of  unskilled  laborers. 

The  influence  of  trade  unions  tends 
powerfully,  beyond  question,  to  extend 
that  system  of  wage  payment.  Equality 
results  by  a  sort  of  mechanical  necessity 
from  the  regulation  of  wages  by  con- 
tract, as  it  is  difficult  through  a  con- 
tract to  prescribe  differences  of  wages 


800 


The  Trade   Union  and  the  Superior    Workman. 


commensurate  with  differences  in  abili- 
ty, and  so  to  maintain  due  intervals 
above  the  upward  pressing  minimum. 
But  the  policy  of  the  unions  in  this  mat- 
ter is  not  merely  forced  upon  them  as 
an  incident  of  the  attempt  to  raise 
wages.  The  tendency  toward  equality 
is  a  matter  of  fixed  choice.  The  trade- 
union  ideal  of  wages  is  a  system  of  pay- 
ment according  to  an  accepted  standard, 
in  contrast  with  wages  fixed  by  "  demand 
and  supply, "  and  approaches  somewhat 
remotely  the  communist  position  with 
its  demand  for  income  according  to 
needs.  In  the  strike  on  the  Chicago, 
Burlington,  and  Quincy  Railroad,  fif- 
teen years  ago,  the  engineers  demanded 
equal  pay,  without  regard  to  length  of 
service,  and  without  regard  to  the  un- 
equal responsibility  of  work  on  a  main 
line,  or  on  an  unimportant  branch.  In 
fact,  this  demand  for  equality  appears 
to  have  been  the  chief  provocation  for 
that  fiercely  contested  struggle.  In  the 
printing  trades  there  is  an  effective  ten- 
dency to  equalize  the  wages  of  men 
engaged  in  related  but  dissimilar  work 
(proof-readers,  hand-compositors,  and 
machine  operators),  in  which  wages  un- 
restrained would  doubtless  be  more  or 
less  unequal.  In  disputes  affecting  the 
wages  of  workmen  unequal  in  skill  and 
income,  a  greater  percentage  of  increase 
has  often  been  demanded  for  the  poorly 
paid.  Thus  the  anthracite  coal-miners 
in  1900  asked  for  an  increase  of  ten 
per  cent  in  the  wages  of  laborers  receiv- 
ing more  than  $1.75  per  day,  and  twen- 
ty per  cent  for  those  whose  daily  wages 
were  less  than  $1.50.  This  is  a  repre- 
sentative instance. 

The  essential  tendency  toward  equal 
wages  is,  however,  the  one  called  forth 
accidentally  by  the  operation  of  the 
minimum  rate.  The  product  of  this 
chance,  where  the  trade  union  gains  a 
controlling  influence,  is  a  revolutionized 
wage  system,  not  unlike  that  proposed 
in  Unto  This  Last,  by  John  Ruskin. 
The  "natural  and  right  system  respect- 
ing labor,"  Mr.  Ruskin  thought,  was 


one  in  which  all  workmen  of  any  one 
trade  should  receive  equal  wages  (like 
soldiers,  physicians,  and  public  officials 
of  equal  rank),  but  the  good  workman 
should  be  employed  and  the  bad  work- 
man (the  inferior  bricklayer  and  the 
scribbler)  unemployed.  "The  false  and 
unnatural  and  destructive  system  is 
where  the  bad  workman  is  allowed  to 
offer  his  work  at  half  price,  and  either 
take  the  place  of  the  good  or  force  him 
to  work  at  half  price."  There  should 
be  equality  for  each  gradation,  but  in- 
equality between  ranks .  "  I  never  said, " 
he  replied  to  a  critic,  "  that  a  colonel 
should  have  the  same  pay  as  a  private, 
nor  a  bishop  the  same  pay  as  a  curate." 
By  such  an  arrangement  he  fancied  the 
desire  for  gain  might  be  replaced  as  a 
chief  motive  to  labor  by  the  spirit  of  ser- 
vice which  is  supposed  to  actuate  the  sol- 
dier or  the  clergyman.  In  like  fashion 
the  system  which  the  trade  unions  tend 
to  create  includes  an  approximate  equal- 
ity of  wages  between  men  in  the  same 
class  of  work,  not  between  different 
employments.  It  makes  impossible  the 
reward  of  exceptionally  high  earnings  as 
a  result  of  special  efficiency,  but  its  de- 
fenders assert  that  an  incentive  to  effort 
will  still  remain  in  the  desire  to  win,  by 
a  showing  of  superior  efficiency,  the  es- 
teem or  admiration  of  one's  associates. 
Competition  of  the  old  sort  for  higher 
wages  is  perhaps  weakened  by  the  mini- 
mum rate,  but  a  fiercer  competition  re- 
places it.  Many  employers  unite  in 
testifying  that  the  establishment  of  a 
minimum  results  in  the  dismissal  of 
the  inferior  men, —  Ruskin's  bad  work- 
men who  are  left  unemployed.  The 
altered  character  of  competition  may 
thus  seem  to  operate  with  harshness  to 
the  incompetent,  and  with  an  enervating 
effect  upon  the  more  capable,  who  are  no 
longer  stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  high 
wages.  The  change  to  such  a  system 
will  doubtless  seem  to  many  people  an 
occasion  for  alarm,  as  few  persons  share 
Ruskin's  cheerful  confidence  in  honor  as 
a  motive  to  doing  hard  work. 


Why  I  am  a  Pagan. 


801 


The  danger  that  such  a  system  will 
seriously  diminish  industrial  efficiency 
is,  however,  much  less  than  one  might, 
at  first  thought,  anticipate.  The  change 
would  be  less  fundamental  than  it  seems, 
because  the  old  system  is  not  so  differ- 
ent from  the  new  as  we  commonly  take 
it  to  be.  In  the  traditional  system  there 
is  for  many  laborers  no  certainty  that 
great  efficiency  will  be  commensurately 
repaid.  The  hope  of  the  efficient  man 
is  in  promotion  to  a  totally  different  and 
higher  kind  of  labor.  This  possibility 
is  not  diminished  by  the  new  system. 

So  far  as  the  old  arrangement  has  of- 
fered to  an  energetic  man  the  hope  of 
corresponding  gains,  one  may  well  fear 
that  few  men  have  actively  responded 
to  this  incentive.  The  attainment  of 
ordinary  comfort,  by  merely  ordinary 
exertion,  is  for  most  men  the  limit  of 
aspiration.  There  is  some  evidence  that 
in  shops  where  unions  have  not  entered 
a  man  who  finds  that  he  is  doing  more 
than  the  usual  amount  of  work  indo- 
lently slackens  his  speed. 

But  if  a  degree  of  loss  is  after  all 
supposed  to  attend  the  transition  —  if 
here  and  there  men  relax  their  efforts 
because  the  union  rate  means  uniform 
wages  —  there  are  compensations  so 
marked  that  it  cannot,  on  the  whole, 
be  regarded  as  less  fit  than  its  prede- 
cessor to  stimulate  ambition.  That  in- 
dustrial system  is  best  in  which  each 
man  most  readily  finds  his  proper  place, 
and  is  influenced  most  actively  by  the 
hope  of  rising,  or  the  dread  of  sinking 
lower.  In  the  certainty  with  which  the 


"unfit "  are  rejected  and  cast  down  to 
less  responsible  positions,  the  new  ar- 
rangement evidently  surpasses  the  old  as 
it  results  in  the  dismissal  of  the  inferior 
men.  The  minimum  rate  is  in  this  re- 
spect far  from  being  "  socialistic  "  in 
the  sense  of  shielding  the  weak.  It  is, 
on  the  contrary,  cruelly  individualistic. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  its  tendency  to 
impel  the  better  men  upward,  it  is  at 
least  not  clearly  less  effective.  The  ap- 
proximate equalizing  of  wages  within  a 
trade  may  at  times  somewhat  weaken 
effort,  yet  the  desirability  of  this  mo- 
tive is  not  beyond  question.  It  may 
have  an  important  purpose  in  the  vanish- 
ing age  of  rigid  social  and  industrial 
stratification,  but  since  men  now  more 
readily  win  promotion  to  an  industrial 
position  distinctly  higher,  the  ambition 
merely  to  increase  earnings  has,  at  least, 
lost  its  importance ;  it  may  possibly  be 
thought  even  harmful  if  it  withdraws  at- 
tention from  that  other  ambition,  not 
merely  to  thrive  at  the  old  le\*el,  but  to 
rise. 

Thus  since  the  new  regime  does  not 
cease  to  stimulate  the  capable,  but  does 
more  certainly  eliminate  the  incompe- 
tent, it  seems  on  the  whole  more  fa- 
vorable to  the  relative  advancement  of 
the  better  men.  At  the  same  time,  the 
modern  organization  of  the  Great  Indus- 
try, with  its  numerous  gradations  (in 
contrast  with  the  earlier  organization  of 
widely  distinct  crafts),  largely  facili- 
tates the  process  by  which  men  pass 
upward  or  downward  to  their  proper 
places. 

Ambrose  P.  Winston. 


WHY  I  AM  A  PAGAN. 


WHEN  the  spirit  swells  my  breast  I 
love  to  roam  leisurely  among  the  green 
hills ;  or  sometimes,  sitting  on  the  brink 
of  the  murmuring  Missouri,  I  marvel 
at  the  great  blue  overhead.  With 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  51 


half  closed  eyes  I  watch  the  huge  cloud 
shadows  in  their  noiseless  play  upon  the 
high  bluffs  opposite  me,  while  into  my 
ear  ripple  the  sweet,  soft  cadences  of  the 
river's  song.  Folded  hands  lie  in  my 


802 


Why  I  am  a  Pagan. 


lap,  for  the  time  forgot.  My  heart  and 
I  lie  small  upon  the  earth  like  a  grain 
of  throbbing  sand.  Drifting  clouds  and 
tinkling  waters,  together  with  the 
warmth  of  a  genial  summer  day,  bespeak 
with  eloquence  the  loving  Mystery  round 
about  us.  During  the  idle  while  I  sat 
upon  the  sunny  river  brink,  I  grew 
somewhat,  though  my  response  be  not  so 
clearly  manifest  as  in  the  green  grass 
fringing  the  edge  of  the  high  bluff  back 
of  me. 

At  length  retracing  the  uncertain  foot- 
path scaling  the  precipitous  embank- 
ment, I  seek  the  level  lands  where  grow 
the  wild  prairie  flowers.  And  they,  the 
lovely  little  folk,  soothe  my  soul  with 
their  perfumed  breath. 

Their  quaint  round  faces  of  varied 
hue  convince  the  heart  which  leaps  with 
glad' surprise  that  they,  too,  are  living 
symbols  of  omnipotent  thought.  With 
a  child's  eager  eye  I  drink  in  the  my- 
riad star  shapes  wrought  in  luxuriant 
color  upon  the  green.  Beautiful  is  the 
spiritual  essence  they  embody. 

I  leave  them  nodding  in  the  breeze, 
but  take  along  with  me  their  impress 
upon  my  heart.  I  pause  to  rest  me  upon 
a  rock  embedded  on  the  side  of  a  foot- 
hill facing  the  low  river  bottom.  Here 
the  Stone-Boy,  of  whom  the  Ameri- 
can aborigine  tells,  frolics  about,  shoot- 
ing his  baby  arrows  and  shouting  aloud 
with  glee  at  the  tiny  shafts  of  lightning 
that  flash  from  the  flying  arrow-beaks. 
What  an  ideal  warrior  he  became,  baf- 
fling the  siege  of  the  pests  of  all  the 
land  till  he  triumphed  over  their  united 
attack.  And  here  he  lay,  —  Tnyan  our 
great-great-grandfather,  older  than  the 
hill  he  rested  on,  older  than  the  race  of 
men  who  love  to  tell  of  his  wonderful 
career. 

Interwoven  with  the  thread  of  this 
Indian  legend  of  the  rock,  I  fain  would 
trace  a  subtle  knowledge  of  the  native 
folk  which  enabled  them  to  recognize  a 
kinship  to  any  and  all  parts  of  this  vast 
universe.  By  the  leading  of  an  ancient 
trail  I  move  toward  the  Indian  village. 


With  the  strong,  happy  sense  that 
both  great  and  small  are  so  surely  en- 
folded in  His  magnitude  that,  without 
a  miss,  each  has  his  allotted  individual 
ground  of  opportunities,  I  am  buoyant 
with  good  nature. 

Yellow  Breast,  swaying  upon  the  slen- 
der stem  of  a  wild  sunflower,  warbles  a 
sweet  assurance  of  this  as  I  pass  near 
by.  Breaking  off  the  clear  crystal  song, 
he  turns  his  wee  head  from  side  to  side 
eyeing  me  wisely  as  slowly  I  plod  with 
moccasined  feet.  Then  again  he  yields 
himself  to  his  song  of  joy.  Flit,  flit 
hither  and  yon,  he  fills  the  summer  sky 
with  his  swift,  sweet  melody.  And  truly 
does  it  seem  his  vigorous  freedom  lies 
more  in  his  little  spirit  than  in  his  wing. 

With  these  thoughts  I  reach  the  log 
cabin  whither  I  am  strongly  drawn  by 
the  tie  of  a  child  to  an  aged  mother. 
Out  bounds  my  four-footed  friend  to 
meet  me,  frisking  about  my  path  with 
unmistakable  delight.  Chan  is  a  black 
shaggy  dog,  "  a  thorough  bred  little  mon- 
grel "  of  whom  I  am  very  fond.  Chan 
seems  to  understand  many  words  in 
Sioux,  and  will  go  to  her  mat  even  when 
I  whisper  the  word,  though  generally  I 
think  she  is  guided  by  the  tone  of  the 
voice.  Often  she  tries  to  imitate  the 
sliding  inflection  and  long  drawn  out 
voice  to  the  amusement  of  our  guests, 
but  her  articulation  is  quite  beyond  my 
ear.  In  both  my  hands  I  hold  her  shag- 
gy head  and  gaze  into  her  large  brown 
eyes.  At  once  the  dilated  pupils  con- 
tract into  tiny  black  dots,  as  if  the 
roguish  spirit  within  would  evade  my 
questioning. 

Finally  resuming  the  chair  at  my 
desk  I  feel  in  keen  sympathy  with  my 
fellow  creatures,  for  I  seem  to  see  clearly 
again  that  all  are  akin. 

The  racial  lines,  which  once  were  bit- 
terly real,  now  serve  nothing  more  than 
marking  out  a  living  mosaic  of  human 
beings.  And  even  here  men  of  the  same 
color  are  like  the  ivory  keys  of  one  in- 
strument where  each  resembles  all  the 
rest,  yet  varies  from  them  in  pitch  and 


Why  I  am  a  Pagan. 


803 


quality  of  voice.  And  those  creatures 
who  are  for  a  time  mere  echoes  of  an- 
other's note  are  not  unlike  the  fable  of 
the  thin  sick  man  whose  distorted  shad- 
ow, dressed  like  a  real  creature,  came 
to  the  old  master  to  make  him  follow 
as  a  shadow.  Thus  with  a  compassion 
for  all  echoes  in  human  guise,  I  greet 
the  solemn  -  faced  "native  preacher" 
whom  I  find  awaiting  me.  I  listen  with 
respect  for  God's  creature,  though  he 
mouth  most  strangely  the  jangling 
phrases  of  a  bigoted  creed. 

As  our  tribe  is  one  large  family,  where 
every  person  is  related  to  all  the  others, 
he  addressed  me  :  — 

"Cousin,  I  came  from  the  morning 
church  service  to  talk  with  you." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  said  interrogatively,  as 
he  paused  for  some  word  from  me. 

Shifting  uneasily  about  in  the  straight- 
backed  chair  he  sat  upon,  he  began: 
"  Every  holy  day  (Sunday)  I  look  about 
our  little  God's  house,  and  not  seeing 
you  there,  I  am  disappointed.  This  is 
why  I  come  to-day.  Cousin,  as  I  watch 
you  from  afar,  I  see  no  unbecoming  be- 
havior and  hear  only  good  reports  of  you, 
which  all  the  more  burns  me  with  the 
wish  that  you  were  a  church  member. 
Cousin,  I  was  taught  long  years  ago  by 
kind  missionaries  to  read  the  holy  book. 
These  godly  men  taught  me  also  the 
folly  of  our  old  beliefs. 

"There  is  one  God  who  gives  reward 
or  punishment  to  the  race  of  dead  men. 
In  the  upper  region  the  Christian  dead 
are  gathered  in  unceasing  song  and 
prayer.  In  the  deep  pit  below,  the  sin- 
ful ones  dance  in  torturing  flames. 

"  Think  upon  these  things,  my  cousin, 
and  choose  now  to  avoid  the  after-doom 
of  hell  fire !  "  Then  followed  a  long  si- 
lence in  which  he  clasped  tighter  and 
unclasped  again  his  interlocked  fingers. 


Like  instantaneous  lightning  flashes 
came  pictures  of  my  own  mother's  mak- 
ing, for  she,  too,  is  now  a  follower  of 
the  new  superstition. 

"Knocking  out  the  chinking  of  our 
log  cabin,  some  evil  hand  thrust  in  a 
burning  taper  of  braided  dry  grass,  but 
failed  of  his  intent,  for  the  fire  died  out 
and  the  half  burned  brand  fell  inward 
to  the  floor.  Directly  above  it,  on  a 
shelf,  lay  the  holy  book.  This  is  what 
we  found  after  our  return  from  a  several 
days'  visit.  Surely  some  great  power 
is  hid  in  the  sacred  book !  " 

Brushing  away  from  my  eyes  many 
like  pictures,  I  offered  midday  meal  to 
the  converted  Indian  sitting  wordless 
and  with  downcast  face.  No  sooner  had 
he  risen  from  the  table  with  "Cousin, 
I  have  relished  it, "  than  the  church 
bell  rang. 

Thither  he  hurried  forth  with  his  af- 
ternoon sermon.  I  watched  him  as  he 
hastened  along,  his  eyes  bent  fast  upon 
the  dusty  road  till  he  disappeared  at  the 
end  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

The  little  incident  recalled  to  mind 
the  copy  of  a  missionary  paper  brought 
to  my  notice  a  few  days  ago,  in  which  a 
"Christian"  pugilist  commented  upon 
a  recent  article  of  mine,  grossly  pervert- 
ing the  spirit  of  my  pen.  Still  I  would 
not  forget  that  the  pale-faced  mission- 
ary and  the  hoodooed  aborigine  are 
both  God's  creatures,  though  small  in- 
deed their  own  conceptions  of  Infinite 
Love.  A  wee  child  toddling  in  a  won- 
der world,  I  prefer  to  their  dogma 
my  excursions  into  the  natural  gardens 
where  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit  is 
heard  in  the  twittering  of  birds,  the 
rippling  of  mighty  waters,  and  the  sweet 
breathing  of  flowers.  If  this  is  Pagan- 
ism, then  at  present,  at  least,  I  am  a 
Pagan. 

Zitkala-Sa. 


804 


Edward  Eggleston. 


EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 


THE  safest  appeal  of  the  defender  of 
realism  in  fiction  continues  to  be  to  geo- 
graphy. The  old  inquiry  for  the  great 
American  novel  ignored  the  persistent 
expansion  by  which  the  American  states 
were  multiplying.  If  the  question  had 
not  ceased  to  be  a  burning  issue,  the 
earnest  seeker  might  now  be  given  pause 
by  the  recent  appearance  upon  our  maps 
of  far-lying  islands  which  must,  in  due 
course,  add  to  the  perplexity  of  any  who 
wish  to  view  American  life  steadily  or 
whole.  If  we  should  suddenly  vanish, 
leaving  only  a  solitary  Homer  to  chant 
us,  we  might  possibly  be  celebrated  ade- 
quately in  a  single  epic ;  but  so  long  as 
we  continue  malleable  and  flexible  we 
shall  hardly  be  "begun,  continued,  and 
ended "  in  a  single  novel,  drama,  or 
poem.  He  were  a  much  enduring 
Ulysses  who  could  touch  once  at  all  our 
ports.  Even  Walt  Whitman,  from  the 
top  of  his  omnibus,  could  not  see  over 
the  roofs  of  Manila ;  and  yet  we  shall 
doubtless  have,  within  a  decade,  bulle- 
tins from  the  dialect  society  with  notes 
on  colonial  influences  in  American 
speech.  Thus  it  is  fair  to  assume  that 
in  the  nature  of  things  we  shall  rely 
more  and  more  on  realistic  fiction  for  a 
federation  of  the  scattered  states  of  this 
decentralized  and  diverse  land  of  ours 
in  a  literature  which  shall  be  our  most 
vivid  social  history.  We  cannot  be  con- 
densed into  one  or  a  dozen  finished  pan- 
oramas ;  he  who  would  know  us  hereaf- 
ter must  read  us  in  the  flashes  of  the 
kinetoscope. 

Important  testimony  to  the  efficacy 
of  an  honest  and  trustworthy  realism 
has  passed  into  the  record  in  the  work 
of  Edward  Eggleston,  our  pioneer  pro- 
vincial realist.  Eggleston  saw  early  the 
value  of  a  local  literature,  and  demon- 
strated that  where  it  may  be  referred  to 
general  judgments,  where  it  interprets 
the  universal  heart  and  conscience,  an 


attentive  audience  may  be  found  for  it. 
It  was  his  unusual  fortune  to  have  com- 
bined a  personal  experience  at  once  va- 
ried and  novel  with  a  self-acquired  edu- 
cation to  which  he  gave  the  range  and 
breadth  of  true  cultivation,  and,  in  spe- 
cial directions,  the  precision  of  scholar- 
ship. The  primary  facts  of  life  as  he 
knew  them  in  the  Indiana  of  his  boyhood 
took  deep  hold  upon  his  imagination,  and 
the  experiences  of  that  period  did  much 
to  shape  his  career.  He  knew  the  life 
of  the  Ohio  valley  at  an  interesting  pe- 
riod of  transition.  He  was  not  merely  a 
spectator  of  striking  social  phenomena, 
but  he  might  have  said,  with  a  degree 
of  truth,  quorum  pars  magna  fui  ;  for 
he  was  a  representative  of  the  saving 
remnant  which  stood  for  enlightenment 
in  a  dark  day  in  a  new  land.  Litera- 
ture had  not  lacked  servants  in  the  years 
of  his  youth  in  the  Ohio  valley.  Many 
knew  in  those  days  the  laurel  madness ; 
but  they  went  "  searching  with  song  the 
whole  world  through  "  with  no  appre- 
ciation of  the  material  that  lay  ready  to 
their  hands  at  home.  Their  work  drew 
no  strength  from  the  Western  soil,  but 
was  the  savorless  fungus  of  a  flabby  sen- 
timentalism.  It  was  left  for  Eggleston, 
with  characteristic  independence,  to 
abandon  fancy  for  reality.  He  never 
became  a  great  novelist,  and  yet  his 
homely  stories  of  the  early  Hoosiers, 
giving  as  they  do  the  acrid  bite  of  the 
persimmon  and  the  mellow  flavor  of  the 
papaw,  strengthen  the  whole  case  for  a 
discerning  and  faithful  treatment  of 
local  life.  What  he  saw  will  not  be  seen 
again,  and  when  The  Hoosier  School- 
master and  Roxy  cease  to  entertain  as 
fiction  they  will  teach  as  history. 

An  assumption  in  many  quarters  that 
The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster  was  in  some 
measure  autobiographical  was  always 
very  distasteful  to  Dr.  Eggleston,  and 
he  entered  his  denial  forcibly  whenever 


Edward  Eggleston. 


805 


occasion  offered.  His  own  life  was  shel- 
tered, and  he  experienced  none  of  the 
traditional  hardships  of  the  self-made 
man.  He  knew  at  once  the  companion- 
ship of  cultivated  people  and  good  books. 
His  father,  Joseph  Gary  Eggleston,  who 
removed  to  Vevay,  Ind.,  from  Virginia, 
in  1832,  was  an  alumnus  of  William  and 
Mary  College,  and  his  mother's  family, 
the  Craigs,  were  well  known  in  southern 
Indiana,  where  they  were  established  so 
early  as  1799.  Joseph  Gary  Eggleston 
was  a  member  of  both  houses  of  the  In- 
diana legislature,  and  was  defeated  for 
Congress  in  the  election  of  1844.  His 
cousin,  Miles  Gary  Eggleston,  was  a 
prominent  Indiana  lawyer,  and  a  judge, 
in  the  early  days,  riding  the  long  White- 
water circuit,  which  then  extended 
through  eastern  Indiana  from  the  Ohio 
to  the  Michigan  border.  Edward  Eg- 
gleston was  born  at  Vevay,  December 
10,  1837.  His  boyhood  horizons  were 
widened  by  the  removal  of  his  family  to 
New  Albany  and  Madison,  by  a  sojourn 
in  the  backwoods  of  Decatur  County, 
and  by  thirteen  months  spent  in  Ame- 
lia County,  Va.,  his  father's  former 
home.  There  he  saw  slavery  practiced, 
and  he  ever  afterward  held  anti-slavery 
opinions.  There  was  much  to  interest 
an  intelligent  boy  in  the  Ohio  valley  of 
those  years.  Reminiscences  of  the  fron- 
tiersmen who  had  redeemed  the  valley 
from  savagery  seasoned  fireside  talk 
with  the  spice  of  adventure;  Clark's 
conquest  had  enrolled  Vincennes  in  the 
list  of  battles  of  the  Revolution;  the 
battle  of  Tippecanoe  was  recent  history, 
and  the  long  rifle  was  still  the  inevitable 
accompaniment  of  the  axe  throughout  a 
vast  area  of  Hoosier  wilderness.  There 
was,  however,  in  all  the  towns  —  Ve- 
vay, Brookville,  Madison,  Vincennes 
—  a  Cultivated  society,  and  before  Ed- 
ward Eggleston  was  born  a  remarkable 
group  of  scholars  and  adventurers  had 
gathered  about  Robert  Owen  at  New 
Harmony,  on  the  lower  Wabash,  and 
while  their  experiment  in  socialism  was 
a  dismal  failure,  they  left  nevertheless 


an  impression  which  is  still  plainly  trace- 
able in  that  region.  Abraham  Lincoln 
lived  for  fourteen  years  (1816—30)  in 
Spencer  County,  Ind.,  and  witnessed 
there  the  same  procession  of  the  Ohio's 
argosies  which  Eggleston  watched  later 
in  Switzerland  County. 

Edward  Eggleston  attended  school 
for  not  more  than  eighteen  months  after 
his  tenth  year,  and  owing  to  ill  health 
he  never  entered  college,  though  his  fa- 
ther, who  died  at  thirty-four,  had  pro- 
vided a  scholarship  for  him.  But  he 
knew  in  his  youth  a  woman  of  unusual 
gifts,  Mrs.  Julia  Dumont, who  conducted 
at  Vevay  a  dame  school.  Mrs.  Dumont 
is  the  most  charming  figure  of  early  In- 
diana history,  and  Dr.  Eggles ton's  own 
portrait  of  her  is  at  once  a  tribute  and 
an  acknowledgment.  She  wrote  much 
in  prose  and  verse,  so  that  young  Eg- 
gleston, besides  the  stimulating  atmos- 
phere of  his  own  home,  had  before  him 
in  his  formative  years  a  writer  of  some- 
what more  than  local  reputation  for  his 
intimate  counselor  and  teacher.  His 
schooling  continued  to  be  desultory,  but 
his  curiosity  was  insatiable,  and  there 
was,  indeed,  no  period  in  which  he  was 
not  an  eager  student.  His  life  was  rich 
in  those  minor  felicities  of  fortune  which 
disclose  pure  gold  to  seeing  eyes  in  any 
soil.  He  wrote  once  of  the  happy  chance 
which  brought  him  to  a  copy  of  Milton 
in  a  little  house  where  he  lodged  for  a 
night  on  the  St.  Croix  River.  His  ac- 
count of  his  first  reading  of  L'Allegro 
is  characteristic :  — 

"I  read  it  in  the  freshness  of  the 
early  morning,  and  in  the  freshness  of 
early  manhood,  sitting  in  a  window  em- 
bowered in  honeysuckles  dripping  with 
dew,  and  overlooking  the  deep  trap-rock 
dalles  through  which  the  dark,  pine- 
stained  waters  of  the  St.  Croix  run 
swiftly.  Just  abreast  of  the  little  vil- 
lage the  river  opened  for  a  space,  and 
there  were  islands ;  and  a  raft,  manned 
by  two  or  three  red- shir  ted  men,  was 
emerging  from  the  gorge  into  the  open 
water.  Alternately  reading  L'Allegro 


806 


Edward  Eggleston. 


and  looking  off  at  the  poetic  landscape, 
I  was  lifted  out  of  the  sordid  world  into 
a  region  of  imagination  and  creation. 
When,  two  or  three  hours  later,  I  gal- 
loped along  the  road,  here  and  there 
overlooking  the  dalles  and  the  river,  the 
glory  of  a  nature  above  nature  penetrated 
my  being,  and  Milton's  song  of  joy  re- 
verberated still  in  my  thoughts."  He 
was,  it  may  be  said,  a  natural  etymolo- 
gist, and  by  the  time  he  reached  man- 
hood he  had  acquired  a  reading  know- 
ledge of  half  a  dozen  languages.  We 
have  glimpses  of  him  as  chain-bearer 
for  a  surveying  party  in  Minnesota;  as 
walking  across  country  toward  Kansas, 
with  an  ambition  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
border  troubles ;  and  then  once  more  in 
Indiana,  in  his  nineteenth  year,  as  an 
itinerant  Methodist  minister.  He  rode 
a  four  week  circuit  with  ten  preaching 
places  along  the  Ohio,  his  theological 
training  being  explained  by  his  state- 
ment that  in  those  days  "Methodist 
preachers  were  educated  by  the  old  ones 
telling  the  young  ones  all  they  knew." 
He  turned  again  to  Minnesota  to  escape 
malaria,  preached  in  remote  villages  to 
frontiersmen  and  Indians,  and  later 
ministered  to  churches  in  St.  Paul  and 
elsewhere.  He  held,  first  at  Chicago 
and  later  at  New  York,  a  number  of 
editorial  positions,  and  he  occasionally 
contributed  to  juvenile  periodicals;  but 
these  early  writings  were  in  no  sense 
remarkable. 

The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster  appeared 
serially  in  Hearth  and  Home  in  1871. 
It  was  written  at  intervals  of  editorial 
work  on  the  paper,  and  was  a  tour  de 
force  for  which  the  author  expected  so 
little  publicity  that  he  gave  his  charac- 
ters the  names  of  persons  then  living 
in  Switzerland  and  Decatur  counties, 
Ind.,  with  no  thought  that  the  story 
would  ever  penetrate  to  its  habitat. 
But  the  homely  little  tale,  with  all  its 
crudities  and  imperfections,  made  a  wide 
appeal.  It  was  pirated  at  once  in  Eng- 
land ;  it  was  translated  into  French  by 
"Madame  Blanc, "  and  was  published  in 


condensed  form  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes;  and  later,  with  one  of  Mr. 
Aldrich's  tales  and  other  stories  by  Eg- 
gleston, in  book  form.  It  was  trans- 
lated into  German  and  Danish  also.  Le 
Maitre  d'Ecole  de  Flat  Creek  was  the 
title  as  set  over  into  French,  and  the 
Hoosier  dialect  suffered  a  sea  change 
into  something  rich  and  strange  by  its 
cruise  into  French  waters.  The  story 
depicts  Indiana  in  its  darkest  days.  The 
state's  illiteracy  as  shown  by  the  census 
of  1840  was  14.32  per  cent  as  against 
5.54  in  the  neighboring  state  of  Ohio. 
The  "no  lickin',  no  larnin'  "  period 
which  Eggleston  describes  is  thus  a  mat- 
ter of  statistics;  but  even  before  he 
wrote  the  old  order  had  changed,  and 
Caleb  Mills,  an  alumnus  of  Dartmouth, 
had  come  from  New  England  to  lead  the 
Hoosier  out  of  darkness  into  the  light 
of  free  schools.  The  story  escaped  the 
oblivion  which  overtakes  most  books  for 
the  young  by  reason  of  its  freshness  and 
novelty.  It  was,  indeed,  something 
more  than  a  story  for  boys,  though,  like 
Tom  Sawyer  and  The  Story  of  a  Bad 
Boy,  it  is  listed  among  books  of  perma- 
nent interest  to  youth.  It  shows  no 
unusual  gift  of  invention ;  its  incidents 
are  simple  and  commonplace ;  but  it 
daringly  essayed  a  record  of  local  life 
in  a  new  field,  with  the  aid  of  the  dia- 
lect of  the  people  described,  and  thus  be- 
came a  humble  but  important  pioneer  in 
the  history  of  American  fiction.  It  is 
true  that  Bret  Harte  and  Mark  Twain 
had  already  widened  the  borders  of  our 
literary  domain  westward ;  and  others, 
like  Longstreet,  had  turned  a  few  spade- 
fuls of  the  rich  Southern  soil ;  but  Harte 
was  of  the  order  of  romancers,  and  Mark 
Twain  was  a  humorist,  while  Longstreet, 
in  his  Georgia  Scenes,  gives  only  the 
eccentric  and  fantastic.  Eggleston  in- 
troduced the  Hoosier  at  the  bar  of 
American  literature  in  advance  of  the 
Creole  of  Mr.  Cable  or  Mrs.  Chopin,  or 
the  negro  of  Mr.  Page  or  Mr.  Harris, 
or  the  mountaineer  of  Miss  Murfree,  or 
the  shore-folk  of  Miss  Jewett. 


Edward  Eggleston. 


807 


Several  of  Eggles ton's  later  Hoosier 
stories  are  a  valuable  testimony  to  the 
spiritual  unrest  of  the  Ohio  valley  pio- 
neers. The  early  Hoosiers  were  a  pecu- 
liarly isolated  people,  shut  in  by  great 
woodlands.  The  news  of  the  world 
reached  them  tardily;  but  they  were 
thrilled  by  new  versions  of  the  gospel 
brought  to  them  by  adventurous  evan- 
gelists, who  made  Jerusalem  seem  much 
nearer  than  their  own  national  capital. 
Heated  discussions  between  the  sects 
supplied  in  those  days  an  intellectual 
stimulus  greater  than  that  of  politics. 
Questions  shook  the  land  which  were 
unknown  at  Westminster  and  Rome; 
they  are  now  well-nigh  forgotten  in  the 
valley  where  they  were  once  debated 
so  fiercely.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw  and 
his  monotonously  sung  sermon  in  The 
Hoosier  Schoolmaster  are  vouched  for, 
and  preaching  of  the  same  sort  has  been 
heard  in  Indiana  at  a  much  later  period 
than  that  of  which  Eggleston  wrote. 
The  End  of  the  World  (1872)  treats 
vividly  the  extravagant  belief  of  the 
Millerites,  who,  in  1842-43,  found 
positive  proof  in  the  Book  of  Daniel  that 
the  world's  doom  was  at  hand.  This 
tale  shows  little  if  any  gain  in  construc- 
tive power  over  the  first  Hoosier  story, 
and  the  same  must  be  said  of  The  Cir- 
cuit Rider,  which  portrays  the  devotion 
and  sacrifice  of  the  hardy  evangelists  of 
the  Southwest  among  whom  Eggleston 
had  served.  Roxy  (1878)  marks  a  gain ; 
the  story  flows  more  easily,  and  the  scru- 
tiny of  life  is  steadier.  The  scene  is 
Vevay,  and  he  contrasts  pleasantly  the 
Swiss  and  Hoosier  villagers,  and  touches 
intimately  the  currents  of  local  religious 
and  political  life.  Eggleston  shows  here 
for  the  first  time  a  real  capacity  for 
handling  a  long  story.  The  characters 
are  of  firmer  fibre ;  the  note  of  human 
passion  is  deeper,  and  he  communicates 
to  his  pages  charmingly  the  atmosphere 
of  his  native  village,  —  its  quiet  streets 
and  pretty  gardens,  the  sunny  hills  and 
the  great  river.  Vevay  is  again  the 
scene  in  The  Hoosier  Schoolboy  (1883), 


which  is  no  worthy  successor  to  the 
Schoolmaster.  The  workmanship  is  in- 
finitely superior  to  that  of  his  first  Hoo- 
sier tale,  but  he  had  lost  touch,  either 
with  the  soil  (he  had  been  away  from 
Indiana  for  more  than  a  decade),  or  with 
youth,  or  with  both,  and  the  story  is 
flat  and  tame.  After  another  long  ab- 
sence he  returned  to  the  Western  field 
in  which  he  had  been  a  pioneer,  and 
wrote  The  Graysons  (1888),  a  capital 
story  of  Illinois,  in  which  Lincoln  is  a 
character.  Here  and  in  The  Faith  Doc- 
tor, a  novel  of  metropolitan  life  which 
followed  three  years  later,  the  surer 
stroke  of  maturity  is  perceptible;  and 
the  short  stories  collected  in  Duffels  in- 
clude Sister  Tabea,  a  thoroughly  artis- 
tic bit  of  work. 

A  fault  of  all  of  Eggleston 's  earlier 
stories  is  their  too  serious  insistence  on 
the  moral  they  carried,  —  a  resort  to 
the  Dickens  method  of  including  Divine 
Providence  among  the  dramatis  per- 
sonae ;  but  this  is  not  surprising  in  one 
in  whom  there  was,  by  his  own  confes- 
sion, a  lifelong  struggle  "between  the 
lover  of  literary  art  and  the  religionist, 
the  reformer,  the  philanthropist,  the 
man  with  a  mission."  There  is  little 
humor  in  these  stories,  there  was  doubt- 
less little  humor  in  the  life  itself,  but 
there  is  abundant  good  nature.  In  all 
he  maintains  consistently  the  point  of 
view  of  the  realist,  his  lapses  being 
chiefly  where  the  moralist  has  betrayed 
him.  There  are  many  pictures  which 
denote  his  understanding  of  the  illumi- 
native value  of  homely  incident  in  the 
life  he  then  knew  best;  there  are  the 
spelling  school,  the  stirring  religious  de- 
bates, the  barbecue,  the  charivari,  the  in- 
fare,  glimpses  of  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler 
too,  and  the  hard  cider  campaign.  Those 
times  rapidly  receded;  Indiana  is  one 
of  the  older  states  now,  and  but  for  Eg- 
gleston's  tales  there  would  be  no  trust- 
worthy record  of  the  period  he  describes. 

Lowell  had  made  American  dialect 
respectable,  and  had  used  it  as  the  vehi- 


808 


Edward  Eggleston. 


cle  for  a  political  gospel ;  but  Eggleston 
employed  the  Hoosier  lingua  rustica  to 
aid  in  the  portrayal  of  a  type.  He  did 
not,  however,  employ  dialect  with  the 
minuteness  of  subsequent  writers,  nota- 
bly Mr.  Riley ;  but  Southwestern  idiom 
impressed  him,  and  his  preface  and  notes 
in  the  later  editions  of  the  Schoolmas- 
ter are  invaluable  to  the  student.  Dia- 
lect remains  in  Indiana,  as  elsewhere, 
largely  a  matter  of  experience  and  opin- 
ion. There  has  never  been  a  uniform 
folk  speech  peculiar  to  the  people  living 
within  the  borders  of  the  state.  The 
Hoosier  dialect,  so  called,  consisting 
more  of  elisions  and  vulgarized  pronun- 
ciations than  of  true  idiom,  is  spoken 
wherever  the  Scotch-Irish  influence  is 
perceptible  in  the  west  central  states, 
notably  in  the  sou  them  counties  of  Ohio, 
Indiana,  and  Illinois.  It  is  not  to  be 
confounded  with  the  cruder  speech  of 
the  "poor  whitey, "  whose  wild  strain 
in  the  Hoosier  blood  was  believed  by 
Eggleston  to  be  an  inheritance  of  the 
English  bond- slave ;  and  there  are  other 
vague  and  baffling  elements  in  the  Ohio 
valley  speech.  Mr.  Riley's  Hoosier  is 
more  sophisticated  than  Eggles ton's,  and 
thirty  years  of  change  lie  between  them, 
—  years  which  wholly  transformed  the 
state,  physically  and  socially.  It  is  di- 
verting to  have  Eggles  ton's  own  state- 
ment that  the  Hoosiers  he  knew  in  his 
youth  were  wary  of  New  England  pro- 
vincialisms, and  that  his  Virginia  father 
threatened  to  inflict  corporal  punishment 
on  his  children  "if  they  should  ever  give 
the  peculiar  vowel  sound  heard  in  some 
parts  of  New  England  in  such  words  as 
4  roof  '  and  '  root.'  " 

While  Eggleston  grew  to  manhood  on 
a  frontier  which  had  been  a  great  battle- 
ground, the  mere  adventurous  aspects 
of  this  life  did  not  attract  him  when  he 
sought  subjects  for  his  pen ;  but  the  cul- 
ture-history of  the  people  among  whom 
his  life  fell  interested  him  greatly,  and 
he  viewed  events  habitually  with  a  crit- 
ical eye.  He  found,  however,  that  the 
evolution  of  society  could  not  be  treated 


best  in  fiction,  so  he  began,  in  1880, 
while  abroad,  the  researches  in  history 
which  were  to  occupy  him  thereafter  to 
the  end  of  his  life.  His  training  as  a 
student  of  social  forces  had  been  supe- 
rior to  any  that  he  could  have  obtained 
in  the  colleges  accessible  to  him,  for  he 
had  seen  life  in  the  raw ;  he  had  known 
on  the  one  hand  the  vanishing  frontiers- 
men who  founded  commonwealths  in  the 
ashes  of  their  camp-fires,  and  he  had, 
on  the  other,  witnessed  the  dawn  of  a 
new  era  which  brought  order  and  en- 
lightenment. He  thus  became  a  delver 
in  libraries  only  after  he  had  scratched 
under  the  crust  of  life  itself.  While 
he  turned  first  to  the  old  seaboard  colo- 
nies in  pursuit  of  his  new  purpose,  he 
brought  to  his  research  an  actual  know- 
ledge of  the  beginnings  of  young  states 
which  he  had  gained  in  the  open.  He 
planned  a  history  of  life  in  the  United 
States  on  new  lines,  his  main  purpose 
being  to  trace  influences  and  movements 
to  remotest  sources.  He  collected  and 
studied  his  material  for  sixteen  years 
before  he  published  any  result  of  his  la- 
bors beyond  a  few  magazine  papers.  The 
Beginnings  of  a  Nation  (1896)  and  The 
Transit  of  Civilization  (1901)  are  only 
parts  of  the  scheme  as  originally  out- 
lined, but  they  are  complete  so  far  as  they 
go,  and  are  of  permanent  interest  and 
value.  History  was  not  to  him  a  dusty 
lumber  room,  but  a  sunny  street  where 
people  come  and  go  int  their  habits  as 
they  lived ;  and  thus,  in  a  sense,  he  ap- 
plied to  history  the  realism  of  fiction. 
He  pursued  his  task  with  scientific  ardor 
and  accuracy,  but  without  fussiness  or 
dullness.  His  occupations  as  novelist 
and  editor  had  been  a  preparation  for 
this  later  work,  for  it  was  the  story  qual- 
ity that  he  sought  in  history,  and  he 
wrote  with  an  editorial  eye  to  what  is 
salient  and  interesting.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  equal  care  has  ever  been  given 
to  the  preparation  of  any  other  histori- 
cal work  in  this  country.  The  plan  of 
the  books  is  in  itself  admirable,  and  the 
exhaustive  character  of  his  researches  is 


The   Court  Bible. 


809 


emphasized  by  his  copious  notes,  which 
are  hardly  less  attractive  than  the  text 
that  they  amplify  and  strengthen.  He 
expressed  himself  with  simple  adequa- 
cy, without  flourish  and  with  a  nice  econ- 
omy of  words;  but  he  could,  when  he 
chose,  throw  grace  and  charm  into  his 
writing.  He  was,  in  the  best  sense,  a 
scholar.  He  knew  the  use  of  books, 
but  he  vitalized  them  from  a  broad 
knowledge  of  life.  He  had  been  a  min- 
ister, preaching  a  simple  gospel,  for  he 
was  never  a  theologian  as  we  understand 
the  term ;  but  he  enlisted  in  movements 
for  the  bettering  of  mankind,  and  his  in- 
fluence was  wholesome  and  stimulating. 


His  robust  spirit  was  held  in  thrall  by 
an  invalid  body,  and  throughout  his  life 
his  work  was  constantly  interrupted  by 
serious  illnesses;  but  there  was  about 
him  a  certain  blitheness ;  his  outlook  on 
life  was  cheerful  and  amiable.  He  ac- 
complished first  and  last  an  immense 
amount  of  work,  — preacher,  author, 
editor,  and  laborious  student,  his  indus- 
try was  ceaseless.  He  had,  in  marked 
degree,  that  self-reliance  which  Higgin- 
son  calls  the  first  requisite  of  a  new  lit- 
erature, and  through  the  possession  of 
this  he  earned  for  himself  a  place  of 
dignity  and  honor  in  American  let- 
ters. 

Meredith  Nicholson. 


THE  COURT  BIBLE. 


WHEN  the  Judge  brought  in  the  new 
Bible  wrapped  in  his  morning  paper,  I 
begged  for  possession  of  the  old  one. 
The  Judge  looked  at  me  narrowly,  as 
he  looked  on  the  day  when  I  hunted  the 
passage  from  Isaiah  for  the  defendant's 
counsel  in  the  larceny  case,  and  remarked 
that  I  was  quite  welcome. 

And  now  the  venerable  book  lies  be- 
fore me,  cum  privilegio,  its  soiled  and 
tattered  dignity  illuminated  by  the  soft- 
ening light  of  reminiscence,  a  fat  little 
book,  born  at  Blackfriars,  its  leather 
coat  shining  like  a  smith's  apron,  its 
"full  gilt  "  dulled  to  a  mellow  bronze. 
I  estimated  that  it  had  been  kissed  fifty 
thousand  times. 

For  ten  years  I  had  watched  them  sa- 
lute it,  — petitioners  and  paupers,  crim- 
inals, children  propped  to  the  bar,  bent 
old  men,  women  who  winced  and  inter- 
posed their  gloved  fingers,  clergymen 
who  raised  it  solemnly,  gamblers  who 
grinned  and  shifted  their  tobacco  to  the 
other  side,  Polish  peddlers  who  made  a 
revolting  noise. 

In  the  first  place  it  had  seemed  by 
precedent  to  be  kissed  on  the  flat  of  the 


cover.  I  fancy  this  was  the  form  in  the 
days  when,  as  in  the  phrase  of  Scott's 
jailer,  they  "smacked  calf-skin  "  at  the 
old  Scottish  courts,  and  were  bidden 
"  the  truth  to  tell,  and  no  truth  to  con- 
ceal ...  in  the  name  of  God,  and  as 
the  witness  should  answer  to  God  on  the 
great  day  of  judgment,"  —  "an  awful 
adjuration, "  says  the  chronicler  of  Effie 
Deans'  trial,  "which  seldom  fails  to 
make  impression  even  on  the  most  har- 
dened characters,  and  to  strike  with  fear 
even  the  most  upright. "  In  those  days 
the  witness  was  called  upon  to  repeat 
the  words  of  the  oath',  a  form  which  must 
greatly  have  increased  its  solemnity, 
and  have  deepened  the  difficulty  of  main- 
taining those  mental  reservations  more 
readily  associated  with  an  often  flippant 
nod  of  the  head  and  a  perfunctory  touch. 
Doubtless  it  was  some  sense,  aesthetic 
or  sanitary,  of  the  accretions  of  time 
which  led  the  court  officers  who  con- 
trolled the  fortunes  of  my  Bible  to  form 
a  practice  of  holding  to  the  witnesses' 
lips  the  gilded  edge  of  the  volume,  and 
in  the  latter  days  of  its  service  the  offi- 
cer, if  the  witness  were  a  woman,  and 


810 


The   Court  Bible. 


particularly  if  she  were  a  pretty  woman, 
would  invidiously  open  the  book  and  of- 
fer her  the  relatively  unfrequented  space 
of  a  random  page. 

It  had  been  kissed  by  juries,  the  men 
first  standing  in  a  circle  with  hands  out- 
stretched toward  it,  the  officer  then 
thrusting  it,  sometimes  with  grotesque 
ineptness,  into  one  face  after  the  other. 
Frequently  it  had  been  lost  for  definite 
minutes,  until  the  cry  went  up  in  the 
court,  "  Where  's  the  Bible  ?  "  On  more 
than  one  such  occasion  the  Judge  in- 
dulged in  an  old  jest.  "The  steno- 
grapher 's  very  fond  of  it.  Search 
him."  This  was  because  it  once  had 
been  found  under  my  elbow  after  a 
prosy  opening  argument  by  counsel. 

The  spectacle  of  my  absorption  in  the 
book  during  a  summing  up  sometimes 
seemed  to  amuse  the  Judge,  who  re- 
served the  right  to  read  a  newspaper 
throughout  a  pathetic  passage  by  the 
lawyer  for  the  defense.  At  one  time 
he  appeared  to  feel  that  I  was  covertly 
preparing  for  the  ministry,  and  that  my 
voluminous  notes  not  demanded  by  the 
procedure  of  the  court  were  designed 
to  further  the  ends  of  some  fanatical 
reform. 

I  was  testimony  clerk  during  the  in- 
cumbency of  this  Bible,  and  sat  upon 
the  right  hand  of  the  judicial  chair  in 
a  bare  justice's  court,  on  the  side  near 
the  witness  stand,  the  Bible  on  the  ledge 
before  me.  The  Bible  was  the  begin- 
ning of  everything.  The  complainant, 
police  officer  or  civilian,  saluted  it  af- 
ter signing  the  complaint.  The  special 
interpreter,  Slav,  Hindoo,  or  Chinese, 
impartially  took  oath  upon  it  before,  in 
turn,  swearing  the  witness.  In  case  the 
witness  was  a  Hebrew  it  frequently  hap- 
pened that  the  book  was  opened  so  that 
he  might  place  his  hand  upon  the  Old 
Testament  section,  and  he  was  permit- 
ted, and  sometimes  directed,  to  wear 
his  hat. 

During  the  ten  years  of  my  observa- 
tion the  practice  of  affirming  with  up- 
lifted hand,  in  preference  to  the  older 


form  of  oath,  steadily  grew.  The  choice 
to  affirm  generally  was  accepted  without 
comment,  though  I  can  remember  that 
at  a  not  remotely  earlier  day  the  affirm- 
ant  usually  underwent  interrogation  as 
to  his  reasons  for  eschewing  the  oath, 
his  attitude  toward  the  Bible,  his  belief 
in  a  supreme  being,  and  his  sense  of 
obligation  as  related  to  the  affirmation. 
These  forms  are  supposed  to  be  duly  reg- 
ulated by  statute,  but  in  fact  they  vary, 
and  vastly,  within  statutory  areas. 

The  entrance  of  a  child  complainant 
or  witness  often  introduced  a  curious 
scene.  Eliciting  facts  from  the  mouths 
of  babes  is  a  dubious  business  in  any 
circumstances.  In  the  shabby  witness 
box  of  a  justice's  court  it  is  often  pain- 
ful enough,  not  least  so,  perhaps,  when 
it  is  superficially  amusing.  My  notes 
show  many  strange  answers  from  the 
bewildered  youngsters  called  to  exploit 
psychology  before  a  heterogeneous  au- 
dience. 

I  can  see  the  Judge  leaning  forward 
and  asking  in  his  most  reassuring  tone, 
"  Now,  little  boy,  do  you  know  what  it 
is  to  swear  ?  " 

The  Boy.  "I  know  that  I  mustn't 
swear. " 

The  Judge.  "  I  mean  to  swear  on 
the  Bible." 

The  Boy.  "I  know  that  it's  very 
wrong. " 

The  Judge.  "No.  it  is  n't  wrong  to 
swear  on  the  Bible.  But  let  me  ask 
you,  do  you  know  what  will  become  of 
you  if  you  tell  a  lie  ?  " 

The  Boy.    "I  will  die." 

The  Judge.     "And  what  else?  " 

The  Boy.     "Go  to  hell." 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  law- 
yer who  offered  the  child  as  a  witness 
was  likely  to  interpose  by  saying,  "I 
submit,  your  Honor,  that  the  witness  is 
entirely  competent, "  and  perhaps  some 
feeling  that  the  fear  of  hell  is  the  be- 
ginning of  wisdom  would  influence  the 
acceptance  of  the  child's  testimony,  the 
court  shamefacedly  watching  the  inno- 
cent lips  pucker  over  the  book.  Indeed, 


The   Court  Bible. 


811 


the  familiar  procedure  seemed  to  go 
upon  the  assumption  that  nothing  else 
was  to  be  done. 

On  another  occasion :  — 
The  Judge.     "What  will  happen  to 
you  if  you  swear  to  tell  the  truth  and 
then  tell  a  lie  ?  " 

The  Boy.     "I  will  be  punished." 
The  Judge.     "By  whom ?  " 
The  Boy.     "By  the  Judge." 
The  Judge.     "Anybody  else?  " 
The  Boy.     "  The  policeman. " 
The  Judge.    "Who  else?" 
The  Boy.     "The  jail  man." 
The  Judge  (gravely).     "Will  no  one 
else  punish  you?  " 

The  Boy  (brightening).  "Oh  yes, 
my  mother." 

Not  infrequently  the  young  witness 
would  reply  with  great  promptness,  giv- 
ing sign  of  precautionary  instruction, 
as  for  example :  — 

The  Judge.  "What  will  become  of 
you  if  you  tell  what  is  n't  true?  " 

The  Boy.  "God  won't  like  me  and 
I  will  go  to  the  bad  place." 

That  the  solemnity  of  the  oath  to  tell 
the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  re- 
mained well  forward  in  the  mind  of 
the  witness  was  often  indicated  in  the 
phraseology  of  the  testimony.  An  in- 
dignant witness,  questioned  too  point- 
edly as  to  his  sincerity,  cries  out,  "  What 
did  I  kiss  the  book  for?" 

"You  swear  that? "  demands  the 
lawyer  of  an  irritatingly  specific  wit- 
ness. 

"  Yes,  sir,  on  a  thousand  Bibles !  " 
It  was  a  commonplace  of  the  minor 
trials,  in  the  midst  of  a  witness's  re- 
cital, to  hear  a  saddened  voice  from  the 
benches :  "  And  you  just  after  kissin'  the 
book  of  God!  "  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  dramatic  than  the  interrup- 
tion of  an  aged  defendant,  a  lank  Irish- 
woman, who  leveled  a  bony  finger  at  the 
witness  and  declared  in  a  deep  anguished 
tone,  "God  is  listenin'  to  your  dis- 
coorse !  "  And  the  interruptions  having 
been  many,  the  Judge  added,  "So  am 
I,  madam.  Sit  down." 


It  was  a  trick  of  spectacular  witnesses 
to  use  the  Bible  as  a  means  of  complet- 
ing an  illustration  as  to  how  certain  ob- 
jects were  disposed,  and  when  it  was 
availably  near,  a  witness  was  likely  to 
pick  up  the  book  to  indicate  the  manner 
in  which  some  missile  had  been  thrown. 
Of  the  average  witness  it  may  be  said 
that  his  habit  toward  the  little  black 
volume  was  quickly  and  continuously 
reverential.  Many  reached  for  it  as 
a  means  of  emphasizing  their  integri- 
ty by  ostentatiously  holding  it  in  their 
hands. 

I  recall  the  figure  of  a  white-haired 
man  who  stood  straight  and  solemn,  with 
his  hand  upon  the  book.  "I  want  to 
say, "  he  began,  "  to  the  Judge  and  you 
gentlemen  around  here  "  — 

"Oh,  never  mind  us  gentlemen," 
interrupted  the  opposing  counsel,  "say 
it  to  the  Judge." 

It  is,  of  course,  the  business  of  the  op- 
posing counsel  to  belittle  the  witness  in 
his  greatest  moment,  but  nothing  of  this 
sort  has  ever  seemed  to  me  more  bru- 
tal than  an  incident  in  "dispossess  pro- 
ceedings, "  when  a  little,  old-fashioned, 
white-faced  woman,  stretching  forth  her 
hand,  said  with  gentle  fervor,  "Judge, 
this  good  book  tells  us  "  —  and  the  land- 
lord's  attorney,  breaking  in  with  a  rasp- 
ing voice,  snarled,  "Madam,  we  have 
n't  asked  you  to  interpret  the  Scrip- 
tures. Do  you  owe  this  rent  or  not?  " 
The  woman  turned  her  blanched  face  to 
the  lawyer,  and,  without  another  word 
or  movement,  gave  a  strangely  pathet- 
ic sob,  which  brought  a  moment  so  in- 
tense that  the  Judge,  his  eyes  moist- 
ening, lowered  the  gavel  with  a  bang, 
and  ordered  the  crowd  in  the  back  to 
be  quiet,  though  there  was  not  a  sound 
there. 

On  another  morning  an  old  man,  un- 
der stress  of  a  harsh  cross-examination, 
caught  up  the  book  and  with  incredible 
quickness  opened  it  at  Proverbs.  "You 
find  fault !  "  he  cried,  extending  a  shak- 
ing finger  to  the  text.  "Read  that!  " 
And  the  lawyer,  fascinated  by  the  un- 


812 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


expectedness  of  the  attack,  actually  read 
aloud,  "  Answer  a  fool  according  to  his 
folly." 

The  book,  lying  here  aloof  from  the 
harsh  turmoil  of  its  one-time  surround- 
ings, evokes  scene  after  scene  of  this 
kind.  I  see  it  under  the  hands  of  trem- 
bling women  who  totter  in  the  crisis  of 
the  vulgar  publicity.  I  see  it  grasped 
by  eager  and  pugnacious  veterans  in  dis- 
cord who  pant  for  the  excitements  of  the 
trial.  I  see  it  in  the  hand  of  the  Judge, 
himself  administering  the  oath  to  a  wit- 
ness from  whom,  in  a  great  perplexity, 
he  asks  the  very  essence  of  truth.  I  see 
it  suspended  while  the  accused,  at  the 
brink  of  a  trial,  debates  with  his  coun- 
sel a  plea  of  guilty.  I  see  it  hurriedly 
restored  to  its  accustomed  place  when 
the  accused,  about  to  take  the  oath,  has 
fallen  in  a  heap,  and  there  is  a  call  for 
water  and  the  doctor. 

One  March  day  a  fragile  girl  bearing 
an  infant  in  her  arms  stepped  to  the 
stand,  keeping  her  eyes  away  from  a 
pale  young  man  who  sat  in  the  prisoner's 
chair.  He  was  a  mere  boy.  His  mother 
and  a  lawyer  sat  on  either  side  of  him. 
His  look  was  half  dogged,  half  fright- 


ened, and  he  never  took  his  eyes  away 
from  the  face  of  the  girl.  The  little 
mother  at  the  bar  had  just  kissed  the 
book,  and  was  adjusting  herself  in  the 
witness  chair,  when  she  gave  a  startled 
scream  which  no  one  who  heard  it  is  like- 
ly ever  to  forget. 

The  baby  was  quite  dead.  My  re- 
collection gives  me  a  confused  picture 
in  which  I  see  the  pale-faced  young  man 
pulling  aside  the  wrappings  of  the  baby ; 
and  I  hear  the  later  formula  of  the 
Judge,  in  which  there  was  "charge  upon 
the  county"  and  "case  dismissed." 

I  remember  another  day  when  a  fra- 
gile old  man  was  arraigned  upon  a  charge 
of  theft  in  a  business  house.  The  charge 
was  a  mistake,  and  this  soon  appeared. 
Throughout  the  hearing  the  man  himself 
had  been  singularly  quiet  and  dignified. 
But  his  wife,  a  quakerish  little  woman, 
pale  and  set,  watched  and  listened  with 
an  anxiety  painful  to  see.  When  the 
Judge  dismissed  the  charge,  with  some 
regretful  word  for  the  injustice  of  its 
having  been  made,  the  woman  arose  and 
kissed  her  husband.  Then  she  came  for- 
ward, lifted  the  Bible,  and  tremblingly 
touched  the  cover  with  her  lips. 

Alexander  Black. 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  PLAGIARIST. 


I. 


THE  Imaginative  Girl  sat  on  a  terrace 
in  front  of  her  Castle  in  Spain  writing 
a  poem  to  send  to  an  Editor  who  lived 
in  a  Strange  Country.  It  was  a  good 
poem,  for  it  contained  an  idea  and  much 
coloring  and  sufficient  metre.  Moreover 
it  came  from  the  Girl's  soul,  which  is 
always  to  be  taken  into  account  when 
one  considers  a  poem.  Presently  she 
signed  it  with  her  initials,  and  dated  it, 
and  then  she  leaned  back  against  a 
thornless  rose  tree  and  forgot  all  about 
it,  because  there  above  her  face  floated 


a  half  moon,  silver  in  the  yellow  sun- 
shine, and  it  immediately  put  another 
poem  into  her  charming  head. 

As  she  looked  at  it  the  Unconscious 
Plagiarist  entered  at  the  great  arch  of 
the  gateway,  and  disposed  himself  pic- 
turesquely on  the  turf  near  by. 

"You  know  the  best  poem  I  wrote 
last  week  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Which  best  ?  "  inquired  the  Imagi- 
native Girl. 

"The  one  you  liked  so  much,"  ex- 
plained the  Plagiarist,  who  was  contin- 
ually under  a  delusion. 

"Oh,"  murmured  the  Girl,  convey- 


The    Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


813 


ing  an  impression  that  the  light  had 
dawned,  "what  have  you  done  now?  " 

"Stolen  it  from  Browning,"  said  the 
Unconscious  Plagiarist,  with  the  effront- 
ery of  the  habitual  criminal. 

"That  is  really  too  bad  of  Brown- 
ing," said  the  Girl,  with  practiced  sym- 
pathy; "I  have  no  use  at  all  for  that 
man.  No  one  would  have  minded  his 
writing  one  book  of  poetry,  but  to  go 
and  say  everything  there  was  to  say  in 
twenty  "  —  She  paused. 

"  Yes, "  assented  the  Plagiarist  grate- 
fully, "and  to  think  of  his  ruining  my 
career  in  this  way  when  I  've  carefully 
refrained  from  ever  reading  a  line  of 
him  in  my  life !  " 

"Still,  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do 
about  it, "  said  the  Girl.  "  Which  poem 
is  yours  like  ?  " 

"Amphibian.  The  idea  is  the  same. 
Also,  in  part,  the  expression.  The 
Browning  Man  found  him  out.  The 
only  difference  is  that  mine  is  the  best. 
First, "  said  the  Unconscious  Plagiarist, 
"  it  was  Keats  and  Byron ;  then  Tenny- 
son and  Swinburne ;  now  it  is  Brown- 
ing. And  I  took  such  care,  too,  never 
to  read  the  standard  poets  when  I  dis- 
covered I  was  to  be  a  standard  poet  my- 
self. I  was  very  young  then." 

"  Now  that  was  clever  of  you, "  said 
the  Girl  admiringly.  "I  never  should 
have  thought  of  that." 

"But  it  didn't  seem  to  work,  you 
know, "  he  submitted  with  hesitation. 

"That  is  Fate,"  observed  the  Girl, 
with  adorable  gravity.  She  sighed,  and 
read  him  the  poem  just  finished.  He 
considered  over  it  judicially. 

"Hike  that,"  he  said  at  last;  "you 
improve  every  day.  How  impressively 
you  say  things !  " 

"I  think  so  too,"  agreed  the  Girl. 
"Do  you  notice  how  the  rhymes  recur 
in  the  fourth  stanza  ?  " 

The  Plagiarist  requested  her  to  read 
it  again. 

"  Beautiful, "  he  murmured  with  en- 
thusiasm, "  beautiful  1  Is  this  all  you  '  ve 
done  since  yesterday  evening  ?  " 


"Yes.      Did  you  bring  anything?  " 

The  Unconscious  Plagiarist  modestly 
produced  a  small,  square,  expensive 
blank  book. 

"I've  only  a  couple,"  he  said,  ad- 
justing his  becoming  eyeglasses. 

"How  lovely!  "  cried  the  Girl  when 
he  had  read  the  first ;  "  that  climax  is 
so  subtle;  I've  felt  just  that  way. 
What  is  the  other?" 

"Oh,  it  's  a  cynical  sort  of  thing." 
He  looked  bored  as  he  read  it  aloud  be- 
tween intervals  of  extreme  languor. 

The  Girl  looked  sympathetically 
bored. 

"But  it 's  a  clever  thing,"  she  said, 
"and  true.  Nothing  is  worth  while 
when  one  comes  to  think  about  it." 

"Tobacco  is  worth  while,"  said  the 
Unconscious  Plagiarist,  "  and  poetry  — 
while  one  is  writing  it.  And  love  — 
while  one  is  making  it.  But  apart  from 
these!" 

He  and  the  Girl  gazed  through  the 
ilexes  to  the  waste  of  life  beyond.  They 
both  sighed. 

"They  are  at  tea  on  the  balcony," 
observed  the  Girl.  "Let 's  have  some 
too." 

As  they  rose  to  go  in  they  saw  the 
Browning  Man  coming  up  the  terrace. 
The  Plagiarist  scowled  at  him  with  his 
fair  eyebrows.  But  his  companion  be- 
trayed interest. 

"  How  good  of  you !  "  she  said,  giv- 
ing him  her  hand. 

No  one  knew  just  what  she  meant, 
but  then  she  was  a  poet,  and  no  one  ever 
expected  to. 

"How  good  of  you!"  returned  the 
Browning  Man,  who  took  the  greeting 
in  one  way. 

"He  may  be  mistaken,  you  know," 
interpolated  the  Plagiarist,  who  took  it 
in  another. 

"  You  there,  young  un  ?  "  said  the 
Browning  Man.  "You  'd  best  go  back 
to  the  Desert  Island  and  study  Brown- 
ing, —  I  've  sent  over  a  set  —  so  you  '11 
know  what  not  to  write  next  time." 

The  Plagiarist  looked  at  him  sulk- 


814 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


ily  out  of  his  very  blue  eyes,  and  the 
three  sauntered  up  to  the  rose-trellised 
balcony. 

The  tea  drinkers  received  them  ami- 
cably. There  was  the  Youthful  Sister, 
who  thought  she  would  write  poetry  some 
day ;  and  there  was  the  Long  Suffering 
Mother, who  thought  that  she  wouldn't ; 
and  there  was  the  Girl  Philistine,  who 
hated  poetry ;  and  there  was  the  Usual 
Brother,  who  agreed  with  the  Girl  Phi- 
listine, whom  he  considered  the  most 
perfectly  beautiful  and  miraculously 
sensible  girl  in  the  whole  world. 

The  Youthful  Sister  brought  a  Nile 
green  lily  cup  to  the  Plagiarist,  who 
mounted  on  the  iron  railing,  and  re- 
ceived it  absently.  His  eyes  almost 
matched  it.  He  wished  the  Browning 
Man  were  not  so  good-looking,  or  else 
that  he  looked  a  little  more  as  if  he 
knew  it.  His  good  looks  and  his  un- 
consciousness of  his  good  looks  often 
wrecked  the  Unconscious  Plagiarist's 
peace  of  mind  for  a  whole  fifteen  min- 
utes. There  he  was  now  balancing  his 
transparent  yellow  cup  and  saucer  on 
the  tips  of  his  brown  fingers,  and  mak- 
ing the  Imaginative  Girl  look  distinctly 
entertained  as  she  trifled  with  her  yel- 
low saucer  and  cup.  His  hazel  eyes 
drank  the  sunlight  as  might  some  faun's. 
His  head  had  the  antique  surety,  the  few 
finely  decisive  lines,  of  good  sculpture, 
as  he  turned  to  offer  the  Girl  some 
grapes.  The  Plagiarist  was  good-look- 
ing himself,  but  it  is  not  every  man  who 
possesses  a  head  one  could  put  in  mar- 
ble above  the  folds  of  a  toga.  Such 
heads  belong  by  right  to  standard  men 
of  some  kind.  As  a  private  individual 
the  Browning  Man  had  clearly  no  right 
to  a  head  like  that. 

"  Well,good-by, "  said  the  Plagiarist. 

But  the  Imaginative  Girl  did  not 
hear.  Only  as  he  turned  the  corner  of 
the  walk  she  glanced  up  and  beheld  the 
vanishing  smoke  of  his  cigarette. 

"What  an  odd  boy!  "  she  confided 
to  the  Browning  Man.  "Suppose  you 
bring  him  back." 


He  shook  his  head  thoughtfully,  and 
the  Unconscious  Plagiarist  wended  his 
way  to  the  Desert  Island  which  divided 
the  river  Lethe  at  that  place.  It  was 
near  shore,  and  a  few  strokes  landed  him 
within  sight  of  his  hut.  He  moored  the 
boat  and  strode  moodily  up  the  foot- 
path. As  he  lifted  the  hammock  hung 
across  it  he  saw  that  there  was  no  room 
for  him  inside  the  hut  because  of  the  set 
of  Browning,  ^which  occupied  the  small 
amount  of  available  space.  He  dropped 
the  hammock  and  lay  down  in  it.  He 
hated  the  Browning  Man.  About  mid- 
night he  was  aroused  by  the  plash  of 
oars.  Then  he  saw  a  dark  outline  on 
the  sky,  and  the  Browning  Man  flung 
himself  down  near  the  hammock. 

"I  wish  you  'd  go  away,"  muttered 
the  Plagiarist.  "I  'd  like  to  know  how 
this  can  be  a  Desert  Island  if  every  one 
crowds  here." 

The  Browning  Man  lit  a  pipe,  and 
looked  disapprovingly  at  the  other's  cig- 
arette. 

"  Did  you  get  Browning  ?  "  he  asked. 

"He  's  in  there,"  answered  the  Pla- 
giarist angrily.  "  Please  take  him  back. 
The  hut  is  small  and  I  'd  like  to  go  to 
bed." 

"Turn  him  out  of  doors,"  said  the 
Browning  Man  absently.  "The  boat  is 
small  too. "  He  was  silent  a  little,  then, 
getting  up,  stretched  his  arms  above  his 
head. 

"  I  wish  I  could  sleep, "  he  added  in 
a  changed  tone.  "I  have  n't  closed  my 
real  eyes  for  a  week.  May  you  never 
know  what  that  means.  Go  in  to  bed 
and  let  me  stay  out  here  to-night." 

The  Plagiarist,  after  acting  on  the  let- 
ter of  the  irreverent  suggestion  regard- 
ing Browning,  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 
The  Browning  Man  could  not  sleep. 
Therefore  he  thought,  and  thought  with- 
out sleep  has  been  known  to  set  men 
crazy.  To-night  he  thought  of  every- 
thing, —  of  the  Unconscious  Plagiarist, 
and  the  Imaginative  Girl,  and  his  own 
damnation  as  a  poet  and  success  as  a 
Browning  magazine  man,  and  of  how 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


815 


much  it  was  n't  worth.  The  moon  came 
up  incredibly  white.  The  molten  light 
spilled  like  quicksilver  down  the  river, 
and  over  the  island,  and  ran  along  the 
Browning  Man's  profile  turned  against 
his  coat-sleeve,  until  it  looked  like  the 
profile  on  a  Roman  coin.  The  dancing 
light  worried  him.  He  wanted  to  be 
where  it  was  all  dark.  He  flung  his 
arm  across  his  face,  but  a  sliver  of  light 
penetrated  like  an  elfin  dagger  to  his 
eyes.  He  shut  them,  but  that  served 
no  better.  Faces,  some  but  an  intense 
expression,  some  mere  faint  outline, 
swam  and  faded  and  changed  on  an  ir- 
idescent background  of  shifting  color 
that  sickened  him  with  its  wavelike  mo- 
tion. The  moonlight  was  better.  He 
took  his  arm  away  and  opened  his  eyes 
on  a  dark  space  of  river.  Then  he  began 
to  think  of  the  Imaginative  Girl  again. 

"I wish  I  hadn't  come,"  he  said  to 
himself.  Then  he  broke  off. 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  continued  almost 
audibly.  "It 's  sweet,  and  it 's  brief. 
Why  not?" 

When  the  Plagiarist  arose  next  morn- 
ing he  discovered  the  Browning  Man 
sitting  on  the  step  reading  Sordello. 

"Look  here!  "   he  said. 

"I  shan't,"  said  the  Unconscious 
Plagiarist  suspiciously. 

."You  'd  better,"  said  the  Browning 
Man .  "  It '  s  your  last  poem  —  in  print 
too." 

The  Plagiarist  brushed  his  hair  vi- 
ciously, but  melancholy  possessed  him 
as  he  followed  the  Browning  Man  to  the 
boat. 

"I  can't  see  why  you  take  the  stan- 
dard English  poets  to  steal  from, "  ob- 
served the  Browning  Man.  "There  are 
plenty  of  foreign  poets  who  might  make 
you  a  standard  English  poet  if  you  as- 
similated them  judiciously.  There  are 
the  Russian  or  Persian  or  Japanese,  — 
and  no  one  would  ever  know." 

The  Unconscious  Plagiarist  swore 
miserably,  and  the  Browning  Man  sub- 
sided. They  tied  their  boat  to  a  fig 
tree  on  shore  and  went  up  to  the  Inn  for 


breakfast.  The  Unconscious  Plagiarist 
generally  took  his  meals  at  the  Inn,  for 
while,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  every 
luxury  of  life  was  indigenous  to  the  Des- 
ert Island,  he  was  too  busy  appropriat- 
ing standard  poetry  to  be  his  own  pe- 
ripatetic chef.  Later  they  climbed  the 
Castle  path,  and  there  was  the  Girl 
Philistine  not  harmonizing  at  all  with 
the  griffin-backed  stone  seat  and  the 
dragon-mouthed  fountain.  They  tar- 
ried on  other  griffin-backed  benches  and 
talked  to  her,  for  they  desired  to  be  po- 
lite, and  they  knew  the  Usual  Brother 
would  come  as  soon  as  he  saw  them. 

"A  beautiful  morning,"  said  the 
Browning  Man,  looking  up  to  a  certain 
vine  swung  balcony. 

"So  sunny,"  commented  the  Pla- 
giarist, looking  up  to  it  also,  and  wav- 
ing a  greeting  to  the  Imaginative  Girl, 
who  stood  there  in  a  white  morning  gown 
that  had  come  out  of  a  picture  in  the 
Castle.  He  could  see  the  gold  glint  of 
her  eyelashes  as  she  leaned  over  the  rail 
and  flung  two  pink  roses  on  the  velvet 
green  turf  below.  Then  she  disap- 
peared in  the  peaked  window  frame, 
and  the  Plagiarist  ran  to  get  the  roses. 

When  he  came  back,  triumphant,  the 
Browning  Man  reached  over  and  took 
one  as  his  right.  The  Girl  Philistine 
laughed  wickedly,  and  the  Plagiarist 
frowned. 

"One  was  mine,"  said  the  Browning 
Man,  with  conviction.  He  put  it  in  his 
buttonhole. 

"Take  the  other,"  suggested  the 
Plagiarist,  with  simple  irony. 

The  Browning  Man  smiled,  and  the 
Plagiarist  flung  it  in  the  fountain,  and 
marched  up  to  the  Castle,  where  he  pre- 
sently came  upon  the  Girl  feeding  pea- 
cocks in  the  southern  courtyard.  She 
held  a  dark  blue  china  bowl  filled  with 
yellow  grains,  which  she  sprinkled  slow- 
ly on  the  stone  floor. 

"  See  here, "  he  said ;  "  who  were  those 
roses  for?  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  him.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  peacocks. 


816 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


"For  whoever  wanted  roses,"  said 
the  Imaginative  Girl. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Plagiarist.  Some 
way  this  bit  of  information  staggered 
him. 

"I'd  think  you  would  have. some 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, "  he  re- 
marked at  last.  "You  might  as  well 
put  a  pink  rose  in  the  buttonhole  of  a 
stone  Nero." 

"How  could  I?  "  objected  the  Girl 
in  some  perplexity. 

Just  then  the  Browning  Man  saun- 
tered toward  them,  and  all  was  plain. 
Of  a  sudden  there  were  three  pink  roses 
in  the  old  gray  inclosure.  Two  were 
in  the  Imaginative.  Girl's  cheeks. 

"I  came  to  say  that  I  '11  be  up  to  row 
you  out  at  five,"  said  the  Browning 
Man ;  "  I  've  an  article  about  Mr.  Sludge 
to  write  this  morning." 

"Even  here?  "  cried  the  Girl,  with 
heartfelt  sympathy. 

"Even  here,"  echoed  the  Browning 
Man  drearily. 

He  suddenly  cast  an  envious  glance 
at  the  Plagiarist,  whose  candid  face 
had  become  delightfully  good-tempered. 
He  was  young,  and  a  fool,  therefore ; 
but  he  had  gold  coins  to  fling,  and  he 
might  dream  his  dreams  in  peace. 

As  he  went,  the  remark  about  Nero 
did  not  seem  so  irrelevant  to  the  Girl. 
An  intangible  chill  frosted  the  sunlight, 
and  she  was  glad  when  they  came  into 
the  tower  above,  where  the  rose-cqlored 
lights  from  the  high  casements  streamed 
like  sunrise  on  the  white  rugs  and  di- 
vans. Here  was  the  Girl's  den,  and 
here  her  desk  where  she  leaned  her  white 
arm  and  wrote ;  here,  too,  the  spindle- 
legged  table  where  an  ivory  yellow  skull 
grinned  beneath  a  dim  gold  fragment 
of  tapestry;  here,  too,  the  manuscript 
book  of  her  poems,  jewel  clasped  like  a 
book  of  saints,  and  locked  religiously 
against  all  chance  of  profanation  by  Pa- 
gan eyes.  She  kept  the  key  in  a  jar  of 
rose  leaves  near  by. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I  've  just  shown 
you  poems  at  random,  but  in  here  are 


my  best  —  the  ones  to  be  published  some 
day.  You  can  take  the  book  to  the  Is- 
land with  you,  if  you  wish  to." 

He  hastened  to  assure  her  that  he 
did ;  so  she  gravely  unlocked  it,  and  re- 
placed the  key  in  the  rose  jar.  Then 
she  sat  down  and  read  him  her  last 
poem.  The  Plagiarist  leaned  his  chin 
on  his  hand,  and  looked  at  her  with 
undisguised  admiration. 

"  That  is  good, "  he  said  finally.  "  You 
say  things  so  impressively." 

"Let's  get  some  new  adjectives," 
remarked  the  Girl  after  an  interval  of 
reflective  silence.  "It  's  so  monotonous 
to  say  the  same  things  every  day  about 
each  other's  poetry." 

"  I  've  just  thought  up  a  ballade, " 
observed  the  Plagiarist,  somewhat  point- 
edly ignoring  the  Girl's  suggestion. 
"Two  lovers  ride  out  together  for  the 
last  time.  He  snatches  that  one  favor 
from  Fate.  He  exults.  I  have  not  se- 
lected the  refrain  yet ;  but  do  you  like 
the  idea?" 

"Very  much,"  admitted  the  Girl, 
regarding  him  with  profound  pity; 
"so  did  "  —  She  paused  expressively. 
"You  must  read  Browning,"  she  said 
persuasively.  "  What  else  is  left  ?  " 

"Suppose  I  do  read  him,"  said  the 
Plagiarist  dejectedly.  "You  don't  ex- 
pect any  one  except  the  Browning  Man 
to  remember  what  's  in  him,  do  you?  " 

"No, "  said  the  Girl,  "I  only  thought 
maybe  you  might  remember  what  was 
n't  in  him." 

"No,"  decided  the  Plagiarist,  "I 
can't  go  back  on  my  principles.  If  a 
man  gets  to  going  back  on  his  principles 
he  never  knows  where  he  will  end  up. 
I  've  always  held  that  a  standard  poet 
should  be  intellectually  isolated,  even 
to  the  point  of  living  on  a  Desert  Island 
whenever  practicable.  If  he  can't  be 
original  then,  I  'd  like  to  know  how  he 
can  be  original  when  he  deliberately  fills 
his  head  with  other  people's  stuff?  " 

"  I  wonder  who  it  will  be  next  ?  " 
said  the  Girl.  Her  curiosity  was  par- 
donable. 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


817 


II. 


The  Imaginative  Girl  and  the  Brown- 
ing Man  floated  out  on  the  river  Lethe, 
whose  dark,  clear  crystal  flowed  with 
mesmeric  motion  from  under  their  boat. 
Her  beautiful  eyes  were  vague  with 
dreams.  Her  head  was  uncovered  above 
her  softly  falling  white  garments.  Her 
reflection  appeared  as  a  pallid  flower 
sucked  to  the  under  eddies  of  the  stream. 
She  was  adorable,  and  she  was  a  real 
poet,  and  he  was  only  a  poor  devil  with 
an  inconvenient  sense  of  honor;  so  he 
leaned  back  and  talked  platitudes  out  of 
the  knowledge  that  had  come  to  him 
since  he  had  been  a  damned  poet. 

"Nothing  is  worth  while,"  said  the 
Browning  Man,  "except  the  life  sacri- 
ficed for  an  idea,  and,  on  rare  occa- 
sions, the  idea." 

Usually  the  Girl  could  murmur  epi- 
grams as  fast  as  the  Browning  Man,  but 
to-day  her  lips  were  like  a  shut  flower. 

"The  eternal  verities,"  said  the 
Browning  Man,  "are  only  eternal  fal- 
lacies. When  I  was  young  I  was  hap- 
py, for  I  believed  in  them.  Now,  — 
truth  —  pity  —  love  —  ah,  love, "  he  re- 
peated with  slow  self-scorn. 

Then  suddenly  she  looked  at  him. 

"I  am  young  still,"  she  whispered, 
while  her  soul  beat  its  butterfly  wings 
against  the  woven  net  of  his  words. 

"I  am  ashamed,"  he  said,  getting 
hot  and  white. 

He  was  ashamed.  He  had  said  it  all 
before.  He  had  even  said  it  all  to  her, 
perhaps.  He  did  not  remember.  Or 
perhaps  she  had  said  it  all  to  him.  Cer- 
tainly she  and  the  Plagiarist  had  spent 
the  summer  in  saying  it  all  to  each 
other.  Why  should  it  be  so  much,  then  ? 
Why  should  she  look  at  him  with  baf- 
fled, struggling  eyes,  as  if,  because  he 
had  said  it,  it  could  mean  more  than 
any  other  set  of  idle  phrases  said  for  the 
saying  ?  They  drifted  on  in  silence  to- 
ward the  shadow  drugged  East,  and, 
when  they  turned,  rowed  straight  back 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  52 


into  the  heart  of  an  amber  sunset.  Then 
the  river  turned  black  as  infinite  space 
and  duplicated  a  million  stars.  And 
then* the  voices  from  the  Castle  sounded 
and  they  went  up  the  dark,  sweet  ter- 
races with  the  silence  unbroken  save  by 
words  that  had  no  power  to  break  it. 

The  Browning  Man  stayed  down  at 
the  Inn  after  that,  and  let  the  Plagiarist 
go  his  ways  in  peace.  These  led  to  the 
presence  of  the  Imaginative  Girl,  and 
concluded  there  forever  thought  the  Pla- 
giarist the  day  she  said  that  maybe  she 
would  n't  mind  marrying  him  some  time. 
They  were  in  the  courtyard,  and  he 
would  have  kissed  her,  but  she  would  not. 

"I  don't  think  girls  ought  to  let  peo- 
ple kiss  them, "  she  said  firmly. 

"I  'm  not  people, "  objected  the  Pla- 
giarist, with  some  justice. 

"  Well,  any  one, "  said  the  Girl  de- 
cisively. "It 's  one  of  my  principles." 

The  Plagiarist  had  nothing  more  to 
say  when  she  said  that,  because  he 
could  n't  consistently  object  to  people 
standing  by  their  principles.  But  he 
secretly  thought  she  might  have  made  an 
exception  in  his  favor,  and  his  demeanor 
intimated  as  much. 

"No, "  she  said ;  "I  like  you  ever  so 
much,  and  I  think  I  'd  like  to  have  you 
around  to  understand  what  I  mean ;  but 
you  need  n't  expect  to  hold  my  hand, 
and  get  sentimental,  and  as  for  kissing, 
I  hate  it  —  except  in  poetry.  It 's  a 
very  good  poetic  property." 

"Very  well, "  assented  the  Plagiarist, 
who  was,  in  certain  exigencies,  a  phi- 
losopher; "whatever  you  say.  Come 
on  in  the  den.  I  want  to  show  you 
something." 

Once  there,  he  produced  a  blue  thing 
which  he  declared  to  be  a  check.  "I 
don't  ask  you  to  believe  it,"  he  said, 
"but  I  've  sold  a  poem!  " 

The  Girl  dropped  down  at  her  desk 
and  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  not  even  the 
Browning  Man  could  find  it  in  Brown- 
ing. My  theory  is  coming  right.  I 
knew  it  would." 


818 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


The  Girl  was  almost  excited.  "Of 
course  poetry  can't  be  paid  for,"  she 
said,  "and  the  most  the  Al-Raschid  of 
editors  can  do  is  to  remotely  suggest  an 
ideal  value ;  but  this  is  a  very  good  sug- 
gestion. Say  the  poem  to  me." 

But  the  Plagiarist  didn't  know  it 
well  enough  for  effective  recitation,  so 
she  recited  one  of  hers  instead,  which 
came  to  the  same  thing.  Then  they 
walked  along  the  terraces,  and  she  gave 
him  all  the  white  roses  he  wanted.  But 
she  gathered  no  pink  roses  for  him. 

"Your  eyes  are  too  blue,"  she  ex- 
plained. "It  makes  too  much  color." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  Brown- 
ing Man  held  undisputed  sway  over  the 
Island,  while  the  Plagiarist  haunted  the 
Castle  like  an  heirloom  Ghost. 

One  day  he  mailed  to  the  Strange 
Country  a  packet  of  manuscript.  He 
intended  a  great  surprise  for  the  Girl. 
This  was  nothing  less  than  a  volume  of 
his  very  last,  but  of  course  very  best 
poems,  to  be  brought  out  by  a  famous 
publishing  house  in  an  artistic  gray  book 
dedicated  to  her.  She  had  never  seen 
these  poems,  for  it  was  to  be  a  complete 
birthday  surprise,  but  the  Browning 
Man  had,  and  he  had  pronounced  them 
original,  inasmuch  as  they  were  not  in 
any  English-tongued  poet,  and  they  were 
undeniably  good,  even  enviably  good, 
said  the  Browning  Man,  and  wondered 
where  they  came  from. 

It  was  Fate  that  a  day  or  two  before 
the  gray  book  came  to  hand  the  Plagia- 
rist should  have  been  summoned  to  Ar- 
cady  to  see  his  youngest  sister  get  mar- 
ried. 

"It  will  take  a  week  away,"  said 
he  wretchedly  to  the  Browning  Man. 
"  Will  you  take  the  book  up  to  her,  and 
talk  it  over?" 

Therefore  while  he  was  being  whirled 
to  Arcady  next  morning,  the  Browning 
Man  sent  a  note  to  the  Girl,  saying  that 
he  would  be  up  that  evening.  It  seemed 
a  needless  formality,  but  was  in  accord 
with  his  enigmatic  behavior  of  some 
weeks  past. 


She  waited  for  him  in  her  alcove, 
whose  wide  arch  framed  her  as  he  turned 
the  hall  curve.  He  stood  looking  a  mo- 
ment as  if  at  some  exquisite  genre,  paint- 
ing. Then  his  pulses  began  to  beat. 
But  he  entered  quietly  enough,  and  gave 
her  a  small  package  which  he  said  the 
Plagiarist  had  sent  her  through  him  so 
as  to  be  in  time  for  her  beautiful  birth- 
day. She  opened  it  eagerly.  It  was 
the  book  of  poems.  A  charming  glow 
of  pleasure  lit  her  face  as  she  discovered 
the  dedication.  Then  she  whirled  over 
the  illustrations,  and  then  she  bestowed 
her  attention  on  the  Browning  Man. 

"My  cousin  asked  me  to  bring  the 
poems, "  he  explained,  smiling  since  she 
expected  him  to,  "because  he  had  to  be 
away,  and  to  tell  you  how  really  good 
they  are,  being  too  modest  to  do  it  him- 
self." 

"What  nonsense!  "  observed  the 
Girl  with  delightful  candor;  "he  just 
thought  you  knew  more  adjectives  than 
he  did.  But  go  on  and  tell  me." 

"They  are  curantistic, "  said  the 
Browning  Man.  "They  are  also  stimu- 
lative, and  —  and  I  think  you  will  find 
them  informed  with  delitescent  truth. " 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No,  but  I  '11  tell  you  the  rest  when 
you  read  the  book." 

"  Suppose  you  read  it  to  me, "  she  sug- 
gested, remembering  how  he  had  once 
read  Dobson  aloud  one  rainy  morning 
of  the  risen  past.  Also  perhaps  she 
meant  to  punish  him  for  intangible  sins 
of  the  soul.  It  was  not  given  either  of 
them  to  know.  He  winced ;  but  had  she 
asked  him  to  forego  the  one  thing  that 
rendered  existence  endurable,  his  inten- 
tion of  putting  an  end  to  it,  he  would 
no  doubt  have  complied  with  her  request. 
As  the  pages  turned,  he  forgot  the  poet 
and  the  poems  in  bitter  thought,  but  he 
read  on  mechanically,  without  lifting  his 
eyes.  When  he  closed  the  volume  and 
turned  to  the  Girl,  he  was  startled  into 
a  low  exclamation.  She  had  hidden  her 
face  against  the  back  of  the  divan  and 
was  evidently  in  tears. 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


819 


"Dearest!  "  he  cried  without  know- 
ing that  he  did  so. 

"He  —  he  has  plagiarized  my  unpub- 
lished poems, "  sobbed  the  Imaginative 
Girl. 

III. 

As  the  Browning  Man  returned  to 
the  Inn  he  could  not  but  acknowledge 
that  things  looked  black  for  the  Plagia- 
rist. He  had  had  the  manuscript  for 
weeks,  and  every  poem  in  the  gray  book 
could  be  collated  with  poems  in  the 
manuscript  book.  Clearly  he  could  not 
be  an  Unconscious  Plagiarist,  yet  how 
could  he  have  sent  her  the  book  if  he 
were  a  Conscious  Plagiarist?  He  had 
reached  no  conclusion  when  the  culprit 
put  in  an  exultant  appearance.  No  one 
could  have  looked  less  criminal.  For 
the  first  time  surety  of  success  had  made 
a  man  of  him. 

"No,"  decided  the  Browning  Man. 
"The  Unconscious  Plagiarist  was  still 
an  Unconscious  Plagiarist."  How  he 
did  it  he  did  n't  know ;  but  he  had  done 
it,  and  how  was  he  to  tell  him  ? 

"Look  here!  "  he  began  in  a  faint- 
hearted way. 

"Hurry  up,"  said  the  Plagiarist, 
with  a  hand  on  the  latch. 

"With  all  the  poets  in  the  world  to 
plagiarize  from, "  cried  the  poor  Brown- 
ing Man,  "why  must  you  take  her?  " 

Presently  the  Plagiarist  fulfilled  his 
intention  of  opening  the  door. 

"I  'd  as  well  have  it  over,"  he  said 
in  an  expectant  voice.  "You  come 
too." 

They  found  her  in  the  den.  She 
looked  at  the  Plagiarist  with  the  sever- 
ity of  youth  and  a  righteous  cause,  and 
there  was  no  hope  in  him  as  he  met  that 
look. 

"You  can't  think  I  deliberately  stole 
your  poems  ?  "  he  asked  defiantly. 

"  You  read  them  in  manuscript  before 
you  wrote  yours,"  said  the  Girl  piti- 
lessly. "I  know,  because  yours  are  all 
dated." 


The  Plagiarist  opened  his  lips,  and 
the  Browning  Man  waited  with  fasci- 
nated attention  for  the  elucidation  of 
the  mystery. 

"No,  I  didn't  read  them,"  said  the 
Unconscious  Plagiarist. 

"Why?"  cried  the  Girl  and  the 
Browning  Man  in  one  breath. 

"  My  dear  Girl,  how  could  I  ?  "  in- 
quired the  Plagiarist  with  the  quietude 
of  desperation. 

It  was  unkind  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  the  Browning  Man  sat  down 
on  the  nearest  divan  and  laughed.  The 
Girl  did  not  laugh.  The  offense  was 
bad  enough,  but  the  extenuation  was  so 
appallingly  worse  than  the  offense  that 
she  could  only  stand  and  dispose  of  the 
Unconscious  Plagiarist  forever  with  a 
single  look. 

One  was  enough  for  the  Plagiarist. 
He  held  his  head  high  as  he  went  out, 
but  there  was  really  nothing  whatever 
left  of  him. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  Browning  Man 
and  looked  at  him,  and  he  stopped 
laughing  instantly,  and  followed  the  Pla- 
giarist, whom  he  overtook  at  the  water's 
edge,  and  together  they  sadly  secluded 
themselves  on  the  Desert  Island. 

After  a  week  spent  chiefly  in  expres- 
sive silence,  one  morning  the  Plagiarist 
rose  from  his  hammock  and  made  a 
speech  replete  with  practical  philosophy. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "I  might  as 
well  have  been  engaged  to  a  poem !  " 

Next  day  he  set  sail  for  the  Strange 
Country,  and,  out  of  that  remote  region, 
there  came  in  the  fullness  of  time  a  let- 
ter to  the  Browning  Man. 

"  I  have  bought  up  those  confounded 
books,"  said  the  letter,  "and  you  can 
tell  her  so.  Though  unable  to  decipher 
hieroglyphics  I  have  some  self-respect 
left.  You  can  tell  her  this  also.  And 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  an 
entirely  new  set  of  principles.  I  have 
bought  all  the  standard  poets,  and  I  have 
invested  in  a  magazine  which  will  not 
reject  my  poems,  so  you  see  my  success 
is  assured." 


820 


The   Unconscious  Plagiarist. 


The  Browning  Man  read  over  this 
abrupt  epistle,  after  which  he  lit  his 
pipe  with  it,  and  went  for  a  stroll  under 
the  ilexes.  Halfway  to  the  Castle  he 
met  the  Girl  Philistine,  for  a  wonder 
alone.  She  accounted  for  it  by  saying 
that  the  Usual  Brother  had  gone  to  the 
Castle  for  her  golf  clubs.  The  Brown- 
ing Man  shuddered,  but  he  rested  his 
arm  against  a  tree,  and  conversed  with 
her  politely.  There  was  presently  a 
pause  which  the  Girl  Philistine  broke. 

"If  I  were  a  man,"  she  said,  "I 
would  n't  be  an  idiot." 

"You  could  n't  help  it, "  returned  the 
Browning  Man,  with  impersonal  con- 
viction. 

But  the  Girl  would  n't  be  impersonal. 

"Couldn't  I?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  '  said 
the  Browning  Man,  who  sometimes  lied. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  sees  in  you 
myself, "  mused  the  Girl  candidly ;  "you 
won't  dance,  and  you  don't  hunt,  and 
you  look  like  a  Roman  out  of  an  An- 
cient History;  and,  as  if  it  were  not 
enough  to  have  Browning,  you  spend 
your  life  writing  stuff  about  Browning. " 

"And  I  don't  make  what  will  buy  me 
tobacco  and  stamps  by  doing  it, "  reck- 
lessly supplemented  the  Browning  Man, 
"and  I  am  under  the  influence  of  opium 
this  very  moment." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  the  Girl. 
"You  look  as  if  you  were  under  the  in- 
fluence of  almost  anything.  Still  I 
suppose  you  're  not  quite  a  De  Quincey 
yet.  Is  that  all?" 

"No;  I  am  an  unworthy  wretch," 
said  the  Browning  Man  from  his  heart. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  Girl  airily, 
"what  difference  does  that  make?  You 
are  in  love  with  each  other,  and  she  is 
v,  poet." 


At  this  juncture  the  Usual  Brother 
came  flying  down  the  terraces  and  took 
frank  possession  of  the  Girl  Philistine. 
When  he  had  carried  her  off,  the  Brown- 
ing Man  flung  himself  down  in  the  ilex 
shadows,  with  hidden  face.  Sometimes 
he  also  thought  the  Girl  Philistine  mi- 
raculously sensible,  and  then  again  he 
did  n't  know.  Though  he  lay  so  still, 
he  could  not  have  been  more  cruelly  torn 
two  ways  had  he  been  tied  between  wild 
horses.  It  was  dusk  before  he  arose  and 
went  down  to  the  river.  At  first  he 
rowed  to  get  away  from  his  thoughts; 
but  the  glory  of  creating  a  precedent 
was  denied  him,  so  he  swung  his  boat 
around,  and  went  drifting  back  in  their 
company.  At  intervals  he  looked  down 
at  the  darkly  flowing  river  and  mused 
idly  of  the  one  plank  dividing  him  from 
forgetfulness. 

It  was  dark  when  he  landed  beneath 
the  Castle  and  began  to  climb  the  ter- 
races. He  did  not  know  why  he  did  so 
until  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  white 
through  the  rose  trees.  In  a  moment  he 
was  standing  by  the  Imaginative  Girl, 
looking  down  at  her  face  in  the  waver- 
ing light  of  a  young  moon.  There  were 
pink  roses  on  her  breast,  and  the  odors 
of  them  drugged  his  doubting  to  rest. 
With  one  sure  movement  he  drew  her 
nearer. 

"Which  is  better  —  to  starve  a  wo- 
man's lips,  or  her  soul?  "  he  said,  trem- 
bling. "Tell  me,  you  who  know  all 
things." 

He  spoke  somewhat  figuratively,  but 
the  Imaginative  Girl  understood.  Her 
head  drooped  toward  him,  and  when  he 
bent  his  own  and  kissed  her  on  the  eyes 
and  the  lips  she  did  not  say  a  word. 
She  had  forgotten  all  about  her  princi- 
ples. 

Fanny  Kenible  Johnson. 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


821 


A  LETTER  FROM  BRAZIL. 


To  those  of  us  who  have  read  the  in- 
ternational gossip  of  the  last  few  months 
in  regard  to  the  Monroe  Doctrine  and 
its  bearing  upon  real  or  supposed  South 
American  encroachments,  notably  the 
German  supremacy  in  southern  Brazil, 
a  reasonably  clear  conclusion  is  possible 
as  to  the  relations  between  Europe  and 
the  United  States  in  apposition  with  the 
South  American  republics.  But  to  the 
same  readers  it  would  prove  strangely 
difficult  to  define  our  direct  relations 
with  South  America  in  general  or  with 
any  particular  state. 

There  is  a  widespread  idea  among  us 
that  South  America  is  composed  of  a 
conglomeration  of  republics  perpetually 
in  revolution ;  and  that,  virtually,  is  the 
extent  of  information  on  the  subject  pos- 
sessed by  many  who  deem  themselves 
proportionately  informed  on  prevailing 
conditions  in  the  world.  The  United 
States  of  Brazil  comprise  a  territory 
more  or  less  equal  to  that  of  our  forty- 
five  states,  and  have  an  estimated  popu- 
lation of  18,000,000;  but  how  many 
of  our  college  students  can  tell,  offhand, 
what  is  the  language  of  this  vast  re- 
public ? 

Such  ignorance  is,  in  itself,  to  be  de- 
plored, but  when  we  consider  its  prac- 
tical prejudice  to  our  commercial  expan- 
sion, it  is  to  be  doubly  censured.  We 
read  the  latest  news  of  successful  Amer- 
ican invasion  of  European  markets  with 
avidity,  and  feel  elated  with  the  storm- 
ing of  some  commercial  fortress,  but 
do  we  realize  that  the  pioneers  in  the 
opening  of  the  tremendous  territory  to 
the  south  are  not  Americans  ?  We  seem 
to  forget  that  our  fabulous  fortunes  had 
their  birth  in  the  exploration  of  natural 
resources  and  the  conditions  dependent 
upon  the  opening  of  a  rich  country,  and 
not  in  gambling  on  a  fluctuating  ex- 
change or  in  the  forcing  of  a  market. 
To  dig  mines,  strike  oil,  build  railways, 


and  raise  wheat  and  cattle  have  been 
the  mighty  girders  in  America's  unique 
fortune  building ;  and  it  is  to  be  regret- 
ted that  Brazil's  great  field  for  parallel 
enterprise  is  either  going  begging,  or  to 
German,  French,  and  English  capital- 
ists. One  might  judge  that  the  lack  of 
interest  among  us  in  regard  to  this  giant 
among  countries  is  a  proof  of  its  lack 
of  advantages  to  American  enterprise, 
but  I  would  rather  say  that  this  igno- 
rance is  the  key  to  our  otherwise  inex- 
plicable indifference. 

In  giving  this  short  sketch  of  the 
present  political,  economic,  and  social 
status  of  Brazil,  the  largest  of  the  Latin 
republics,  I  hope  to  let  fall  the  first 
drop  on  the  rock  of  indifference,  and,  by 
showing  the  readers  of  the  Atlantic  the 
problems  and  hopes  of  intelligent  men 
of  Brazil,  to  give  them  a  basis  upon 
which  to  found  a  just  estimate  of  that 
country  and  its  probable  future,  its  place 
in  the  world,  and  its  vital  importance  in 
our  scheme  of  commercial  expansion. 

It  is  an  injustice  to  place  Brazil  in 
the  same  category  with  the  see-sawing 
governments  of  those  South  American 
republics  which  have  never  lawfully 
elected  two  successive  chief  executives. 
Since  the  transformation  from  empire 
to  republic  in  1889,  the  government  has 
successfully  put  down  rebellion  on  a 
large  scale,  and  has  held  its  own  both  at 
home  and  abroad,  in  the  latter  field  by 
arbitration.  This  does  not  mean  that 
the  government  has  been  a  strong  one, 
but  merely  that  the  conservative  ele- 
ment has  held  down  the  balance. 

If  one  seeks  the  reason  that  the  ship 
of  state  has  sailed  so  untroubled  a  course, 
it  can  be  traced  to  the  indolence,  indif- 
ference, or  ignorance  of  the  mass  of 
voters.  The  federal  political  body  is  di- 
vided into  two  parts  —  the  Government 
and  the  Opposition.  The  former  com- 
prises all  who  are  office  holders;  the 


822 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


latter,  all  who  are  not.  If  a  man  is  put 
out  of  office  he  joins  the  opposition,  and 
vice  versa.  Each  withdrawing  execu- 
tive proposes  and  practically  elects  the 
government  candidate  to  follow  him, 
and  the  reform  platforms  which  they 
invariably  advance  to  gain  the  popular 
favor  give  the  government  a  Tammany 
aspect. 

This  condition  of  affairs  is  unaccount- 
able to  any  one  who  has  in  mind  an 
American  presidential  election  carried 
on  before  the  eyes  of  an  enthusiastic  and 
excited  people.  Here  the  people  take 
small,  if  any,  part  in  the  election  which 
is  consequently  made  to  order  by  local 
political  bosses.  In  a  city  numbering 
200,000  inhabitants,  during  the  late 
presidential  election,  I  made  it  a  point 
to  ask  each  gentleman  with  whom  I  had 
occasion  to  speak  whether  he  had  voted. 
Not  one  answered  in  the  affirmative,  all 
giving  as  an  excuse  that  the  election  was 
"made  with  a  pen-point."  To  the  on- 
looker it  was  especially  evident  that  the 
people  do  not  vote,  but  regard  the  whole 
matter  with  an  apathy  hard  to  under- 
stand in  a  republic.  However,  this 
phase  of  Brazilian  politics  has  not  been 
unnoticed  by  prominent  men,  and  at  the 
close  of  Mr.  Campos  Salles'  term  as 
chief  executive  it  is  pleasant  to  note 
that  the  electoral  reform  bill  for  which 
he  asked  in  his  inauguration  message  is 
now  before  the  Senate  in  a  perfected 
form  and  is  about  to  become  a  law. 
This  bill  subjects  the  vote  neglecter  to 
a  fine,  and  insures,  to  a  great  degree, 
the  detection  of  false  balloting. 

Whether  this  measure  will  reach  the 
root  of  the  trouble  and  force  interest  in 
presidential  affairs  remains  to  be  seen, 
but  it  at  least  shows  an  honorable  desire 
on  the  part  of  the  government  to  do  away 
with  the  farce  of  the  present  system,  and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  at  the  end  of  the 
coming  term  the  election  will  prove  a 
contrast  to  that  of  this  year  in  which 
the  government  candidate,  Mr.  Rod- 
rigues  Alves,  of  the  state  of  S.  Paulo, 
was  elected  as  soon  as  nominated. 


In  his  recent  message,  consequent 
upon  the  election  of  the  new  candidate, 
Mr.  Campos  Salles  reviewed  his  admin- 
istration of  the  last  four  years,  and  com- 
pared the  present  state  of  the  country 
with  its  condition  at  the  time  of  his  in- 
augural address  in  which  he  had  declared 
the  deplorable  condition  of  the  coun- 
try's finances,  the  problem  against  which 
he  would  direct  all  his  energies.  In  his 
comparison  Mr.  Campos  Salles  showed 
that  he  has  tried  to  better  conditions  in 
general  in  spite  of  the  all-absorbing  na- 
ture of  the  financial  problem,  and  that 
the  latter,  though  far  from  solved,  is  on 
the  high  road  to  solution  if  the  policy 
of  the  present  government  is  carried  to 
its  appointed  end.  He  called  the  coun- 
try's attention  to  the  new  fortifications 
of  the  harbors  of  Rio  and  Santos,  which 
place  the  former  among  the  most  strong- 
ly defended  of  the  world's  ports,  and  to 
the  project  now  before  the  Senate  for  so 
fortifying  the  port  of  Obidos  as  to  make 
its  guns  an  invulnerable  barrier  to  the 
passage  of  unfriendly  vessels  into  the 
Amazon.  This  latter  measure  is  one  of 
unusual  interest  at  the  present  moment, 
when  Brazil,  in  closing  the  great  river 
to  Bolivian  traffic,  is  showing  that  she 
does  not  consider  the  regulation  of  1867 
binding,  which  opened  the  Amazon  to 
international  merchant  marine,  when 
Brazilian  interests  are  involved. 

Mr.  Campos  Salles'  attention,  while 
turned  toward  the  necessity  of  strength- 
ening Brazil's  principal  ports,  was  not 
blind  to  the  needs  of  the  army  and  in- 
stituted several  reforms.  Probably  the 
most  remarkable  is  the  utilizing  of  the 
army's  engineers  and  soldiers  in  build- 
ing the  government  strategic  railway  in 
the  state  of  Parand  and  in  establishing 
three  new  telegraph  lines.  Both  rail- 
way and  telegraph  lines  are  being  insti- 
tuted with  the  object  of  facilitating 
communication  with  the  frontier.  It 
should  also  be  mentioned  that  the  gov- 
ernment has  made  an  arrangement  with 
one  of  the  national  coast  steamship  lines 
to  carry  on  each  of  its  boats  two  lieu- 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


823 


tenants  of  the  Brazilian  navy.  These 
lieutenants  are  forced  to  keep  a  minute 
diary  and  report  fully  on  their  observa- 
tions of  the  coast. 

The  financial  question,  however,  was 
the  paramount  topic  of  the  message,  and 
the  President  summed  up  the  govern- 
ment's policy  and  its  results  in  such  a 
way  as  to  throw  the  brightest  light  pos- 
sible upon  a  still  discouraging  monetary 
situation.  Mr.  Campos  Salles  com- 
menced his  term  of  office  just  after  the 
celebration  of  the  contract  of  July  15, 
1898,  between  Brazil  and  the  Roths- 
childs, who,  for  a  long  time,  have  been 
the  country's  creditors,  which  gave  ori- 
gin to  the  present  funding  loan  of  ten 
million  pounds  sterling. 

This  contract  is  of  especial  inter- 
est because  one  of  its  clauses  has  deter- 
mined the  government  monetary  policy 
throughout  the  last  four  years.  At  the 
time  of  the  contract  Brazilian  paper  was 
at  a  depreciation  of  73.37  per  cent,  and 
the  inconvertible  paper  in  circulation, 
calculated  at  par,  amounted  to  $430,- 
447,079.52.  Back  of  this  there  was  ab- 
solutely no  gold,  and  naturally  the  cap- 
italists sought  some  means  of  insuring 
the  government's  ability  to  meet  gold 
obligations.  Under  the  old  regime, 
when  the  government  had  to  meet  a  gold 
payment  it  went  into  the  market,  already 
rarefied  by  the  merchants  having  to  meet 
drafts  with  gold,  and  bought  against  the 
trade.  The  fallacy  of  such  a  policy  was 
the  first  thing  that  drew  the  attention  of 
the  creditors,  who,  in  combination  with 
the  representatives  of  the  government, 
decided  to  insert  in  the  contract  a  clause 
to  the  following  effect.  The  govern- 
ment should  be  allowed  to  defer  interest 
payments  on  the  ten  million  pounds  ster- 
ling loan  for  a  term  of  three  years  from 
date,  so  lessening  the  drain  on  gold  to 
the  profit  of  commerce.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  creditors,  still  applying  the 
economic  axiom  of  supply  and  demand, 
required  of  the  government  the  redemp- 
tion of  an  equal  amount  of  the  incon- 
vertible paper  in  circulation.  This 


course  was  counted  upon  to  force  up  the 
value  of  paper,  and  so  put  the  govern- 
ment in  a  position  to  meet  the  accumu- 
lated interests  at  the  end  of  the  three 
years'  grace.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
recognized  that  this  measure  would 
bring  but  temporary  relief,  while  the 
desideratum  of  both  government  and 
creditors  was  to  place  the  country's 
monetary  system  on  a  metal  basis,  and, 
by  renewing  specie  payment,  do  away 
with  the  parasitical  abuses  which  have 
well  -  nigh  absorbed  legitimate  com- 
merce. 

The  idea  of  redeeming  paper  in  suffi- 
cient amount  to  renew  specie  payments 
and  of  founding  a  gold  reserve  fund  had 
figured  in  the  programmes  of  the  two 
preceding  governments,  but  the  means 
in  their  power  were  completely  inade- 
quate and  their  efforts  without  result. 
The  ten  million  pounds  loan  put  in  the 
hands  of  the  government  the  means  of 
at  least  making  great  advances  toward 
this  financial  goal,  and  by  reason  of  this 
contract  the  government  has,  at  the  pre- 
sent writing,  redeemed  over  one  seventh 
of  the  whole  amount  of  paper  in  circu- 
lation at  the  time  of  the  signing  of  the 
agreement,  and  has  actually  deposited 
in  London  a  million  and  a  half  sterling 
as  a  guarantee  fund.  This  latter  ac- 
complishment was  the  result  of  drastic 
measures  which  brought  down  upon  the 
government  the  indignation  of  import- 
ers and  taxpayers  and  a  great  hue  and 
cry  from  the  opposition. 

Some  of  the  means  used  to  raise  the 
funds  were  bitterly  attacked,  notably 
the  requisition  of  a  percentage  of  cus- 
tom dues  to  be  paid  in  gold.  This  per- 
centage at  first  was  ten,  then  fifteen, 
and  now  has  reached  twenty-five.  Some 
critics  say  of  this  measure  that  it  is  an 
increasing  burden  which  will  kill  com- 
merce. However,  it  takes  but  little 
thought  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  the 
twenty-five  per  cent  of  to-day  is  really 
no  more  than  the  ten  original,  as  the  in- 
crease has  been  in  just  proportion  to  the 
steady  appreciation  of  the  nation's  pa- 


824 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


per.  As  has  already  been  mentioned, 
paper  four  years  ago  was  at  a  deprecia- 
tion of  73.37  per  cent,  but  owing  to  the 
very  policy  against  which  the  merchants 
have  been  complaining,  paper  now  is  at 
a  depreciation  of  only  55.55  per  cent. 
Consequently  the  merchant  who  pays 
twenty-five  per  cent,  in  gold,  of  his  reg- 
ular duty  charges,  as  opposed  to  the  ori- 
ginal ten,  is  paying  his  debts  abroad  with 
four  fifths  of  the  money  he  would  have 
needed  after  the  greater  depreciation. 

Another  thing  that  caused  a  great 
deal  of  unreasonable  criticism  was  the 
policy  adopted  in  regard  to  railways,  to 
which  had  been  granted  a  government 
guarantee  of  seven  per  cent  on  capital 
invested.  In  1852,  with  a  view  to  en- 
couraging foreign  capital  and  to  open- 
ing up  the  country,  the  government  of- 
fered to  guarantee  earnings  of  seven  per 
cent,  for  ninety  years,  on  capital  invest- 
ed in  railways,  thinking  that  they  would 
soon  prove  self-supporting.  However, 
from  among  seven  or  eight  which  took 
advantage  of  this  offer,  only  one  has  re- 
nounced the  guarantee.  To  the  others 
the  government  has  been  forced  to  pay, 
year  after  year,  part  and  often  the 
whole  of  the  seven  per  cent  interest 
guaranteed,  and  in  so  doing  has  sunk  a 
sum  far  out  of  proportion  to  the  benefit 
the  roads  have  been  to  the  country. 

The  present  administration  saw  the 
necessity  of  stopping  this  flow  of  the 
country's  money  into  a  pit  with  no  vis- 
ible bottom ;  for  even  at  the  end  of  their 
respective  interest-drawing  terms,  the 
railways  would  not  revert  to  the  govern- 
ment. The  interest  to  be  paid  under 
the  conditions  existing  would,  in  the 
end,  have  amounted  to  over  fifteen  mil- 
lion pounds  sterling,  and  the  state,  after 
this  enormous  expenditure,  would  have 
been  left  with  nothing  to  show  for  its 
money.  So,  with  the  authorization  of 
Congress,  the  government  started  to  buy 
in  all  railways  holding  guarantees.  It 
was  a  great  undertaking,  and  the  gen- 
tleman chosen  as  the  nation's  agent  was 
Mr.  Jos£  Carlos  Rodrigues,  editor  of  the 


largest  daily  in  South  America,  and, 
by  his  knowledge  of  English  and  wide 
connections,  eminently  adapted  for  the 
work. 

At  the  cost  of  increasing  the  national 
debt  two  million  pounds  the  govern- 
ment now  finds  itself  in  possession  of 
1970  kilometers  of  railroad  and  the 
accompanying  rolling  stock.  It  is  es- 
timated that  half  the  bonds  issued  to 
make  the  purchase  will  be  redeemed  in 
ten  years'  time  with  the  proceeds  of  the 
amortization  fund  established,  and  that 
the  other  half  will  soon  after  be  re- 
deemed through  the  earnings  of  the 
roads,  several  of  which  have  already 
been  leased .  That  the  investment  may 
prove  a  white  elephant  on  the  hands  of 
the  government  is  quite  possible,  but  it 
is  undeniable  that  the  load  thrown  off 
was  incomparably  larger. 

Two  important  institutions  estab- 
lished by  the  present  administration 
have  already  justified  the  labor  they  in- 
curred, and  have  proved  a  boon  to  those 
who  would  study  the  economic  condi- 
tions of  the  country.  I  refer  to  the 
adoption  of  consular  invoices,  such  as 
have  been  in  use  in  the  United  States 
for  some  years,  and  to  the  establishment 
of  a  statistical  department.  This  de- 
partment, organized  but  a  few  months 
ago,  has  already  published  voluminous 
data  of  the  commercial  movement  of  the 
country,  and  has  put  within  the  reach  of 
all  who  are  interested  a  means  of  ascer- 
taining the  exact  standing  of  the  coun- 
try among  the  markets  of  the  world. 

Economic  conditions  are,  more  or 
less,  at  a  standstill.  Business  is  suffer- 
ing under  the  burden  of  extreme  taxa- 
tion and  fluctuating  money  values.  Fail- 
ures among  banks  have  been  most  gen- 
eral, with  the  exception  of  the  foreign 
anomalies,  which  under  the  name  of  bank 
have  gambled  on  exchange,  and  being, 
as  it  were,  the  pulse  of  the  monetary 
system,  far  from  failing,  have  declared 
for  the  past  fiscal  year  dividends  of  four- 
teen and  twenty  per  cent !  These  con- 
ditions, linked  with  the  financial  crisis 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


825 


through  which  the  government  is  pass- 
ing, have  seriously  interrupted  the  flow 
of  immigration  and  the  progress  of  in- 
dustries. A  general  lack  of  confidence 
in  the  banks  prevents  free  circulation  of 
money,  and  foreign  capital  is  shy  of  pla- 
cing itself  under  so  heavy  a  tax  system. 

However,  one  important  transference 
is  being  negotiated  by  German  capital 
at  the  date  of  writing.  It  is  almost 
certain  that  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  privileged  of  the  coastwise  nation- 
al steamship  lines  will  shortly  change 
hands,  and,  under  German  management, 
will  be  reorganized  and  improved.  Only 
national  steamers  and  vessels  can  enter 
the  coastwise  trade,  and  all  must  be 
commanded  by  Brazilian  captains.  The 
first  of  these  clauses  is  of  great  advan- 
tage to  the  coming  proprietors,  and  the 
second  clause  will  present  no  difficulty, 
even  if  the  company  desires  all  German 
captains,  as  naturalization  in  Brazil  is 
a  most  simple  and  abbreviated  process. 

A  Scotch  engineer  of  the  port,  who 
has  been  in  the  employ  of  this  steamship 
line  for  many  years,  has  estimated  that 
if  the  Germans  take  the  line  at  the  fig- 
ure quoted  by  the  present  owners,  and 
put  it  under  German  management,  it 
will  pay  for  itself  in  seven  years.  And 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  investment 
would  bring  high  dividends  to  stock- 
holders, and  the  reorganized  line  give  a 
service  incomparably  more  satisfactory 
to  its  patrons.  At  first  sight  it  seems 
that  the  change  would  bring  about  un- 
mixed blessing,  yet  in  reality  it  is  apt 
to  prove  but  a  mesh  in  a  net  of  circum- 
stances destined  at  some  future  time  to 
involve  Brazilian  policy. 

Before  justifying  this  suspicion  it 
may  be  well  to  give  a  brief  re'sumd  of 
external  relations  and  a  general  idea  of 
the  atmosphere  which  is  influencing  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  which-  has  given  rise  to 
surprising  suspicions  in  regard  to  the 
United  States.  Brazil  has  an  enormous 
territory  to  protect,  and  she  is  very  much 
alive  to  its  protection ;  not  through  war- 
like demonstrations,  —  for  her  army  and 


navy  could  not  sustain  such  a  course,  — 
but  through  judicious  arbitration.  By 
this  means  the  encroachments  of  the 
Argentine  Republic  on  the  south,  and  of 
French  Guiana  on  the  north,  have  been 
brilliantly  repelled.  The  litigation  over 
the  boundary  between  British  Guiana  is 
fast  coming  to  an  end  in  the  arbitration 
court  over  which  the  King  of  Italy  is 
now  presiding. 

These  encroachments  have  so  far 
proved  undisguised  attempts  to  grab 
land,  and  Brazil,  jealous  of  her  bounda- 
ries, and  conscious  of  the  weakness  of  her 
navy  and  army  as  compared  with  those 
of  Europe,  has  come  to  look  on  all  com- 
ers with  distrust.  A  few  years  ago  the 
United  States  would  have  been  made 
the  exception,  but  since  the  war  with 
Spain,  Brazilians  have  been  saying  that 
the  Anglo-Saxon  blood  has  broken  out 
in  the  trait  for  land-grabbing  which  has 
made  England  the  most  unpopular  coun- 
try in  the  world,  and  that  the  Philip- 
pines, Porto  Rico,  and  Cuba,  the  last 
left  on  the  limb  to  ripen,  are  the  first 
fruits  to  be  gathered  by  the  new  policy. 
The  "humane  war  "  aspect,  which  so 
aroused  enthusiasm  in  our  own  country, 
has  been  regarded  here  with  more  than 
skepticism.  Texas  and  its  history  are 
fresher  in  the  minds  of  Brazilians  than 
in  those  of  many  Americans. 

At  the  founding  of  the  republic,  the 
Constitution  and  form  of  government  of 
the  United  States  offered  a  model  which 
was  religiously  followed;  but  lately  it 
has  been  very  evident  that  there  is  a 
growing  aversion  on  the  part  of  many 
intelligent  men  toward  American  insti- 
tutions and  methods.  This  may  be 
merely  the  natural  reaction,  —  the  re- 
turn of  the  pendulum,  —  or  it  may  have 
sprung  from  a  feeling,  among  those  that 
have  the  nation's  welfare  most  at  heart, 
that  the  country  must  learn  now  that  it 
should  not  look  for,  nor  de"pend  upon, 
external  help  in  the  working  out  of  its 
destiny.  The  Monroe  Doctrine  meets 
commonly  with  this  interpretation, 
"America  for  the  Americans  (of  the 


826 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


North), "  a  phrase  which  dates  only  from 
the  year  of  the  war  with  Spain,  and 
many  other  indications  go  to  show  that, 
however  altruistic  that  struggle  may 
have  appeared  to  our  eyes,  it  presented 
no  such  phase  to  the  Latin  mind.  The 
press  has  fostered  this  tendency  to  dis- 
like to  a  considerable  extent.  To  a 
prominent  editor  of  mixed  blood  is  at- 
tributed this  phrase,  "I  am  enough  of 
a  negro  to  hate  the  United  States." 

Out  of  this  general  atmosphere  sprang 
what  has  come  to  be  known  as  the  "Acre 
Question."  A  definition  of  Acre  may 
be  of  help  to  many  readers  in  properly 
understanding  the  situation.  Acre  is 
a  region  between  Brazil  and  Bolivia 
which  has  been  in  litigation  during  the 
political  life  of  the  two  countries.  The 
final  demarcation  depends  on  the  loca- 
tion of  the  true  source  of  the  river  Ja- 
vary,  which  has  been  placed  by  three 
expeditions  in  three  different  latitudes. 
A  protocol  of  1895  adopted  the  decision 
reached  by  the  joint  expedition  of  1874, 
and  although  Congress  had  not  made  the 
protocol  law,  the  question  was  considered 
as  settled  definitely.  But  three  years 
ago  the  present  administration  was  con- 
vinced by  the  report  of  Mr.  Cunha 
Gomes  that  by  this  settlement  Brazil 
lost  735  square  miles  of  her  territory, 
and  on  October  30,  1899,  the  protocol 
of  1895  was  annulled,  and  the  Cunha 
Gomes  line  provisionally  accepted. 

The  whole  of  the  disputed  territory 
is  settled  by  Brazilians,  and  when,  about 
eighteen  months  ago,  the  "Republic  of 
Acre "  suddenly  announced  itself,  the 
Bolivian  government  called  on  Brazil  for 
help  in  restraining  the  secession.  Bra- 
zil failed  to  see  that  it  was  any  of  her 
affair,  and  left  Bolivia  to  handle  the  sit- 
uation, which  she  did  with  considerable 
difficulty  and  expense,  and,  perhaps,  to 
the  chagrin  of  those  Brazilian  statesmen 
who  would  have  looked  upon  the  success- 
ful revolt  of  Acre,  and  consequent  an- 
nexation to  Brazil,  as  the  solution  par 
excellence  of  the  whole  problem. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  Amer- 


ican Syndicate  pushed  in  and  further 
agitated  the  troubled  international  rela- 
tions. For  Bolivia  there  was  only  one 
point  of  view  from  which  to  regard  the 
offer  of  the  Syndicate  to  lease  for  sixty 
years  a  vast  area  that  would  include 
the  troublesome  district  of  Acre.  No 
land-poor  proprietor  could  jump  more 
eagerly  at  an  offer.  The  terms,  briefly 
stated,  were  as  follows :  — 

The  Company  to  receive  from  Bolivia 
rights  of  possession,  administration, 
sale  and  purchase,  colonization,  planta- 
tion, establishing  of  industrial  and  ag- 
ricultural enterprises,  exploiting  gum 
(rubber),  and  minerals,  and  any  other 
branch  of  industry  that  may  promise 
advantages  in  the  future.  The  Com- 
pany to  raise  a  capital  o'f  five  hundred 
thousand  pounds,  of  which  Bolivia  will 
subscribe  one  hundred  thousand.  Bo' 
livia  to  grant  the  Company  right  to  buy 
part  or  all  of  the  territory  of  Acre  in 
lots  or  mass,  during  five  years,  with  the 
exception  of  lands  lawfully  occupied  by 
foreigners  whose  rights  must  be  con- 
tinued and  respected.  Lands  to  be  sold 
at  ten  centavos  per  hectare.  The  Com- 
pany to  have  rights  of  peaceful  naviga- 
tion on  all  rivers  and  navigable  waters  in 
the  territory  of  Acre,  —  not,  however, 
to  the  exclusion  of  foreign  vessels  al- 
ready trading  in  the  region,  —  and  of 
granting  concessions  for  navigation.  In 
case  the  Company  takes  upon  itself  the 
development  of  the  rubber  and  mining 
industries,  to  pay  the  Bolivian  govern- 
ment the  duties  established  by  law  and 
a  certain  percentage  of  net  receipts,  — 
sixty  per  cent.  The  Company  to  have 
the  right  to  construct,  use,  exploit, 
build,  and  open  highways,  railways,  tele- 
graphs, and  gasometers ;  to  rent  to  pri- 
vate persons  and  levy  lawful  taxes,  the 
government  merely  acting  with  the 
Company  in  determining  freight  and 
passenger  tariffs,  etc.  Bolivia  to  cede 
to  the  Company  its  rights  of  levying 
taxes  and  the  power  necessary  to  this 
end,  also  all  fiscal  properties  destined 
for  government  functions.  The  Com- 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


827 


pany  to  have  the  character  of  a  fiscal  ad- 
ministration with  full  liberty  to  act. 
No  monopolies  to  be  established.  All 
disputes  to  be  settled  by  arbitration. 
One  month  after  the  approbation  of  this 
contract  by  the  Bolivian  Congress,  the 
Company  was  to  deposit  with  the  Bo- 
livian minister  in  London  the  sum  of  five 
thousand  pounds,  as  guarantee  of  good 
faith. 

In  the  memorandum  attached  to  the 
body  of  the  contract  are  found  the  fol- 
lowing interesting  notes :  The  Company 
to  maintain  all  necessary  public  institu- 
tions at  its  own  expense,  to  provide  its 
own  fiscalization  for  taxing  purposes,  and 
to  provide  and  maintain  a  suitable  po- 
lice force,  schools,  hospitals,  and  bar- 
racks. Within  a  year  to  make  surveys 
for  railroads  and  canals  connecting  sur- 
rounding districts  with  that  of  Acre. 
The  expenses  incurred  in  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  Bolivian  inspector,  judges, 
etc.,  and  in  transactions  with  the  Bra- 
zilian Border  Commission,  and,  if 
thought  necessary  by  the  government, 
in  maintaining  an  armed  force  for  the 
conservation  of  river  rights  and  general 
order,  or  for  any  other  purpose,  to  be 
charged  against  the  sixty  per  cent  of 
the  net  proceeds  due  the  Bolivian  gov- 
ernment. 

As  soon  as  this  contract  was  issued 
Brazil  was  invited  to  purchase  stock  to 
the  amount  of  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  But,  from  the  first,  the  ad- 
ministration took  an  aggressive  stand. 
The  contract  did  not  present  any  such 
aspect  to  the  Brazilian  as  to  the  Boli- 
vian government,  and  in  his  last  message 
Mr.  Campos  Salles  gives  in  a  nutshell 
the  Brazilian  point  of  view  as  stated  in 
a  diplomatic  note  dated  April  14,  1902, 
addressed  to  the  Bolivian  minister.  The 
subject  is  presented  purged  of  the  exag- 
geration and  jingoism  with  which  the 
people  and  many  congressional  repre- 
sentatives have  so  diluted  public  opinion 
as  to  make  Brazil's  position  ridiculous 
if  rated  at  the  popular  estimation.  The 
note  in  question  reads  as  follows :  "The 


leasing  of  the  territory  of  Acre,  still  an 
object  of  contention  with  another  Amer- 
ican nation,  and  dependent  in  all  its  re- 
lations upon  Brazil,  does  not  affect  Bo- 
livian economic  interests  alone. 

"  The  Bolivian  government,  confiding 
to  the  Company  the  use  of  naval  and 
military  forces,  attributes  of  real  and 
effective  sovereignty,  in  reality  trans- 
fers a  part  of  its  sovereign  rights,  so 
that  in  cases  of  abuses  the  Brazilian 
government  would  come  face  to  face 
with  authorities  which  it  cannot  and 
will  not  recognize." 

Close  upon  this  note  came  the  action 
of  the  Brazilian  government  rescinding 
the  treaty  of  friendship,  commerce,  and 
navigation  entered  upon  with  Bolivia  in 
1896,  and  the  consequent  suspension  of 
traffic.  It  was  at  this  stage  of  affairs 
that  alarmists  began  to  drag  the  United 
States  government  into  the  question; 
and  the  notion  that  Uncle  Sam  intends 
to  use  the  Syndicate  as  a  wedge  has 
spread  with  surprising  rapidity.  At 
first  it  is  difficult  to  see  what  interest 
in  the  matter  can  be  attributed  to  the 
United  States  government,  but  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  weaker  country 
is  always  suspicious  of  the  stronger,  that 
history  shows  more  than  one  case  of  rob- 
bery in  the  name  of  "protecting  citi- 
zens' interests, "  that  in  this  special  case 
a  Roosevelt  is  a  member  of  the  Syndi- 
cate, and,  last  but  not  least,  that  Ger- 
many, with  the  United  States'  consent, 
is  just  now  terrorizing,  perhaps  with 
justice,  a  South  American  republic. 
Also  it  is  true  that  such  concessions, 
even  when  contracted  in  perfect  good 
faith,  often  lead  to  disputes  that  in  turn 
lead  to  intervention  and  demonstration 
of  force  which  neither  contracting  party 
could  have  foreseen. 

These  facts,  set  rolling  only  a  few 
months  ago  by  two  or  three  Rio  papers, 
have  steadily  gained  impetus  and  much 
superfluous  matter  in  the  way  of  rumors 
grotesque  and  possible,  but  hardly  prob- 
able. So  we  have  several  telegrams  from 
the  Argentine  Republic  paying  that 


828 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


General  Pando,  President  of  Bolivia, 
after  the  irrevocable  protest  openly  pre- 
sented by  Brazil,  edited  a  proclamation 
to  all  Bolivians  stating  that  the  Ameri- 
can government  was  back  of  the  Ameri- 
can Syndicate. 

With  such  incentive  excitement  was 
already  running  high  when  the  South 
Atlantic  squadron,  consisting  of  the 
first-class  battleship  Iowa  and  the  cruis- 
er Atlanta,  came  up  the  coast,  after  a 
seven  months'  stay  in  Montevideo,  as 
had  long  been  arranged  by  programme. 
The  Atlanta  put  into  Rio,  but  the  Iowa, 
whose  crew  is  less  acclimated,  passed  Rio 
on  account  of  the  yellow  fever  epidemic, 
and  went  to  Bahia,  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant and  largest  of  Brazil's  seaports. 
No  sooner  had  the  great  ship  appeared 
in  the  bay  than  the  report  began  to 
spread  that  there  was  an  American  man- 
of-war  in  every  port  of  Brazil. 

The  papers  in  Rio  dedicated  most  of 
their  cartoon  space  to  President  Roose- 
velt with  his  "tub  of  a  battleship ;  "  and 
one  would  have  supposed  from  the  street 
talk  that  transports  were  already  in  the 
Amazon  loaded  with  American  troops » 
Feeling  rose  so  high  that  a  few  days  be- 
fore the  departure  of  the  Iowa  fifteen 
or  twenty  young  ladies  of  different  fam- 
ilies, who  the  night  before  had  assured 
the  officers  who  invited  them  that  they 
would  be  present  at  an  informal  dance, 
not  only  stayed  away,  but  failed  to  send 
any  intimation  of  their  change  of  mind. 
This,  happening  among  a  people  who 
pride  themselves  on  their  courtesy,  and 
very  probably  not  the  result  of  combi- 
nation, shows  better  than  any  other  in- 
cident that,  however  unfounded,  there 
is  so  general  a  distrust  of  the  United 
States  that  the  people  grasp  eagerly  at 
the  chance  to  make  mountains  of  mole- 
hills. In  Pernambuco,  also  a  principal 
seaport  town,  on  the  8th  of  Septem- 
ber, the  students  and  townspeople  held 
a  meeting  of  protest  against  the  alleged 
intervention  of  the  United  States,  and 
expressed  indignation  at  the  telegrams 
from  Bolivia  to  the  effect  that  President 


Pando  had  declared  that  the  United 
States  had  compelled  Brazil  to  accept 
the  Acre  contract  after  specified  modi- 
fications. 

But  popular  feeling  should  not  be  con- 
founded with  international  relations,  and 
these,  always  cordial  between  Brazil  and 
the  United  States,  have  been  especially 
so  of  late.  The  stay  of  the  Iowa  in 
Bahia  was  marked,  not  so  much  by  the 
almost  childish  suspicions  of  the  city  at 
large,  as  by  the  conspicuous  confidence 
which  the  federal  government  displayed 
in  allowing  the  American  man-of-war 
to  run  ten  miles  up  the  bay  to  the  is- 
lands Frade  and  Mars',  with  leave  to 
land  any  portion  of  the  crew  for  target 
practice. 

The  popular  aversion  is,  perhaps,  as 
was  said  before,  the  inevitable  reaction ; 
and  to  show  that  there  is  no  reason- 
able base  for  such  feeling  against  the 
United  States,  it  is  enough  to  recall  a 
few  facts  in  reference  to  Germany  in 
juxtaposition  with  the  United  States  as 
relating  to  Brazilian  affairs. 

There  are  only  two  American  colo- 
nies in  Brazil  whose  members  can  be 
counted  by  hundreds,  and,  as  a  matter 
of  note,  in  one  of  the  largest  seaports, 
containing  200,000  inhabitants  and 
third  in  size  of  the  cities  of  Brazil,  the 
male  members  of  the  American  colony 
amount  by  actual  count  to  eleven,  and  al- 
most half  of  these  are  naturalized  Jews. 
Yet  this  city  is  one  of  the  loudest  in 
proclaiming  the  "American  danger  "  ! 
On  the  other  hand,  in  the  most  progres- 
sive state  of  Brazil,  the  Germans  are 
estimated  at  160,000;  and  in  two 
wealthy  states  farther  south  there  can 
be  found  villages  and  towns  where  no 
language  but  German  is  current,  and  re- 
gions from  which  the  very  reports  to  the 
federal  government  are  written  and  ac- 
cepted in  German.  These  regions  have 
German  schools  and  clergymen  under 
the  pay  of  the  German  Emperor. 

The  vast  bulk  of  Brazil's  territory 
has  never  come  in  contact  with  Ameri- 
can capital  or  enterprise,  and,  with  the 


A  Letter  from  Brazil. 


829 


exception  of  the  Amazon  in  the  north 
and  the  coffee  belt  in  the  south,  Brazil 
is  practically  an  unexplored  country  to 
our  commerce.  Here  again  the  Germans 
have  made  the  advances,  and  have  in- 
vaded every  centre.  Their  inroads  have 
culminated  in  the  purchase  of  the  coast 
steamship  line,  and  all  its  branches, 
known- as  the  Lloyd  Brazileiro.  It  is 
curious,  in  view  of  these  facts,  that 
Americans  should  arouse  such  popular 
animosity,  while  the  greatly  dispropor- 
tionate and  clotted  German  settlements 
in  the  south  are  looked  upon  with  apathy 
and  indifference. 

I  am  not  endeavoring  to  establish  a 
"German  danger,"  nor  do  I  infer  that 
the  Kaiser  intends  a  seizure  in  southern 
Brazil,  however  much  he  may  realize 
Germany's  vital  need  of  a  great  colony 
into  which  to  pour  and  conserve  the  large 
surplus  of  vitality  which,  for  years,  has 
gone  to  enrich  the  blood  of  many  alien 
peoples.  But  those  who  judge  our 
young  naval  officers  to  be  unreasonably 
hot-headed  in  suspecting  Germany's  mo- 
tives do  not  realize  the  magnitude  of 
the  temptation,  constantly  growing,  un- 
der the  watchful  eyes  of  a  young  and 
ambitious  Emperor. 

Few  people  reflect  that  the  German 
who  is  coming  to  Brazil  to-day  is  not 
the  German  that  so  solidified  the  amal- 
gam of  our  own  race  foundations.  The 
German  of  yesterday  turned  his  back  on 
his  country  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  his 
lack  of  patriotism  was  the  factor  which 
made  him  an  ideal  immigrant ;  but  to- 
day's son  of  United  Germany  is  begin- 
ning to  realize  his  new  responsibilities, 
and  a  pride  in  the  Vaterland  is  awaken- 
ing, which  greatly  lessens  the  emigrant's 
powers  of  assimilation. 

But  there  are  no  dangers  in  Brazil's 
path  that  a  wise  government  cannot 
avoid,  no  struggle  whose  final  outcome 
is  doubtful  if  honor  can  be  remembered 
by  other  governments.  As  far  as  can 
be  judged  the  present  administration 
has  been  reasonably  honest,  and  has 
made  a  laudable  and  sustained  effort  to 


redeem  the  financial  situation.  Men- 
tion should  be  made  here  of  Dr.  Joaquim 
Murtinho,  to  whose  financial  genius  and 
energetic  disregard  of  public  opinion 
and  the  groans  of  taxpayers  many  justly 
attribute  the  results  accomplished  dur- 
ing Mr.  Campos  Salles'  term.  On  Sep- 
tember 2  of  this  year  Dr.  Murtinho  re- 
signed from  the  post  of  Minister  of 
Finance,  which  had  brought  him  many 
enemies,  but  through  which  he  gained  a 
reputation  for  originality  and  persever- 
ance that  may  carry  him  far.  He  may 
be  neither  a  good  nor  a  great  man,  but 
he  knew  how  to  estimate  the  extraordi- 
nary vitality  of  his  country  and  the  im- 
possibility of  bringing  on  general  misery 
by  taxation  in  a  land  where  Nature 
yields  both  warmth  and  food  with  as 
generous  a  hand  as  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden.  His  motto  while  Minister  of 
Finance  might  well  have  been,  "There 
is  no  straw  that  will  break  this  camel's 
back, "  for  he  lived  up  to  it.  It  is  said 
that  every  time  he  saw  a  house  illumi- 
nated for  a  ball  he  prepared  to  levy  a 
new  tax  in  the  morning. 

All  social  questions  in  Brazil  at  pre- 
sent are  thrown  into  the  shade  by  the 
all-pervading  money  crisis.  Labor  or- 
ganizations are  in  their  infancy,  capital 
is  conspicuous  by  its  absence,  and  the 
negro  problem  has  no  place  in  a  land  as 
yet  untouched  by  race  prejudices.  Wo- 
man suffrage  is  unbroached,  and  wo- 
man's position  very  conservative  in  its 
tendencies.  It  is  true  that  women  have, 
to  a  very  limited  extent,  entered  the 
professions  in  general,  but  aside  from  a 
few  doctors,  lawyers,  and  certified  chem- 
ists, the  women  of  the  middle  and  higher 
classes  have  been  ruled  by  custom  and 
prevailing  usage,  and  have  drawn  back 
from  entering  the  ranks  of  the  wage- 
earner.  Brazil  is  a  Roman  Catholic 
country,  whose  men  are  fast  following 
the  lead  of  France  in  casting  aside  the 
church,  but  whose  women  still  look  upon 
the  priest's  word  as  law.  This  was 
shown  very  recently  in  the  defeat  of  the 
bill  for  amending  the  law  against  abso- 


830 


A   Letter  from  Brazil. 


lute  divorce.  Under  the  guidance  of  the 
priests,  thousands  of  women  all  over 
Brazil  organized  a  thorough  and  success- 
ful opposition  based  upon  the  moral  as- 
pects of  the  case. 

The  truth  is  that  Brazil  is  not  ready 
to  cope  with  social  problems.  The  mone- 
tary puzzle  has  for  years  absorbed  the 
attention  of  thinking  men,  but  hard 
times  will  pass,  and  when  the  country 
has  thrown  off  the  financial  yoke,  the 
cry  from  all  sides  must  be,  "Educa- 
tion "  !  Education  for  the  boy,  who  will 
some  day  be  at  the  helm,  —  not  book 
wisdom  and  elocution,  for  these  come  to 
the  Latin  with  his  silver  spoon,  —  but 
a  true  and  practical  sense  of  honor  and 
justice,  a  realization  of  his  responsibil- 
ity to  his  fellow  men,  and  theirs  to  him, 
a  Spartan  determination  to  act  for  the 
good  of  the  whole,  which  will  not  allow 
him  to  shrug  his  shoulders  when  his  fifth 
cousin,  or  his  friend's  fifth  cousin,  slips 
out  rich  from  a  bank  failure  that  has 
impoverished  widows  and  orphans,  or 
promotes  a  great  swindle  against  the 
government.  Education  for  the  girl, 
which  will  teach  her  to  work  out  her 
own  emancipation,  and  to  realize  that 
woman's  destiny  rests  not  so  much  in 
herself  as  in  the  men  her  sons  become. 

Higher  education  will  do  much  to- 
ward untying  many  a  knot  that  has  been 
the  despair  of  a  generation,  and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  North  American  enter- 
prise will  soon  begin  to  push  its  way 
south,  and  that  with  increased  commer- 
cial intercourse  will  come  better  under- 
standing and  a  friendly  intimacy  be- 
tween the  lands  that  have  given  birth 
to  the  inventor  of  the  steamship  and  the 
inventor  of  the  airship,  —  the  republics 
which  hold  the  destiny  of  the  Americas 
in  their  future. 

The  very  conditions  which  proclaim 
Brazil's  need  of  America  are  the  argu- 
ment for  the  advantageous  invasion  of 
Northern  enterprise  and  capital.  Fancy 
a  territory  as  vast  as  that  of  our  states, 
already  with  a  population  of  18,000,- 
000,  possessed  of  only  2000  miles  of 


railways !  Transportation  is  the  great- 
est problem  of  the  day  in  this  country, 
rich,  not  only  in  every  variety  of  vege- 
table product,  but  also  in  its  vast  tracts 
of  grazing  lands,  forests  of  precious 
woods,  and  innumerable  deposits  of  min- 
erals, all  locked  behind  the  barrier  of 
distance. 

Nature  has  blessed  the  country  with 
the  greatest  river  system  in  the  world, 
and  in  the  development  of  an  adapted 
system  of  railways  lies,  not  only  the 
emancipation  of  Brazil,  but  the  estab- 
lishment of  an  enormous  market.  For 
the  work  of  opening  this  country  and 
its  results,  Americans  and  American 
mechanical  manufactures  are  preemi- 
nently adapted.  The  same  problem  has 
been  solved  by  them  once,  and  the  hard 
lessons  of  experience  learned. 

This  point  brings  to  mind  American 
machinery  in  general,  and  it  is  sad  to 
state  that  although  the  'United  States 
produces  the  most  perfected  apparatus 
for  the  manufacture  of  sugar,  such 
American  machines  have  scarcely  in- 
vaded the  large  sugar  centres  of  Brazil, 
and  the  rare  specimens  which  are  found 
scattered,  here  and  there,  through  the 
sugar  belt,  in  many  cases  were  import- 
ed from  Glasgow! 

What  is  true  of  machinery  can  be  ap- 
plied, to  a  great  extent,  to  our  products 
in  general.  The  market  is  ready  and 
open  to  receive  every  description  of 
American  manufacture,  but  most  of  our 
firms  are  working  along  wrong  lines  and 
depending  on  letter-writing  to  place 
their  goods.  The  German  houses,  which 
have  had  much  longer  experience  in  ex- 
port trade,  know  that  a  call  from  a  re- 
presentative is  worth  fifty  letters,  and 
it  is  through  travelers  that  our  houses 
must  open  this  market  of  Portuguese 
America,  which,  once  acquainted  with 
our  goods,  will  be  more  worthy  of  our 
attention  than  any  four  Spanish  Amer- 
ican countries  combined. 

The  cities  of  Brazil  have  hardly  been 
invaded  by  electric  street  railways,  and 
it  is  characteristic  of  our  general  policy 


Women's  Heroes. 


831 


in  regard  to  South  American  affairs  that 
while  a  German  company  was  building 
a  first-class  road  on  this  continent,  our 
contractors,  in  the  face  of  fierce  compe- 
tition, signed  for  the  construction  of  a 
line  in  one  of  the  cities  of  England. 

Finally,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
absolutely  no  American  goods  have  en- 
tered Brazil,  nor  to  seem  to  forget  that 
the  American  Light  and  Power  Com- 
pany of  S.  Paulo  has  made  a  great 


success,  and  that  Mangos  is  an  Ameri- 
canized town,  but  I  wish  to  make  clear 
that,  whatever  the  statistical  tables  of 
commercial  intercourse  may  give  as  the 
figure  of  our  exportation  and  importa- 
tion with  Brazil,  this  trade  is  but  as  a 
drop  in  the  bucket  compared  with  what 
the  United  States  might  draw  from  the 
development  of  this  vast  region,  des- 
tined to  become  greater  than  any  one 
market  of  Europe. 

George  Chamberlain. 


WOMEN'S  HEROES. 


THERE  are  three  great  writers,  gen- 
iuses, who  are  sweepinglyjsevere  in  their 
judgment  of  women.  The  quiet  irony 
of  Euripides  and  the  savage  satire  of 
Juvenal,  which  fairly  eats  into  the  mind 
as  acid  into  steel,  do  not  exceed  in  their 
degree  the  imperturbable,  cold  contempt 
of  Milton.  Indeed,  the  Olympian  dis- 
dain of  the  great  Puritan  holds  in  it  more 
potency,  perhaps,  than  does  the  fine  scorn 
of  the  Greek,  or  the  furious  hatred  of  the 
Latin.  And  though  this  judgment  of 
genius  may  have  been  colored  by  unfor- 
tunate personal  experience,  yet  it  does 
not  take  from  the  fact  that  the  judgment 
stands  as  recorded ;  nor  is  it  less  signifi- 
cant that  all  charges  and  specifications 
brought  against  womankind  by  her  accus- 
ers great  and  small  may  be  summed  up 
in  one  word  —  Inconstancy.  It  is  wo- 
man's ineradicable  inconstancy  which  has 
always  wrought  mischief. 

"  It  is  not  virtue,  wisdom,  valour,  wit, 

Strength,  comeliness  of  shape,  or  amplest  merit, 

That  woman's  love  can  win,  or  long  inherit ; 

But  what  it  is,  hard  is  to  say, 

Harder  to  hit, 

Which  way  soever  men  refer  it "  — 

declares  Milton,  and  he  furthermore  adds 
that  the  defect  lies  as  much  with  woman's 
head  as  with  her  heart,  that  nature,  to 
counterbalance  physical  perfection  in  wo- 


man, has  sent  her  forth  with  "  judgment 
scant "  and  mind  but  half  made  up. 

In  the  writings  of  women,  however, 
—  though  there  are  of  course  no  women 
writers  great  in  any  sense  in  which  these 
geniuses  are  great,  —  condemnation  so 
unqualified  is  never  found.  Men  are 
never  condemned  as  such ;  for  woman's 
judgment  leans  to  mercy's  side.  The 
life  individual,  the  closeness  of  the  af- 
fections which,  as  society  is  now  organ- 
ized, make  the  affections  mean  so  much 
more  to  women  than  to  men,  likewise 
make  women  never  unmindful  of  the 
truth  that  they  are  always  daughters,  if 
not  sisters,  mothers,  and  wives. 

Women  have  been  accused  of  writing 
with  one  eye  on  the  paper  and  the  other 
on  some  individual.  But  if  this  be  true, 
that  individual  is  seldom  flesh  and  blood 
reality,  and  still  seldomer  some  Frank- 
enstein of  experimental  horror.  It  is 
rather  a  lovely  evocation  of  the  fancy,  a 
being  enskyed  and  sainted.  For  it  is  a 
psychological  truth  that  while  personal 
preference  and  experience  widely  differ, 
yet  there  is,  among  women's  heroes,  a 
curious  typical  likeness.  So  that  whether 
women  be  married  or  single,  bond  or 
free  ;  whether  their  experience  of  life  be 
large  or  limited  ;  whether  they  be  of  great 
talents  or  none ;  whether  they  aim  to 


832 


Women's  Heroes. 


depict  men  as  they  are  or  men  as  they 
would  like  men  to  be,  —  this  same  gen- 
eral resemblance  among  women's  heroes 
holds  good. 

Turning  from  the  world  of  Reality 
where  things  are  as  they  are  to  the 
world  of  Romance  where  things  are  as 
they  ought  to  be,  —  accounting  Romance, 
if  one  will,  as  the  compensation  which 
life  sets  over  against  Reality,  —  it  is 
worth  while  to  consider  closely  the  rare 
gallery  of  women's  heroes.  These  gen- 
tlemen may  not  all  be  beautiful,  but  they 
are  all  interesting,  at  least  to  women, 
and  all  have  that  family  likeness  which 
makes  them  so  significant.  And  if  in 
the  Elysian  Fields  of  immortality,  from 
beds  of  amaranth  and  moly,  the  fine 
creations  of  fancy  ask  no  questions,  — 
they  nevertheless  suggest  questions  to  us. 
Are  women's  heroes  representative  ?  If 
so,  do  they  represent  what  women  are, 
or  rather  what  women  desire  ?  Are  wo- 
men's heroes  instinctive  unconscious  re- 
flections of  women  ;  or  are  they  instinc- 
tively and  unconsciously  complementary 
to  women?  Do  they  stand  for  what 
women  are,  or  for  what  women  lack  ? 
In  her  heroes  has  the  creature  feminine 
more  effectively  depicted  herself  than 
any  masculine  hand  —  save  one  —  has 
been  able  to  limn  her.  ?  These  questions 
are  evoked  by  that  essential  similarity 
which  all  these  heroes  wear. 

For,  while  women  themselves  may 
have  ample  wit  and  humor  they  never, 
even  by  a  happy  accident,  bestow  them 
on  their  heroes.  In  novels  by  women, 
when  humor  and  wit  have  any  play  at 
all,  they  are  relegated  to  side  issues,  to 
minor  characters.  George  Eliot  had  a 
vein  of  excellent  humor,  but  she  never 
shares  it  with  her  heroes,  and  she  had 
surely  worked  it  out  before  coming  to 
the  heA)  of  her  last  novel,  Daniel  De- 
ronda.  Mrs.  Poyser  is  a  witty  woman, 
though  her  wit  is  of  the  strenuous,  per- 
sonal kind  which  gives  a  fillip  o'er  the 
head  rather  than  an  illuminative  flash  ; 
but  the  hero,  Adam  Bede,  is  as  ponder- 


ous mentally  as  he  is  physically.  Jane 
Austen,  too,  had  a  choice  humor  and  a 
delicate,  butterfly  wit,  yet  Darcy,  Went- 
worth,  Edmund  —  all  her  men  who  may 
be  accounted  heroes  —  are  as  solemn  as 
Minerva'  s  owl.  Miss  Edgeworth,  with 
her  rare,  far-sighted  sagacity,  though  she 
allows  here  and  there  to  a  secondary 
character  some  humor,  yet  has  no  hero 
who  is  distinctively  humorous  and  witty. 
And  the  plentiful  lack  of  wit  and  humor 
in  the  heroes  of  our  present  woman  writ- 
ers is  a  marked  characteristic  —  to  be 
conveniently  Irish  —  of  these  sober-mind- 
ed gentlemen. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  women  do  not 
allow  wit  and  humor  to  their  heroes  ? 
Is  it  because,  as  a  rule,  women  are  es- 
sentially non-humorous  ?  Or,  seeing  that 
wit  and  humor  are  the  eyes  of  wisdom, 
and  that  to  be  witty  and  wise  and  to 
love  as  women  dream  of  love  is  well-nigh 
impossible,  do  women,  by  an  unerring  in- 
stinct, refrain  from  giving  to  their  heroes 
what  would  add  to  their  charm  as  men 
but  would  detract  from  their  power  as 
lovers?  Faith,  I  cannot  tell.  Yet  it 
must  be  a  pretty  reason  which  shall  ac- 
count for  this  general  absence  of  wit  and 
humor  in  women's  heroes. 

This  brings  us  to  another  trait  com- 
mon to  these  worthies.  Who  knows  not 
that  man's  best  loving  falls  far  short  of 
woman's  dream  of  love  ?  Yet  there  are 
no  women  writers,  from  least  to  greatest, 
whose  heroes  in  respect  to  love  and  con- 
stancy are  not  unconquerable.  So,  what- 
ever else  women's  heroes  may  have,  or 
may  lack,  they  are  all  determined  lovers. 
They  are  all  of  an  adamantine  constancy 
which  will  outlast  the  fellest  combina- 
tions of  circumstance,  the  longest  flight 
of  years,  the  worst  of  smallpox.  How 
constitutionally  superior  this  is  to  nature 
and  to  e very-day  reality  we  all  know ; 
yet  we  all  insist  on  having  it  so  set  down. 
Women  are  born  idealists  and  theorists, 
and  with  this  regard,  and  in  respect  to 
love  and  loving,  women's  heroes  have 
something  pathetic.  But  as  lovers  their 


Women's  Heroes. 


833 


common  likeness  is  overwhelming,  and 
is  done  with  a  naivetd  as  great  as  it 
is  charming.  Through  Time's  defacing 
mask  these  lovers  see  the  beauty  that  once 
was,  or  is  to  be.  They  realize  something 
of  the  ideal  of  the  finest  of  all  fine  lovers, 
and  do  indeed 
"  Feed  for  aye  [their]  lamp  and  flames  of  love, 

Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays." 

The  highest  genius  being  dual-natured 
will  show  the  man  and  woman  in  it,  co- 
efficients if  not  coequals ;  and  women 
must,  perhaps,  wear  something  of  dou- 
blet and  hose  in  their  disposition,  and 
men  something  of  farthingale  and  ruff 
in  theirs,  before  either  can  do  their  re- 
spective heroes  and  heroines  full  justice. 
For  men's  heroines  and  women's  heroes 
have  this  in  common,  that  when  it  comes 
to  depicting  them  the  colors  on  the  palette 
are  mixed  with  some  brave,  idealizing 
pigment  which  is  apt  to  destroy  indi- 
viduality and  life  likeness,  even  if  it 
does  leave  behind  what  alone  makes  art 
worthy  and  the  picture  lasting  —  Beauty. 

Judging,  however,  from  the  realistic 
point  of  view,  in  most  fiction  by  women 
the  secondary  characters  are  best  —  best 
because  done  with  a  dispassionateness 
which  gives  them  vividness  and  force. 
It  is  one  of  the  tests  of  a  really  fine 
novel  when  the  hero  and  heroine  stand 
in  the  front  rank  of  delineative  power. 
From  a  woman's  hand  as  fine  an  instance 
of  this  as  we  have  is  the  portrayal  of  Paul 
Emmanuel  by  Charlotte  Bronte.  Paul 
may  not  be  generally  attractive,  but  he  is 
the  fitting  counterpart  of  Lucy  Snowe, 
the  one  man  who  (the  angle  of  the  affec- 
tions being  always  equal  to  the.  angle  of 
the  imagination)  would  have  attracted 
her ;  and  we  are  made  to  feel  and  see, 
as  the  genuine  outgrowth  of  character, 
the  inevitableness  of  their  attachment. 
But  above  all,  Paul's  individuality  as  a 
man  is  never  sacrificed  to  his  affection  as 
a  lover ;  he  is  a  man  first,  and  a  lover 
afterwards,  and  herein  lies  the  better 

VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  53 


part  of  the  author's  rare  triumph.  For 
art  is  not  the  imitation  of  nature,  but 
the  persuasion  of  the  intellect.  And 
hence  the  failure,  in  the  main,  of  the 
servile  realist  on  the  one  hand,  and  of 
the  labored  romanticist  and  psychologist 
on  the  other;  for  the  one  would  fain 
copy  unfigleafed  nature,  and  the  others 
would  fain  transcribe  unfleshed  emotions 
and  mind.  It  is  true  that  we  none  of  us 
know  just  what  this  so  glibly  talked  of 
nature  really  is ;  but  we  all  have  some 
conception  of  it.  It  matters  not,  then, 
whether  the  method  be  realistic  or  ro- 
mantic provided  the  effect  is  convincing. 
For  no  matter  how,  or  with  what,  he 
works,  this  power  to  convince  is  one  of 
the  incommunicable  secrets  of  the  artist. 

The  difficulty  with  most  women's  he- 
roes is,  however,  that  they  do  not  con- 
vince. Not  that  women  do  not  portray 
admirably  men  in  general ;  they  both  can 
and  do.  It  is  in  their  heroes  only  that 
women  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature 
and,  by  overweighting  the  emotional 
faculty  in  them  as  lovers,  come  so  tame- 
ly off. 

With  men's  heroines  the  case  is  dif- 
ferent. These  fair  ladies  convince,  in  so 
far  as  they  go.  For  in  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  literature  one  cannot  fail  to  see  how 
few  are  the  varieties  of  the  creature 
feminine.  Literature  is  a  something  of 
men's  creating,  and  it  is  a  rough  and 
ready  judgment,  but  not  an  untrue  one, 
to  say  that,  as  represented  in  literature, 
women  may  be  divided  into  two  classes  : 
woman,  the  charmer  and  deceiver ;  and 
woman,  the  server.  On  the  one  hand 
we  have  the  Helens,  Circes,  Beatrix  Es- 
monds, Becky  Sharps ;  and  on  the  other, 
the  Penelopes,  Antigones,  Griseldas, 
Custances,  and  Amelias. 

But  women's  heroes  do,  for  the  most 
part,  resolve  themselves  into  but  one  class, 
that  of  the  Lover,  an  idealized  creature 
whose  like  was  never  seen  save  in  An- 
tony's description  of  the  crocodile  :  — 

"  It  is  shaped  like  itself ;  it  is  as  broad 
as  it  has  breadth ;  it  is  just  so  high  as  it 


834 


An   Unpublished  Author. 


is,  and  moves  with  its  own  organs;  it 
lives  by  that  which  nourisheth  it  [fem- 
inine fancy,  probably]  ;  and,  the  elements 
once  out  of  it,  it  transmigrates." 

All  the  old  stories  turn  not  so  much 
upon  man's  inhumanity  to  man  as  upon 
man's  inconstancy  to  woman,  and  wo- 
man's to  man.  But  the  ratio  is  as  three 
to  one.  As  against  Helen  and  her  French 
leave-taking  of  Menelaus,  we  have  The- 
seus and  Ariadne,  Jason  and  Medea, 
^Eneas  and  Dido ;  so  that  if  the  primi- 
tive tu  quoque  argument  ever  be  worth 
while,  here  it  lies  all  ready  to  my  lady's 
hand. 

But  this  brings  us  back  to  the  begin- 
ning. Why  does  the  creature  charged 
with  being  preeminently  inconstant  so 
value  constancy  that  she  overlooks  all 
else  save  this  noble  grace  of  steadfast- 
ness ?  If  the  light  by  which  we  see  is  in 
ourselves,  so  that  we  must  take  care  how 
we-  perceive,  then,  judging  by  the  de- 
gree and  kind  of  women's  perception  of 


this  virtue,  ought  not  they  themselves  to 
possess  much  of  it  ?  But  what  becomes 
of  the  world-old  charge  ?  And  by  this 
same  token,  man  perceiving  so  much  in- 
constancy must  by  masterly  self-delu- 
sion attribute  to  woman  what  is  his  own 
chief  defect.  But  this  is  doubtless  deli- 
cate ground,  even  though  Sir  Proteus 
does  lament,  — 

"  Were  man 
But  constant,  he  were  perfect." 

For  Shakespeare,  like  women,  would 
seem  to  set  all  store  by  constancy. 

However  may  be  explained  the  dis- 
crepancy between  a  time-honored  theory 
concerning  woman  and  women's  heroes, 
the  fact  remains  that  in  the  subtle  art  of 
fiction  where  so  much  comes  into  view 
which  can  be  found  nowhere  else,  wo- 
men's heroes  rarely  convince.  And  for 
the  simple  reason  that  women,  laying  all 
stress  upon  one  quality  only,  make  their 
heroes  typical  lovers  rather  than  com- 
plex, seemingly  actual  men. 

Ellen  Duvall. 


AN  UNPUBLISHED   AUTHOR. 


HAPPY  is  he  that  hath  ancestors  and 
knows  them  !  The  love  and  reverence 
of  ancestors,  to  us  hardly  less  than  to 
Rome,  is  yet  a  religion,  though  plus  is 
no  longer  the  title  of  him  who  cherishes 
his  aged  father  and  family  Lares  and 
Penates.  Some  glory  in  their  ancestors, 
because  they  fought  on  the  right  side  at 
Senlac,  wore  plumes  and  resplendent  ar- 
mor under  the  Plantagenets,  won  chiv- 
alrous duels  under  gentle  King  Jamie, 
and  gave  port  wine  and  viands  to  poets 
when  George  was  king.  Some,  in  the 
rich  melancholy  of  youth,  find  pleasure 
by  counting  those  of  their  forefathers  who 
died  while  their  hair  was  auburn,  their 
voices  flawless.  Others  hoard  miniatures 
of  handsome  faces,  —  oval  saintly  faces 
of  women,  with  hair  folded  like  doves' 


wings  over  their  brows,  —  or  jocund 
faces  framed  in  the  stock  severe,  that 
contemplated  a  peace  deemed  primeval, 
in  their  fragrant  wooded  acres  and  pools 
haunted  by  "  swan  and  shadow."  An- 
other class  in  the  poverty  and  humble 
station  of  the  old  people  have  a  flattering 
goad  to  honors.  For  my  part,  I  confess 
a  devotion  to  my  forefathers  who  have 
been  unlucky  in  life  or  death ;  but  most 
of  all  to  Ivor,  fair-haired,  smiling,  from 
whose  lips  flowed  so  musically  the  vow- 
eled  Cymric.  Like  a  bard,  he  could 
build  a  ship  and  sail  it ;  fashion  and  string 
a  harp,  —  but  melody  for  the  harp,  alas, 
was  lacking.  He  spent  an  exuberant 
boyhood  in  elaborating  gorgeous  image- 
ries, and  died  before  they  could  be  disci- 
plined by  verse.  All  his  life  he  was  a 


An   Unpublished  Author. 


835 


dreamer.  Let  me  recount  one  dream, 
full  of  symbols  ;  for 

"  Dreams  have  their  truth  for  dreamers." 

In  sleep  he  built  a  great  ship.  The  masts 
rose  out  of  sight  in  the  thick  autumnal 
air;  he  could  hardly  see  the  streamers 
that  filliped  the  tackling ;  and  her  col- 
ored sides  were  ready  to  gleam  in  the 
flood.  It  was  the  work  of  a  long  day, 
so  that  his  slumber  after  it  was  profound. 
On  the  morrow  he  was  awakened  by 
thoughts  of  sailing  alone  beyond  "  the 
limits  of  the  morn,"  when  lo  !  he  found 
that  he  had  built  her  on  the  mountain 
crest,  —  the  sea  and  the  cry  of  sailors 
were  afar  off. 

His  letters  are  preserved,  and,  being 
not  learned  in  faces,  I  value  them  above 
his  picture,  with  blue  eyes  guarded  by 
dreamful  eyelids,  the  wavering  mouth 
ever  framing  an  amiable  phrase  (for 
friendship  had  for  him  the  perfume  of 
rose  and  spices),  and  the  overflowing 
curls  of  the  color  of  ripened  wheat.  The 
letters  give,  not  indeed  a  vulgar  full- 
length  portrait,  but  an  animated  bust  of 
the  man.  Nothing  of  similar  bulk  lays 
the  man  himself  open  like  the  intimacies 
of  impassioned  correspondence.  Self- 
revelation  is  their  purpose,  and  how  much 
truer  the  result  than  most  autobiography 
so  called.  There  is  nothing  that  your 
letter-writer  will  exclude  ;  his  vocabulary 
will  be  quite  unfettered.  And  then,  too, 
the  handwriting.  It  is  true  that  his  was 
a  caligraphy  as  terrible  as  ever  beatific 
printer  changed  into  decent  type  ;  but  is 
the  printer  indeed  beatific  ?  "  Did  you," 
writes  he  himself,  "  ever  consider  how 
much  of  rhomme  meme  goes  into  an  au- 
thor's handwriting,  how  much  is  abstract- 
ed by  that  plaguy  modernism  —  print- 
ing ?  Take,  for  example,  the  wine-bibber 
who  sits  down  to  write  verses.  Splendid 
visions  he  has  ;  chance  words  of  his  are 
divine  ;  but  on  the  chill  day  following 
how  little  that  is  divine  and  bacchic  re- 
mains, if  the  memorial  scrawl  is  lost  and 
only  a,  fair  copy  lives.  It  would  scarce 


be  worse  if  a  painter  bade  his  lackey  put 
in  such  or  such  a  line."  The  compan- 
ionable seclusion  of  letter-making  yields 
a  confidence  that  in  cheek  by  jowl  con- 
versation may  vanish. 

Though  of  consistent  outward  luck, 
within  he  was  agitated,  ridden  (for  in- 
stance) at  his  narrow  inland  home  with 
a,  fatigue  de  Vint&rieur  only  remediable 
by  the  feel  and  sight  of  the  ocean,  where 
prospects  are  boundless, 

"  As  we  wish  our  souls  to  be  ;  " 

fretted  by  a  fever,  as  he  put  it  himself, 
such  as  in  the  grave  might  urge  one  up- 
ward to  one  gust  of  earth  and  sea.  Bred 
without  religious  teaching,  he  had  no  ter- 
rors concerning  deity  and  that  undiscov- 
ered country,  but,  content  with  the  certi- 
tude of  a  vague  immortality,  such  as  oft- 
times  was  clearly  promised  him,  when  so 
firmly  knit  to  the  powers  and  thrones  of 
nature  was  his  soul  that  no  complete 
separation  from  them  seemed  possible  af- 
ter that :  he  experienced  the  "  embryon 
felicities  and  fruitions  of  doubtful  faces  " 
given  by  the  voices  of  friends,  caresses  of 
love,  stray  kindnesses  to  strangers,  and 
the  taste  of  wine  and  fruit. 

Side  by  side,  and  subtly  entangled 
with  his  dreaming,  was  his  love  of  books. 
Even  as  word-pictures,  by-vistas  discov- 
ered by  some  opulent  expression,  or  the 
vague  splendor  with  which  authors  were 
invested  by  a  friend's  narration  of  their 
story,  were  the  material  of  his  first 
dreams  ;  so  he  brought  to  bear  upon  his 
reading  the  puissance  of  dreams  past, 
thus  supplying  what  was  demanded  by 
pages  where  more  was  meant  than  met 
the  eye,  when  with  Crusoe  he  was  thrilled 
by  footprints  on  the  pathless  beach  ;  with 
Fitz-James  he  rose  and  fell  in  combat 
with  Roderick  Dhu  ;  with  explorers  he 
wetted  the  snow  with  the  blood  of  polar 
bears,  or  was  drowsed  under  the  paws  of 
lions,  and  tasted  the  bitter  pleasures  of 
savannas  lonelier  than  the  heavens.  For 
readers  must  be  divided  into  two  classes. 
One  modestly  prepares  a  blank  sheet  of 


836 


An   Unpublished  Author. 


his  mind  for  the  reception  of  what  the 
writer  offers,  whether  that  be  a  picture 
in  line  and  mass,  or  the  close  characters 
of  thought.  Such  a  one  is  the  philosophic 
reader.  With  premiss  and  conclusion  he 
deals  like  a  compositor.  But  not  there- 
fore is  his  mind  a  ream  of  other  men's 
thoughts.  The  proof  sheet  (to  continue 
the  metaphor)  has  to  go  up  for  correction ; 
which  done,  he  proceeds  to  criticism. 
Far  different  are  those  of  the  other  class. 
In  such  a  mind  there  is  no  blank  sheet ; 
but  not  less  modestly,  though  quite  other- 
wise, is  it  prepared.  It  is  in  fact  like  a 
pool  that  stands  in  the  heart  of  a  ven- 
erable and  storied  forest.  The  shadows 
of  blossom  and  bough  and  foliage ;  the 
clasped  wings  of  the  sitting  turtle-doves  ; 
the  blue  sky,  "  fretted  with  golden  fire," 
or  swept  by  hurrying  fleeces ;  all  is  re- 
flected there,  and  with  an  awful  pro- 
fundity deeper  even  than  the  heaven 
above.  Looking  quietly  over  the  bank 
you  espy  the  shadows  of  unaccountable 
shapes  escaping  through  the  forest.  But 
now  and  then  a  puff  of  the  tired  wind 
reaches  the  smooth  waters.  Then  the 
ripples  cast  lines,  like  the  footprints  of 
the  sea,  upon  the  bottom  ;  the  shadows 
are  shaken  and  severed  ;  a  child's  reed- 
leaf  pinnaces  leave  harbor  for  the  open 
water.  Like  that  is  the  effect  of  read- 
ing upon  this  mind.  He  gives  as  much 
as  he  receives.  He  gives  more  ;  he  gives 
all,  because  only  by  reason  of  what  was 
there  before  receives  he  anything. 

His  disquietude  might  partly  be  traced 
to  authorship,  though  he  had  no  desire 
of  publicity,  and  wrote  to  please  himself 
first  of  all ;  which  was  as  well,  for  his  ex- 
aggerated subjectivity  would  have  found 
intelligent  readers  only  in  a  kindred  few. 
After  many  transitions,  —  from  hyper- 
saxonism  to  hyperlatinism,  —  from  the 
feverish  composition  of  a  too  passionate 
interest  to  the  toilsome  architecture  of 
phrase  and  phrase,  —  he  set  up,  as  the 
god  of  his  idolatry  and  the  ideal  of 
achievement,  a  style  that  should  be  as 
lacework ;  if  you  took  out  a  fragment 


anywhere,  it  had  needs  be  beautiful,  and 
every  word  have  an  individual  value ; 
of  all  men  Sir  Thomas  Browne  seemed 
worthiest  of  admiration.  His  work  was 
to  be  all  gold.  An  aim  perhaps  the  less 
inexcusable  that  his  subject  matter  was 
most  often  descriptive.  But  though  sen- 
sitive, he  lacked  sense  ;  to  put  the  fact 
as  he  put  it  himself  in  jingling  verse,  he 
was  a  man 

"  With  five  fine  senses,  lacking  sense." 

Yet  once  he  showed  good  sense  in  follow- 
ing Coleridge's  exhortation  to  would-be 
authors  :  he  entered  the  Church.  Con- 
sequently his  account  of  some  pleasures 
of  writing  is  in  places  delicious.  He 
chose  the  library,  he  said,  of  a  wealthy 
friend  as  his  study,  a  place  where  manu- 
scripts long  ago  thumbed  by  astrologer 
or  alchemist  lay  in  a  sort  of  purgatory 
of  dust  and  quiet,  — 

"  The  haunt  obscure  of  old  philosophy." 

But  that  dust  was  sacred ;  he  never 
stirred  it,  though  he  was  occasionally 
asked  if  he  fed  on  it.  And  yet  he  showed 
many  points  of  likeness  to  those  alche- 
mists, and  was  full  as  unreasonable  as 
they.  Thus  he  loved  to  recall  how 
Leonardo,  moving  half  contemptuously 
among  the  jetsam  of  a  passing  age,  an- 
ticipating the  boldest  advances  of  the 
age  by  which  it  was  followed,  notwith- 
standing was  allured  by  it,  and  charmed 
into  a  stagnancy  and  indecision  from 
which  he  never  altogether  escaped.  Ivor 
was  never  weary  of  proving  how  much 
the  religions  of  the  day  were  benight- 
mared  by  the  divinities  whose  funeral 
they  had  attended  with  curses,  and  how 
existent  superstitions  often  prevailed 
over  them  in  the  sincere  moments  of 
most  pious  minds,  especially  in  a  land 
such  as  Wales,  where  free  play  was  still 
possible  for  the  powers  of  nature.  And 
I  preserve  a  fragment  of  his,  in  which  he 
expresses  this  attitude  by  a  dance  of  Pan 
and  the  river  goddesses,  in  an  old  priory 
at  midnight.  Even  in  his  boyhood,  he 


An   Unpublished  Author. 


837 


planned  a  mad  crusade  on  behalf  of  the 
worship  of  nature,  as  against  what  he 
then  called  the  indoor  religion  current. 

On  a  hard,  angular  chair  —  which  he 
said  gave  him  visions  of  the  Empyrean 
like  a  martyr  on  the  wheel  —  in  that 
library,  he  used  to  write.     Of  course  the 
whole  skeleton  of  the  piece  was  ready  be- 
forehand in  his  mind  :  but  there  was  a 
catch  in  his  breath  when  he   saw  the 
white  paper ;  his  brain  throbbed,  and  the 
silence  became  full  of  voices.     He  had 
to  clothe  the  skeleton  with  the  flesh  of 
fair  living  words,  and  at  the  thought  was 
confused  by  fancies.     "  On  a  dans  la  tete 
toutes  sortes  de  floraisons  printanieres 
qui  ne  durent  plus  que  les  lilas,  qu'une 
nuit  fle'trit,  mais  qui  sentent  si  bon  !  " 
Up  rose  the  shadow  of  all  that  was  most 
delightful  in  the  past  or  alluring  in  the 
future.    Choicest  phrases  and  words  from 
the  best  loved  authors  fluttered  round. 
Sweetest  experiences  were  lived  again. 
Everything  trivial  or  tedious  was  ban- 
ished successfully.     He  heard  the  love- 
names  of  Wales  uttered  by  musical  voices 
—  Eluned  and  Bronwen  and  Olwen.    He 
saw  again  the  fairest  landscapes,  and  re- 
membered evenings  when  Hesperus  for 
a  time  shone  so  brightly  that  you  could 
write  a  lyric  by  help  of  her  light ;  re- 
membered caracoling  birches  on  a  flat 
windy  country  of  burnt-up  furze  ;  a  sil- 
ver heaven  at  sunset,  inlaid  with  ebony 
branches  ;  the  white  sparks  of  sunlit  rain 
sliding  on  the  fir  tree  needles,  coming 
and  going  on  the  restless  branches    as 
the  light  changed  —  like  stars  in  a  tur- 
bulent sky  ;  or  the  green  alder  shadow 
at  the  borders  of  the  swift  river  Lou- 
ghor.  .  .  .  Then  he  wrote.     But  it  was 
not  always  that  the  fervor  and  radiance 
of  such  visions  entered  into  the  slowly 
wrought  sentences.     He  feared  he  had 
begun  writing  too   early,  when  passion 
commanded  art  —  a  reversal  of  the  rule. 
The  plain  ink  was  not  enough  for  him  ; 
he  wanted  to  dip  his  pen  in  the  light  of 
sunset,  in  the  blue  haze  that  haunts  dis- 
tant hills.     Here  is  a  fragment :  — 


"  The    chestnut    blossom    is   raining 
steadily  and  noiselessly  down   upon  a 
path  whose  naked  pebbles  receive  mo- 
saic of  emerald  light  from  the  interla- 
cing boughs.     At  intervals,  once  or  twice 
an  hour,  the  wings  of  a  lonely  swallow 
pass  that  way ;  when  alone  the  shower 
stirs  from  its  perpendicular  fall.     Cool 
and  moist,  the  perfumed  air  flows,  with- 
out lifting  the  most  nervous  leaf  or  let- 
ting fall  a  suspended  bead  of  the  night's 
rain  from  a  honeysuckle  bud.     In  an  in- 
definite sky  of  gray,  through  which  one 
ponderous  cloud  billows  into  sight  and  is 
lost  again,  no  sun  shines  :  yet  there  is 
light  —  I  know  not  whence  ;  for  a  pellet 
of  brass  indoors  beams  so  as  to  be  extin- 
guished in  its  own  fire.    There  is  no  song 
in  wood  or  sky.     Some  one  of  summer's 
wandering  voices  —  cuckoo  or  bulfinch 
or  willow  wren  —  might  be  singing,  but 
unheard,  at  least  unrealized.  .  .  .  From 
the  dead-nettle  spires,  with  dull  green 
leaves  stained  by  purple  and  becoming 
more  and  more  purple  toward  the  crest, 
which  is  of  a  sombre  uniform  purple,  — 
to  the  elms  reposing  at  the  horizon,  all 
things  have  bowed  the  head,  hushed,  set- 
tled into  a  perfect  sleep.     But  those  elms 
are  just  visible  ;  no  more.     The  path  has 
no  sooner  emerged  from  one  shade  than 
another  succeeds,  and  so,  on  and  on,  the 
eye  wins  no  broad  dominion.  ...  It  is 
a  land  that  uses  a  soft  compulsion  upon 
the  passer-by,  a  compulsion  to  medita- 
tion, which  is  necessary  before  he  is  at- 
tached to  a  scene  rather  featureless  and 
expressionless,  to  a  land  that  hence  owes 
much  of  its  power  to  a  mood  of  generous 
reverie  which  it  bestows.     And  yet  it  is 
a  land  that  gives,  that  gives  much.     Com- 
panionable it  is,  reassuring  to  the  solita- 
ry ;  he  very  soon  has  a  feeling  <>f  secu- 
rity there.  .  .  .    The  cool-leaved  wood  ! 
The  limitless,  unoccupied  fields  of  marsh 
marigold,  so  lovely  when  the  evening  rain 
slowly  falls,  dimming,  and  almost  put- 
ting out,  the  lustrous  bloom !  .  .  .  Gold 
of  the  microscopic  willows  under  foot ! 
Leagues  of  lonely  grass,  where  the  herds 


838 


An  Artist  in  Hair. 


tread  the  daisies  and  spare  them  yet ! 
—  the  daisies  rising  up  after  a  hoof  falls 
upon  them.  And  ever  at  the  horizon 
companies  of  lazy  cloud  !  ...  At  last 
in  the  sweet  rain,  or  rather  the  promise 
of  rain  at  this  warm,  skyless  close  of  the 


day,  the  trees,  far  off  in  an  indolent  up- 
and-down  landscape,  stand  as  if  disen- 
gaged from  the  world,  in  a  reticent  and 
pensive  repose." 

He  died  at  twenty-three,  but  finished 
nothing  after  nineteen. 

Edward  Thomas. 


AN   ARTIST  IN  HAIR. 


MY  father  and  I  were  spending  the 
day  with  an  old  Garibaldino  soldier  in 
his  wee  bachelor  house  above  Reggio. 
I  had  thought  him,  in  Rome,  an  ordina- 
ry boaster,  given  to  rodomontade,  and  I 
dreaded  the  return  visit  to  Reggio  upon 
which  he  insisted.  From  time  to  time 
he  had  sent  us  baskets  of  fruit  packed 
with  stiff  nosegays  and  kitchen  herbs. 
Alternately  came  bundles  of  flowers  done 
up  casually  in  brown  paper,  which  of 
course  reached  us  as  mangled  masses  of 
hay  and  crushed  petals.  Each  request 
that  he  would  not  incommode  himself 
met  with  the  retaliation  of  another  bun- 
dle or  basket,  containing  vegetables  and 
fruits  peculiar  to  Calabria,  wrapped  with 
Scripture  texts. 

On  arriving  at  Reggio,  my  Anglo- 
Saxon  heart  sank  in  the  hullabaloo  of  a 
welcome  which  made  us  the  observed  of 
all  observers.  The  first  offering  was  a 
calla  lily  bound  firmly  with  rosemary  and 
thyme,  —  a  nosegay  fit  to  fell  a  man  ; 
the  next  was  a  bouquet  of  pink  and  yel- 
low roses,  which  I  could  not  span  with 
my  two  arms ;  and  floral  offerings  con- 
tinued to  arrive  until  my  room  at  the 
hotel  looked  like  that  of  a  successful 
prima  dpnna.  At  all  hours  the  dark,  vo- 
ciferous little  man  came  rushing  to  our 
frescoed,  balconied  chambers,  where  a 
town  council  might  have  sat  at  ease,  to 
present  another  bunch  of  violets  or  a  par- 
ticular freak  of  horticulture.  He  said 
this  was  nothing ;  on  the  morrow  he 
would  "  clothe  me  with  flowers." 


I  went  to  bed  with  a  balcony  piled 
high  and  an  exhausted  vocabulary.  He 
was  to  come  for  us  early  with  a  carriage 
to  go  up  to  his  place  at  Santo  Spirito. 
How  should  I  "  win  through  "  a  day 
of  making  compliments !  But  dreaded 
things  never  are  the  worst. 

Whether  it  was  that  against  his  own 
Arcadian  background  Signore  Pasquale's 
flowery  language  and  bombast  found 
their  natural  setting,  or  that  he  relaxed 
to  simple-mindedness  where  his  vaunted 
Reggio  di  Calabria  could  speak  for  it- 
self, I  do  not  know,  but  certain  it  is  that 
a  gentler,  more  generous  host  was  never 
seen,  and  I  have  spent  few  more  plea- 
sant days.  At  the  end  of  the  drive,  my 
father  was  settled  for  a  rest  in  the  bare 
little  stone  house  on  the  hillside,  and 
Ser  Pasquale  and  I,  having  cast  aside 
hats  and  gloves,  set  out  for  a  ramble 
through  his  domain.  Is  there  anywhere 
such  a  tangle  of  fragrance  and  color  as  a 
south  Italian  podere,  where  nut,  almond, 
olive,  and  vine  grow  cheek  by  jowl  with 
camellia,  mock  orange,  pansy,  violet,  sal- 
via,  and  a  hundred  more  !  The  hedges 
are  of  lemon,  cactus,  and  aloe,  and  on 
the  terraced  hillside  laughs  a  garden  of 
the  Hesperides.  All  the  gamut  of  that 
idyllic  farm  was  played  for  me.  I  must 
taste  the  young,  milky  almonds,  and 
climb  to  gather,  with  my  own  hand,  juicy 
yellow  medlars  and  mammoth  oranges. 
Ser  Pasquale  ravaged  bush  and  tree 
remorselessly,  ordering  with  Napoleonic 
peremptoriness  the  peasant  and  his  wo- 


An  Artist  in  Hair. 


839 


mankind  to  fetch  this  or  that  rare  fruit 
or  flower. 

When  we  came  back  to  the  house,  laden 
with  trophies,  I  was  introduced  to  Gia- 
cinta,  whom  Ser  Pasquale  had  bidden  to 
bear  me  company  and  give  me  the  sup- 
port of  my  sex.  In  her  red  cotton  dress 
and  loosely  knotted  yellow  neckerchief, 
Giacinta,  with  her  pink  cheeks  and  deli- 
cate pointed  nose,  might  have  stepped 
straight  out  of  an  old  Italian  comedy,  and 
she  performed  her  devoir  of  bowing  and 
kissing  my  hand  with  a  feminine  finish 
and  elaborateness  which  made  my  own 
greeting  seem  crude  and  shorn.  From 
the  kitchen  came  a  tinkle  of  saucepans, 
and  Giacinta  informed  me  that  her  hus- 
band, who  had  been  cook  to  the  cardinal, 
was  busy  over  our  dinner.  He  had  been 
dismissed  for  reading  the  New  Testa- 
ment and  naming  his  twins  after  Castor 
and  Pollux,  persons  not  known  in  the 
calendar  of  saints.  With  the  Italian 
frankness  which  reveals  all,  prying  for 
nothing  in  return,  Giacinta  owned  that, 
in  consequence  of  this  dismissal,  she  was 
supporting  her  Dioscuri  and  their  father ; 
and  when  I  asked  how,  she  answered 
proudly,  "  Signorina,  I  am  the  first  petti- 
natrice  of  Reggio." 

Literally  translated  la  pettinatrice  is 
the  female  person  who  combs,  and 
throughout  southern  Italy  hers  is  a  com- 
mon profession.  Even  in  Rome  a  card 
is  often  seen  in  barber-shop  windows  in- 
scribed thus :  — 


LA   PETTINATRICE. 


Observant  travelers  are  struck  with 
the  universally  well-dressed  hair  in  Na- 
ples ;  and  if  one  investigates  why  the 
portress,  in  slatternly  gown,  who  lives  on 
a  few  sous  a  day,  has  a  head  like  a  fash- 
ion plate,  he  discovers  that  she  is  as  regu- 
lar a  subscriber  to  the  pettinatrice  as  the 
countess  on  the  piano  nobile.  In  fact, 


the  hairdresser  makes  a  progress  through 
the  house,  varying  her  fee  according  to 
the  rank  of  her  client ;  but  the  shining 
black  tresses  of  all  —  for  Italian  women 
have  fine  hair  —  must  be  done  up  in 
the  latent  mode. 

Giacinta,  with  that  mingling  of  caress- 
ing deference  and  easy  naturalness  which 
is  purely  Italian,  inquired,  u  Does  the 
signorina  wish  me  to  dress  her  hair  ?  " 
And  when  I  accepted  the  offer,  she  set 
me  a  chair  on  the  balcony,  and  fetched 
a  wizened  comb  from  Signore  Pasquale. 
In  the  south  our  Anglo-Saxon  reserves 
seem  stilted ;  there  it  was  the  most  natu- 
ral thing  to  have  Giacinta's  light  fingers 
play  over  my  head  while  Ser  Pasquale 
went  back  and  forth  "  on  hospitable 
thoughts  intent,"  and  my  father  pored 
over  a  stray  volume  of  Gioberti.  A 
breeze  blew  up  from  the  blue  Straits  of 
Messina  across  a  valley  radiant  with 
the  luxuriance  of  the  Calabrian  spring. 
In  it  were  whiffs  of  mandarin  orange, 
lemon,  bergamot,  each  more  subtly  en- 
trancing than  the  last.  Shifting  sunlight 
played  on  the  early  leaves  of  fig  trees, 
snowy  drifts  of  pear  blossom,  and  wide 
plantations  of  orange,  celebrating  that 
intoxicating  bridal  of  golden  fruit  lin- 
gering to  kiss  waxen  blossoms.  Beneath 
the  balcony  passed  the  peasants  in  holi- 
day dress,  for  it  was  the  feast  of  St. 
Agnes,  and  they  looked  up  to  smile 
friendly  greetings. 

I  have  a  rebellious,  sensitive  head, 
which  refuses  to  be  touched  by  any  hand 
save  my  own,  but  under  Giacinta's  magic 
tips  every  nerve  was  soothed,  every  hair 
fell  lightly  into  place.  A  cool,  delicious 
mesmerism  filtered  through  her  fingers. 

"  Does  the  signorina  desire  her  hair 
high  or  low  ?  " 

"As  you  think,  Giacinta." 

"  Then  it  must  be  as  high  as  it  is  pos- 
sible, to  be  in  the  latest  mode,  and  show 
the  lines  of  the  head,  with  a  few  little 
curls  to  lend  grace  and  charm." 

"  Have  I  too  much  hair,  Giacinta  ?  " 

"  Well,  signorina,  yes,"  she  confesses 


$40 


An  Artist  in  Hair. 


ruefully,  but  adds  with  the  self-confidence 
of  the  capable,  "  It  is  pliable,  it  can  be 
made  to  conceal  itself." 

"  How  do  you  know  the  styles  ?  " 

"  Signorina,  I  study  the  fashion  plates 
of  those  ladies  whom  I  comb.  When  one 
is  mistress  of  the  art,  it  is  easy  to  adapt 
and  adopt  the  fashion.  It  is  only  those 
poor  miserable  ones  who  have  never  regu- 
larly studied  who  find  themselves  entan- 
gled." In  Giacinta's  tone  is  a  commiser- 
ation for  those  "  poor  miserable  ones." 

"  And  with  whom  did  you  study  ?  " 
I  ask  meekly. 

"With  la  Maddalena  Rovena.  Ah, 
she  was  a  pettinatrice  indeed.  I  was  ap- 
prenticed to  her  for  years,  and  then,  hav- 
ing inclination,  I  could  continue  alone. 
Where  there  is  passion  for  the  art,  one 
perfects  one's  self  always."  Giacinta 
spoke  as  Giulio  Romano  might  have 
done  of  Raphael.  "Now  every  poor 
thing  to  whom  the  caprice  jumps  thinks 
she  can  be  a  pettinatrice."  A  scorn 
of  rivals  scintillates  in  her  voice. 

"Is  it  a  well-paid  profession?"  I  ask, 
thinking  of  the  Dioscuri  and  the  impos- 
ing man  creating  our  dinner. 

"  Eh,  signorina,  it  was.  I  used  to 
receive  as  much  as  two  francs  per  month 
from  a  daily  client,  but  now  there  are  so 
many  who  ply  the  comb  they  would  have 
us  come  for  seventy-five  centimes  (fifteen 
cents)  a  month.  Dear  lady,  it  does  not 
pay  one's  shoes  to  go  up  their  stairs." 

As  she  talked  she  went  steadily  on, 
looping  and  puffing  daintily. 

"  If  I  had  known  I  should  have  the 
honor  to  comb  the  signorina,  I  would 
have  brought  my  implements,"  she  re- 
gretted. But  real  talent  is  never  a  slave 
to  material  tools,  and  with  Signore  Pas- 
quale's  mutilated  fragment,  a  candle, 
and  a  small  iron  she  waved  and  curled 
and  plaited  until  she  could  say  with 
quiet  triumph,  "Behold  the  signorina 
combed!  Knowing  your  ladyship  is 
to  travel,  I  have  made  the  coiffure  firm. 
The  signorina  need  not  comb  herself 
for  three  days." 


During  the  hairdressing  we  have 
talked  of  many  things,  and  I  discover 
that  Giacinta  as  well  as  her  husband  has 
heretical  convictions  which  have  lost  her 
more  than  one  client.  But  with  the  ar- 
rival of  a  new  guest  Giacinta  effaces 
herself.  Evidently  she  and  Signore  Pas- 
quale  have  a  great  admiration  for  the 
jolly,  prosperous  neighbor  who  has  been 
invited  to  share  our  feast.  He  too  is 
an  old  Garibaldian,  but  clearly  he  has 
fared  well  with  the  world  ;  for  his  fash- 
ionable clothes  and  the  resplendent  gold 
chain  across  his  aldermanic  figure  con- 
trast with  the  shabby  black  of  Ser  Pas- 
quale's  insignificant  person.  The  latter 
tells  me,  with  pride  in  his  friend,  that 
Signore  Prospero  has  made  a  fortune  in 
Cairo  of  Egypt,  and  that  though  he  and 
his  beautiful  signora  have  come  to  en- 
joy it  in  a  new  villa  on  the  slope,  they 
still  possess  and  direct  three  large  salons 
in  Cairo.  The  word  suggests  to  my  mind 
those  old  French  symposiums  of  beauty 
and  wit  where  Madame  de  Re'camier 
charmed  and  Madame  de  Stael  dazzled 
by  her  eloquence,  when  I  wake  to  find 
that  Signore  Prospero's  salons  are  for  the 
outside  of  men's  heads,  and  that  like  Gia- 
cinta he  is  an  artist  in  hair.  Having 
"  studied  "  in  Paris,  he  commands  her 
respect  and  touches  her  manner  to  even 
deeper  deference. 

The  cardinal's  cook  gives  us  an  ex- 
cellent dinner.  The  colossal  swordfish 
does  credit  to  Reggio,  and  the  olives  and 
mingled  salad  have  a  deliciousness  only 
found  in  an  Italian  country  house.  The 
meal  is  served  by  Giacinta  with  noiseless 
alertness,  as  if  she  had  never  aspired  to 
be  other  than  a  waitress ;  but  when  we 
have  wended  our  way  through  many 
courses  to  the  fruits  of  the  Garibaldian's 
farm,  she  enters  with  a  goblet  held 
aloft  between  forefinger  and  thumb. 
Her  other  fingers  are  curved  and  ex- 
tended with  a  finical  eighteenth-century 
grace,  and  on  her  cheeks  burn  two  bright 
pink  spots.  She  casts  her  eyes  to  hea- 
ven, waves  the  glass  in  my  direction, 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


841 


bows,  and  improvises  in  a  high  key  a 
health  which  flatters  and  yet  is  apt. 
With  even  more  circumstance  she  rapidly 
composes  a  brindisi  to  my  father,  in 
which  Biblical,  mythological,  and  floral 
figures  swiftly  follow  each  other ;  and 
then  come  verses  to  the  delighted  host 
and  the  gentleman  from  Cairo,  and  in 


the  facile,  high-flown  phrases  glints  now 
and  then  a  flash  of  wit  or  an  appropri- 
ate personal  allusion,  marking  them,  com- 
posed on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Man- 
ner, attitude,  and  expression  of  rapt 
inspiration  say  clearly,  u  I  know  myself 
no  less  an  artist  in  verse  than  an  artist 
in  hair." 

Mary  Argyle  Taylor. 


THE  ELDER  DUMAS. 


IN  his  recent  work  on  the  elder  Du- 
mas,1 Mr.  A.  F.  Davidson  has  pro- 
duced an  eminently  readable  and  enter- 
taining book,  illustrated  by  a  series  of 
twelve  interesting  portraits  and  carica- 
tures, and  furnished  with  a  complete 
bibliography,  containing  a  very  large 
amount  of  information  hitherto  inac- 
cessible to  readers  outside  of  France. 
Moreover,  he  seems  to  us  to  have  per- 
formed a  service  long  due  to  Dumas's 
memory,  and  one  which  should  be  wel- 
comed by  the  reading  public,  by  setting 
forth  in  their  true  light  the  character 
and  talents  of  a  man  to  whom  nothing 
like  full  justice  in  this  respect  has  ever 
been  done.  Dumas  has  been  for  so 
many  years  the  property  of  all  the  world 
that  it  is  quite  time  that  the  world 
should  know  the  truth  concerning  him 
and  his  work ;  should  know  that  if  he 
was  not  the  "literary  giant, "  the  "Co- 
lossus of  genius  and  strength, "  which 
some  too  enthusiastic  admirers  have  dis- 
covered in  him,  he  is  even  less  accurately 
described  as  the  "father  of  humbug," 
or  the  "  tawdry  purveyor  of  books  which 
he  did  not  write." 

Mr.  Davidson  has  not  attempted  a 
complete  and  formal  biography  of  Du- 
mas. "After  a  fairly  extensive  study, 
during  the  last  fifteen  years,  of  Dumas 
and  whatever  has  been  written  about 

1  Alexandre  Dumas,  his  Life  and  Work.  By 
A.  F.  DAVIDSON.  Philadelphia:  Lippincott. 
1902. 


him, "  he  says  in  his  Preface,  "  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  room  for  a  coordi- 
nation of  facts  which  might  represent, 
in  justly  balanced  proportion,  and  with 
some  pretense  of  accuracy,  both  the  life 
of  the  man  and  the  work  of  the  au- 
thor." And  again:  "None  but  a  sim- 
pleton or  an  impostor  would  think  to 
measure  the  length  and  breadth  of  Al- 
exandre Dumas  within  the  compass  of 
one  moderate  volume.  Any  one,  out  of 
half  a  dozen  aspects  of  the  man,  sup- 
plies material  for  a  book  as  large  as 
this.  In  fact  .  .  .  there  does  not  exist 
in  his  own  country  any  comprehensive 
and  continuous  work,  biographical  and 
literary,  such  as  this  is  intended  approxi- 
mately to  be." 

The  publication  of  the  book  coincided 
very  nearly  with  the  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  Dumas's  birth  at  Villers- 
Cotterets  (Aisne),  July  24,  1802.  His 
paternal  grandfather,  the  Marquis  de  la 
Pailleterie,  representative  of  one  branch 
of  an  ancient  Norman  family,  emigrated, 
about  1760,  to  St.  Domingo,  where  he 
took  unto  himself  (but  probably  did  not 
marry)  a  native  woman  named  Marie 
Cessette  Dumas.  The  strain  of  tropi- 
cal blood  inherited  from  this  grandmo- 
ther unquestionably  counted  for  much 
in  the  character  of  Dumas,  as  it  did  in 
his  physical  appearance.  The  only  child 
of  this  union,  Thomas  Alexandre  Davy 
de  la  Pailleterie,  accompanied  his  father 
to  Paris  in  1778,  after  his  mother's 


842 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


death.  There  the  young  man,  a  fine 
specimen  of  tropical  growth,  but  most 
distinctly  un  homme  de  couleur,  found 
his  social  progress  impeded  by  the  pre- 
judice of  the  aristocratic  society  of  the 
old  regime  against  a  swarthy  skin,  and 
by  the  ungenerous  treatment  of  his  fa- 
ther, with  whom  he  came  to  an  open 
rupture  after  the  marquis's  marriage  to 
a  woman  of  his  own  class.  "There- 
upon, "  wrote  the  young  man's  son  nearly 
seventy  years  later,  "  my  father  resolved 
to  carve  out  his  fortune  with  his  sword, 
and  enlisted  in  what  was  then  (1786) 
the  Queen's  Dragoons."  The  marquis 
having  stipulated  that  his  name  should 
not  be  borne  by  a  common  private,  the 
young  soldier  enrolled  himself  under  his 
mother's  name  of  Dumas,  dropping  all 
of  his  baptismal  names  except  Alexan- 
dre.  With  the  death  of  the  marquis 
soon  after,  the  marquisate  became  ex- 
tinct, "but  the  arms  (three  eagles)  and 
the  title  were,  fifty  years  later,  claimed 
by  the  novelist  and  used  by  him  in  offi- 
cial designations.  They  had  obviously, " 
says  Mr.  Davidson,  "only  a  burlesque 
value  at  a  time  when  all  the  world  had 
become  familiar  with  the  name  of  Alex- 
andre  Dumas." 

The  first  bearer  of  the  name,  who 
speedily  became  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant and  successful  of  the  young  gen- 
erals developed  by  the  Revolution,  fell 
out  with  Napoleon  during  the  Egyptian 
expedition,  and  passed  his  latter  years 
in  obscurity,  under  the  ban  of  the  im- 
perial displeasure.  He  married  in  1792 
the  daughter  of  an  innkeeper  at  Vil- 
lers-Cotteretsi  Of  the  validity  of  this 
marriage  there  is  no  possible  question, 
although  during  the  lifetime  of  the  nov- 
elist it  was  not  infrequently  asserted 
that  he  was  born  out  of  wedlock,  as  his 
father  probably  and  his  son  certainly 
were. 

General  Dumas  was,  as  Mr.  David- 
son well  says,  "  essentially  the  most  ad- 
mirable of  the  three  men  who  have 
borne  the  name.  ...  A  simple  heroic 
figure,  fairly  to  be  classed  with  Hoche 


and  Marceau,  Joubert  and  Kldber  .  .  . 
a  man  of  single  purpose  and  heroic 
deeds.  Some  few  of  his  characteristics 
will  appear  to  have  been  inherited  by 
his  son."  He  died  at  Villers-Cotterets 
in  1806,  leaving  his  widow  burdened 
with  the  care  of  two  children  (Alexan- 
dre,  then  four  years  old,  and  a  sister 
some  ten  years  his  senior)  and  almost 
penniless. 

Substantially  the  only  authority  for 
the  story  of  Dumas 's  early  years  is  his 
own  ten  volume  compilation,  Mes  Me'- 
moires,  of  which  a  large  part  of  the  first 
volume  is  devoted  to  traditions  and  anec- 
dotes of  the  father  whose  memory  he 
never  ceased  to  revere.  Indeed,  what- 
ever his  faults  in  other  domestic  rela- 
tions, he  cannot  justly  be  charged  with 
lack  of  filial  respect  and  affection: 
throughout  all  the  peripeties  of  his  ex- 
traordinary career,  replete  with  every 
sort  of  interest,  his  mother,  while  she 
lived,  was  always  the  object  of  his  ten- 
derest  care  and  solicitude;  and  her 
death,  in  1838,  caused  him  the  most 
profound  sorrow  of  his  life.  These  Me'- 
moires,  which,  except  for  a  few  brief  al- 
lusions, do  not  carry  the  author's  life 
beyond  1832,  abound  in  information 
and  anecdote  upon  all  sorts  of  sub- 
jects. They  were  begun  in  1852,  when 
he  was  living  at  Brussels  in  voluntary 
exile,  after  the  financial  crash  from 
which  he  never  really  recovered. 

Those  portions  of  Mr.  Davidson's 
book  which  deal  with  Dumas 's  life  ra- 
ther than  with  his  work  are  based  mainly 
upon  the  Me'moireS  and  upon  the  numer- 
ous volumes  (between  thirty  and  forty  in 
the  familiar  duodecimo  edition  of  LeVy) 
of  Impressions  du  Voyage,  in  which  he 
describes  his  travels  in  many  European 
countries  and  in  Africa.  These  volumes 
have  been  carefully  weeded  out,  the  facts 
and  incidents  related  have  been  checked, 
whenever  practicable,  by  reference  to 
contemporary  sources  of  information, 
and  the  result  is  an  interesting  and  en- 
tertaining narrative,  interspersed  with 
amusing  anecdotes,  and  containing  ma- 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


843 


terial  from  which  the  great  Dumas,  as 
he  sometimes  called  himself,  might 
have  turned  out  more  than  one  romance 
rivaling  in  interest  many  of  those  to 
which  he  owes  his  fame.  Indeed,  M. 
Blaze  de  Bury  says  that  Dumas  has  told 
the  story  of  the  most  important  events 
of  his  life  in  his  books,  and  has  thereby 
obviated  the  necessity  of  a  biographer. 
Of  all  his  varied  experiences  there  is 
none  more  characteristic  and  at  the  same 
time  more  amusing  than  his  participa- 
tion in  the  Revolution  of  July  (1830), 
and  his  self-imposed  mission  to  Soissons 
to  obtain  ammunition  from  the  maga- 
zine there.  Mr.  Davidson  gives  to  this 
episode  a  chapter  by  itself  (A  Political 
Interlude).  Of  Dumas 's  account  of  the 
Revolution  itself  he  says :  "  Otherwise 
agreeing  in  all  principal  facts  with  the 
narratives  of  professed  historians  like 
Louis  Blanc,  the  pages  of  Dumas  pre- 
sent perhaps  the  best  picture  ever  penned 
of  what  Paris  in  Revolutionary  times 
looked  like.  The  picture  of  course  is 
colored  —  it  would  be  ungracious  to  say 
over  -  colored  —  by  the  personality  of 
the  narrator,  and  the  grouping  of  it  is 
so  arranged  as  to  show  us  La  Fayette, 
Laffitte,  Odilon  Barrot,  and  the  rest 
flitting  like  pale  shadows  across  a  scene 
mainly  occupied  by  Alexandre  Dumas. " 
Lack  of  space  makes  it  impossible 
for  us  to  follow  him  through  the  many 
notable  incidents  of  his  career  not  con- 
nected with  his  literary  work:  his 
unique  experiences  as  a  government 
clerk ;  his  relations  with  Louis  Philippe 
and  his  sons ;  his  marriage  to  one  of  his 
many  "  friends  "  of  the  gentle  sex,  be- 
cause her  unmarried  presence  with  him 
at  a  state  function  was  frowned  upon  by 
the  Citizen  King ;  his  travels ;  the  semi- 
political  trip  to  Spain,  and  thence  to 
Algiers  on  a  government  ship,  of  which 
he  proceeded  to  make  use  as  if  it  were 
his  private  yacht,  to  the  scandal  of  the 
opposition  and  consequent  interpellation 
and  harassment  of  ministers ;  his  expe- 
rience as  a  landed  proprietor,  and  the 
disastrous  financial  crash  coming  close 


upon  the  construction  of  the  gorgeous 
chateau  of  Monte  Cristo  at  Saint-Ger- 
main; the  exile  at  Brussels  and  the 
"  Struggle  to  Retrieve ;  "  the  years  of 
diminishing  popularity  and  of  growing 
disappointment  and  bitterness ;  and  the 
pathetic  end.  It  is  our  purpose  to  re- 
fer to  one  or  two  questions  connected 
with  Dumas's  literary  work,  and  espe- 
cially with  that  part  of  it  in  which  Eng- 
lish and  American  readers  are  most 
deeply  interested  —  the  great  novels. 
In  the  book  before  us  more  space  is  given 
to  Dumas's  work  as  a  playwright  than 
to  his  vast  output  in  other  branches  of 
literature.  This  may  be  in  accord  with 
the  fitness  of  things ;  it  certainly  is  from 
Mr.  Davidson's  point  of  view,  —  the 
belief  that  Dumas's  influence  has  been 
greatest  in  the  sphere  of  the  drama, 
which  was  especially  his,  and  that  M. 
Sardou  justly  called  him  the  best  all- 
round  homme  de  theatre  of  his  century. 
Moreover  Dumas  began  his  career  as  a 
playwright ;  his  name  first  became 
known  to  the  world  through  his  plays; 
and  lastly,  the  instinct  of  the  drama- 
tist, the  dramatic  touch,  are  apparent 
in  the  least  as  in  the  greatest  of  his 
works:  memoirs,  notes  of  travel,  his- 
tory, fiction.  The  fact  remains,  how- 
ever, that  to  English-speaking  readers 

—  at  all  events  to  that  vast  majority 
who  are  obliged  to  rely  on  translations 

—  Dumas  is  known  through  his   novels 
alone;   and  that  for  every  one  who  has 
ever  heard  of  Henri  III.,  or  Christine, 
or  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  there  are  thou- 
sands who  can  say  with  Stevenson :  "  Yet 
a  sixth  time,  dearest  D'Artagnan,  we 
shall  kidnap  Monk  and  take  horse   to- 
gether for  Belle  Isle." 

The  great  service  for  which  we  have 
to  thank  Mr.  Davidson  is  his  lucid  and 
authoritative  exposition  of  the  facts  con- 
cerning the  degree  of  credit  due  to  Du- 
mas's collaborators  for  their  share  in 
the  various  works  published  under  his 
name.  It  may  be  said  in  the  first  place 
that  it  was  a  natural  assumption  that  no 
one  mortal  could  produce,  unassisted, 


844 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


the  enormous  mass  of  material  that  was 
given  to  the  world  under  the  name  of 
Alexandre  Dumas  in  the  twenty  years 
succeeding  1830.  (The  LeVy  edition 
contains  upwards  of  three  hundred  vol- 
umes, and  a  very  large  proportion  of  the 
works  now  included  therein  first  ap- 
peared before  1850.)  Indeed,  the  fact 
that  Dumas  had  collaborators  from  the 
very  beginning  was  no  secret;  but  the 
nature  and  extent  of  their  collaboration, 
particularly  in  the  works  of  fiction,  were 
the  subject  of  much  controversy  —  sav- 
age and  vindictive  on  the  one  side,  con- 
temptuous, yet  good-humored,  on  the 
part  of  Dumas  himself.  The  most  de- 
termined attack  upon  him  was  made  in 
1844  by  one  "Eugene  de  Mirecourt " 
(born  Jacquot),  who,  after  failing  to 
demolish  him  by  presenting  him  to  the 
Socie^  des  Gens  de  Lettres  as  an  im- 
postor and  disgrace,  published  a  pam- 
phlet full  of  personalities  and  abuse, 
under  the  catchpenny  title  of  Fabrique 
des  Romans :  Maison  Alexandre  Dumas 
et  Cie.  It  was  "spicy  enough  to  meet 
with  a  ready  sale  and  libelous  enough  to 
incur  a  fortnight's  imprisonment  for  its 
author.  ...  It  has  in  itself  no  impor- 
tance, and  neither  then  nor  since  has  in- 
fluenced any  reputable  critic."  But  its 
echoes  have  never  entirely  died  away ; 
and  even  at  the  present  day  we  some- 
times hear  it  said  that  Dumas  was  not 
the  author  of  one  tenth  of  the  books  pub- 
lished under  his  name,  but  that  he  was 
an  impostor  incapable  of  writing  any- 
thing good  himself,  and  indebted  for  all 
his  successes  to  the  brains  of  others. 
The  true  story  of  this  matter,  as  evolved 
by  Mr.  Davidson,  is  deeply  interesting, 
if  for  no  other  reason,  because  it  is  prob- 
ably without  a  parallel  in  the  history  of 
literature. 

Dealing  with  what  he  calls  "legiti- 
mate collaboration, "  with  which  alone 
we  are  concerned  in  all  those  of  Du- 
mas's  works  on  which  his  reputation 
depends  and  which  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  ordinary  reader,  Mr.  Davidson 
"There  is  no  need  to  shirk  the 


question.  Maison  Dumas  et  Cie.  — 
why  not  ?  The  fact,  if  not  this  way  of 
putting  it,  was  common  enough  in  Paris 
at  that  time.  It  was  brought  about  by 
the  insistence  of  editors,  publishers,  and 
theatrical  managers  upon  having  some 
well-known  name  with  which  to  attract 
the  public;  and  all  sophistry  apart, 
the  only  difference  between  a  commer- 
cial and  a  literary  undertaking  was, 
that  in  the  former  the  firm  might  bear 
the  name  of  one  who  took  no  active  part 
in  it,  whereas  in  the  latter  honesty  de- 
manded that  the  name  on  the  cover  of 
the  book  should  indicate  a  real  and  chief 
share  in  the  work.  To  this  condition 
the  collaboration  of  Dumas  conforms  — 
that  wonderful  infusion  of  himself  into 
others  which,  so  far  from  belittling  the 
man,  has  only  in  the  course  of  time  in- 
tensified the  greatness  of  his  individual- 
ity and  power.  .  .  .  The  various  forms 
of  collaboration  may  be  reduced  to  two 
main  classes,  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  principal  partner's  share.  ...  To 
the  second  category  belong  those  works 
in  which  Dumas  was  responsible  for  the 
subject,  and  in  this  class  come  all  the 
books  written  in  partnership  with  Ma- 
quet, "  and  more  particularly  referred  to 
below.  "In  such  cases,  after  discuss- 
ing the  plan  with  his  partner,  Dumas' s 
habit  was  to  draw  up  in  outline  a  scheme 
of  the  whole,  with  the  divisions  and  ti- 
tles of  chapters ;  then,  when  the  assist- 
ant had  filled  in  the  outline,  the  MS. 
was  handed  to  Dumas,  who  rewrote  it 
with  such  additions  and  alterations  as 
he  thought  fit."  Paul  Lacroix,  famil- 
iar to  most  book-lovers  under  the  name 
of  "  Le  Bibliophile  Jacob, "  was  one  of 
those  who  afforded  Dumas  most  assist- 
ance, ne^t  to  Maquet,  and  he  wrote  thus 
of  their  relations :  "  I  used  to  dress  his 
characters  for  him  and  locate  them  in 
the  necessary  surroundings,  whether  in 
old  Paris  or  different  parts  of  France 
at  different  periods.  When  he  was,  as 
often,  in  difficulties  on  some  matter  of 
archaeology,  he  used  to  send  one  of  his 
secretaries  to  me  to  ask  perhaps  for  an 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


845 


accurate  account  of  the  appearance  of 
the  Louvre  in  the  year  1600.  I  used 
to  revise  his  proofs,  make  corrections 
as  to  historical  points,  and  sometimes 
write  whole  chapters." 

Many  anecdotes  bear  witness  to  the 
unruffled  good  temper  with  which  Du- 
mas met  the  virulent  attacks  upon  him 
in  relation  to  this  matter.  The  critic 
Qu^rard  having  made  the  assertion  that 
one  part  of  Monte  Cristo  was  written 
by  Fiorentino  and  the  other  by  Maquet, 
Dumas,  after  demonstrating  the  facts 
of  the  case,  added:  "After  all  it  was 
so  natural  to  think  that  I  had  written 
it !  "  He  once  called  upon  a  magistrate 
of  Bourg-en-Bresse,  a  local  antiquarian 
of  some  note,  to  make  an  inquiry  con- 
cerning certain  facts  that  he  proposed 
to  work  into  one  of  his  novels.  "Ah!  " 
said  the  magistrate,  "so  you  are  going 
to  write  a  novel  yourself  this  time  ?  " 
"Yes,"  was  the  reply;  "I  hired  my 
valet  to  do  the  last  one,  but  as  it  was 
very  successful,  the  rascal  demanded 
such  an  exorbitant  increase  of  wages 
that  to  my  great  regret  I  have  had  to 
part  with  him." 

It  is  a  most  significant  fact  that  the 
relations  between  Dumas  and  his  assist- 
ants were  generally  excellent,  especially 
when  we  consider  their  number:  the 
bibliography  furnished  by  Mr.  David- 
son names  more  than  twenty,  of  whom 
about  a  third  had  some  share  in  the 
production  of  the  great  mass  of  fiction. 
Maquet  was  the  only  one  of  them  all 
with  whom  there  was  any  falling  out, 
and  the  breach  with  him  was  of  pecu- 
niary rather  than  literary  origin.  Ma- 
quet stands  upon  an  entirely  different 
footing  from  the  rest;  and  his  relations 
with  Dumas  demand  a  few  words  of 
more  detailed  explanation.  He  was 
originally  a  lecturer  at  the  College 
Charlemagne,  but  for  a  number  of  years 
had  been  known  as  a  writer  of  stories 
and  verses  when,  in  1839,  his  associ- 
ation with  Dumas  began,  through  as- 
sistance furnished  by  the  latter  in  the 
construction  of  a  drama.  Dumas,  then 


known  almost  exclusively  as  a  play- 
wright, had  begun  to  cherish  the  idea 
of  popularizing  French  history,  which 
he  had  had  occasion  to  dip  into  more  or 
less  in  connection  with  certain  of  his 
dramas.  Ambitious  to  do  for  the  his- 
tory of  his  country  what  Scott  had  re- 
cently done  for  the  history  of  Scotland, 
he  needed  some  one  to  look  after  the 
costumes  and  scenery.  It  happened 
that  Maquet  had  written  a  short  story 
called  Jean  Buvat,  dealing  with  the 
Cellamare  conspiracy  against  the  Re- 
gent d'Orle'ans.  As  he  had  been  un- 
able to  dispose  of  it,  he  carried  it  to 
Dumas  (1843),  who  expanded  it  into  a 
long  romance,  renamed  it  Le  Chevalier 
d'Harmental,  and  secured  for  it  the 
feuilleton  space  in  Le  Siecle,  paying 
Maquet  twelve  hundred  francs  for  his 
share,  in  place  of  the  hundred  francs  he 
had  tried  vainly  to  obtain.  So  began 
this  most  notable  of  literary  partner- 
ships. Maquet  was  grateful;  he  was 
a  student  of  history,  "an  unwearied 
rummager  of  documents ;  "  and  for  the 
next  ten  years  the  two  worked  together 
in  p'erfect  harmony,  the  result  of  their 
collaboration  being  the  whole  collection 
of  historical  romances  by  which  Dumas 
is  best  known  to  us:  the  D'Artagnan 
series,  the  Valois  series,  the  Revolution 
series  (except  La  Comtesse  de  Charny, 
which  was  written  after  their  rupture), 
and  Monte  Cristo;  to  say  nothing  of 
other  less  known  books.  During  their 
association  they  were  never  far  apart, 
and  "  between  the  two  a  ceaseless  stream 
of  messengers  came  and  went,  bearing 
copy.  In  the  course  of  time  this  fidus 
Achates  developed  powers  of  invention 
and  description  which  made  him  far 
more  than  the  mere  searcher-out  of  facts 
he  was  at  the  outset.  ...  Yet  never 
till  the  breach  between  them  came  did 
he  claim  a  position  of  equality.  .  .  . 
Bankruptcy  is  a  terrible  solvent  of 
friendship ;  and  when  Maquet,  to  whom 
considerable  arrears  of  salary  were  due, 
found  himself  in  the  position  of  an  or- 
dinary creditor  and  entitled  only  to 


846 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


twenty-five  per  cent,  which  the  other 
creditors  had  agreed  to  accept,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  assert  his 
right  to  be  joint-author  instead  of  mere 
collaborator,  a  right  which  would  in- 
volve the  appearance  of  his  name  with 
that  of  Dumas  on  the  novels  they  had 
written  together,  and  an  equal  share  in 
any  profits  arising  from  these  books. 
Twice  the  case  came  before  the  courts. 
...  In  both  cases  Maquet's  claim  was 
disallowed,  though  his  share  in  the  pro- 
duction of  eighteen  works  was  recog- 
nized; and  with  this  barren  honor  he 
had  to  be  content.  The  legal  proceed- 
ings add  nothing  to  what  has  already 
been  said  on  the  nature  of  the  collabo- 
ration, but  they  leave  us  convinced  of 
two  things :  first,  that,  as  a  matter  of 
equity,  Maquet  ought  to  have  been  de- 
scribed as  co  -  author ;  and  secondly, 
that,  as  a  matter  of  literature,  he  was 
not  the  essential  author.  Dumas  with- 
out Maquet  would  have  been  Dumas ; 
what  would  Maquet  have  been  without 
Dumas  ?  "  To  illustrate  this  point  we 
have  an  anecdote  concerning  Ange  Pitou 
(1853),  the  last  book  in  which  Maquet 
had  any  share.  "  Maquet  had  been  mak- 
ing researches  at  the  library  and  came 
to  Dumas  with  a  mass  of  information 
about  the  hero,  who  was  to  be  traced 
back  to  Louis  Pithon,  one  of  the  authors 
of  La  Satire  Menippe'e.  .  .  .  Dumas 
thereupon  made  an  agreement  with  Le 
Constitutionnel  for  the  story,  receiving 
an  installment  of  the  money  in  advance. 
As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  a  disagree- 
ment with  Maquet  —  the  beginning  of 
their  quarrel  —  supervened.  Dumas, 
bound  by  contract  to  supply  Le  Consti- 
tutionnel, had  no  time  to  look  up  the 
antecedents  of  Ange  Pitou,  and  for  that 
matter  he  did  not  know  where  to  look. 
And  so,  like  a  brave  man,  he  cut  the 
difficulty  by  constructing  a  Pitou  whose 
early  years  were  passed  in  Villers-Cot- 
terets,  and  whose  early  experiences  were 
those  of  Alexandre  Dumas !  So  little 
in  reality  did  he,  except  as  a  luxury, 
depend  on  the  help  of  others." 


On  this  whole  subject,  we  may,  with 
Mr.  Davidson,  leave  the  last  word  with 
M.  Blaze  de  Bury,  whose  book  on  Du- 
mas (Sa  Vie,  Son  Temps,  Son  CEuvre, 
Paris,  1885)  is  more  comprehensive  than 
any  other  French  work,  and  who  knew 
more  about  the  subject  than  most  peo- 
ple. He  says:  "Dumas  in  a  way  col- 
laborated with  every  one.  From  an 
anecdote  he  made  a  story,  from  a  story 
he  made  a  romance,  from  a  romance  he 
made  a  drama;  and  he  never  let  go  an 
idea  until  he  had  extracted  from  it 
everything  that  it  could  yield  him. 
Admit  —  as  the  critics  will  have  it  — 
his  collaboration, plagiarism,  imitation: 
he  possessed  himself  what  no  one  could 
give  him ;  and  this  we  know  because  we 
have  seen  what  his  assistants  did  when 
they  were  working  on  their  own  account 
and  separately  from  him." 

In  connection  with  what  Mr.  David- 
son calls  a  "reasoned  re'sume'  "  of  all 
the  more  familiar  stories,  he  discusses 
another  much  vexed  question,  to  wit,  the 
historical  value  of  Dumas 's  "histori- 
cal romances."  In  the  judgment  of  one 
who  had  occasion  several  years  ago  to 
investigate  this  subject  with  some  care, 
the  conclusions  arrived  at  are  eminently 
fair ;  if  they  err  at  all,  it  is  in  claiming 
too  little  rather  than  too  much.  "Let 
us  grant  at  once  to  the  author  of  dra- 
matic historical  romance  the  privilege 
of  regulating  facts  and  marshaling  them 
for  effect.  Otherwise  how  can  he  real- 
ize that  famous  ideal  which  Dumas  set 
before  himself,  of  '  elevating  history  to 
the  dignity  of  romance  '  ?  '  Inaccura- 
cies, '  then,  or  '  elevations  '  —  many 
such  may  be  discovered,  .  .  .  yet  these, 
and  some  '  extra-historical '  incidents, 
are  but  the  acknowledged  licenses  of 
fiction,  with  which  none  but  a  pedant 
will  quarrel.  The  more  important  ques- 
tion is :  What  impression  of  the  main 
characters  and  events  of  French  history 
will  these  romances  leave  on  a  reader 
who  knows  French  history  only  through 
them  ?  Will  such  a  one  on  the  whole 
see  right?  Doubtless,  yes.  About  the 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


847 


course  of  religious  strife,  of  domestic 
intrigue,  of  foreign  policy,  he  will  gather 
little  which  serious  history  would  have 
him  unlearn.  And  as  to  the  persons  of 
the  drama,  admit  that  their  characters 
are  modeled  on  the  traditional  and  pop- 
ular view ;  it  is  always  possible  that  this 
view,  formed  at  or  near  the  time  itself, 
may  be  the  truest.  .  .  .  For  Dumas  it 
has  to  be  said  that  whenever  he  touches 
history  —  in  novels,  plays,  or  studies 
—  he  has  the  true  historical  instinct; 
without  either  faculty  or  inclination  for 
the  drudgery  of  analysis,  he  somehow 
arrives  at  a  synthesis  quite  as  convin- 
cing as  any  that  can  be  reached  by  the 
most  minute  methods."  In  some  of  the 
less  well  -  known  works,  for  instance 
Olympe  de  Cleves  (temp.  Louis  XV.), 
which  Mr.  Henley  calls  a  masterpiece 
of  fiction,  and  in  which  Dumas  had  the 
valuable  help  of  Lacroix,  this  truth  is 
quite  as  apparent  as  in  the  more  famil- 
iar ones.  In  this  one  respect  the  his- 
torical romances  of  Dumas  are  superior, 
if  that  be  the  proper  word,  to  the  Wa- 
verley  Novels,  but  for  which  the  former 
would  probably  not  have  been  written. 
Every  reader  may  determine  for  him- 
self the  measure  of  Dumas 's  great  in- 
debtedness to  Scott  in  this  and  other 
respects.  Mr.  Davidson's  parallel  be- 
tween the  two  is  drawn  with  skill,  but 
we  must  confine  our  excerpts  to  one  epi- 
grammatic sentence :  "  Scott  wooed  the 
Muse  of  History  as  a  sedate  and  cour- 
teous lover ;  Dumas  chucked  her  under 
the  chin  and  took  her  out  for  a  jaunt." 
This,  by  the  way,  recalls  another  equal- 
ly happy  comparison,  drawn  in  connec- 
tion with  an  entirely  distinct  subject  of 
discussion.  "Monte  Cristo  resumes  and 
sublimates  Dumas  the  conteur,  and  Ed- 
na ond  Dantes  is  the  ideal  Dumas.  In 
some  respects  the  idol  is  close  to  the 
real.  Type  and  anti-type,  the  one  is 
an  ardent  lover,  so  is  the  other;  the 
first,  with  his  jewels  and  fine  clothes, 
is  not  a  little  vain,  so  is  the  second; 
both  have  traveled  the  wide  world  over, 
and  read  or  learned  about  all  things. 


Dantes  has  usurped  the  functions  of 
Providence,  Dumas  is  not  averse  from 
that  role  —  a  prophet,  if  only  the  rul- 
ers would  listen  to  him ;  Dantes  has  be- 
come a  millionaire,  Dumas  was  at  one 
time  on  that  way;  Dantes  flings  his 
money  broadcast,  Dumas  does  likewise ; 
Dantes  discharges  his  debts  and  even 
those  of  others,  Dumas  —  well,  every 
analogy  must  break  down  somewhere." 
It  may  be  noted  here  that  the  most  en- 
thralling part  of  the  story  of  Monte 
Cristo,  that  is  to  say,  the  beginning, 
including  the  escape  from  the  Chateau 
d'lf,  was  an  afterthought,  prefixed  to 
a  story  of  which  the  middle  and  the  end 
had  already  been  outlined. 

In  his  final  chapter,  The  Real  Dumas 
and  Others,  Mr.  Davidson  discusses  the 
many-sided  character  of  Dumas  with 
absolute  fairness  and  impartiality,  not 
as  an  advocate,  but  as  a  just  judge,  giv- 
ing due  weight  to  his  many  and  glaring 
faults,  but  seeking,  and  it  seems  to  us 
with  success,  to  defend  him  from  the 
exaggerated  and  unjust  aspersions  which 
would  make  of  him  not  only  a  monster 
of  dishonesty  and  hypocrisy  in  letters, 
but  of  the  grossest  immorality,  if  not 
of  downright  wickedness,  in  his  private 
life.  Here  again  each  reader  must  be 
left  to  form  his  own  judgment ;  we  ven- 
ture to  quote  an  additional  sentence  or 
two  upon  the  general  subject  of  Du- 
mas's  moral  standing  in  literature,  to 
show  the  author's  method  of  treatment. 
"Dumas  has  survived  the  excess  both 
of  eulogy  and  of  abuse.  What  is  more, 
he  has  survived  the  purposed  slight  of 
those  who  ignore  him  when  discussing 
French  literature  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, and  the  polite  condescension  of 
those  who  consider  him  as  a  meritorious 
amuser  of  children.  The  condescend- 
ers,  it  must  be  said,  have  no  alarming 
altitude  from  which  to  climb  down; 
they  are  mostly  men  who  from  lack  of 
the  creative  faculty  make  much  of  the 
critical,  and  no  one  is  simpler  to  criti- 
cise than  Dumas.  To  such  minds  his 
fecundity,  his  ease,  and  his  rapidity  are 


848 


The  Elder  Dumas. 


an  offense.  The  man  of  one  labored 
book  cannot  forgive  the  man  of  a  facile 
hundred.  .  .  .  Therefore  the  literary 
crimes  of  Dumas  have  been  paraded, 
some  of  them  inconsistent  with  others. 
It  is  said  that  he  was  neither  original 
nor  justly  unoriginal ;  that  he  was  care- 
less and  unscrupulous  about  facts  and 
utterly  deficient  in  style ;  that  he  wrote 
too  much,  and  was  a  reckless  and  lucky 
improviser;  that  he  wrote  nothing  and 
lived  by  the  sweat  of  other  men's  brows ; 
that  he  degraded  literature  to  the  posi- 
tion of  a  dubious  though  profitable  com- 
merce; that  by  sheer  force  of  swagger 
he  imposed  himself  upon  his  fellow  crea- 
tures; and  much  else.  .  .  .  But,  in 
truth,  any  views  of  him  which  imply 
design  or  deliberation  are  false  and  ri- 
diculous. .  .  .  Dumas  had  no  style,  it 
is  said ;  and  certainly,  if  by  *  style  '  be 
meant  that  body  of  mannerisms  which 
one  author  affects  in  order  to  distinguish 
himself  from  others,  he  has  nothing  of 
the  sort."  The  truth  of  this  last  state- 
ment will  be  readily  apparent  to  one 
who  considers  how  much  less  Dumas 
suffers  by  translation  than  Balzac,  Dau- 
det,  and  others,  who  have  such  distin- 
guishing mannerisms  in  a  greater  or 
less  degree,  whether  affected  or  not. 
Although  there  has  been  no  English  ver- 
sion of  the  more  famous  romances  near- 
ly so  adequate,  from  a  literary  stand- 
point, as  those  of  some  volumes  of  the 
Come'die  Humaine  and  of  some  of  Dau- 
det's  masterpieces  of  literary  art,  the 
result  of  a  comparison  with  the  original 
is  much  less  satisfactory  with  respect  to 
the  last  two.  This  is  due,  doubtless, 
not  only  to  the  absence  of  a  distinctive 
"style,"  but  to  what  Mr.  Davidson 
characterizes  as  "  the  one  true  and  seri- 
ous reproach  against  his  work,"  that 
"it  seldom  indicated  thought  in  the 
writer  and  hardly  ever  provokes  thought 
in  the  reader.  .  .  .  '  He  makes  us,  *  as 
some  one  said,  *  turn  over  the  pages, 
but  he  never  makes  us  meditate.'  .  .  . 
What  he  did  was  to  absorb  such  lines 
of  thought  as  were  in  the  air  around 


him,  and  to  put  them  —  either  by  rais- 
ing or  by  lowering  —  on  the  exact  level 
of  popular  appreciation.  He  did  this 
in  his  dramas,  he  did  it  notably  in  his 
historical  novels ;  and  he  did  it  always 
in  a  way  of  his  own,  by  feeling  rather 
than  by  understanding." 

With  all  his  limitations  (Mr.  David- 
son justly  denies  him  the  epithet  of 
"great,"  but  attributes  to  him  genius, 
in  the  sense  of  "  the  possession  and  use 
of  natural  gifts  "),  Dumas  has  for  two 
generations  maintained  an  honorable 
place  among  the  authors  most  popular 
with  English  and  American  readers; 
nor  are  his  admirers  confined  to  the  rank 
and  file  only,  for  no  one  has  ever  been 
more  sanely  enthusiastic  in  his  praise 
than  have  two  of  these  men  whom  most 
of  us  delight  to  honor.  "If  I  am  to 
choose  virtues  for  myself 'or  my  friends, " 
said  Stevenson,  "let  me  choose  the  vir- 
tues of  D'Artagnan.  I  do  not  say  that 
there  is  no  character  as  well  drawn  in 
Shakespeare ;  I  do  say  that  there  is  none 
that  I  love  so  wholly.  .  .  .  No  part  of 
the  world  has  ever  seemed  to  me  so 
charming  as  these  pages ;  and  not  even 
my  friends  are  quite  so  real,  perhaps 
quite  so  dear,  as  D'Artagnan."  The 
humblest  of  us  need  not  be  ashamed  to 
confess  our  liking  for  the  creator  of  a 
character  of  whom  this  was  said,  even 
though  the  facts  that  lie  at  the  basis  of 
the  story  were  gathered  by  Maquet  from 
the  Me'moires  d'Artagnan  by  Courtils 
de  Sandras,  which,  by  the  way,  have 
recently  been  translated  into  English 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  may  desire 
to  know  how  much  Dumas  borrowed 
from  them.  But  if  Stevenson's  sanc- 
tion be  insufficient  for  our  justification, 
let  us  turn  to  that  one  of  the  Round- 
about Papers  (On  a  Lazy  Idle  Boy)  in 
which  Thackeray  tells  of  a  visit  to  Chur 
in  the  Grisons,  and  of  a  boy  whom  he 
fell  in  with  on  one  of  his  walks,  so  ab- 
sorbed in  a  book  he  was  reading  as 
to  be  utterly  oblivious  to  aught  else. 

1  Gossip  upon  a  novel  of  Dumas  (Le  Vicomte 
de  Bragelonne). 


Higginson's  Longfellow. 


849 


"  What  was  it  that  fascinated  the  young 
student  as  he  stood  by  the  river  shore  ? 
Not  the  Pons  Asinorum.  What  book 
so  delighted  him,  and  blinded  him  to 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  .  .  .  Do  you 
suppose  it  was  Livy,  or  the  Greek  gram- 
mar ?  No ;  it  was  a  novel  that  you  were 
reading,  you  lazy,  not  very  clean,  good- 
f or  -  nothing,  sensible  boy !  It  was 
D'Artagnan  locking  up  General  Monk 
in  a  box,,  or  almost  succeeding  in  keeping 
Charles  the  First's  head  on.  It  was  the 
prisoner  of  the  Chateau  d'lf,  cutting 
himself  out  of  the  sack  fifty  feet  under 
water  (I  mention  the  novels  I  like  best 
myself  —  novels  without  love  or  talking, 
or  any  of  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  con- 
taining plenty  of  fighting,  escaping, 
robbery,  and  rescuing)  —  cutting  him- 
self out  of  the  sack  and  swimming  to  the 


island  of  Monte  Cristo !  O  Dumas !  O 
thou  brave,  kind,  gallant  old  Alexandre ! 
I  hereby  offer  thee  homage  and  give  thee 
thanks  for  many  pleasant  hours.  I  have 
read  thee  for  thirteen  hours  of  a  happy 
day,  and  had  the  ladies  of  the  house 
fighting  for  the  volumes." 

But  all  this  is  by  the  way;  most  of 
us  have  read  and  enjoyed  Les  Trois 
Mousquetaires  and  La  Heine  Margot 
without  knowing  or  caring  what  others 
thought  of  them.  We  repeat  that  the 
greatest  service  Mr.  Davidson  has  ren- 
dered by  his  book  is  the  dispelling  of 
that  vague  feeling  of  uncertainty  as  to 
whether  our  interest  and  emotion  are 
aroused  and  rearoused  by  the  pen  of 
some  nameless,  hired  writer,  or  by  the 
fertile  imagination  of  the  "immortal 
quadroon  "  himself. 

George  B.  Ives. 


HIGGINSON'S  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  most  noteworthy  feature  in  Colo- 
nel Higginson's  recently  published  life 
of  Longfellow  is  the  presentation  of  a 
considerable  amount  of  fresh  biographi- 
cal material.  The  first  of  these  new 
contributions  consists  in  extracts  from 
the  manuscript  correspondence  of  Mary 
Potter  Longfellow.  With  this  aid  he 
has  drawn  a  most  attractive  picture  of 
the  wife  of  the  poet's  youth.  The  slen- 
der library  of  "selections  of  elegant 
poems  from  the  best  authors  "  with  their 
pathetic  marked  passages,  and  the  letters 
full  of  unaffected  delight  in  the  sights  of 
Europe  and  of  amiable  criticism  of  the 
people  she  met,  produce  the  impression 
of  a  charming  personality,  to  which  Colo- 
nel Higginson  has  now  for  the  first  time 
given  due  importance  among  the  influ- 
ences on  Longfellow's  early  manhood. 
The  letters,  .too,  have  occasionally  an 
interest  beyond  the  biographical.  Thus, 

1  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  By  THOMAS 
WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON.     [American  Men  of 
VOL.  xc.  —  NO.  542.  54 


writing  from  London  to  her  mother  in 
1835,  she  says:  "Mr.  Carlyle  of  Craig- 
enputtock  was  soon  after  announced,  and 
passed  an  half  hour  with  us  much  to  our 
delight.  He  has  very  unpolished  man- 
ners, and  broad  Scottish  accent,  but  such 
fine  language  and  beautiful  thoughts 
that  it  is  truly  delightful  to  listen  to 
him.  Perhaps  you  have  read  some  of 
his  articles  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
He  invited  us  to  take  tea  with  him  at 
Chelsea,  where  they  now  reside.  We 
were  as  much  charmed  with  Mrs.  C[ar- 
lyle]  as  with  her  husband.  She  is  a  love- 
ly woman,  with  very  simple  and  pleas- 
ing manners.  She  is  also  very  talented 
and  accomplished,  and  how  delightful  it 
is  to  see  such  modesty  combined  with 
such  power  to  please."  Again,  "Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Carlyle  have  more  genuine 
worth  and  talent  than  half  the  nobility 
in  London.  Mr.  Carlyle' s  literary  fame 

Letters.]  Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1902. 


850 


Higginsorfs  Longfellow. 


is  very  high,  and  she  is  a  very  talented 
woman  —  but  they  are  people  after  my 
own  heart  —  not  the  least  pretension 
about  them."  Such  comment  throws  as 
pleasant  a  light  on  the  Longfellows  as 
on  the  Carlyles,  and  not  every  visitor 
to  Chelsea  has  recorded  his  impressions 
so  frankly  and  come  off  with  impunity. 

The  second  source  of  the  new  mate- 
rial is  the  Harvard  College  Papers  in 
the  University  Library.  From  these 
Mr.  Higginson  is  able  to  throw  light 
upon  the  academic  side  of  the  poet's  ca- 
reer. It  appears  that  he  had  to  fight 
for  his  department  against  the  tyranny 
of  the  classics,  that  he  was  an  early  ad- 
vocate of  the  elective  system,  and  that 
in  money  matters  he  found  the  corpora- 
tion more  impressed  with  the  necessity 
of  economizing  the  college  funds  than 
with  the  beauty  of  generosity  to  its 
teachers.  So  we  learn  that  things  were 
not  all  so  very  different  sixty  years  ago. 
The  biographer's  personal  experience 
enables  him  to  give  a  pleasant  picture 
of  his  former  teacher's  courtesy  and 
skill  in  the  classroom.  On  the  whole, 
this  section  of  the  book  is  perhaps  the 
most  valuable. 

Less  convincing  is  the  endeavor  to 
show  by  extracts  from  Longfellow's  ear- 
lier writings  "the  origin  and  growth  of 
his  lifelong  desire  to  employ  American 
material  and  to  help  the  creation  of  a 
native  literature."  But  the  undergrad- 
uate dialogue  on  Indians  and  the  Com- 
mencement Oration  on  Our  Native  Writ- 
ers, though  they  are  indications  of  nat- 
ural youthful  interests,  even  when  taken 
in  connection  with  Hiawatha  and  Evan- 
geline,  hardly  suffice  to  prove  that  Amer- 
ican nationalism  was  either  the  main 
aim  or  a  prevailing  characteristic  of 
Longfellow's  literary  production.  Nei- 
ther the  Indian  nor  the  French  Acadian 
is  a  serious  factor  in  American  civiliza- 
tion, and,  as  far  as  national  feeling  is 
concerned,  Hiawatha  and  Evangeline 
might  have  been  written  by  any  Eng- 
lish-speaking poet.  Nor  do  the  slavery 
poems,  or  those  touched  with  local  color 


or  politics,  prove  Colonel  Higginson 's 
point.  Americanism  in  the  sense  in 
which  we  apply  the  word  to  Bret  Harte 
or  Mark  Twain,  or  in  which  Mr.  Kipling 
defines  it  in  An  American,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  Longfellow,  even  in  germ.  He 
shows  no  consciousness  of  its  existence, 
and  consequently  no  effort  to  express  it. 
Colonel  Higginson  himself  quotes  from 
one  of  the  poet's  letters  these  words: 
"A  national  literature  is  the  expression 
of  national  character  and  thought ;  and 
as  our  character  and  modes  of  thought 
do  not  differ  essentially  from  those  of 
England,  our  literature  cannot."  Long- 
fellow may  not  have  foreseen  how  the 
two  nations  were  to  diverge,  but  he  was 
acute  enough  to  recognize  that  it  was 
absurd  to  seek  to  build  up,  in  the  phrase 
and  spirit  of  "the  prospectus  of  a  new 
magazine  in  Philadelphia, "  "a  national 
literature  worthy  of  the  country  of  Ni- 
agara —  of  the  land  of  forests  and 
eagles." 

In  other  words,  the  position  taken 
by  Mr.  Wendell  in  his  Literary  History 
of  America  is  not  seriously  threatened 
by  the  new  collection  of  evidence  in  the 
volume  under  review.  Longfellow  was 
a  man  of  letters,  and  as  a  poet  derived 
his  chief  inspiration,  not  from  forests 
and  eagles,  but  from  the  literature  and 
art  of  Europe.  These  possessed  his 
imagination,  and,  whatever  his  osten- 
sible theme,  it  was  in  the  European 
spirit  that  he  treated  it.  And  it  is  no 
minimizing  of  his  service  to  his  contem- 
poraries to  say  that  it  mainly  consisted 
in  opening  to  them  the  treasures  of  Con- 
tinental literary  tradition,  —  a  tradi- 
tion of  which  he  had  a  finer  appreciation 
than  any  American  had  yet  attained.  In 
this  aspect  the  professor  and  the  poet 
are  one. 

Colonel  Higginson  thinks  that  "up 
to  the  present  moment  no  serious  visible 
reaction  has  occurred  in  the  case  of 
Longfellow."  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
his  faith  will  not  be  universally  shared. 
Only  his  own  closeness  to  his  subject 
explains  how  he  can  fail  to  be  aware 


Higginson's  Longfellow. 


851 


of  the  attitude  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion toward  the  poetry  of  Longfellow. 
Whether  the  reaction  is  justified  is  an- 
other matter,  but  reaction  there  surely 
The  numerical  test  of  which  Colo- 


is. 


nel  Higginson  gives  some  interesting 
instances  will  probably  still  hold  both 
here  and  abroad,  but  if  the  figures  could 
be  gathered  from  the  literary  class  the  re- 
sult would  assuredly  be  different.  This 
is  easy  enough  to  understand.  Longfel- 
low, though  rich  in  allusion,  was  never 
precious,  never  eccentric,  never  obscure, 
and  those  who  sniff  at  him  to-day  are 
apt  to  be  enamored  of  just  those  quali- 
ties. American  poets  of  the  rising  gen- 
eration are  in  general  no  more  spon- 
taneous, no  more  free  from  tradition  in 
phrase  and  figure  than  he  was,  but  they 
are  often  affected  and  usually  difficult 
to  understand.  If  this  be  distinction, 
Longfellow  had  none  of  it.  He  was  al- 
ways simple  in  thought  and  expression, 
always  healthy,  always  sincere,  always 
well  bred.  He  uttered  clearly  and  me- 
lodiously the  old  inherited  wisdom,  and 
if,  as  Colonel  Higginson  says,  "he  will 
never  be  read  for  the  profoundest  stir- 
ring, or  for  the  unlocking  of  the  deep- 
est mysteries,  he  will  always  be  read  for 
invigoration,  for  comfort,  for  content." 
He  had  quiet  humor,  gentle  pathos,  the 
power  of  telling  a  story  and  of  suggest- 
ing an  atmosphere,  and  these  may  well 
suffice  to  maintain  for  him  an  audience 
that  does  not  demand  the  originality 
and  profundity  of  the  great  old  masters, 
or  the  subtlety  and  complexity  of  the 
little  new  ones. 

The  danger  which  an  author  incurs 
from  the  lack  of  a  clear  conception  of 
his  probable  public  is  particularly  great 
in  the  case  of  short  biographies  such 
as  those  in  the  series  to  which  the  pre- 
sent volume  belongs.  In  the  large  of- 
ficial "life,"  no  matters  of  fact  deal- 
ing with  the  immediate  subject  are  taken 
for  granted ;  in  the  appreciative  essay, 
all  such  are  merely  alluded  to  or  as- 
sumed altogether.  But  in  a  book  of  the 
present  type,  the  ideal  is  to  supply  all 


the  essential  facts  likely  to  be  required 
by  the  outsider,  yet  to  do  this  so  freshly 
and  succinctly  as  not  to  tire  those  who 
are  familiar  with  them,  and  to  leave 
space  for  individual  criticism  and  a  per- 
sonal estimate. 

Colonel  Higginson,  in  spite  of  his  in- 
terest in  the  literature  of  the  day,  has 
found  it  hard  to  realize  what  a  new  gen- 
eration may  not  know  about  Longfellow, 
and  he  has  been  acutely  conscious  of  how 
much  his  own  neighbors  and  contempo- 
raries do  know.  He  has  consequently 
at  times  failed  to  relate  things  which 
the  intelligent  reader  of  another  place 
or  generation  might  fairly  expect  to  be 
told;  and  he  has  sought,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  interest  those  who  have  inher- 
ited the  Cambridge  tradition  by  glean- 
ing material  not  hitherto  presented. 
From  this  spring  both  the  defects  and 
the  value  of  his  book. 

The  value  has  already  been  indicated 
in  what  has  been  said  of  the  new  contri- 
butions. One  or  two  illustrations  will 
show  the  nature  of  the  defects.  No- 
where in  the  volume  does  the  author 
mention  Longfellow's  religious  affilia- 
tion. Now  this  is  not  merely  a  matter 
of  curiosity;  for  Longfellow's  Unitari- 
anism  is  an  important  fact  in  the  light 
of  his  consistently  cheerful  faith  in  hu- 
man nature,  and  of  the  absence  of  black 
shadows  in  his  picture  of  human  life. 
Further,  we  are  told  of  his  friendship 
with  Emerson,  but  the  nature  and  ex- 
tent of  his  relations  to  the  Transcen- 
dental movement  are  left  unexplained. 
Doubtless  every  one  on  Brattle  Street 
knows,  but  Colonel  Higginson' s  audi- 
ence has  no  such  narrow  limits,  and  it 
is  conceivable  that  there  are  readers  who 
need  to  be  told. 

Again,  although  there  are  novelty  and 
value  in  what  is  said  about  the  period 
during  which  Longfellow  held  the  Smith 
Professorship  of  Modern  Languages  and 
Belles-Lettres,  the  significance  and  in- 
fluence of  that  chair  are  not  touched 
upon.  Yet,  outside  of  Harvard  circles, 
there  must  be  many  who  do  not  know 


852 


Books  New  and  Old. 


that  in  that  position  Ticknor,  followed 
by  Longfellow  and  Lowell,  began  the 
study  of  the  literature  of  modern  Con- 
tinental Europe  in  American  colleges. 
The  relation  of  this  fact  to  the  influence 
of  Longfellow's  literary  work  on  the 
country  at  large  needs  only  to  be  sug- 
gested. 

In  his  final  summing  up,  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson  is  admirably  quiet  and  re- 
strained. He  gives  full  credit  to  Long- 
fellow for  the  qualities  which  are  fairly 
his,  and  he  is  justly  enthusiastic  over 
his  blameless  character  and  the  charm 
of  his  personality.  Of  these  he  can 


speak  with  authority,  and  his  presenta- 
tion of  them  is  marked  by  the  assurance 
that  comes  from  first  -  hand  acquain- 
tance. Probably  no  one  will  ever  give 
us  a  knowledge  of  Longfellow  intimate 
as  our  knowledge  of  some  poets  is  inti- 
mate, for  the  absence  of  passion  in  him 
prevented  that  laying  open  of  the 
springs  of  feeling  to  which  we  owe  the 
fact  that  we  know  some  great  men  as 
we  know  ourselves.  But  to  the  ex- 
ternal portraiture,  which  is  all  we  get 
of  more  reserved  natures,  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson  has  made  a  contribution  of  sub- 
stantial value. 

William  Allan  Neilson. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


CLEVERNESS. 


I. 


IT  is  impossible  to  give  any  sort  of 
attention  to  the  passing  show  of  fiction 
without  being  struck  and  struck  again 
with  the  extreme  cleverness  of  the  per- 
formance. This  suggests  the  fact  that 
the  quality  of  popular  literature  is  bound 
to  reflect  the  quality  in  life  which  is 
most  desired  by  the  people.  Never  has 
the  race  more  sharply  enjoyed  its  sports- 
manship. Even  the  stout  Anglo-Saxon, 
though  he  takes  satisfaction  in  the  ex- 
istence of  an  ethical  standard,  finds  his 
recreation  in  spectacles  of  adroitness. 
The  sleight-of-hand  and  aplomb  of  the 
wheat  operator  makes  the  American 
breathe  hard,  and  the  Briton  smiles 
outright  over  the  triumphant  ruses  of 
the  diplomat.  Naturally,  therefore,  the 
public  is  not  going  to  put  up  with  any 
kind  of  dullness  or  clumsiness  in  art, 
and,  by  the  only  step  that  remains  to 
be  taken,  is  ready  to  put  up  with  almost 
any  kind  of  cleverness.  What  it  really 
enjoys  is  a  certain  brilliancy,  sometimes 
of  a  smooth  workmanship  which  it  does 


not  perceive  to  be  simply  imitative,  and 
sometimes  of  a  dashing  irregularity 
which  it  takes  for  a  sign  of  genius : 
not  to  say  that  this  public  has  any  con- 
cern with  empirical  exercises  of  the 
pen.  The  issue  of  style,  the  cry  of  art 
for  art's  sake,  has  never  been  generally 
listened  to  in  England  or  America. 
We  are  too  practical  and  straightfor- 
ward for  that.  We  do  not  require  quite 
everything  to  be  written  in  dialect,  but 
we  have  a  liking  for  English  which  is 
not  ashamed  to  own  kinship  with  the 
vernacular.  The  cleverness  of  the  styl- 
ist or  of  the  coterie  has  little  attraction 
and  no  danger  for  us,  therefore.  Ac- 
cording to  our  several  degrees,  we  nod 
over  our  Paters  or  wonder  over  our 
Maeterlincks,  and  pass  on  to  matters 
which  interest  us. 

The  public  can,  to  be  sure,  feel  no  per- 
fectly justifiable  pride  in  the  alternative 
choice,  whether  it  happens  to  fall  upon 
imitative  cleverness  or  "freak  "  clever- 
ness. Why  should  the  affectations  of 
a  Hewlett  be  creditable  simply  because 
of  their  archaic  flavor  ?  And  why  should 


Books  New  and  Old. 


853 


the  hysterical  confidences  of  a  morbid 
precocity  have  recently  gained  our  seri- 
ous attention  simply  because  they  were 
cleverly  "made  up  "  ?  Is  this  to  be  our 
conception  of  originality,  that  a  man 
shall  say  things  queerly,  or  a  woman  say 
queer  things?  Surely  if  the  choosing 
of  bizarre  phrases  or  the  employment 
of  such  literary  motifs  as  the  toothbrush 
are  to  be  treated  as  manifestations  of 
genius,  the  critic  cannot  do  better  than 
betake  himself  once  more  to  the  amiable 
consideration  of  Shakespeare  and  the 
musical  glasses. 

We  have  in  America  a  special  suscep- 
tibility to  any  unusual  sort  of  clever- 
ness, a  fondness  for  surprise,  based,  it 
may  be,  upon  a  sense  (which  underlies 
our  agreeable  theory  of  his  capability) 
of  the  essential  commonplaceness  of  the 
average  man.  We  like  to  think  of 
Lincoln  as  a  rail- splitter  whom  Fate, 
in  a  spirit  of  bravado,  deputed  to  illus- 
trate the  futility  of  the  old  monarchic 
idea.  We  do  not,  however,  hold  the 
theory  that  every  rail-splitter  possesses 
the  genius  which  clearly  belonged  to 
Lincoln ;  and  we  compromise  by  dwell- 
ing upon  the  infinite  cleverness  of  the 
man,  —  a  quality  more  comprehensi- 
ble because  capable  of  development  by 
outward  circumstance,  but  a  quality 
quite  apart  from  his  genius.  This  is 
not  good  for  us.  We  need  especially 
to  cultivate  the  habit  of  contemplating 
the  supreme  expression  of  personality 
in  life  and  art  which  is  the  product  of 
genuine  inspiration.  If  that  product 
is  not  to  be  achieved  even  by  means  of 
"an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains, " 
it  is  obviously  unattainable  by  any  ef- 
fort of  irresponsible  cleverness.  Since 
we  cannot  satisfy  ourselves  with  the 
idea  of  literature  at  its  best  as  a  com- 
modity prepared  by  conscientious  labor, 
we  ought  not,  either,  to  let  ourselves 
look  upon  it  as  a  kind  of  sublimated 
Yankee  notion. 

1  In  the  Fog.  By  RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS. 
New  York  :  R.  H.  Russell.  1902. 


II. 

Imitative  cleverness  on  both  sides  of 
the  water  continues  to  find  a  favorite 
model  in  the  work  of  Louis  Stevenson. 
One  of  Mr.  Davis 's  recent  stories  J  is 
worthy  of  a  place  in  The  New  Arabian 
Nights,  and  Mr.  Morrison's  spirited 
tale  2  of  the  old  London  waterside  is  a 
landsman's  Treasure  Island.  Nothing 
can  be  said  against  this  sort  of  book 
so  long  as  it  does  not  pretend  to  the 
rank  of  original  creative  work.  Indeed, 
the  time  is  hardly  come  as  yet  for  the 
final  placing  of  Stevenson's  own  fiction 
in  that  aspect.  Excessive  cleverness 
was  his  foe ;  so  that  if  Weir  of  Hermis- 
ton  were  not  an  indubitable  though 
fragmentary  monument  of  higher  pow- 
ers we  might  not  be  sure  that  he  was 
really  more  than  a  "restaurateur,"  as 
the  Chelsea  prophet  in  an  atrabiliar  mood 
called  Sir  Walter.  Stevenson  was  at 
least  clever  in  a  reasonable  way,  so  that 
we  cannot  help  looking  with  patience 
upon  current  imitations  of  his  whole- 
some method. 

Our  present  responsiveness  to  an  ir- 
regular and  decadent  cleverness  is  an- 
other matter.  Doubtless  this  eager 
hearkening  to  the  strange  voice  is  due 
partly  to  our  anxiety  to  miss  nothing 
original ;  but  there  is  a  good  deal  of  idle 
curiosity  about  it,  too.  The  swaggering 
journal  of  the  ignorant  girl  whose  name 
filled  the  national  mouth  not  long  since 
was  pitiful  enough ;  but  the  public  upon 
whose  gaping  attention  the  young  egotist 
rightly  reckoned  became  a  full  sharer  in 
the  pitifulness  of  the  situation.  In  that 
case  allowances  were  possible  that  do 
not  appear  to  be  called  for  by  later 
books  which  express  a  similar  condition 
of  morbid  sensibility.  More  than  one 
of  them  have  appeared  in  well-known 
magazines,  and  are  the  work  of  experi- 
enced writers.  They  are  nevertheless 
paltry  in  theme  and  hysterical  in  treat- 

2  The  Hole  in  the  Wall.  By  ARTHUR  MOR- 
RISON. New  York :  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 
1902. 


854 


Books  New  and  Old. 


ment,  records  of  the  emotional  experi- 
ence of  "intense"  persons  whose  lam- 
entableness  even  is  not  impressive  be- 
cause their  characters  are  insignificant. 
Let  us  have  our  delineations  of  the 
average  person,  by  all  means,  our  Lap- 
hams  and  our  Kentons;  in  their  so- 
ciety we  shall  at  least  be  in  no  danger 
of  confounding  character  —  the  real 
stuff  of  personality  —  with  tempera- 
ment, which  is  a  minor  though  showy 
ingredient  thereof. 

in. 

Unfortunately  our  clever  writing 
loves  to  deal  with  temperament,  espe- 
cially with  the  "artistic  temperament," 
whatever  that  is.  Its  possessor  appears 
to  be  a  figure  particularly  to  the  mind 
of  the  feminine  novelist.  She  finds  in 
it,  perhaps,  a  grateful  means  of  account- 
ing for  the  uncomfortable  behavior  of 
the  Orsino  type  of  man,  with  his  giddy 
and  infirm  fancies,  and  his  complacent 
self -absorption.  What  sort  of  moral- 
ity can  one  expect  of  a  person  who 
threatens  to  be  inspired  at  any  moment  ? 
The  rougher  sex  does  not  share  George 
Eliot's  tenderness  for  Ladislaw,  or  Mrs. 
Ward's  consideration  for  Manisty.  It 
chooses  to  fancy  the  masculine  character 
an  integer,  at  the  cost,  if  need  be,  of 
cleverness.  It  prefers  an  Orlando,  a 
John  Ridd,  or  (to  cite  the  latest  exam- 
ple) a  Captain  Macklin,  to  the  shuf- 
fling and  emotional  creatures  in  mascu- 
line garb  in  which  women  seem  to  find 
some  unaccountable  fascination.  Seri- 
ously, is  irresponsibility,  masculine  or 
feminine,  so  absorbing  a  theme  as  to 
deserve  its  present  prominence  in  fic- 
tion? Even  Mr.  Barrie's  Tommy,  a 
sad  enough  spectacle  in  all  conscience, 
was  not  half  so  dreary  as  these  weak- 
kneed  and  limber-souled  little  gentle- 
men whom  we  are  now  required  to  hear 

1  The  Winding  Road.    By  ELIZABETH  GOD- 
FREY.   New  York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.     1902. 

2  Wistons.    By  MILES  AMBER.    New  York  : 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1902. 


about.  Among  considerable  novels  re- 
cently produced  by  women  I  think  of 
seven  or  eight  in  which  the  central  male 
person  boasts  the  artistic  temperament. 
In  a  few  cases  the  problem  of  tempera- 
ment is  complicated  by  some  fatal  de- 
termination of  heredity.  In  The  Wind- 
ing Road  *  the  hero,  as  usual,  sacrifices 
his  womankind,  but  less  in  his  inalien- 
able right  as  a  possessor  of  the  artistic 
temperament  than  as  an  inevitable  re- 
sult of  the  Wanderlust  which  burns  in 
his  gypsy  blood.  In  Wistons  2  the  situ- 
ation is  reduced  to  its  barest  elements, 
for  the  hero  is  not  only  irresponsible  but 
futile;  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  mere  temper- 
ament, without  enough  character  about 
him  to  suggest  even  dimly  a  personality. 
The  human  sacrifices  upon  the  altar  of 
his  temperament  appear  more  than  or- 
dinarily unprofitable.  Other  effective 
properties  beside  heredity  are  elsewhere 
introduced,  as  in  the  case  of  the  hero  who 
turns  out  to  be  the  owner  of  a  credit- 
able cancer,  which  is  employed  at  the 
eleventh  hour  to  draw  off  the  venom  of 
one's  contempt  for  his  character. 

But  if  the  public  is  content  with  this 
sort  of  hero,  it  must  be  content  also 
with  such  methods  as  he  might  him- 
self (if  he  ever  did  anything)  be  ca- 
pable of  employing.  Nothing  is  to  be 
managed  quite  naturally  or  straightfor- 
wardly. Everything  must  be  "origi- 
nal, "  that  is,  out  of  the  ordinary,  unex- 
pected, strained  if  necessary,  but  some- 
how different.  Hence  arises  the  vogue 
of  the  writer  whose  manner  is  full  of 
petty  tricks  and  inventions.  Here  is 
the  opportunity  for  masters  of  cheap 
aphorism  like  H.  S.  Merriman,  and  for 
cool  and  witty  chroniclers  of  smart  life 
like  John  Oliver  Hobbes.  The  popu- 
larity of  such  work  may  remind  us  afresh 
that  the  greater  public  is  in  matters  of 
taste  perennially  an  undergraduate.  His 
latest  book  8  would  suggest  that  Mr. 

3  The  Vultures.  By  HENRY  SETON  MERRI- 
MAN. New  York  and  London  :  Harper  &  Bros. 
1902. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


855 


Merriman  has  pretty  much  exhausted 
his  aphoristic  exchequer  without  having 
acquired  the  deep  sense  of  life  in  char- 
acter which  we  should  be  more  than  will- 
ing to  accept  in  exchange.  In  Love  and 
the  Soul  Hunters  1  Mrs.  Craigie  gives 
another  of  her  brilliantly  cynical  pic- 
tures of  rather  vulgar  life  above  the  salt. 
The  princely  hero  is  yet  another  exam- 
ple of  the  terrible  temperament ;  though 
it  is  pleasant  to  admit  that  when  in  the 
end  his  inexplicable  charm  is  rewarded 
by  the  hand  of  a  girl  greatly  beneath 
him,  and  much  too  good  for  him,  he  is 
beginning  to  show  signs  of  character. 


IV. 

Admirers  of  this  popular  conception 
of  the  artist  may  perhaps  be  disappoint- 
ed in  two  recent  heroes  who  have  been 
treated  in  a  different  spirit.  Oliver 
Horn  2  and  Paul  Kelver  3  are  both  stur- 
dy and  tolerably  steady  young  men, 
though  they  do  not  look  altogether  pro- 
mising upon  first  acquaintance.  They 
do  escape  the  mud-bath,  and  in  the  end 
each  of  them  is  permitted  to  achieve  a 
success  in  his  own  sort  of  art  without 
ceasing  to  be  a  respectable  citizen  or  a 
reliable  lover.  Mr.  Smith  is  of  course 
a  more  experienced  writer  of  serious  fic- 
tion, and  nature  has  given  him  a  more 
regular  cleverness.  His  story  is  there- 
fore told  more  simply,  with  an  action 
perfectly  direct  and  unencumbered  by 
irrelevances.  The  real  theme  is  once 
again  the  familiar  portraiture  of  the 
Southern  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 
The  young  Oliver,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  one  suspects  the  existence  of  an  au- 
tobiographical touch  here  and  there,  is 
evidently  far  less  in  the  mind  of  the  au- 
thor than  Richard  Horn.  The  setting 
of  the  type  is  extraordinary ;  for  if  the 
old  man  is  in  prejudice  and  breeding  an 
aristocrat,  he  is  also  a  good  deal  else: 

1  Love  and  the  Soul  Hunters.  By  JOHN 
OLIVER  HOBBES.  New  York :  The  Funk  and 
Wagnalls  Co.  1902. 


a  man  of  practical  ability  and  versatile 
accomplishments.  Imagine  a  Colonel 
Carter  endowed  with  ripe  culture,  by 
profession  an  inventor  of  electrical  ap- 
pliances, by  training  an  expert  musician, 
swordsman,  and  what  not  —  and  one 
will  have  a  notion  of  Mr.  Smith's  new 
and  confessedly  paradoxical  embodiment 
of  a  favorite  type. 

Mr.  Jerome  has  labored  under  the  dis- 
advantage of  an  unfamiliar  medium  and 
an  irregular  method.  Many  scenes  and 
passages  in  Paul  Kelver  are  marked  by 
the  sort  of  extraneous  cleverness  which 
used  to  baffle  one  in  Dickens.  There 
is  a  machinery  of  ghostly  and  sentimen- 
tal reminiscence  which  hails  too  patent- 
ly from  Gadshill,  and  a  frequency  of 
farcical  episodes  which  serve  to  dim  the 
effect  of  the  main  narrative,  as  they  too 
often  did  in  the  later  work  of  the  great 
Boz.  But  the  narrative  itself,  stripped 
of  its  embellishments  and  superfluities, 
possesses  real  power.  Paul  is  neither 
prig  nor  rascal,  and  Norah  is  neither 
fine  lady  nor  fool.  Altogether  one  is 
grateful,  if  a  little  surprised,  that  Mr. 
Jerome  has  done  more  than  merely  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  be  whimsical.  It 
is  much  for  the  writer  of  long-standing 
reputation  for  cleverness  to  lift  himself 
even  momentarily  above  it. 


V. 

A  contrary  tendency  is,  it  seems,  to 
be  observed  in  the  recent  work  of  Mr. 
Barrie.  The  whimsicality  which  in  A 
Window  in  Thrums  and  Margaret  Ogilvy 
kept  to  its  rightful  place  as  a  palliative 
accessory  of  deep  feeling  is  coming  more 
and  more  to  insist  upon  being  heard  for 
its  own  sake.  The  writer  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  taking  personality  and  a 
confidentially  sympathetic  method.  But 
though  he  might  probably  increase  his 
audience  by  it,  we  must  hope  that  he 

2  Oliver  Horn.    By  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH. 
New  York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1902. 

3  Paul  Kelver.     By  JEROME  K.  JEROME. 
New  York :  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.     1902. 


856 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


will  not  allow  his  growing  taste  for 
whimsical  paradox  to  get  quite  the  up- 
per hand.  The  Little  White  Bird *  is 
much  less  fundamentally  shocking  than 
Sentimental  Tommy  was;  but  in  man- 
ner it  is  even  more  coquettish  and  incon- 
sequent, full  of  cleverness,  and  in  conse- 
quence not  infrequently  tiresome.  I  do 
not  think  Mr.  Barrie,  except  in  his  Jess 
and  Margaret,  has  given  us  any  distinct 
personalities.  His  studies  are,  in  fact, 
in  human  nature  rather  than  human 
character.  He  is  a  congener  of  Sterne 
without  Sterne's  instinct  for  concrete 
characterization.  Walter  Shandy  and 
Uncle  Toby  find  no  counterpart  in  real- 
ity among  the  amusing  Tommies  and 
pathetic  Grizels  of  Mr.  Barrie. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  three 
modern  English  novelists  from  whom 
most  is  now  looked  for  should  be  ingen- 
ious commentators  rather  than  creators. 
Mr.  Meredith  and  Mr.  James,  as  well 
as  Mr.  Barrie,  so  delight  in  talking 
about  their  persons  and  events  as  to  im- 
pede the  action  and  confuse  the  reader's 
conception  of  the  characters.  As  pure 
fiction  the  status  of  such  work  is  dubi- 
ous, but  we  may  well  afford  to  have  it 
so  —  with  the  compensations.  These  in- 
genious, satirical,  sympathetic,  discur- 
sive essays,  with  illustrations,  consti- 
tute an  invaluable  commentary  upon 
contemporary  life.  Only,  there  is  the 
danger,  evident  in  each  of  these  in- 


stances, of  too  great  exercise  of  inge- 
nuity, of  a  growing  appetite  for  subtlety 
and  paradox,  which  are  the  wine  and 
caviare  of  the  literary  feast,  and  not  at 
all  good  to  live  on.  For  there  follows 
upon  the  gratification  of  this  taste  a  ten- 
dency to  have  recourse  to  superficial 
clevernesses  of  style  which  should  be  left 
to  those  who  have  nothing  better  to  of- 
fer. Surely,  without  enslaving  ourselves 
to  classical  or  alien  models,  we  cannot 
help  feeling  that  our  strife  should  now 
be,  not  toward  an  art  ornate  and  irreg- 
ular, an  art  overborne,  and  even  warped, 
by  cleverness,  but  toward  an  art  pure 
and  round  and  balanced,  free  from  ar- 
bitrary mannerism  and  meretricious  em- 
bellishment. By  extraneous  expedients, 
we  now  know,  the  effects  of  veritable 
genius  are  likely  to  be  obscured  rather 
than  enhanced.  Hardly  elsewhere  than 
in  Homer  do  we  see  cleverness  held  firm- 
ly in  its  proper  place  as  a  confidential 
servant  of  Genius.  Shakespeare  made 
a  boon  companion  of  it,  and  Milton,  not 
always  without  awkwardness,  waited 
upon  himself.  Lowell  was  altogether 
too  clever  for  that  best  kind  of  success 
which  Hawthorne,  with  his  utter  lack  of 
cleverness,  did  not  fail  to  attain.  By- 
ron's work  now  suffers  from  the  difficul- 
ty of  estimating  it  apart  from  its  clever- 
ness ;  while  the  gold  in  the  poetry  of 
Wordsworth,  who  never  had  a  clever 
moment,  is  easily  freed  from  the  dross. 
H.  W.  Boynton. 


OF  LIONEL  JOHNSON. 
1867-1902. 


AN  early  death  has  lately  robbed  the 
world  of  letters  in  England  of  its  one 
critic  of  the  first  rank  in  this  genera- 
tion. Poet-minds  of  the  Arnold  breed, 
with  what  may  be  called  the  hush  of 
scholarship  laid  upon  their  full  energies 

1  The  Little  White  Bird.  By  J.  M.  BARRIE. 
New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1902. 


and  animations,  must  necessarily  grow 
rarer  and  rarer,  in  a  world  ever  more 
noisy  and  more  superficial.  They  can- 
not expect  now  the  fostering  cloistral 
conditions  which  were  finally  disturbed 
by  the  great  Revolution.  Yet  they  still 
find  themselves  here,  in  a  state  of  royal 
dispossession,  and  live  on  as  they  can. 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


857 


Of  these  was  Lionel  Johnson.  In  crit- 
icism, though  he  seemed  to  care  so  lit- 
tle about  acknowledging,  preserving, 
and  collecting  what  he  wrote,  he  was 
nobly  able  to  "beat  his  music  out;" 
his  potential  success  lay  there,  perhaps, 
rather  than  in  the  exercise  of  his  sin- 
gularly lovely  and  austere  poetic  gift. 
But  this  is  not  saying  that  he  was  more 
critic  than  poet.  On  the  contrary,  he 
was  all  poet ;  and  the  application  of  the 
poet's  touchstone  to  human  affairs, 
whether  in  aft  or  in  ethics,  was  the  very 
thing  which  gave  its  extraordinary  elas- 
ticity and  balance  to  his  prose  work. 
Being  what  he  was,  a  selfless  intelli- 
gence, right  judgments  came  easy  to 
him,  and  to  set  them  down,  at  the  eli- 
gible moment,  was  mere  play.  He  had 
lived  more  or  less  alone  from  his  boy- 
hood, but  alone  with  eternal  thoughts 
and  classic  books.  Whenever  he  spoke, 
there  was  authority  in  the  speech  col- 
ored by  companionship  with  the  great 
of  his  own  election :  with  Plato ;  Lucre- 
tius and  Virgil;  Augustine;  Shake- 
speare. His  capacity  for  admiration 
was  immense,  though  in  the  choice  of 
what  was  admirable  he  was  quite  uncom- 
promising. Beyond  that  beautiful  in- 
ward exaction,  "  the  chastity  of  honor, " 
he  was  naturally  inclined  to  the  chari- 
ties of  interpretation.  He  gave  them, 
but  he  asked  them  not,  and  would  not 
thank  you  for  your  casual  approval,  ex- 
cept by  his  all-understanding  smile. 
Neither  vanity,  ambition,  nor  envy  ever 
so  much  as  breathed  upon  him,  and, 
scholar  that  he  was,  he  had  none  of  the 
limitations  common  to  scholars,  for  he 
was  without  fear,  and  without  prejudice. 
A  striking  feature  in  the  make-up  of 
his  mind  was  its  interplay  and  counter- 
poise of  contrasts.  Full  of  worship  and 
wonder  (and  a  certain  devout  sense  of 
indebtedness  kept  him,  as  by  a  strict 
rubric  of  his  own,  an  allusive  and  a  quot- 
ing writer),  he  was  also  full  of  an  al- 
most fierce  uninfluenced  independence. 
With  a  great  vocabulary,  his  game  was 
always  to  pack  close,  and  thin  out,  his 


words.  Impersonal  as  Pan's  pipe  to 
the  audience  of  The  Chronicle  or  The 
Academy,  he  became  intensely  subjec- 
tive the  moment  he  reached  his  inti- 
mate, sparsely  inhabited  fatherland  of 
poesy.  His  utterance,  as  daring  in  its 
opposite  way  as  Mr.  John  Davidson's, 
has  laid  bare  some  of  the  deepest  secrets 
of  the  spirit.  And  side  by  side  with 
them  lie  etched  on  the  page  the  most 
delicate  little  landscapes,  each  as  hap- 
pily conceived  as  if  "  the  inner  eye  " 
and  "the  eye  on  the  object,"  of  both 
of  which  Wordsworth  speaks,  were  one 
and  the  same. 

One  might  have  thought,  misled  by 
Lionel  Johnson's  strongly  philosophic 
fibre,  his  habits  of  a  recluse  simplicity, 
his  faith  in  minorities,  his  patrician 
old-fashioned  tastes,  that  he  would  have 
ranged  himself  with  the  abstract  critics, 
with  Joubert  and  Vauvenargues,  rather 
than  with  Sainte-Beuve.  But  it  was  an- 
other of  his  surprising  excellencies  that 
he  was  never  out  of  tune  with  cosmic 
externals,  and  the  aspirations  of  to-day. 
Into  these  his  brain  had  a  sort  of  de- 
tached angelic  insight.  His  earliest 
book,  published  while  he  was  very  young, 
was  not  about  some  subtlety  of  Attic 
thought :  it  was  a  masterly  exposition 
of  The  Art  of  Thomas  Hardy.  To  have 
dwelt  first  with  all  divine  exclusions  for 
housemates  is  to  be  safeguarded  when 
time  drives  one  forth  among  its  necessary 
acceptances  and  accretions.  This  same 
relevance  and  relativity  of  our  friend, 
this  open  dealing  with  the  nearest  in- 
terest, was  his  strength ;  he  not  only  did 
not  shrink  from  contemporary  life,  but 
bathed  in  the  apprehension  of  it  as  joy- 
ously as  in  a  mountain  stream.  How 
significant,  how  full  of  fresh  force,  have 
been  his  many  unsigned  reviews !  No- 
thing so  broad,  so  sure,  so  penetrating, 
has  been  said,  in  little,  elsewhere,  of 
such  very  modern  men  as  Renan  and 
William  Morris. 

It  is  perhaps  less  than  exact  to  claim 
that  Lionel  Johnson  had  no  prejudices. 
All  his  humilities  and  tolerances  did  not 


858 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


hinder  his  humorous  depreciation  of  the 
Teutonic  intellect;  and  he  liked  well 
King  Charles  II.  's  word  for  it  —  "fog- 
gy." Heine,  that  "  Parisianized  Jew, " 
was  his  only  love  made  in  Germany. 
Non-scientific,  anti-mathematical,  he 
was  a  genuine  Oxonian:  a  recruit,  as 
it  were,  for  transcendentalism  and  the 
White  Rose.  His  studies  were  willful 
and  concentrated ;  he  never  tried  to  ex- 
tend his  province  into  a  thorough  under- 
standing, for  instance,  of  arts  which  he 
relished,  like  music  and  sculpture.  And, 
discursive  as  his  national  sympathies 
certainly  were,  he  was  never  out  of  the 
British  Isles.  In  all  such  lateral  mat- 
ters, he  saw  the  uses  of  repression,  if 
his  calling  was  to  be  not  a  dilettante 
impulse,  but  the  sustained  and  unwasted 
passion  of  a  lifetime.  Culture  in  him, 
it  is  truly  needless  to  say,  was  not  mis- 
cellaneous information;  as  in  New- 
man's perfect  definition,  it  was  "the 
command  over  his  own  faculties,  and 
the  instinctive  just  estimate  of  things 
as  they  pass."  He  had  an  amazing  and 
most  accurate  memory  for  everything 
worth  while :  it  was  as  if  he  had  moved, 
to  some  profit,  in  several  ages,  and  for- 
gotten none  of  their  "wild  and  noble 
sights."  And  the  powers  which  were 
so  delighting  to  others  were,  in  a  re- 
flex way,  a  most  single  -  hearted  and 
modest  way,  sheer  delight  to  himself, 
chiefly  because  he  had  tamed  them  to 
his  hand. 

His  non-professorial  conception  of  the 
function  of  a  man  of  letters  (only  it  was 
one  of  the  thousand  subjects  on  which 
he  was  sparing  of  speech,  perhaps  dis- 
couraged by  insincerities  of  speech  else- 
where) amounted  to  this:  that  he  was 
glad  to  be  a  bond-slave  to  his  own  disci- 
pline ;  that  there  should  be  no  limit  to 
the  constraints  and  the  labor  self-im- 
posed; that  in  pursuit  of  the  best,  he 
would  never  count  cost,  never  lower  a 
pennon,  never  bow  the  knee  to  Baal. 
It  was  not  his  isolated  position,  nor  his 
exemption  from  the  corroding  breath  of 
poverty,  which  made  it  easy  for  such 


an  one  to  hold  his  ground ;  for  nothing 
can  make  easy  that  strenuous  and  entire 
consecration  of  a  soul  to  what  it  is  given 
to  do.  It  extended  to  the  utmost  de- 
tail of  composition.  The  proud  melan-  * 
choly  charm  of  his  finest  stanzas  rests 
upon  the  severest  adherence  to  the  laws 
and  by-laws  of  rhythm ;  in  no  page  of 
his  was  there  ever  a  rhetorical  trick  or 
an  underbred  rhyme.  Excess  and  show 
were  foreign  to  him.  The  real  short- 
coming of  his  verse  lies  in  its  Latin 
strictness  and  asceticism,  somewhat  re- 
pellent to  any  readers  but  those  of  his 
own  temper.  Its  emotional  glow  is  a 
shade  too  moral,  and  it  is  only  after  a 
league  of  stately  pacing  that  fancy  is  let 
go  with  a  looser  rein.  Greatly  impeded 
in  freedom  of  expression  is  that  unblest 
poet  who  has  historic  knowledge  of  his 
own  craft.  To  him  nothing  is  say  able 
which  has  already  been  well  said.  Lio- 
nel Johnson,  even  as  a  beginner,  was  of 
so  jealous  an  integrity  that  his  youth- 
ful numbers  are  in  their  detail  almost 
scandalously  free  from  parentalia.  Is 
it  not,  surely,  by  some  supernatural  lit- 
tle joke  that  his  most  famous  line,  — 

"  Lonely  unto  the  Lone  I  go," 
had  been  anticipated  by  Plotinus  ?  Here 
was  a  poet  who  liked  the  campaign  bet- 
ter than  Capua.  He  sought  out  volun- 
tarily never,  indeed,  the  fantastic,  but 
the  difficult  way.  If  he  could  but  work 
out  his  idea  in  music,  easy  as  composi- 
tion was  to  him,  he  preferred  to  do  so 
with  divers  painstakings  which  less 
scrupulous  vassals  of  the  Muse  would  as 
soon  practice  as  fasting  and  praying. 
To  one  who  looks  well  into  the  struc- 
ture of  his  poems,  they  are  like  the  roof 
of  Milan  Cathedral,  "gone  to  seed  with 
pinnacles,"  full  of  voweled  surprises, 
and  exquisitely  devotional  elaborations, 
given  in  the  zest  of  service,  and  meant 
to  be  hidden  from  mundane  eyes.  Yet 
they  have  the  grace  to  appear  much 
simpler  than  they  are.  The  ground- 
work, at  least,  is  always  simple:  his 
usual  metre  is  iambic  or  trochaic,  and 
the  English  alexandrine  he  made  his 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


859 


own.  Precision  clung  like  drapery  to 
everything  he  did.  His  handwriting 
was  unique  :  a  slender,  close  slant,  very 
odd,  but  most  legible;  a  true  script  of 
the  old  time,  without  a  flaw.  It  seemed 
to  whisper :  *'  Behold  in  me  the  inveter- 
ate foe  of  haste  and  discourtesy,  of  type- 
writers, telegrams,  and  secretaries !  " 
As  he  wrote,  he  punctuated:  nothing 
was  trivial  to  this  "enamored  archi- 
tect "  of  perfection.  He  cultivated  a 
half-mischievous  attachment  to  certain 
antique  forms  of  spelling,  and  to  the 
colon,  which  our  slovenly  press  will  have 
none  of;  and  because  the  colon  stood, 
and  stands,  for  fine  differentiations,  and 
sly  sequences,  he  delighted  to  employ 
it  to  tyrannize  over  printers. 

Lionel  Johnson's  gallant  thorough- 
ness was  applied  not  only  to  the  depart- 
ment of  literature.  He  had  a  loving 
heart,  and  laid  upon  himself  the  burden 
of  many  gratitudes.  To  Winchester, 
his  old  school,  and  Oxford,  his  univer- 
sity (in  both  of  which  he  covered  him- 
self, as  it  happened,  with  honors),  he 
was  a  bounden  knight.  The  Catholic 
Church,  to  which  he  felt  an  attraction 
from  infancy,  and  which  he  entered  soon 
after  he  came  of  age,  could  command 
his  whole  zeal  and  furtherance,  to  the 
end.  His  faith  was  his  treasure,  and 
an  abiding  peace  and  compensation. 
The  delicacy,  nay,  the  sanctity  of  his 
character,  was  the  outcome  of  it;  and 
when  clouds  did  not  impede  his  action, 
it  so  pervaded,  guided,  and  adjusted 
his  whole  attitude  toward  life  (as  Ca- 
tholicism alone  claims  and  intends  to 
do),  that  his  religiousness  can  hardly  be 
spoken  of,  or  examined,  as  a  thing  sep- 
arate from  himself.  There  was  a  seal 
upon  him  as  of  something  priestly  and 
monastic.  His  place,  like  his  favorite 
Hawthorne's,  should  have  been  in  a 
Benedictine  scriptorium,  far  away,  and 
long  ago. 

' '  Us  the  sad  world  ring's  round 

With  passionate  flames  impure  ; 
We  tread  an  impious  ground  ; 
We  hunger,  and  endure." 


So  he  sang  in  one  of  his  best  known 
numbers.  Meanwhile,  the  saints,  bright 
from  their  earthly  battle,  and  especial- 
ly the  angels,  and  Heaven  their  com- 
monweal, were  always  present  to  the 
imagination  of  this  anima  naturaliter 
Christiana.  Again,  his  most  conscious 
loyalty,  with  the  glamour  of  mediaeval 
chivalry  upon  it,  was  for  Ireland.  He 
was  descended  from  a  line  of  soldiers, 
and  from  a  stern  soldier  who,  in  the  ruth- 
less governmental  fashion  of  the  time, 
put  down  at  New  Ross  the  tragic  insur- 
rection of  1798.  Study  and  sympathy 
brought  his  great-grandson  to  see  things 
from  a  point  of  view  not  in  the  least 
ancestral ;  and  the  consequence  was  that 
Lionel  Johnson  came  to  write,  and  even 
to  lecture,  as  the  heart-whole  champion 
of  hapless  Innisfail.  In  the  acknow- 
ledged spirit  of  reparation,  he  gave  his 
thought,  his  time,  and  his  purse  to  her 
interests.  He  devoted  his  lyre  to  her, 
as  his  most  moving  theme,  and  he  pon- 
dered not  so  much  her  political  hope,  nor 
the  incomparable  charms  of  her  streams 
and  valleys,  as  her  constancy  under  sor- 
rows, and  the  holiness  of  her  mystical 
ideal.  His  inheritance  was  goodly  unto 
him,  for  he  had  by  race  both  the  Gaelic 
and  the  Cymric  strain,  and  his  temper- 
ament, with  its  remoteness,  and  its  sage 
and  sweet  ironies,  was  by  so  much  more 
and  less  than  English.  But  he  pos- 
sessed also,  in  very  full  measure,  what 
we  nowadays  perceive  to  be  the  basic 
English  traits:  deliberation,  patience, 
and  control.  It  was  owing  to  these  un- 
expected and  saving  qualities  in  him 
that  he  turned  out  no  mere  visionary, 
but  made  his  mark  in  life  like  a  man, 
and  that  he  held  out,  for  five  and  thirty 
years,  in  that  fragile,  terribly  nervous 
body  always  so  inadequate  and  perilous 
a  mate  for  his  giant  intelligence. 

Next  to  the  impersonal  allegiances 
which  had  so  much  claim  upon  him  was 
his  feeling  for  his  friends.  The  boy 
Lionel  had  been  the  exceptional  sort  of 
boy  who  can  discern  a  possible  halo 
about  a  master  or  a  tutor;  and  at  Ox- 


860 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


ford,  as  at  Winchester,  he  found  men 
worth  his  homage.  The  very  last  poem 
he  sent  forth,  only  the  other  day,  was 
a  threnody  for  his  dear  and  honored 
Walter  Pater,  honored  and  dear  long 
after  death,  as  during  life.  Like  so 
much  else  from  the  same  pen,  it  is  of 
synthetic  and  illuminating  beauty,  and 
it  ends  with  the  tenderest  of  lyrical 
cries :  — 

"Gracious  God  keep  him:  and  God  grant  to 
me 

By  miracle  to  see 
That  unforgettably  most  gracious  friend, 

In  the  never-ending  end !  " 

Friendship,  with  Lionel  Johnson,  was 
the  grave,  high  romantic  sentiment  of 
antique  tradition.  He  liked  to  link  fa- 
miliar names  with  his  own  by  means  of 
little  dedications,  and  the  two  volumes  of 
his  poems,  with  their  placid  blue  covers 
and  dignity  of  margin,  furnish  a  fairly 
full  roll-call  of  those  with  whom  he  felt 
himself  allied:  English,  Irish,  Welsh, 
and  American;  men  and  women;  fa- 
mous and  unknown ;  Christian  and  pa- 
gan ;  clerical  and  lay.  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  him  that  he  addressed  no 
poems  directly  to  a  friend,  except  once 
or  twice,  when  well  sheltered  by  a  para- 
phrase, but  set  apart  this  or  that,  in 
print,  as  private  to  one  or  another  whose 
heart,  he  knew,  would  go  along  with  it. 
As  a  proof  of  the  shyness  and  reticence 
of  his  affections,  it  may  be  added  that 
some  who  were  fond  of  him  did  not 
discover,  for  years  after  (and  perhaps 
some  have  not  yet  discovered),  the  page 
starred  with  their  own  names,  once 
given  to  them  in  silence,  and  for  re- 
membrance, by  the  hand  which  of  late 
answered  few  letters,  and  withdrew 
more  and  more  from  social  contact. 

Alas,  this  brings  us  upon  sad  ground. 
We  all  first  began  to  be  conscious  of 
losing  him  nearly  four  years  ago,  when 
he  shut  himself  up,  and  kept  obstinate 
silence,  for  weeks  and  months,  in  the 
cloistral  London  nooks  where  he  and  his 
library  successively  abode.  Then,  not 
quite  two  years  ago,  he  had  a  painful 


and  prolonged  illness,  in  the  course  of 
which  his  hands  and  feet  became  wholly 
crippled ;  and  for  the  ardent  lover,  in  any 
weather,  of  the  open  countryside  ar- 
rived a  dark  twelvemonth  of  indoor  in- 
action. It  is  to  be  feared  he  was  not 
properly  nursed ;  he  had  never  known 
how  to  care  for  himself,  and  had  lived 
as  heedless  of  the  flesh  as  if  he  were 
all  wings.  It  seemed  ungenerous,  that 
instinct  to  go  into  the  dark  at  times, 
wholly  away  from  wonted  intercourse. 
Yet  it  was  neither  ungenerous  nor  per- 
verse. Surging  up  the  more  as  his  bod- 
ily resources  failed  him,  a  "  mortal  moral 
strife  "  had  to  be  undergone :  the  fight 
in  which  there  can  be  no  comrades.  The 
brave  will  in  him  fought  long  and  fought 
hard :  no  victor  could  do  more.  He  had 
apparently  recovered  his  health  after 
all  the  solitude  and  mental  weariness, 
and  had  just  expressed  himself  as 
"greedy  for  work,"  when  he  went  out 
from  his  chambers  in  Clifford's  Inn, 
late  on  the  night  of  the  29th  of  Sep- 
tember, for  the  last  of  his  many  en- 
chanted walks  alone :  for  with  Hazlitt, 
against  Stevenson,  this  walker  held  that 
any  walk  is  the  richer  for  being  com- 
panionless.  No  one  saw  him  faint,  or 
stumble  and  fall ;  but  a  policeman  on 
his  beat  found  the  unconscious  body 
against  the  curb  in  Fleet  Street,  and 
had  it  carried  to  St.  Bartholomew's 
Hospital.  And  there  in  the  ward  he 
lay,  with  his  skull  fractured  (a  child's 
skull  it  was,  abnormally  thin,  as  the 
inquest  showed),  recognized  and  tended, 
but  always  asleep,  for  four  days  and  five 
nights;  and  then  the  little  flickering 
candle  went  quietly  out.  In  the  bitter 
pathos  of  his  end  he  was  not  with  Keats, 
but  with  Poe.  It  was  the  4th  of  Octo- 
ber, 1902,  a  Saturday  of  misted  autumn 
sunshine,  sacred  in  the  ecclesiastical 
calendar  to  the  Poverello  of  Assisi.  Of 
that  blessed  forerunner  his  dead  poet 
had  once  written :  — 

"  Thy  love  loved  all  things,  thy  love  knew  no 

stay. 
But  drew  the  very  wild  beasts  round  thy  knee. 


Of  Lionel  Johnson. 


861 


O  lover  of  the  least  and  lowest !  pray, 

Saint  Francis,  to  the  Son  of  Man,  for  me." 

The  only  other  Englishman  of  letters 
so  elfin-small  and  light  was  De  Quincey. 
Few  persons  could  readily  be  got  to  be- 
lieve Lionel  Johnson's  actual  age.  With 
his  smooth  hair  and  cheek,  he  passed 
for  a  slim  undergrown  boy  of  sixteen ; 
his  light-footed  marches,  in  bygone 
summers,  over  the  Welsh  hills  and  the 
coasts  of  Dorset  and  Cornwall,  were 
interrupted  at  every  inn  by  the  ubiqui- 
tous motherly  landlady,  expostulating 
with  him  for  his  supposed  truancy.  His 
extreme  sense  of  humor  forbade  annoy- 
ance over  the  episode ;  rather  was  it  not 
unwelcome  to  one  who  had  no  hold  on 
time,  and  was  as  elemental  as  foam  or 
air.  Yes,  he  lived  and  died  young. 
It  was  not  only  simple  country  folk  who 
missed  in  him  the  adult  "note."  And 
yet  a  certain  quaint  and  courageous  pen- 
siveness  of  aspect  and  outlook ;  a  hint 
of  power  in  the  fine  brows,  the  sensi- 
tive hands,  the  gray  eye  so  quick,  and 
yet  so  chastened  and  incurious,  could 
neither  escape  a  true  palaeographer,  nor 
be  misconstrued  by  him.  Lionel  John- 
son must  have  been  at  all  times  both  a 
man  and  a  child.  At  ten  years  old,  or 
at  the  impossible  sixty,  he  must  equally 
have  gone  on,  in  a  sort  of  beautiful  vital 
stubbornness,  being  a  unit,  being  him- 
self. His  manners,  as  well  as  his  men- 
tal habits,  lasted  him  throughout ;  from 
the  first  he  was  a  sweet  gentleman  and 
a  sound  thinker.  His  earliest  and  his 
latest  poems,  in  kind  altogether,  and 
largely  in  degree,  were  of  a  piece.  A 
paper  produced  at  Winchester  School, 
on  Shakespeare's  Fools,  is  as  unmistak- 
ably his  as  his  final  review  of  Tenny- 
son. To  put  it  rather  roughly,  he  had 
no  discarded  gods,  and  therefore  no 
periods  of  growth.  He  was  a  crystal, 
a  day-lily,  shown  without  tedious  pro- 
cesses. In  his  own  phrase, — 
"  All  that  he  came  to  give 
He  gave,  and  went  again." 

He  had  a  homeless  genius:   it  lacked 
affinity  with   the   planetary  influences 


under  which  he  found  himself  here,  be- 
ing, as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  grandly 
says,  "older  than  the  elements,  and 
owing  no  homage  unto  the  sun."  He 
seemed  ever  the  same  because  he  was 
so.  Only  intense  natures  have  this  con- 
tinuity of  look  and  mood. 

With  all  his  deference,  his  dominant 
compassion,  his  grasp  of  the  spiritual  and 
the  unseen,  his  feet  stood  foursquare 
upon  rock.  He  was  a  tower  of  whole- 
someness  in  the  decadence  which  his 
short  life  spanned.  He  was  no  pedant, 
and  no  prig.  Hesitations  are  gracious 
when  they  are  unaffected,  but  thanks 
are  due  for  the  one  among  gentler  crit- 
ics of  our  passing  hour  who  cared  little 
to  "publish his  wistfulness  abroad, "  and 
was  often  as  clear  as  any  barbarian  as  to 
what  he  would  adore,  and  what  he  would 
burn.  He  suffered  indeed,  but  he  won 
manifold  golden  comfort  from  the  mer- 
cies of  God,  from  human  excellence,  the 
arts,  and  the  stretches  of  meadow,  sky, 
and  sea.  Sky  and  sea !  they  were  sac- 
rament and  symbol,  meat  and  drink,  to 
him.  To  illustrate  both  his  truth  of 
perception  when  dealing  with  the  magic 
of  the  natural  world  and  his  rapturous 
sense  of  union  with  it,  I  am  going  to 
throw  together,  by  a  wholly  irregular 
procedure,  consecutive  sections  of  three 
early  and  unrelated  poems ;  one  written 
at  Cadgwith  in  1892,  one  at  Oxford  in 
1889,  and  the  last  (with  its  lovely  open- 
ing anticipation  of  Tennyson),  dating 
from  Falmouth  Harbor,  as  long  ago  as 
1887. 


Winds  rush,  and  waters  roll ; 
Their  strength,  their  beauty,  brings 
Into  mine  heart  the  whole 
Magnificence  of  things : 

That  men  are  counted  worth 
A  part  upon  this  sea, 
A  part  upon  this  earth, 
Exalts  and  heartens  me  ! 

n. 

Going  down  the  forest  side, 
The  night  robs  me  of  all  pride, 


862 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


By  gloom  and  by  splendor. 
High,  away,  alone,  afar, 
Mighty  wills  and  working  are  : 
To  them  I  surrender. 

The  processions  of  the  night, 
Sweeping  clouds  and  battling  light, 
And  wild  winds  in  thunder, 
Care  not  for  the  world  of  man, 
Passionate  on  another  plan. 
(O  twin  worlds  of  wonder  !) 

Ancients  of  dark  majesty, 
Priests  of  splendid  mystery, 
The  Powers  of  Night  cluster  : 
In  the  shadows  of  the  trees, 
Dreams  that  no  man  lives  and  sees, 
The  dreams !  the  dreams  !  muster. 


in. 

I  have  passed  over  the  rough  sea, 
And  over  the  white  harbor  bar, 
And  this  is  death's  dreamland  to  me, 
Led  hither  by  a  star. 

And  what  shall  dawn  be  ?     Hush  thee 

nay! 

Soft,  soft  is  night,  and  calm  and  still. 
Save  that  day  cometh,  what  of  day 
Knowest  thou,  good  or  ill  ? 

Content  thee.     Not  the  annulling  light 
Of  any  pitiless  dawn  is  here  : 
Thou  art  alone  with  ancient  night, 
And  all  the  stars  are  clear. 


Only  the  night  air  and  the  dream  ; 
Only  the  far  sweet-smelling  wave  ; 
The  stilly  sounds,  the  circling  gleam, 
Are  thine  :  and  thine  a  grave. 

Surely,  no  pity  need  be  wasted  upon 
one  who  resolved  himself  into  so  glori- 
ous a  harmony  with  all  creation  and  with 
the  mysteries  of  our  mortal  being.  To 
be  happy  is  a  feat  nothing  less  than  he- 
roic in  our  complex  air.  Snow-souled 
and  fire-hearted,  sentient  and  apprehen- 
sive, Lionel  Johnson,  after  all  and  in 
spite  of  all,  dared  to  be  happy.  As  he 
never  worried  himself  about  awards,  the 
question  of  his  to-morrow's  station  and 
his  measure  of  fame  need  not  intrude 
upon  a  mere  character-study.  Memor- 
able and  exhilarating  has  been  the  ten 
years'  spectacle  of  him  in  unexhausted 
free  play,  now  with  his  harp,  now  with 
his  blunted  rapier,  under  the  steady 
dominion  of  a  genius  so  wise  and  so  ripe 
that  one  knows  not  where  in  living  com- 
panies to  look  for  its  parallel.  Well: 
may  we  soon  get  used  to  thinking  of  our 
dearest  guild-fellow  in  a  safer  City, 
where  no  terror  of  defeat  can  touch 
him!  "And  he  shall  sing  There  ac- 
cording to  the  days  of  his  youth,  and 
according  to  the  days  of  his  going  up 
out  of  the  land  of  Egypt." 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 


LOWELL'S  Anti -Slavery  Papers  seem 
Lowell's  likely  to  serve,  as  the  early 
ment.  writings  of  authors  often  do, 

chiefly  to  confirm  the  impression  we 
have  drawn  from  'his  mature  and  more 
familiar  work.  These  brief  occasional 
articles,  written  for  a  heroic  cause  long 
since  won,  are  too  slight,  for  all  their 
fervor  and  cleverness,  to  add  anything 
to  Lowell's  literary  reputation.  But 
they  will  deepen  the  impression  of  him 
as  a  man  of  temperament.  They  will 
show'  where  his  wealth  of  nature  lay,  in 


opulence  of  interests  and  sympathies  and 
moods,  in  a  vivacity  almost  Gallic  in 
its  gayety  and  tinged  with  a  dash  of 
Gallic  skepticism.  This  must  justify 
the  appearance  of  the  papers,  —  that 
in  their  number,  range  of  topics  and  of 
illustration,  their  abundance  of  allu- 
sion, fecundity  of  ideas,  and  their  flash 
of  epigram  and  phrase,  they  corrob- 
orate our  impressions  of  the  man. 
Stretching  also  as  they  do  over  the  years 
of  his  later  youth,  between  twenty-six 
and  thirty-three,  they  throw  some  lit- 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


863 


tie  light  on  the  shaping  of  Lowell's 
character  and  the  growth  of  his  style. 

The  first  five  articles,  written  in 
1844,  show  little  grace  or  lightness  and 
scarcely  a  gleam  of  humor,  but  instead 
a  somewhat  labored  and  hortatory  se- 
riousness. With  Daniel  Webster,  how- 
ever, the  first  paper  contributed,  a  year 
later,  to  the  Anti- Slavery  Standard, 
there  come  flashes  of  wit  and  some  pro- 
mise of  the  ease  and  flexibility  of  his 
mature  style.  The  subject  was  one  that 
always  aroused  Lowell,  and  it  calls  forth 
phrases  of  real,  if  somewhat  impreca- 
tory, eloquence,  striking  bits  of  de- 
scription, and  a  few  trenchant  strokes 
of  characterization.  With  the  succeed- 
ing papers  the  play  of  wit  becomes  more 
frequent  and  more  graceful,  though  it 
remained,  as  suited  the  occasion,  for  the 
most  part  satirical.  It  was  hardly  to 
be  supposed  that  the  humor  of  an  anti- 
slavery  advocate  should  be  of  an  espe- 
cially ingratiating  sort.  The  abolition- 
ists were  engaged  in  a  struggle  with 
what  they  conceived  to  be  the  great- 
est of  all  evils,  and  they  did  not  ex- 
pect their  spokesman  to  deal  in  smooth 
and  mellow  phrases.  Nor  was  Lowell, 
though  lacking  that  intense  and  un- 
wearying devotion  which  kept  a  man  like 
Garrison  at  his  task  of  reform  through 
thick  and  thin,  mealy-mouthed,  or  want- 
ing in  conviction.  There  is  then  plenty 
of  plain  speaking  here,  and  no  little 
downright  dogmatism,  but  of  careful  ar- 
gument or  painstaking  exposition  not  a 
whit.  For  this  he  had  no  stomach,  be- 
ing possessed,  as  he  said,  of  "a  certain 
impatience  of  mind  "  which  made  him 
"contemptuously  indifferent  about  ar- 
guing matters  that  had  once  become  con- 
victions." This  "impatience  of  mind  " 
was  a  sign  of  the  elastic  and  ebullient 
nature  which  lightens  all  his  pages  with 
such  wit  as  in  the  later  papers  spar- 
kles into  frequent  epigram,  occasionally 
swelling  into  irresponsible  bubbles  of 
facetiousness,  and  not  always  stopping 
short  of  puns. 

In  fact,  apart  from  the  patriotism 


which  glows  through  them,  the  papers 
have  no  quality  like  this  temperamental 
one.  It  furnishes  indeed  the  true  reg- 
ister of  Lowell's  growth  during  the  pe- 
riod of  their  production.  One  might 
even  say  that  his  temperament  grew 
at  the  expense  of  his  character.  For 
though  his  writing  shows  gain  in  sense 
of  proportion,  in  dexterity  of  phrase, 
as  well  as  in  the  instinct  for  words  that 
was  always  alert  in  him,  it  shows  no  like 
or  proportional  advance  in  grasp,  in  elo- 
quence, or  in  that  ''grave  exhilaration  " 
which  marks  the  greater  English  prose. 
If  we  can  imagine  one  of  Lowell's 
friends,  stirred  by  the  promise  of  his 
first  paper  on  Webster,  looking  to  find 
in  him  another  Burke,  we  may  be  sure 
he  was  disappointed.  Power  and  ease 
his  work  often  shows,  but  complete  sub- 
ordination and  control  of  mood  never. 
A  careful  reading  of  it  will  give  point 
anew  to  the  impression  which  Fredrika 
Bremer,  who  visited  the  Lowells  about 
the  time  the  last  of  these  little  essays 
was  being  written,  has  recorded.  The 
young  author  seemed  to  her  less  earnest 
than  she  expected  to  find  him,  and  she 
thought  the  effect  of  his  conversation 
much  like  that  of  fireworks. 

It  was  not  only  Lowell's  conversation 
that  was  like  fireworks ;  much  also  of 
his  writing  is  pyrotechnic,  a  series  of 
scintillations,  luminous  flashes,  sudden 
felicities,  jets  of  improvisation  rather 
than  a  steady  glow  or  a  quiet  sustained 
light.  Versatility  he  had  and  vivacity, 
both  in  a  high  degree,  a  love  of  epigram, 
too,  and  a  fondness  for  allusion  which 
with  his  facility  of  utterance  and  play 
of  imagination  made  him  the  most  de- 
lightful of  American  letter  -  writers. 
His  style  gained  in  grace  and  urbanity 
from  year  to  year,  but  it  never  acquired 
the  acceleration  and  resonance,  the  deep- 
ening inward  glow,  that  is  the  sign  of 
supreme  power.  Brilliancy  it  contin- 
ued to  have  in  larger  abundance  as  the 
years  passed,  but  the  weighty  advance 
of  massed  forces,  the  surging  movement 
that  seems  inevitable,  the  flow,  unstud- 


864 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


led  and  irresistible,  of  great  prose,  such 
as  Raleigh's  and  Banyan's,  or  Milton's 
and  Burke 's  at  their  height,  —  like  lava 
from  the  crater,  —  this  it  never  showed. 
The  heat  of  Lowell's  mind  seemed  never 
to  concentrate  and  rise  to  such  intensity 
as  would  fuse  his  materials  into  a  uni- 
form molten  state.  It  did  not  melt 
them,  but  put  them  forth  too  frequently 
in  the  unfluid  form  of  epigram  and  quo- 
tation, bearing  indeed  the  stamp  of  his 
taste,  but  not  subdued  to  his  purpose  and 
dyed  to  the  color  of  his  mood.  This, 
too,  was  an  effect  of  his  temperament, 
—  a  never  quite  harmonious  tempera- 
ment, but,  as  he  once  remarked  himself, 
a  mingling  of  two  contradictory  dispo- 
sitions, of  mystic  and  humorist.  The 
union  produced  a  scintillating  activity 
which  gave  a  thousand  brilliant  effects, 
and  stamped  Lowell's  work  as  the  clev- 
erest of  all  American  writing,  yet  pre- 
vented the  greater  single  effect  that 
comes  from  a  mind  at  one  with  itself. 
We  could  hardly  apply  to  Lowell,  as  we 
might  to  Whittier,  Gardiner's  phrase 
about  Cromwell,  that  he  was  distin- 
guished by  a  certain  moral  unity  of  na- 
ture. Lowell's  work  seems  often  the 
result  of  internal  insubordination,  which 
we  are  inclined  to  think  kept  him  from 
ever  writing  a  book,  and  made  his  longer 
poems  series  of  fine  lines  and  stanzas 
complete  in  themselves  rather  than  parts 
indistinguishable  in  a  wrought  and  tem- 
pered whole. 

IN  the  brave  days  of  Haroun  Al  Ra- 

,,_  „  M  schid  and  the  fairy  princes 
The  Study  _  •;  . r 

of  Local  what  is  now  a  notable  cause 
Color.  p  •  • 

or  ennui  was  its  most  popular 

cure.  When  the  great  men  of  that  legend- 
ary part  of  history  that  is  too  original 
to  repeat  itself  became  footsore  from 
standing  on  their  dignity,  they  often 
dressed  as  ordinary  citizens  and  went 
forth  to  study  local  color.  As  it  was  the 
chief  duty  of  the  bards  and  romancers 
of  those  days  to  record  the  deeds  of  the 
great,  it  naturally  followed  that  many  of 
their  ballads  and  romaunts  deal  with  the 
lively  exploits  of  their  patrons  while  thus 


engaged.  And  because  this  feature  of 
their  work  adds  to  its  charm  a  grave  er- 
ror has  crept  into  the  present  practice  of 
literature,  which  makes  a  pastime  more 
ancient  and  royal  than  golf  a  somewhat 
wearisome  profession.  To  free  this 
branch  of  sport  from  the  stain  of  profes- 
sionalism, and  restore  it  to  its  wonted 
glory,  is  the  purpose  of  this  contribution. 

Because  the  minstrels  and  gestours  en- 
tertained the  antique  world  with  adven- 
tures in  the  study  of  local  color  as  well 
as  with  the  triumphs  of  gallantry,  the 
chase,  and  war,  their  successors  of  the 
present  day  are  making  the  curious  mis- 
take of  studying  local  color  for  them- 
selves. It  would  be  just  as  reasonable 
that  they  should  fight  all  the  battles  they 
describe,  kill  all  the  game,  and  do  all  the 
love-making.  Indeed,  some  of  the  more 
advanced  are  already  doing  this,  and  de- 
fending their  methods  so  cleverly  that 
one  cannot  but  marvel  at  the  temerity  of 
Shakespeare  in  writing  King  Lear  with- 
out first  going  mad. 

This  erroneous  view  of  the  writer's 
function  began  with  the  study  of  local 
color  that  seemed  to  be  made  necessary 
by  the  spread  of  democratic  ideas.  Of 
late  years,  as  has  been  shown  by  some 
recent  exploits  of  the  German  Emperor, 
kings  have  found  it  hard  to  enjoy  their 
once  favorite  pastime  without  danger  of 
black  eyes  and  other  forms  of  lese-ma- 
jeste.  But  because  our  nominal  kings 
have  abandoned  the  practice,  it  does  not 
follow  that  writers  should  take  it  up.  If 
they  were  in  touch  with  the  progress  of 
the  world,  they  would  celebrate  the  ex- 
ploits of  our  real  kings,  and  give  us  bal- 
lads and  romances  of  the  Walking  Dele- 
gate and  the  President,  or  of  the  Popu- 
list and  the  Plutocrat.  Just  as  kings 
once  put  on  rags  and  went  slumming,  the 
sovereign  voter  now  puts  on  a  dress  suit 
and  attends  a  reception. 

Now  in  order  to  rescue  the  sport  of 
studying  local  color  from  its  present  fall- 
en condition,  it  will  be  necessary  to  hold 
some  discourse  with  the  learned  Thebans 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


865 


who  regard  it  as  one  of  their  preroga- 
tives. Only  by  convincing  them  that  they 
are  mistaken  can  this  end  be  attained ; 
and  although  analytical  criticism  is  not 
usually  part  of  a  sport  lover's  training,  I 
am  obliged,  with  due  humility,  to  essay 
the  task. 

Fortunately  for  what  is  popularly  sup- 
posed to  be  literature,  local  color  cannot 
be  defined  accurately.  Like  Hamlet's 
cloud,  it  may  look  like  a  camel,  like  a 
weasel,  or  very  like  a  whale,  and  every 
author  is  at  liberty  to  describe  it  as  he 
pleases.  Like  love,  it  can  only  be  illus- 
trated, and  for  that  reason  is  a  peren- 
nial source  of  copy.  And  just  because  it 
cannot  be  defined  the  temptation  to  de- 
fine it  is  irresistible.  Local  color  is  that 
which  enables  the  earnest  modern  writer 
to  give  his  problem  novels  a  local  habi- 
tation and  a  dialect.  The  only  requisites 
to  its  study  are  an  unfamiliar  environ- 
ment and  a  superior  mind,  which  natu- 
rally bring  it  within  the  range  of  every 
man  with  enough  energy  to  walk  around 
a  block.  It  consists  of  all  that  is  seen, 
heard,  or  smelled  by  a  sage  of  one  lo- 
cality when  visiting  another  locality.  In- 
deed, the  matter  might  be  pushed  to  such 
an  extreme  as  to  show  that  the  industri- 
ous local  colorist  may  use  all  the  known 
and  some  unknown  senses  in  the  study. 
Dr.  Holmes's  description  of  a  tavern 
bedstead  doubtless  owes  its  definiteness 
to  observation  made  through  the  sense 
of  feeling  ;  Mark  Twain's  description  of 
a  Turkish  restaurant  appeals  peculiarly 
to  the  palate ;  and  in  some  of  Mr.  John 
Kendrick  Bangs's  stories  scenes  are  de- 
scribed by  the  aid  of  that  mysterious 
sixth  sense  that  is  the  desire  of  the  Theo- 
sophist  and  the  chief  equipment  of  the 
yellow  journalist. 

But  the  exclusive  study  of  local  color 
by  writers,  besides  staining  a  royal  sport 
with  professionalism,  has  wrought  much 
injury  to  pure  literature.  In  some  places 
of  high  and  rarefied  mentality  it  is  held 
that  minute  descriptions  of  local  color 
really  make  literature,  and  when  a  new 


writer  appears  the  critics  first  concern 
themselves  with  the  quality  of  his  pecu- 
liarities. If  they  are  sufficiently  marked, 
he  is  promptly  hailed  as  a  genius,  with- 
out any  consideration  being  paid  to  the 
quality  of  his  message  to  the  world.  As 
a  result  of  this,  a  man  who  discovers  a 
new  vein  of  local  color  feels  himself 
called  upon  to  write  a  book  to  exploit  it ; 
and  some  who  have  real  stories  to  tell 
become  mute  inglorious  Hall  Caines  be- 
cause they  cannot  find  a  suitable  brand 
of  local  color  to  serve  as  a  medium  for 
their  creations.  And  all  this  is  due  to  a 
mistaken  idea  that  local  color  is  anything 
more  than  a  blemish  that  adds  value  to 
literary  work,  just  as  a  misprint  makes 
the  "  Vinegar  "  Bible  command  a  fancy 
price  in  the  auction  room. 

It  is  true  that  much  of  the  world's 
best  literature  is  permeated  with  local 
color,  but  in  every  important  case  it  will 
be  found  that  it  is  inevitable  rather  than 
elaborated.  Burns  wrote  in  "  honest 
Lallans  "  because  it  was  the  language  of 
his  heart  and  of  the  people  to  whom  he 
appealed,  and  he  was  handicapped  when 
he  tried  to  express  himself  in  the  stilted 
English  of  which  he  was  a  laborious  mas- 
ter. He  wrote  in  his  mother  tongue, 
and  used  his  environments  to  illustrate 
his  thoughts,  because  he  lacked  the  neces- 
sary familiarity  with  all  others.  Dialect 
was  not  an  affectation  with  him,  but  a 
necessary  means  to  an  end  ;  and  it  was 
because  he  used  it  from  within  rather 
than  from  without,  as  one  who  was  im- 
bued with  it  rather  than  as  one  who  had 
observed  it,  that  it  takes  on  an  immortal 
dignity.  His  peasant's  phrase  became 
him,  just  as  cultivated  speech  becomes 
the  scholar,  but  when  the  peasant  and 
scholar  change  garb  and  language  both 
become  masqueraders.  When  a  student 
of  language  and  custom  undertakes  to 
write  like  a  peasant,  his  work  may  inter- 
est, but  it  can  never  be  of  supreme  value  ; 
for  it  simply  shows  how  a  soul  may  ex- 
press itself  when  handicapped.  Only 
when  local  color  gives  the  soul  greater 


866 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


freedom,  and  makes  possible  a  more  final 
expression  of  thought,  is  it  other  than  a 
defect.  If  the  books  written  by  our  mas- 
ters of  local  color  could  be  read  or  un- 
derstood by  the  people  whose  lives  they 
portray;  if  such  works  recorded  their 
joys,  sorrows,  and  aspirations  in  a  way  to 
excite  gratitude  or  applause,  there  would 
be  some  excuse  for  making  the  short 
and  simple  annals  of  the  poor  both  long 
and  complex.  Unfortunately,  they  can 
be  read  only  by  patient  students  with  a 
taste  for  glossaries,  while  the  people  who 
are  supposed  to  be  voiced  read  their 
Bibles  and  the  comparatively  good  Eng- 
lish of  the  weekly  papers.  Our  citizens 
are  taught  in  the  public  schools  to  read 
and  write  the  current  language  of  the 
commonwealth ;  and  if  climatic  condi- 
tions affect  their  pronunciation  and  pe- 
culiar occupations  mould  their  phrases, 
they  either  do  not  notice  the  deviations 
or  do  not  give  them  a  thought.  It  is 
unspeakably  absurd,  and  yet  true,  that 
the  country  poems  and  stories  of  to-day 
are  written  for  the  people  of  the  city.  It 
was  not  so  in  the  time  of  Burns.  He 
wrote  for  his  friends  and  neighbors,  and 
they  understood  him  better  than  any  one 
else  ;  but  I  have  yet  to  find  the  ordinary 
farmer  who  can  misspell  out  the  delight- 
ful poems  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
though  I  have  met  many  who  are  fa- 
miliar with  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and 
widely  read  in  well-written  history. 

It  may  be  thought  that,  for  one  who  is 
merely  advocating  the  purification  of  a 
sport,  I  have  gone  too  far  afield  in  lit- 
erary criticism  ;  but  as  the  authors  are 
the  professionals  of  whom  I  complain, 
and  as  their  sweet  reasonableness  is  well 
known,  I  feel  that  I  can  best  attain  my 
end  by  showing  them  their  error.  I 
would  not  have  them  think,  however, 
that  I  consider  their  work  totally  with- 
out value.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  their  adventures  in  the  quest 
of  local  color  will  furnish  excellent  ma- 


terial for  the  true  literary  men  of  the 
future,  just  as  did  the  adventures  of  the 
kings  and  beggars  in  the  songs  of  the 
ancient  ballad  makers.  Already  a  young 
friend  who  appreciates  the  true  needs  of 
the  art  he  practices  has  filled  many  note- 
books with  accounts  of  adventures  in  the 
study  of  local  color  by  makers  of  books. 
Moreover,  he  is  writing  a  history  of  the 
subject,  and  dealing  with  it  as  a  form  of 
mining.  He  has  maps  and  charts  show- 
ing where  the  various  outcrops,  placers, 
and  pockets  have  been  found.  He  re- 
counts the  adventures  of  different  toilers 
While  developing  their  claims,  and  deals 
at  considerable  length  with  the  exploits 
of  that  literary  desperado,  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling,  who  is  one  of  the  most  inveter- 
ate of  claim  jumpers.  He  also  devotes 
a  ballad  to  him,  and  as  nearly  as  I  can 
quote  from  memory  it  opens  as  follows : 

"  Now  Rudyard  Kipling  rose  —  when  called  — 

And  pushed  th'  electric  bell ; 
*  Ho  !  bring  to  me  a  writing  pad, 
And  typewriter  as  well ! ' 

"  He  climbed  aboard  a  varnished  car, 

He  rode  three  days  and  one, 
And  to  a  Western  village  came 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

"  Then  up  and  chinned  a  village  maid : 

'  'T  is  Hamlin  Garland's  ground, 
And  much  I  fear  you  'd  get  the  gaff 
If  you  should  here  be  found.' 

" '  Go  to,  go  to,  thou  village  maid,' 

And  a  rude  *  Har  !  Har !  '  laughed  he. 
'  What 's  owned  by  one  belongs  to  all, 

And  all  belongs  to  me.'  " 
When  the  young  man  finds  a  pub- 
lisher who  will  take  his  history  seriously, 
and  will  not  regard  such  ballads  as  the 
above  satirical,  he  will  bring  out  the  re- 
sults of  his  labors,  and  the  world's  lit- 
erature will  be  enriched  with  an  honest 
view  of  an  ancient  and  royal  sport  un- 
der modern  conditions.  All  the  people 
will  then  indulge  in  it  as  a  right,  and 
the  gayety  of  the  nation  will  surpass 
even  the  dreams  of  humor. 


AP       The  Atlantic  monthly 

2 

A8 

v.90 


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