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FROM THE .IBRARY OF

PROFESSOR W. H. CLAWSON

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH

UNIVERSITY COLLEGE

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY

A MAGAZINE OF

Hiterature 5

VOLUME XCII

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLTN AND COMPANY

pre#^, ambcitige

1903

AUG181364

920338-
AP

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.

CONTENTS.

INDEX BY TITLES.

Anna Mareea, Esther B. Tiffany .

PAGE

247

PAGK

Banking Interests in the United States,

The Concentration of, Charles J. Bullock 182

Battersby's Valedictory, R. MacAlarney . 367
Battle of Gray's Pasture, The : A Reminis-
cence of Old-Fashioned Football, George

L.Teeple 595

Beecher, Henry Ward, Lyman Abbott . . 539
Bible in Public Schools, The, Herbert W.

Horwill 296

Biographer, The Studies of a, F. Greenslet 135

Birds from a City Roof, Dallas Lore Sharp 242
Books of Travel, Some Recent, H. W.

Boynton 129

Books New and Old, H. W. Boynton.

Poetry and the Stage . 120

Some Fiction, mainly Serious .... 277

W. E. Henley and Journalism . . . 414

Air and Earth 565

" Effusions of Fancy " 693

Personal Adventures 848

Boy who Lived at the Bottom of a Well,

The, Edwin Biorkman 674

Boy's Love, A, Juliet Wilbor Tompkins . 68

Browning, New Lights on, Ferris Greenslet 418
Bryce's Biographical Studies, Harriet

Waters Preston 699

Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds, A,

Bradford Torrey 95

Canadian College, Of Girls in a, Archibald

MacMechan 402

Chadwick's William Ellery Channing, W.

M. Salter 131

Christopher North, W. A. Bradley . . . 358
Church, The : Some Immediate Questions,

Rev. T. T. Hunger .721

College Rank and Distinction in Life, A.

Lawrence Lowell 512

Colonel's Accretion, The, C. D. Stewart . 811
" Comparative Literature," What is,

Charles Mills Gayley . 56

Concentration of Banking Interests in the

United States, The, Charles J. Bullock 182
Consecrated to Crime, Agnes Repplier . . 231
Crime against Beauty, A, Arlo Bates . 661
Cuban Self-Government, The First Year

of, Matthew E. Hanna 113

Culture, A National Type of, B . I. Wheeler 74

Daphne, Margaret Sherwood 145

Defense, Economic Conditions for Future,

Brooks Adams 632

Dictionaries, New Editions of English,

Herbert R. Gibbs 855

Distinction in Life, College Rank and, A.

Lawrence Lowell . 512

Drama, Some Recent Books in the Eliza-
bethan, George P. Baker 706

Drama, Three Books about the, Ferris
Greenslet 853

Early Impressions, Some, Sir Leslie Ste-
phen 305, 527

Economic Conditions for Future Defense,

Brooks Adams 632

Editing, Sir Leslie Stephen 750

Educated Wage-Earner, An, Jocelyn Lewis 387
Education in Music, Our Public, Louis C.

, Elson 252

Emile Zola, Henry James 193

End of Desire, The, Robert Herrick ... 462
English Verse, Some Remarks on the

Study of, Henry van Dyke 469

Erecting of a Library, The, Ferris Greenslet 282

First Year of Cuban Self-Government,
The, Matthew E. Hanna 113

Fruits of Industrial Training, The, Booker
T. Washington 453

Gold-Hunters of the North, The, Jack

London 42

Golden Fortune, The, Mary Austin . . . 791
Great Municipal Reform, A, Burton J.
Hendricks 665

Henley, W. E., and Journalism, H. W.

Boynton 414

Henry Ward Beecher, Lyman Abbott . . 539
Historian, The Problem of the American,

William Garrott Brown 649

Human Personality and its Survival of

Bodily Death, John E. Russell .... 126

In the Chapel of Nicholas V., H. Monroe . 406

Indifferentism, Bliss Perry 329

Industrial Training, The Fruits of, Booker

T. Washington 453

Journalism, Sir Leslie Stephen .... 611
"Juvenile Literature (so called)," John
Preston True 690

Last Antelope, The, Mary Austin ... 24
Last Royal Veto, The, William Everett . 767
Lawn Tennis, Arthur Stanwood-Pier . . 211
Letter from the Philippines, A, A . S. Riggs 256
Letters from Two Embassies, Susan M.

Francis 703

Library, The Erecting of a, Ferris Greenslet 282
Life at a Mountain Observatory, Ethel

Fountain Hussey

" Literary Centre," The, M. A. DeWolfe

Howe. 346

Contents.

Literary Development of the Pacific Coast,

The, Herbert Bashford 1

Lochinvar of the East, A, M. C. Deer-

ing

London, Vanishing, E. B. Pennell . . . 796

Maker of Mirrors, A, Ethel Wheeler . . 338

Mallarme, Stephane, Francis Grierson . . 839

Marg'et Ann, Margaret Collier Graham . . 11
Mountain Observatory, Life at a, Ethel

Fountain Hussey 29

Mr. Kipling's Five Nations, Bliss Perry . 843
Municipal School Administration, Princi-
ples of, W. H. Burnham 105

Music, Our Public Education in, Louis C.

Elson 252

National Type of Culture, A, B. I. Wheeler 74
u Nature Study," J. E. Taylor .... 763
New Editions of English Dictionaries, Her-
bert R. Gibbs 855

New Lights on Browning, Ferris Greenslet 418
New Revelation in Science, The, John

Trowbridge 787

Nicholas V., In the Chapel of, H. Mon-
roe 406

Of Girls in a Canadian College, Archibald

MacMechan 402

Of Walks and Walking Tours, Arnold

Haultain 476

On Growing Old, Norman Hapgood . . . 687

Our Public Education in Music, Louis C.

Elson 252

Pacific Coast, The Literary Development

of the, Herbert Bashford 1

Paganism, Harriet Waters Preston . . . 383
Philippines, A Letter from the, Arthur

Stanley Biggs 256

Pius X. and his Task, H. D. Sedgwick, Jr. 552
Power of the Senate, The, 8. W. McCall . 433
Principles of Municipal School Adminis-
tration, W. H. Burnham 105

Problem of the American Historian, The,

William Garrott Brown 649

Profession of Publicist, The, A . B. Kimball 804

Queen of Hearts, The, Henry A. Beers . 392

Quixotism, Samuel McChord Cr others . . 442

Reading Out of Doors, Edward Thomas . 275

Rebecca, Ferris Greenslet 858

Reform, A Great Municipal, Burton J.

Hendrick 665

Road Building among the Moros, B. L.

Bullard . 818

Santa Glaus at Lonely Cove, N. Duncan . 742

Sargent's Silva, John Muir ...... 9

Scholar, The Voice of the, D. S. Jordan . 32

School, The, Charles W. Eliot .... 577

School Administration, Principles of Muni-
cipal, W. H. Burnham 105

Schools, The Bible in Public, Herbert W.

Horwill 296

Science, The New Revelation in, John

Trowbridge 787

Second Term Precedents, Some, Charles

M. Harvey 736

Secret of Wordsworth, The, B. Torrey . 409

Senate, The Power of the, S. W. McCall . 433
Some Recent Books of Travel, H. W.

Boynton 129

Some Recent Books on the Elizabethan

Drama, George P. Baker 706

Some Remarks on the Study of English

Verse, Henry van Dyke 469

Stephane Mallarme, Francis Grierson . . 839
Story of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi, The, Laf-

cadio Hearn 237

Story of the Queen, The, Harriet Prescott

Spofford 586,775

Studies of a Biographer, The, F. Greenslet 135
Suffrage, Why Women do not Wish the,

Lyman Abbott 289

Texas and Arizona Birds, A Bunch of,

Bradford Torrey 95

Three Books about the Drama, Ferris

Greenslet 853

Trail of the Tangier, The, R. E. Young . 221

Translated Poetry, Ferris Greenslet . . . 856

Trasimene, Arthur Colton 604

Two Books by Mr. Aldrich, Bliss Perry . 711

Vanishing London, E. R. Pennell . . . 796

Voice of the Scholar, The, D. S. Jordan . 32

Walks and Walking Tours, Of, Arnold

Haultain 476

Walt Whitman as an Editor, Charles M.

Skinner 679

Way of the Strong, The, R. E. Young . . 520
What is " Comparative Literature " ?

Charles Mills Gayley 56

Whistler, Royal Cortissoz 826

Why Women do not Wish the Suffrage,

Lyman Abbott 289

Widder, The, Alexander Black .... 267
Wild Justice, Henry Milner Rideout 317, 496

Woman's Fancy, A, Alice M. Ewell . . 623

Wordsworth, The Secret of, B. Torrey . 409

Zola, Emile, Henry James 193

INDEX BY AUTHORS.

Abbott, Lyman.

Why Women do not Wish the Suffrage 289

Henry Ward Beecher . 539

Adams, Brooks, ' Economic Conditions for

Future Defense 632

Austin, Mary.

The Last Antelope . 24

The Golden Fortune 791

Baker, George P., Some Recent Books on

the Elizabethan Drama 706

Baker. Mercy E., The Old Decoy-Duck . 496
Bashford, Herbert, The Literary Develop-
ment of the Pacific Coast . 1

Contents.

Bates, Arlo, A Crime against Beauty .

Beers, Henry A., The Queen of Hearts . 392

Binyon, Laurence, Umbria 304

Biorkman, Edwin, The Boy who Lived at

the Bottom of a Well 674

Black, Alexander, The Widder .... 267

Boynton, If. W .

Some Recent Books of Travel .... 129
Books New and Old.

Poetry and the Stage 120

Some Fiction, mainly Serious . . . 277

W. E. Henley and Journalism . . . 414

Air and Earth 565

" Effusions of Fancy " 693

Personal Adventures 848

Bradley, William A., Christopher North 358

687

Hapgood, Norman, On Growing Old . .
Harvey, Charles M., Some Second Term

Precedents 73tj

Haultain, Arnold, Of Walks and Walking

Tours 4.7(5

Hearn, Lafcadio, The Story of Mimi-

Nashi-Hoichi 237

Hendrick, Burton J., A Great Municipal

Reform 665

Herrick, Robert, The End of Desire ... 462
Horwill, Herbert W., The Bible in Public

Schools 296

Howe, M. A. De Wolfe, The "Literary

Centre" 346

Hussey, Ethel Fountain, Life at a Mountain

Observatory 29

Brown, William Garrott, The Problem of

the American Historian 649 James, Henry, Emile Zola 193

Bullard, R. L., Road Building among the

Moros 818

Bullock, Charles J., The Concentration of

Banking Interests in the United States 182
Burnham, W. H., Principles of Municipal

School Administration . 105

Jordan, David Starr, The Voice of the
Scholar . . 32

Keeler, Charles, On Mount Hamilton
Kelchum, Arthur.

The Sea Wind 193

Knighted 750

Campbell, W. Wilfred, The Soul's Bath . 786 Kimball, Arthur E., The Profession of

673

Cheney, John Vance, A Memory .

Coates, Florence Earle, " Go Not too Far " 838

Colton, Arthur, Trasimene 604

Cortissoz, Royal, Whistler 826

Cr others, Samuel McChord, Quixotism . . 442

Deering, Mabel C., A Lochinvar of the East 49
Duncan, Norman, Santa Glaus at Lonely

Cove 742

Earle, Mabel, Voices of Rain 22

Eliot, Charles W., The School 577

Elson, Louis C., Our Public Education in

Music 252

Everett, William, The Last Royal Veto . 767

Ewell, Alice M., A Woman's Fancy . . 623

Foote, Elizabeth, The Youngest .... 73
Francis, Susan M., Letters from Two Em-
bassies 703

Gayley, Charles Mills, What is " Compara-
tive Literature " ? 56

Gibbs, Herbert R., New Editions of Eng-
lish Dictionaries 855

Gilder, R. W., Home Acres 230

Goodale, Dora Read, White-Throats in

Franconia 275

Graham, Margaret Collier, Marg'et Ann . 77

Greenslet, Ferris.

The Studies of a Biographer . . . . 135

The Erecting of a Library 282

New Lights on Browning 418

Three Books about the Drama .... 853

Translated Poetry 856

Rebecca 858

Grierson, Francis, Stephane Majlarme .

Guild, Marion Pelton, Strange Rhymes

Publicist 804

Lewis, Jocelyn, An Educated Wage-Earner 387
London, Jack, The Gold-Hunters of the

North 42

Lowell, A. Lawrence, College Rank and

Distinction in Life 512

MacAlarney, Robert, Battersby's Valedic-
tory 367

MacMechan, Archibald, Of Girls in a Cana-
dian College . 402

McCall, S. W., The Power of the Sen-
ate 433

Monroe, Harriet, In the Chapel of Nicho-
las V 406

Muir, John, Sargent's Silva 9

Munger, Rev. T. T., The Church: Some

Immediate Questions 721

Peabody, Josephine Preston, The Hero . 595
Pennell, Elizabeth Robins, Vanishing Lon-
don 796

Perkins, Alice Choate, Transfiguration . 345
Perry, Bliss.

Indifferentism 329

Two Books by Mr. Aldrich 711

Mr. Kipling's Five Nations 843

Phinney, Evelyn, The Last Tenant ... 687

Pier, Arthur Stanwood, Lawn Tennis . . 211

Pomeroy, Edivard JV., The Derelict . . 251
Preston, Harriet Waters.

Paganism 383

Bryce's Biographical Studies .... 699

Hanna, Matthew E., The First Year of
Cuban Self -Government 113

Repplier, Agnes, Consecrated to Crime . .
839 Rideout, Henry Milner, Wild Justice 317, 496
552 Riggs, Arthur Stanley, A Letter from the

Philippines

Russell, John E., Human Personality and
its Survival of Bodily Death .... 126

Contents.

Salttr, W. M., Chadwick's William Ellery

Channing 131

Sedgwick, H. D., Jr., Pius X. and his Task 552

Torrey, Bradford.

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds . 95
The Secret of Wordsworth 409

Sharp, Dallas Lore, Birds from a City Roof 242 Trowbridge, John, The New Revelation in

Sherman, Frank Dempster, Dies Ultima . 452 Science ... 787

Sherwood, Margaret, Daphne 145 Trowbridge, John Townsend, Evening at

Naples 356

True, John Preston, " Juvenile Literature
(so called)" 690

Urmy, Clarence, Dreams in the Redwoods 94

Van Dyke, Henry, Some Remarks on the
Study of English Verse ....... 469

Skinner, Charles M., Walt Whitman as an
Editor ............ 679

Spofford, Harriet Prescott, The Story of
the Queen ......... 586, 775

Stephen, Sir Leslie.
Some Early Impressions .... 305, 527

Journalism ........... 611

Editing ............ 750

Stewart, Charles D., The Colonel's Accre-
tion

Tabb, John B., Choristers ...... 383

Taylor, J. E., "Nature Study ". ... 763

Teeple, George L., The Battle of Gray's
Pasture : A Reminiscence of Old-Fash-

ioned Football ..... .... 595

Thomas, Edward, Reading Out of Doors . 275

Tiffany, Esther B., Anna Mareea . . . 247

Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor, A Boy's Love . 68

811 Washington, Booker T., The Fruits of In-
dustrial Training 453

Wheeler, Benjamin Ide, A National Type
of Culture 74

Wheeler, Ethel, A Maker of Mirrors . . 338

Young, E. E.

The Trail of the Tangier 221

The Way of the Strong 520

Choristers, John B. Tabb

Derelict, The, Edward N. Pomeroy . . .
Dies Ultima, Frank Dempster Sherman
Dreams in the Redwoods, Clarence Urmy .

Evening at Naples, John Townsend Trow-
bridge

" Go Not too Far," Florence Earle Coates

Hero, The, Josephine Preston Peabody . .
Home Acres, R. W. Gilder

Knighted, Arthur Ketchum

Last Tenant, The, Evelyn Phinney . . .
Memory, A, John Vance Cheney ....

POETRY.

383 Old Decoy-Duck, The, Mercy E. Baker . 496

On Mount Hamilton, Charles Keeler . . 41

251

452 Sea Wind, The, Arthur Ketchum .... 193

94 Soul's Bath, The, W. Wilfred Campbell . 786

Strange Rhymes, Marion Pelton Guild . 552

356 Transfiguration, Alice Choate Perkins . . 34&

838 Umbria, Laurence Binyon 304

595 Voices of Rain, Mabel Earle ..... 22
230

White-Throats in Franconia, Dora Bead

750 Goodale 275

687 Youngest, The, Elizabeth Foote .
673

73-

CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.

" Allusion Mark," An 864 Old Leaven of Romance, The 863

Old Times on the Missouri 423

Camera Obscura, The 428 On Progress 430

Day After, The 141 Penalties of Precision 287

Declined with Thanks 426

Delectable Farmhouse, The 286 Query Concerning Up-To-Date Novelists,

A .'431

Great Person and Certain Bores, A ... 142

Reflections of a Fringer 139

Idealizing and Spiritualizing Washing . . 718

In Sickness and in Health 716 Simple Life, The 865

Lady Alone at Night, The 284 Transmigrations of My Soul, The 573

" Little Learning, A " 575

Wanted: a New "Mark" 572

Middle- Aged Woman, A 143 Whitman, English Appreciation of Walt . 714

More Self-Conscious Sex, The 575 Woman's Club Again, The . 860

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY:

^ art, an&

ilfiaga?we of literature^

VOL. XCIL JUL Y, 1903. No. DXLIX.

The ATLANTIC has long been fortunate in enlisting the services of writers living west of the
Rocky Mountains. Ever since Bret Harte's earlier stories revealed the rich literary material to
be found upon the Pacific Coast, this magazine has constantly utilized the prose and verse pro-
duced in California. We believe that its readers will now welcome an issue made up very
largely of contributions from present residents of that state. While the themes of these contri-
butions are by no means merely local, it seems to us that the representative work of California
writers possesses certain characteristic qualities which will impress themselves upon readers in-
terested in the literary development of the various sections of our country. THE EDITORS.

THE LITERARY DEVELOPMENT OF THE PACIFIC COAST.

Two distinct periods of activity have
marked the literary development of the
Pacific Coast. The first may be said to
have made itself most manifest during
the years when California was essentially
a gold-producing region, when Bret Harte
began his contributions to the world's en-
during fiction, and Joaquin Miller added
a new and refreshing note to American
song. To be more exact, the year 1868
witnessed the dawn of California litera-
ture, a dawn of radiant promise which
paled and faded into a brief day that
closed ominously.

The second period of literary growth,
which I am asked to consider especially,
and which to the present hour has gradu-
ally increased in strength, began with the
completion of the transcontinental rail-
roads, when the vast tide of immigration,
flowing westward, had changed the states
bordering on the Pacific from a mining
region to one of commerce and agricul-
ture. The time that elapsed during this
transformation defines clearly these two
periods of literary development, the latter
having assumed within the past decade
its greatest activity. The reason for this
is at once apparent when we consider that
the intense materialism which character-

ized the " boom " days was by no means
conducive to art in any of its various
forms. The passing of the golden era
with its glamour of romance, and the sub-
sequent speculative excitement caused by
the advent of homeseekers from the East-
ern and Middle states, was naturally a
time of literary quietude. The old West,
which had ever been separated from the
world at large by mountain barriers and
desolate wastes, and which could only be
reached by a wearisome ocean journey,
or by that more perilous route taken by
the " prairie schooner," was giving place
to the new. Social conditions were
necessarily altered. The primitive cus-
toms characteristic of the pioneers were
brought into sharp contrast with those
of the more cultured fortune-hunters from
the commercial centres of the East. The
natural touched elbows with the artificial.
Formality was often greeted by what to
it appeared a disregard for good manners
only pardonable in the barbarous. The
conventional and the conservative were
forced to mingle with the informal and
the radical. Metropolitan life joined
with that of the border ; the one being
influenced by the other. Thus to-day
the Pacific slope presents a social struc-

2 The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

ture, the architecture of which must prove son brought the inevitable crash. In the

of striking psychological interest because vernacular of the real estate gambler,

of its bewildering complexity. " the boom busted." This meant a great

It would be highly difficult to convey deal to the people who had sought their

even a slight idea of the wild turmoil that fortunes west of the Rockies. It meant

prevailed throughout the Far West dur- loss of home, bankruptcy, shattered hope,

ing its rapid transition from a compara- despair, even suicide. The growth of

tive wilderness to the prosperous common- the country in a material sense, though

wealth of the present day. Only those temporarily retarded, assumed a normal

who participated in the fierce scramble condition, as any growth should to be

for corner lots can fully comprehend the healthful, and it has remained so, with

feverish conditions which existed on the few exceptions, to the present time,
western side of the continent during the Although we may realize something

days of its mushroom growth. It was of the rapid strides made by modern

a mad rush for wealth. Such a frantic civilization, it seems hardly possible that

struggle of tossed and tumbled humanity ! a brief quarter of a century could bring

Here the man of meagre purse felt that about the great change that has taken

he could at last grasp the hand of Oppor- place along the shores of the Pacific,

tunity, and he was dazzled by dreams of Within this period alone huge forests

sudden riches. From Puget Sound to have been felled, and in their stead

San Diego, the Pacific Coast was one vast strong young cities have arisen as if

whirlpool of speculative frenzy. Hun- by magic. Where the rattlesnake lay

dreds of eager men gathered about some undisturbed on the California hills the

land company's office at the midnight paved streets now echo to the clamorous

hour, that they might secure on the fol- tongue of Trade, and in matchless har-

lowing morning the choicest lots in the bors, where but two decades past only

newly platted town site or addition, were the canoe of the Indian was seen, great

not an unusual spectacle, or one that par- steamships cast anchor from the ports

took of literary significance. Shrewd of the world.

investors made their fortunes. The new- What has been accomplished in the

comer, who may have been forced to way of material progress must of neces-

borrow a few dollars on his arrival, not sity precede the higher growth, yet this is

infrequently became a millionaire within decidedly averse to the creation of a lit-

a year. Almost fabulous tales are told erary atmosphere. The air, so intensely

of riches gained in a single day or hour, permeated with plots, plans, and wily

Speculation was the one thought on which schemes, did not inspire the thought

the minds of men were centred, and which survives brick blocks, and which

which amounted to a veritable mania, is the ultimate test of a people's great-

an all-pervading passion. It was a form ness. When materialism reaches such a

of gambling but a shade higher than that stage as to completely dwarf the spir-

with which we most commonly associate itual faculties, the eyes of men are sel-

the name. Neither old nor young es- dorn lifted to the stars,
caped its allurements. The erstwhile With the collapse of inflated values

conservative citizen of staid old New the inhabitants of the new West found

England soon found himself infected with time to Took about them and contem-

the prevailing fever, and was drawn al- plate their surroundings. Now that their

most unconsciously into that vortex of minds were diverted from speculations

greed that sooner or later must bring in real estate they awoke to the neces-

wreck and ruin. sity of progression in ways other than

The inflation of values beyond all rea- those to which they had heretofore de-

The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

voted themselves. With the majority it
was a time of serious, sober reflection.
While the suddenness of the fall had
left the people somewhat dazed, and
their castles in air had mysteriously dis-
solved, it was not in the spirit of the
race to be long cast down. Actuated by
higher ideals, they sought the soil and
legitimate business pursuits. The school
and the home were no longer ignored.
Public libraries were established, and
almost every hamlet that had given up
hope of rivaling San Francisco in com-
mercial supremacy showed its wisdom
by forming a reading circle or a liter-
ary society. The steady growth of the
Women's Clubs throughout the Pacific
states during the last ten years has
had a most beneficent effect upon moral
and intellectual advancement. Then,
too, during the calm that followed after
the stress of the boom days, when en-
terprise made sure of its footing, and
the social fabric became more closely
woven, the impressive character of the
country's scenic grandeur appealed to
those whose eyes had been fixed upon
false gods. When they walked no longer
in the blinding glare of a golden idol
that had impaired their spiritual vision,
they beheld the beauty and majesty of
the world about them. To this peculiar
and growing sensitiveness to the subtle
influences of Nature, combined with in-
creased educational advantages, may be
attributed the present literary activity
which is attracting attention to the Pa-
cific Coast.

With the bulk of population on the
western seaboard confined to the limits
of California, it is only to be expected
that this state should now, as in its
earlier history, show the most interest
in the fine arts ; and in literature, at
least, produce such efforts as to estab-
lish its claim to serious consideration.

Doubtless were we to confine within
still narrower geographical limits that
section in which this literary activity is
most apparent, we should find its borders

not far outside the metropolis of the Pa-
cific and close to the Bay of San Fran-
cisco. In and about this centre of popu-
lation the pulse of Western literature
beats more strongly than in the newer
cities to the north and south. The State
University located at Berkeley and Stan-
ford University at Palo Alto, both ad-
jacent to the Golden Gate, have proved
most potent factors in creating a literary
spirit, something, too, that has been fos-
tered by the daily press of San Francisco
and by periodicals essentially devoted
to its development. A steadily increas-
ing membership in the various libraries
also indicates the general trend of
thought. In fact, the reading habit among
Californians is particularly significant.
In the crowded ferries plying to and fro
between San Francisco and other adja-
cent ports, and on the local trains as
well, one may observe both young and
old absorbed in the contents of books and
magazines. Tourists frequently com-
ment upon the extent to which this cus-
tom prevails. It serves, if nothing more,
to soften the materialistic picture pre-
sented by the < city Bret Harte once
thought possessed of "hard high lust
and cunning greed." But the San Fran-
cisco of to-day manifests interest in mat-
ters aside from finance. While she dis-
plays such commercial energy that a
far voyager like Kipling is convinced of
her absolute madness in this respect, she
nevertheless shows a deep concern for
those things tending toward the elevation
of her people. It is this provincial pride
that causes many San Franciscans, and
the inhabitants of the state in general,
to feel that the later stories of California
life by the lamented creator of The
Luck of Roaring Camp are apt to con-
vey to the reading world an impression
altogether at variance with conditions
as they exist to-day. The average Cali-
f ornian resents the imputation that he lias
a disregard for culture. He may be in-
dependent, abrupt of speech, devoid of
many of the formalities of an older civili-

The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

/at ion, scornful of family traditions or
hereditary distinctions, traits charac-
teristic of the typical Westerner, but
he denies with emphasis that he is dom-
inated by any of the instincts of the bar-
barian. He is always confident of his
ability to think and act for himself re-
gardless of the experience of others, nor
does he feel that because certain forms
of expression governed the language of
the past that he should conform to them
now, and deem the ancient masterpieces
of literature the only models of excel-
lence for his time and generation. While
realizing full well his ignorance of the
historic shrines of art and letters, he feels
that the beauty and sublimity of the world
of Nature is likewise ennobling, and af-
fords him glorious compensation.

To what extent climatic conditions and
natural scenery may influence thought is
entirely problematic. True it is, how-
ever, that these have produced an indi-
vidual type of American on the Pacific
slope. This type is clearly exemplified
by no small part of the literary output
of the region.

In a land where the weather is inva-
riably mild, the inhabitants are per-
mitted that intimacy with Nature not
accorded those of a country subject to
extremes of heat and cold. The people
of the west shore find themselves in the
sunshine of the great out of doors the
maj or portion of the year. Thus, whether
or not they be particularly observant,
this close association with natural scen-
ery leads to a sensitive and emotional^
organism that most frequently finds ex-
pression in the form of verse, the abun-
dant production of which by Californians
is becoming more and more apparent to
the editorial observation.

While the states bordering on the Pa-
cific are similar in many respects, they
possess marked differences as regards
landscape, climate, and natural resources.
The Northwest and the Southwest are
radically opposite. The one, wooded
and mountainous, has a heavy rainfall

and a rank vegetation, while the other is
mainly a drought-haunted desert of cacti
and shifting sands. Yet each arouses
the emotions of a sensitive soul, the for-
mer by the splendor of its wintry peaks
and magnificent inland waters, the latter
because of the awful loneliness of its des-
olate and seemingly infinite levels. We
find this feeling inspired by the desert
expressed in the memorable line,

" God must have made thee in His anger, and
forgot,"

written by Madge Morris, and in the
virile verses of Sharlot Hall, a true
daughter of the "land of little rain,"
which Mary Austin so graphically de-
scribes, and to which the writings of
Charles F. Lummis have called especial
attention. This veritable wonderland,
with its prehistoric ruins and solitary
mesas, will without doubt figure more
prominently in the nation's literature
henceforth. These pictures of the burn-
ing deserts of the Southwest are in sharp
contrast to those of the north Pacific, a
section that has recently become more
familiar to the reader of current fiction
through the work of Eva Emery Dye and
of Ella Higginson, the first a writer of his-
torical romance, dealing with old Oregon
and the days of Lewis and Clark, the
latter a close observer of life and land-
scape in western Washington. Mrs. Hig-
ginson's verse and prose attest her pas-
sionate love of the evergreen hills of
Puget Sound, the " land of the snow
pearls," of solemn forests and dove-gray
skies. Her portrayal of Northwest civ-
ilization with its patient, hard- worked
rancher, and its illiterate type of woman-
hood that aspires to social prominence,
conveys a very definite idea of certain
phases of life in this picturesque corner
of 'the Union.

Between these two sections of coun-
try, so extremely different in climate and
topography, lies that portion of the west-
ern seaboard, which, though entirely dis-
tinct in many ways, combines the pro-
nounced natural features of both, and

The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast. 5

which has been properly designated " our would be unfair to say that any one of
American Italy." California presents a these sectional studies is typical of the
more varied landscape than either Ore- state as a whole, or affords more than a
gon or Washington. Its diversity is not mere glimpse of its vast domain. Natu-
only noted by the tourist, but is obvious, rally the crowning glory of its scenic mag-
as well, to the reader familiar with its nificence those " minarets of snow,"
literature. In general, natural objects the Sierras are best known to song and
are sharply defined because of the re- story through the poetry of Miller and
markable clearness of the atmosphere, the fiction of Harte, though a latter-day
and while in average altitudes the climate Thoreau, Mr. John Muir, has given voice
is mild and equable it is by no means to their wild freedom. Alone and un-
enervating. Mental and physical indo- armed he has explored these sublime and
lence, with which we are wont to associ- solitary heights, companioned with bird
ate tropical surroundings, are not induced and beast, and under a roof of stars, been
by California's balmy air and yellow rocked to sleep in the swaying top of an
sunshine. Its inhabitants are permit- ancient pine. Who shall say that these
ted a breadth of view not accorded the mountains of California, which have al-
dwellers in more rigorous climes. Pro- ready given such strength and pictur-
fessor Josiah Royce, a former Califor- esqueness to American literature, may
nian whose name has long been identified not be cherished in time to come for
with Western letters, asserts that one their literary traditions as are the Alps,
derives from these wide views a sense of and the peaks of Scotland ? We have
power and independence, a statement several Mont Blancs on this side of the
which seems most rational, and to which continent, and Coleridges shall surely
I should add a broader mental horoscope arise to sing their glory,
as well. It has often been said that Na- The romance of early Spanish life, like
ture in California is on a big scale. Com- the delicate fragrance of a trampled flow-
pared with the portraits drawn of her in er, lingers about the crumbling, ivy-clad
the literature of New England she may walls of the missions, that dreamy,
sometimes appear in the pictures of va- pastoral life in which mingled Old World
rious lyrical craftsmen of the Pacific gayety and Arcadian simplicity. Its de-
Coast as a strangely fanciful creature lineation will in all probability receive
who strives to shock conventional taste hereafter from the writers of the West
by a variety and gaudiness of coloring, something of the consideration it so just-
a passion for lavish display. Espe- ly deserves. Mrs. Helen Hunt Jackson,
cially is this true of the nature poems of whose name is held in deepest reverence
Joaquin Miller, which have been f re- by the people of California, among whom
quently considered too highly colore.d and she passed the last days of her life, was
extravagant to afford an adequate con- the first to put this picturesque period of
ception of western landscape, yet which Spanish occupation into romantic fiction,
seem vividly realistic descriptions to one She wrote with a noble purpose, and won
whose eyes have rested upon its scenic the deep gratitude of a rapidly vanishing
splendor. It is an easy matter for the race. Of late the Franciscan brotherhood
California writer to become overflorid . has found a most sympathetic historian in
where Nature herself speaks in the Ian- the poet Charles Warren Stoddard, who,
giiage of color. together with Harte, Miller, Sill, Mul-
While different phases of its life and ford, and others, was a notable figure in
landscape are depicted in the work of its a once brilliant coterie. Mrs. Gertrude
authors, and we are given accurately Atherton, a native Californian, has also
drawn pictures of varying localities, it depicted the manners and customs of the

6 The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

" splendid, idle forties," giving a vivid- The creator of McTeague and of Moran
ness and dramatic strength to her char- of the Lady Letty was one of several
acterization that savors less of romance writers who have been connected in a
than of reality. The social side of mod- greater or less degree with San Fran-
era Western life has of late engaged the cisco journalism, from which, as else-
attention of Mrs. Atherton. Its complex where, there is a gradual drift into the
nature offers a subject of keen interest more inviting field of authorship, and
to the literary vivisectionist The grow- which has proved since the reportorial
ing tendency toward conservatism and career of Mark Twain a convenient if
conformity to the established usages of not always pleasant stepping-stone to lit-
polite society, caused by the rapidly in- erary achievement.

creasing population from the Eastern Mr. George Hamlin Fitch, Mr. Je-
states, conflicts sharply with the bold in- rome A. Hart, and Mr. Bailey Millard,
dependence and pronounced unconven- all associated with representative journals
tionality of the pioneer period. This op- of San Francisco, have done much to
position must necessarily afford such con- encourage a distinctively Western litera-
trast and variety in social life as to make ture, and, moreover, have helped to cre-
it a thoroughly absorbing study to the ate public interest in the work of local
analytical mind. The spirit of this strug- writers. These literary editors, each of
gle is voiced in many of the poems of whom recognizes the province of the
Edward Rowland Sill, who at the time critic and never mistakes it for that of
of his death was associated with the Uni- the cynic, have hailed new talent with
versity of California. He has expressed something of the delight of the prospec-
more keenly than any other of the Pacific tor who suddenly discovers a gold nug-
Coast poets the friction existing between get. If secrets should be revealed con-
these two contending factions, between cerning the advent of several well-known
" shrewd conservatism and bold radical- Californians into the realm of letters,
ism." doubtless others aside from Mr. Edwin
Perhaps no portion of the state has Markham, to whom recognition came
found more adequate literary expression tardily though with deserving heartiness,
than the half-arid though wonderfully might confess their great indebtedness to
productive valley of the San Joaquin. certain appreciative reviewers of the San
Here agricultural and corporate interests Francisco press.-' The literary spirit now
have clashed fiercely, affecting the social so evident in the metropolis of the Pacific
and domestic happiness of the region, has been stimulated through the efforts
and affording an abundance of excellent of a few men of this journalistic school,
material such as was first made use of by Among them is Mr. W. C. Morrow, au-
Mr. Bailey Millard in one of his most thor of several novels and numerous
striking short stories entitled A Notch short stories, who, though no longer ac-
in a Principality, and afterwards by the tively engaged in newspaper work, is
late Frank Norris, whose novel The accomplishing much for the literature of
Octopus voices the protest of the wheat- California, to the promotion of which he
grower against the demands of the rail- now devotes himself entirely,
way. The conditions surrounding the Miss Millicent Shinn, whose name is
farmers of the San Joaquin presented a familiar to all students of American
phase of the industrial struggle which ap- verse, is another who exerted no small
pealed keenly to a nature like that of influence in this respect during her edi-
Norris. He was a man of deep human torship of the Coast's best known month-
sympathy, and in his untimely death ly publication. In the beginning of the
American literature suffered a great loss, present period of literary growth she lent

The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

such practical assistance and gave such
kindly advice to more than one young
writer among the magazine's contributors
as to enhance beyond question the quality
of much of the literary work produced in
California to-day.

Monthly periodicals in the West have
received from the first rather meagre
support, save those wholly devoted to the
interests of trade. The effort to com-
bine commercialism and literature within
the same covers has invariably proved
unsatisfactory in all ways. Though finan-
cial loss has usually attended these mag-
azine ventures, success is not wholly a
matter of dollars and cents, as they have
served to encourage local talent, and have
also helped to stimulate, though within
narrow bounds to be sure, that interest in
the higher things of life which results
in broader ideals and more wholesome
thought. One, at least, of these short-
lived publications contributed not a little
to its editor's success, as can be vouched
for by that quaintly artistic humorist Mr.
Gelett Burgess.

The moral and mental force of men
like Benjamin Ide Wheeler and David
Starr Jordan, presidents of the two fore-
most universities west of the Rockies, is
impressing itself upon the life of the en-
tire Pacific slope, and to this ennobling
influence may be attributed no small de-
gree of its intellectual activity at the pre-
sent hour.

From the ranks of the teachers in
both public and private schools have
arisen several men and women whose
work in the various branches of liter-
ature has met with the warm appre-
ciation of the world at large and of
California in particular. One of the
most recent of these to win distinction
in an exceedingly difficult field was the
late Miss Virna Woods, whose poetic
drama Horatius, played by an eminent
American tragedian, was most cordially
received by that portion of the public
which cares for high class dramatic pro-
ductions.

The name of Mrs. Kate Douglas Wig-
gin also suggests itself in connection
with the schools of the Coast. The au-
thor of Timothy's Quest, though not a
native Westerner, spent some years of
her early life in San Francisco, before
seeking the more encouraging literary
atmosphere of the East. It was while
engaged here in kindergarten work, in
which she won not the least of her suc-
cess, that Mrs. Wiggin first began to
write. Though rather a student of hu-
man nature in general than a delineator
of sectional character, there is withal a
delightful flavor of the breezy West to
be found in her story A Summer in a
Canon.

As long as there remains the love of
beauty in the human soul, so long will
the glory of California scenery, and that
of the whole Pacific Coast, prove a source
of inspiration to the poetic mind. De-
scriptive verse has been from the begin-
ning a marked feature of the literature
of this region. In fact, the term " land-
scape poets " may be properly applied
to this bevy of song-birds which seemed
to the late Maurice Thompson to have
taken " complete possession of the en-
tire Western seaboard." Suffice to say,
that if a volume of verse were written
by a Californian which reflected nothing
of the state's scenic beauty or its warmth
of color, it would not only come as a
surprise to most reviewers, but the loy-
alty of the poet might be seriously ques-
tioned. From the pages of Miller, Harte,
Sill, Markham, Madge Morris, and Che-
ney there breathes the fragrance of the
aromatic pine boughs of Sierras' soli-
tudes, while the more recent of the
tuneful throng Urmy, Millard, Keeler,
Lillian Shuey, and others lift their
voices in praise of Nature's handiwork,
singing of " sky-loving buttes " and " vet-
eran redwoods." In her Songs from
the Golden Gate Ina D. Coolbrith pic-
tures with rare delicacy of touch the
typical features of California landscape,
which also forms a background for the

8 The Literary Development of the Pacific Coast.

fiction of Margaret Collier Graham, want to write literature ; I want to write

Flora Ho Longhead, and for the great- life," said Frank Norris early in his

er portion of the work produced by the career, voicing the sentiment of those

state's rather formidable list of prose who prefer to look at the world through

writers. While all this display of local their own eyes, rather than to accept with

color may seem too apparent an effort faith the views of men whose crumbling

on the part of Californians to place upon tombs mark the highway of the cen-

their work the stamp of a definite local- turies.

ity, and may be considered by some a To what extent the splendor and ma-
cheap form of art, it is this very sensi- jesty of the West may favor the growth
tiveness to the beauty and grandeur with of a peculiarly distinctive literature is
which Nature has clothed the West that altogether speculative, but if we are to
offers the greatest promise of its rapid be guided in our forecast by the history
literary advancement, a sensitiveness, of other lands, we may assume with some
moreover, that will become more and degree of certainty that this beauty and
more acute with the cultivation of the sublimity of landscape will ultimately
higher faculties through increasing edu- make itself manifest in a greater breadth
cational growth. of canvas, a bolder stroke, and in the
The provincial spirit has dominated more varied and brilliant coloring of a
the nation's literature since its earliest lavish brush. To select first-hand mate-
history. Sectional studies have been pos- rial, and to fashion it after his own
sible only in a country of such immensity pattern, rather than after that of the
where conditions are not merely subject conventional size, which requires a cer-
to constant change, but where they differ tain technical finish, and concerns itself
so radically with varying localities. Yet with the details of workmanship, will be
each of these delineations of the many the aim of the artist of the future. The
phases of our complex life and character tendency of California writers is toward
contributes something to our literature ruggedness and strength, and if the
as a whole. As to the nature of Califor- work of either London or Norris may
nia's future offerings, I may best point offer a significant hint of what the corn-
to one who illustrates the growing ten- ing novelist of the West will strive to at-
dency of the West toward breadth and tain, I should say first of all force and
vigor in fiction, Mr. Jack London, originality, the art of prose expression
This enthusiastic young Californian, that shall not be a weak imitation of
whose imagination was set aglow by civili- those mouldy, yet revered models of an-
zation's conquest of Alaskan wilds, and tiquity known as the classics,
whose study window looks down upon The West is rich in literary material,
the waters of San Francisco Bay, has There are mountain ranges compara-
exhibited a freshness and spontaneity of tively unexplored, which aboriginal tra-
expression, a freedom from academic dition veils in haunting mystery. The
precision and restraint, that give to his struggles, trials, and heroism of the early
pictures the quality of work done at first pioneers have scarcely been touched
hand. The creative ability displayed by upon, and what dramatic strength and
Mr. London is a most encouraging sign, picturesqueness is contained in this old-
indicative of the prevalent desire among time life of the border ! And there exists
the majority of Western writers to avoid to-day throughout the length and breadth
what the author of The Son of the Wolf of the Pacific Coast a peculiarly f ascinat-
defines as " the musty grip of the Past," ing freedom not easily comprehended by
to get clean away from ancient restric- those who have known nothing but the
tions and stereotyped forms. " I do not restraints of an older and more conven-

Sargent's Silva.

tional civilization. This will leave its
impress upon the literary production of
the region. As the lands of the olive and
the vine have ever figured prominently
in the history of Old World letters, it is
not unreasonable to expect that Califor-
nia, with her tropical sun and gorgeous
coloring, will add lustre to the literature
of America. Perhaps I have dwelt too
strongly upon scenic grandeur as a fac-
tor of literary growth, but vast forests,

icy summits, sombre canons, and beetling
cliffs must stimulate the imaginative pow-
ers, and lead to creative effort. What
has been accomplished thus far by the
writers mentioned surely offers glorious
promise of future achievement, of
work, if I may be so bold as to prophesy,
that shall draw its freshness and color
from California's sun-clad hills, and its
strength and beauty from the white radi-
ance of her eternal peaks.

Herbert Bashford.

SARGENT'S SILVA.

THE fourteenth volume of the Silva of
North America, 1 just published, brings a
great book, begun about twenty years ago,
to a happy conclusion. The first volume,
after eight or ten years of preparation,was
issued in 1890, and the work has made
steady, enthusiastic progress to the end.
It is a description of all the trees that are
known to grow naturally in North Amer-
ica, exclusive of Mexico, 585 in number,
illustrated by 740 magnificent plates. A
truly great book on a great subject by a
master, marked by perfect uniformity of
treatment in all its parts, well propor-
tioned, evenly balanced, like a broad
spreading oak standing in sunshine alone.
Though scientific, it is in the best sense
popular and thoroughly readable, telling
almost everything an intelligent reader
or traveler would naturally wish to know
about our forests and trees, and a great
deal besides that he would never be likely
to think of. So full and lifelike are the
descriptions and illustrations that tree-
lovers, however slight their training, are
enabled to identify all the trees, learn
their distribution, productions, uses, and
something of their relatives throughout
the world, what kind of forests they
make, which are most desirable for parks

The Silva of North America. By CHARLES
SPRAGUE SARGENT. Illustrated by CHARLES

and homes, and which lend themselves
most effectively to the wants of the farm-
er, forester, and landscape gardener.

And, fortunately, the work was com-
pleted just when the need of it was the
greatest. After centuries of criminal
waste and destruction, our forests are be-
ginning to be appreciated, not only as
timber and cover for the fountains of ir-
rigating streams, but for higher uses
also. Therefore trees are being studied
as never before, and knowledge concern-
ing them is called for by an ever widen-
ing circle of workers and beauty lovers.

The author, Professor Charles Sprague
Sargent, has proved himself the man for
the work. With singleness of aim and
sustaining enthusiasm, he was also blest
with wealth and power of dogged appli-
cation, of putting things through, getting
things done. While all his surroundings
were drawing him toward a life of fine
pleasure, and the cultivation of the fam-
ily fortune, he chose to live laborious
days in God's forests, studying, cultivat-
ing the whole continent as his garden.
Into this glorious field he set forth re-
joicing, making ways everywhere, con-
suming obstacles, never counting the cost.
All his studies were bent toward this

EDWARD FAXON. Boston and New York:
Houg-hton, Mifflin & Co. 1890-1902. 14vols.

10 Sargent's Silva.

book, and with unflagging industry for in Paris, from drawings from life, by
the last twenty years he has labored to Faxon, the foremost botanical artist in
make it complete, traveling, studying, America. They show a branchlet of
writing, determined to see every tree on each species, with leaves, flowers, and
the continent, known or unknown, grow- fruit, almost all of natural size, and sec-
ing with its companions in its own native tions of leaves, seeds, fruit, stamens, pis-
home. And, with few exceptions, he has tils, etc., enlarged. And these are so
thus seen them all, most of them in the tellingly drawn and arranged, any one
different seasons of the year, in leaf, and with the slightest smattering of botany
flower, and fruit, or disrobed at rest in is enabled to identify each tree, even
winter. His task seemed endless, but without referring to the text. The de-
glowing enthusiasm carried him on. Flit- scriptions, however, seem rather dry and
ting from side to side of the continent, encyclopaedic until we get used to them,
he was now in Florida, now in Canada, When the first volume was published,
California, Alaska ; traveling thousands it was believed that all our trees could
of miles every year, mostly by rail of be described in twelve volumes, but dur-
course, but long distances by canoe or ing the progress of the work new discov-
sailboat on the Florida coast, through eries caused an overflow into a thirteenth
swamps, along lagoons, and from one and again into a fourteenth. A fourteen-
palmy island to another, jolting in wag- volume, three -hundred -and -fifty-dollar
ons or on horseback over the plains and book on botany may well seem formid-
deserts and mountain chains of the West, able to common mortals, but it is not
now tracing the ways of early adven- oversized or dear for the country it
turers, to identify the trees they first covers, all the forests of America and
described, now exploring untrodden wil- sketches of the lives of the adventurous
dernesses, like Charity enduring all explorers and naturalists who first saw
things, weather, hunger, squalor, hard- and described them, and sketches of all
ships, the extent and variety of which the main features of the scenery. If any
only those who from time to time were tree-book deserves to be big, this one
his companions can begin to appreciate, a continent among island books, a Se-
While trees were waving and fluttering quoia among firs and pines does. And
about him, telling their stories, all else though accustomed to read the trees
was forgotten. Love made everything themselves, not written descriptions of
light. He thought nothing of crossing the them, I have read it through twice, as
continent to study a single tree in its va- if it were a novel, and wished it were
ried forms, as influenced by soil, climate, longer. The technical parts are scien-
companions, etc. Several trips were made tific enough, and dry enough for the taste
to Florida to find a certain species of and uses of the most exacting botanist.
Palm in flower and fruit. Practically These dry parts, however, are compara-
the whole book is based on personal in- tively small, like mere patches of gravel
vestigation and study in the field, though or sand in a fertile wilderness, and you
a great deal of herbarium and library soon learn to see the living trees through
work was done both in our own and in the midst of them, waving and swirling
foreign countries, in searching for and in the weather. The first page of most
studying type specimens of our trees and of the descriptions is fairly loaded with
their early literature, in trying to clear synonyms, and however useful they may
up confused nomenclature. be in the present condition of the leafy
At the first glance through the book, science, one cannot help begrudging the
every one must admire the fullness and extravagant amount of good wood pulp
beauty of the plates. They were made and type they consume, and the labor spent

Sargentis Silva.

in digging and dragging the dead ones
out of their graves. Some poor trees
seem to have more names than branches.
Instead of bestowing so much consider-
ate hospitality on these rapidly increas-
ing name-cairns, and proudly putting
them on show in the best places through-
out the book, they might, with advantage
to readers, have been shoved together
back of the index, as a sort of terminal
moraine, for the use of systematists, or
bravely omitted altogether. Linnaeus
consigned many names to oblivion, and
surely in these busy days we may begin
to expect the arrival of another master,
able to help us to forget what must be
forgotten.

Though joyfully welcoming each new
tree, Professor Sargent never gave way
to the prevailing tendency to exaggerate
the number of species, by exalting the
value of trifling, shifting, accidental char-
acters ; while his masterly terminology
renders the definition of the main char-
acters sharp and clear to every mind.

On the vexed question of nomencla-
ture there will of course be no lack of
conflicting opinion, for the subject is
naturally full of it. Most botanists, how-
ever, will probably agree with the au-
thor. Some may even thank him for
the clearings he has laboriously made
through perplexing tangles, though such
work is usually anything but thankful.
Good rules are often followed without
any allowance for changes called for in
the progress of the science. To the law
of Priority, the author, with most scien-
tific botanists, bows down to the ground,
or even a little way into it at times, to
the astonishment of spectators standing
aside in the groves. Prior names founded
on ignorance are held fast and defended
against those founded on knowledge.
Names that are blunders pure and sim-
ple, absurdities, barbarisms of every sort,
are -maintained for the sake of stability,
as if anything or any place in this whirl-
ing, on-rushing flood of a world can ever
be sufficiently stable for nomenclatorial

Babels. Common mortals, as well as
name-dealers, should be considered ; for
names have to be read and spoken, and
jaws and feelings may needlessly be hurt
by mongrel, craggy, unpronounceable
names in mixed languages, calling sweet,
fragrant trees foatid, or white, black,
on account of the namers having seen
and smelled only decaying specimens.
The law of Priority doubtless tends to
keep down the growth of unmanageable
nomenclatorial confusion. But in some
cases, a too rigid adherence to the letter,
instead of to the spirit of the law, prolongs
the existence of error, and causes more
confusion than it cures ; as is strikingly
illustrated by the name given to the very
first tree described in the book, the no-
blest of our Magnolias. Linnaeus, from
specimens of the " deliciously fragrant "
flowers, probably in a decaying condition
after their long voyage across the sea,
named it, in the first edition of his Spe-
cies Plantarum, Magnolia fcetida, but
discovering his mistake, he took occasion
to correct it in a later edition, by chang-
ing the name to Magnolia grandiflora,
by which good name the tree has been
known throughout the world for nearly
one hundred and forty years. But be-
cause the Priority law for species, by gen-
eral consent of botanists, begins at the
date of publication of the first edition, the
dead foatid name, buried by Linnaeus him-
self, is now raised to replace the living
one, thus breaking the heart of the law in
arithmetical obedience to the letter of it,
and causing more confusion in a year
than is likely to be put down in a century.
Still Stability, Fixity at any price is the
cry ; and we are gravely told that there
is nothing in names anyhow, or ought to
be nothing, for sense in scientific names is
a confounded bother ; while at the same
time, the naturalists of every country are
trying to put as much as possible into
them, and loading them down with mean-
ing. On the other hand, when the difficul-
ties under which nomenclators labor are
considered, the clashing of laws and

12 Sargent's Silva.

their various interpretations, the imper- It was published in Paris in 1810, in-
fection of the material on which genera eludes descriptions of 155 trees founded
and species are often founded, and the on his own observations in the forests,
immensity of the number of plant people, and is illustrated with beautifully colored
we may well wonder that the present plates.

condition of botanical nomenclature is This magnificent work, covering only

so good. Nevertheless, like everything the trees found east of the Mississippi

else, it must grow better with the advance- River and in some parts of western Lou-

ment of knowledge. The world moves, isiana, was supplemented in 1842 by three

botany and all ; blunders will be cor- volumes from the pen of the celebrated

rected, crooked names made straight, naturalist, Thomas Nuttall.

rough ones smooth, for neither in heaven A second edition of Nuttall's Supple-

nor on earth can error be made immor- ment was issued with the third reprint

tal. These questions, however, soon cease of Michaux's Sylva under the general

from troubling, for turning over the broad title of The Sylva of North America, the

blossoming pages, we quickly find our- only illustrated descriptive work on North

selves in the heart of the forests. American trees in general which preced-

Most of our trees were known or ed the present Silva.

partly known and described before this The above mentioned works and others

work was commenced. But these de- of less note which followed them covered

scriptions, besides being short and tech- only sections of the country great or

nical, were scattered in many books be- small, like patches of sunlight on a cloudy

yond reach of the general reader. The landscape, while the present work sheds

first book on our trees, as indicated by light on nearly all the trees of the conti-

Professor Sargent, is Marshall's Arbus- nent alike.

turn Americanum, published in Phila- " Many years ago," says Professor

delphia in 1785, which includes an ac- Sargent, " when I first realized the diffi-

count of 277 trees and shrubs. The next culty of obtaining any true knowledge of

was published in Gottingen in 1787, by the trees of this country, I formed the

F. A. J. von Wangenheim, a Hessian offi- plan of writing a Silva which should con-

cer in the employ of England, who fought tain an account of all the species that

for the king in the war of the Revolution, grow spontaneously in the forests of

and with good German thrift and indus- North America. The books which had

try found time between battles to study been written on this subject related only

about 168 of our trees and shrubs, chiefly to the trees of comparatively limited re-

with reference to their value for intro- gions, and therefore presented no general

duction into the forests of Germany. .or systematic view of the composition of

Next came Andre* Michaux's classical our forests. Such works as existed were

work, Histoire de Chenes de 1' Amerique, long out of date, too, and included none

published in Paris in 1801, in which of the information collected by recent

twenty species of our eastern Oaks, are explorers and observers, and no account

systematically described and figured. whatever of the trees discovered in late

On many of Michaux's adventurous years west of the Mississippi River,

excursions through the eastern wilder- " Many of our trees have never been

nesses during his thirteen years' resi- fully described. All that can be learned

dence in America as botanical agent for about them from books is contained in a

the French government he was accom- few words of purely technical description

panied by his son, F. A. Michaux, who of little value to the general reader ; and

afterward wrote the best book on North these descriptions are widely scattered

American trees that had yet appeared, in American and foreign libraries beyond

Sargenfs Silva.

the reach of the general reader. . . .
Books, however, are only guides towards
obtaining a knowledge of trees. To be
understood they must be studied in the
forest ; and therefore, since the plan of
writing this Silva was formed, I have ex-
amined the trees of America growing in
their native homes from Canada to the
banks of the Rio Grande and the moun-
tains of Arizona, and from British Co-
lumbia to the islands of southern Florida.
I have watched many of them in the gar-
dens of this country and in those of Eu-
rope, and there are now hardly half a
dozen of the trees which will be described
in this work which I have not seen in a
living state."

Through every forest of the country
he leads you, and from the very first you
feel you are following a sure guide with
eyes seeing to the heart of things, over-
coming difficulties with the ease of
strength, clearing, explaining, compos-
ing, systematizing, pointing out every
tree in a good steady light. And what
a glorious multitude they are !

The masterly descriptions of the gen-
era include an estimate of all the known
species, with general views of the princi-
pal forests of the world. Thus in the
description of Pinus we learn that about
seventy species can now be distinguished.

" The genus is widely distributed
through the northern hemisphere from
the Arctic Circle to the West Indies and
the highlands of Central America in the
New World, and in the Old World to
the Canary Islands, which are inhabited
by one endemic species, northern Af-
rica, Burma, and the Philippine Islands,
where one species occurs, and to the
mountains of the Indian Archipelago
where a single species crosses the equa-
tor. The principal centres of distribu-
tion of Pinus are the western United
States, where twenty - one species are
recognized, the eastern United States,
where thirteen species grow, and the
highlands of Mexico, which are often
covered with grand forests of Pine trees.

Five species are found in the regions
bordering the Mediterranean, and con-
stitute great forests on the mountains of
Central Europe and the plains of north-
ern Europe and Asia. In southern Asia
the genus is comparatively ill represent-
ed in number of species, although on
some of the outer ranges of the Hima-
layas the forests are largely composed of
Pine trees. It is widely distributed with
a few species through eastern continental
Asia, and Pine trees are common in all
the elevated regions of Japan.

" Among the Pines of North America
one species braves the arctic winter, and
Pine trees are found at the timber line on
all our high mountains, maintaining a
foothold where no other tree can live ;
they bear uninjured the fiercest ocean
gales, and flourish in the arid valleys
of the interior, where neither cold nor
drought is able to check their vigor.

" The type is an ancient one. Repre-
sented by a few species in the cretaceous
flora of North America and Europe, it
became abundant in the Miocene period,
when at least one hundred species of
Pines are believed to have existed.

" The most valuable timber trees of the
genus are the eastern American Pinus
echinata, the western American Pinus
Lambertiana, Pinus ponderosa, and Pi-
nus monticola, the tropical American
Pinus heterophylla, Pinus sylvestris of
northern Europe and Asia, Pinus lari-
cio of southern Europe, the Himalayan
Pinus Nepalensis, and the eastern Asiat-
ic Pinus Thunbergii and Pinus densi-
flora. The seeds of several species are
important articles of human food, the
best being produced .by the Nut Pines of
western North America, by Pinus Pi-
nea of the Mediterranean region, Pinus
Cembra of Europe and Asia, and Pinus
Gerardiana of northwestern India. Pine
wool, a coarse fibre manufactured from
the leaves of Pinus laricio, Pinus sylves-
tris, and other European species, is used
to stuff mattresses and cushions, and, wo-
ven with animal wool, is made into hos-

14 Sargent's Silva.

pital and military blankets and into un- forests on the outer ranges of the Hima-

derclothing which is believed to possess layas, where it is distributed from Af-

valuable medicinal properties. In some ghanistan to Bhotan at elevations of from

of the countries of northern Europe the 1500 to 6000 feet above the sea. Pinus

inner bark and branchlets of Pinus syl- Nepalensis, the Himalayan representa-

vestris are used to feed cattle and hogs, tive of that group of five-leaved Pines of

or in time of famine the bark serves as which the North American Pinus Stro-

human food. bus and Pinus Lambertiana are the

" Pinus Thunbergii, the Kura-matsu best known members, inhabits mountain

or Black Pine of Japan, inhabits north- slopes from Afghanistan to Bhotan be-

ern China and Corea. In Japan it is ex- tween elevations of 5000 and 12,500

tremely rare except in cultivation, if it feet above the sea, where it is scattered

ever grows naturally, but has been exten- through forests of deciduous-leaved trees,

sively planted, and appears as a 'tree f re- or is mixed with other conifers, or some-

quently eighty feet in height, with a trunk times covers considerable areas nearly to

three feet in diameter. ... It is with this the exclusion of all other trees,
tree that the plantations on the sandy "Pinus Gerardiana has stout cones

coast plains of Japan are chiefly made ; it from six to nine inches in length, and

shades many of the principal highways of cylindrical seeds an inch long. It in-

the country, and is used to cover arbors habits the arid inner valleys of north-

with its artificially elongated branches, western India, growing usually at alti-

or to hang over the sides of moated tudes varying from 5800 feet to 12,000

walls ; it is to be seen in every garden feet above the sea, often on dry, steep,

. . . and by the Japanese is the most re- rocky slopes ; and, although gregarious,

vered of all trees." And it is interesting it does not generally form pure forests,

in this connection, now that forestry is The seeds are so valuable for food that

just beginning to be studied and prac- the trees are rarely cut, and the hard,

ticed in our own country, to learn that resinous, dark, yellow-brown wood is lit-

" the planting of Pines and other coni- tie used.

fers for the production of timber has " Pinus Pinaster, usually called the

been practiced in Japan for at least Maritime Pine, is a tree sixty or seventy

twelve hundred years, and the wood used feet in height, with a stout and often more

in the empire is nearly all obtained from or less inclined or crooked trunk, cov-

planted forests which cover sandy coast ered with very deeply fissured dark bark,

plains and other lands unfit for the pro- a dense, round-topped head, stout, rigid,

duction of agricultural crops. dark green leaves in clusters of two, and

" Pinus Cembra inhabits the moun- from five to eight inches in length, and
tains of Central Europe, where, mingled large, ovoid, cylindrical, lustrous, dark
on the lower slopes with the upper brown cones borne in whorls in close
Spruces and Firs, it ascends above the many-coned clusters. It inhabits sandy
Mountain Pine and the Larch, and with plains, generally near the coast in western
Alders, Rhododendrons, and alpine Wil- and southern France, Spain, and Portu-
lows forms scattered groves along the gal, Corsica, Italy, Dalmatia, Greece, and
timber line; . . . it is common in north- Algeria, and has been largely planted to
ern Russia and in Siberia, where it some- protect the shifting sands of the coast
times forms pure forests of great extent, dunes, and to cover the Landes of south-
. . . The seeds are used as food, and western France. These plantations, coin-
oil employed as food and for illuminating menced by Bremontier in 1789, now
purposes is pressed from them in Europe, extend over at least three hundred square

" Pinus Roxburghii often forms open miles, and stretch along the shore of the

Sargent's Silva.

Bay of Biscay from the Gironde to the
Adour.

" The little round-topped Pinus Hale-
pensis is distributed from Portugal and
northern Africa to Syria, Arabia, and
Asia Minor. On the Taurus it ascends
to elevations of 3500 feet above the sea,
and here, in Greece, on the rocky hills
of Attica, on the shores of the Gulf of
Lepanto, and on the islands of the Archi-
pelago, and on the mountains of southern
Spain, it forms great open forests."

The species are described in the same
large, far-seeing way. Here are a few
characteristic paragraphs from the east-
ern White Pine :

" A tree usually growing under favor-
able conditions to a height of 250 feet,
with a trunk six feet in diameter, and
with long, stout, tapering, horizontal,
durable roots, clothed with thick, gray
bark covered by irregular, rectangular
plate-like scales, and in old age often
rising above the ground near the tree
into low buttresses, and furnished with a
few long, tough, pliable, wand-like root-
lets. During its youth the branches of
the White Pine are slender and horizon-
tal, or slightly ascending, and are ar-
ranged in regular whorls, usually with
five branches in a whorl, clothing the stem
to the ground for many years, or until
destroyed by the absence of light, and
forming a broad, open, conical head.
When the tree, uncrowded by others, en-
joys an abundance of light and air, the
lower branches often grow to a large size,
the trunk remains short and becomes
much thickened at the base, and the
breadth of the picturesque open head
often equals the height of the stem ; but
as the White Pine grows naturally in the
forest, the lower branches die at the end
of a few years, and the trunks grow tall
and straight, bearing branches only near
the top. When it is pressed upon by
trees of equal height, the branches remain
short and form a narrow head ; but when
the White Pine, which is the tallest in-
habitant of the forests of northeastern

America, rises above the surrounding
trees, the lateral branches lengthen,
sweep upward in long, graceful curves,
the upper ones ascending, and form a
broad, open, irregular head.

" The most valuable timber tree of
northwestern America, Pinus Strobus,
has played a conspicuous part in the ma-
terial development of the United States
and Canada. Great fleets of vessels and
long railroads have been built to trans-
port the lumber sawed from its mighty
trunks ; and men have grown rich by
destroying it, building cities to supply
the needs of their traffic, and seeing them
languish as the forests disappear.

" Fifty years ago the pineries of Maine
and Lower Canada, of northern New
York, of Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wis-
consin, and Minnesota, contained stores
of White Pine which were believed to be
inexhaustible ; but the best has already
been cut, and the great trees which were
once the pride of the northern forest no
longer exist.

" The most beautiful Pine tree of east-
ern America ; our silvan scenery owes
the peculiar charm which distinguishes it
from that of all other parts of the world
to the wide-spreading, dark green crowns
of the White Pine, raised on stately
shafts high above the level of the forest
roof, and breaking the monotony of its
sky-line."

The following is one of the many inter-
esting footnotes relating to this tree :

" The Pine-Tree challengeth the next
place, and that sort which is called Board-
pine is the principal ; it is a stately large
Tree, very tall, and sometimes two or
three f adorn about : of the body the Eng-
lish make large Canows of 20 foot long,
and two foot and a half over, hollowing
of them with an Adds, and shaping of the
outside like a Boat. Some conceive that
the wood called Gopher in Scripture, of
which Noah made the Ark, was no other
than Pine, Gen. 6, 14. The bark there-
of is good for Ulcers in tender persons
that refuse sharp medicines. The inner

Sargentfs Silva.

bark of young board-pine cut small and
stampt and boiled in a Gallon of water
is a very soveraign medicine for burn or
scald, washing the sore with some of
the decoction, and then laying on the
bark stampt very soft : or for frozen
limbs, to take out the fire and to heal
them, take the bark of Board-pine-Tree,
cut it small and stamp it and boil it in a
gallon of water to Gelly, wash the sore
with the liquor, stamp the bark again till
it be very soft and bind it on. The Tur-
pentine is excellent to heal wounds and
cuts, and hath all the properties of Ven-
ice Turpentine, the Rosen is as good as
Frankincense,and the power of the dryed
leaves generateth flesh; the distilled
water of the green Cones taketh away
wrinkles in the face being laid on with
Clothes." l

Like the White Pine, the famous
Long-leaved Pine of the Southern states,
towering in stately beauty above forests
of Palmetto and Live Oak, is rapidly
passing away. " Invaded from every
direction by the axe, a prey to fires which
weaken the mature trees, destroy tender
saplings and young seedlings, and im-
poverish the soil, wasted by the pasturage
of domestic animals, and destroyed for
the doubtful profits of the turpentine
industry, the forests of Long-leaved
Pines, more valuable in their easy access
than any other pine forests in the world,
appear hopelessly doomed to lose their
commercial importance at no distant
day."

Of the grand Pinus ponderosa of the
west side of the continent, the strongest
and the second in size and nobleness of
port of the world's Pines, Professor Sar-
gent says : " Possessed of a constitution
which enables it to endure great vari-
ations of climate and to flourish on the
well - watered slopes of the California
mountains, on torrid lava beds, in the dry
interior valleys of the north, and on the
sun-baked mesas of the south, and to push

1 Josselyn, Account of Two Voyages to New
England, p. 64.

out boldly over the plains, where no other
tree can exist, the advance guard of the
Pacific forest, Pinus ponderosa is the
most widely distributed tree of western
North America. Exceeded in size by the
Sugar Pine of the Sierra Nevada, it sur-
passes all its race in the majesty of its
port and the splendor of its vitality ; and,
an emblem of strength, it appears as en-
during as the rocks, above which it raises
its noble shafts and stately crowns."

The following paragraphs are from the
description of the glorious Sugar Pine,
the King of all the Pines in the world :

"A tree usually from 200 to 220 feet
in height with a trunk six or eight or
occasionally ten or twelve feet in diame-
ter. During the first fifty years of its
life the slender branches, arranged in re-
mote regular whorls, frequently clothe
the tapering stem to the ground and form
an open pyramid ; later some of the spe-
cialized branches near the top of the tree
grow more rapidly than the others, and,
becoming fruitful, bend with the weight
of the great cones ; and long before the
tree has reached maturity many of the up-
per branches lengthen faster than the
lower ones, which eventually die from
absence of light, and the tall, massive
trunk is surmounted with an open flat-
topped crown, frequently sixty or seventy
feet across, of comparatively slender
branches sweeping outward and down-
ward in graceful curves.

" The Sugar Pine, the noblest of its
race, surpassing all other Pine-trees in
girth and length of stem, tosses its mighty
branches, bending under the weight of its
long, graceful pointed cones, far above
the silvan roof, and with its companion,
the great Sequoia, glorifies those Sierra
forests that surpass in majesty all forests
of coniferous trees."

Among the copious footnotes, refer-
ences, critical remarks, biographical
sketches of the discoverers of genera and
species, and of the tree-lovers for whom
they were named, there is a great vari-
ety of curious and interesting informa-

tSargent's Silva.

tion drawn from early writings. Here
is a note from Kalm's Travels which
brings an old day back into light of
magical vividness :

" Crab-Trees are a species of wild ap-
ple-trees, which grow in the woods and
glades, but especially on little hillocks,
near rivers. In New Jersey the tree is
rather scarce ; but in Pennsylvania it is
plentiful. Some people had planted a
single tree of this kind near their farms,
on account of the fine smells which its
flowers afford. It had begun to open
some of its flowers about a day or two
ago ; however, most of them were not yet
open. They are exactly like the blos-
soms of the common apple-trees, except
that the colour is a little more reddish in
the Crab-trees ; though some kinds of the
cultivated trees have flowers which are
very nearly as red ; but the smell dis-
tinguishes them plainly; for the wild
trees have a very pleasant smell, some-
what like the rasp-berry. The apples, or
crabs, are small, sour, and unfit for any-
thing but to make vinegar of. They lie
under the trees all the winter, and acquire
a yellow colour. They seldom begin to rot
before spring comes on. The Crab-trees
opened their flowers only yesterday and
to-day ; whereas, the cultivated apple-
trees, which are brought from Europe,
had already lost their flowers."

The strange and peculiar mode of
growth of the Mangrove tree and the
shell-fish which clustered on its stems at-
tracted the attention of some of the earli-
est travelers who landed on the shores of
the New World, and ij; is mentioned in
many of their narratives.

" Store of oisters (grew) upon the
branches of the trees, and were very salt
and well tasted. All their oisters grow
upon those boughs and spraies, and not
on the ground." J

" The Mangrove is a tree of such note,

1 Walter Raleigh, Discoverie of the Large
Rich and Beautiful Empire of Guiana, Hak-
luyt, Voyages, ed. Evans, iv. p. 120.

VOL. xcn. NO. 549. 2

as she must not be forgotten, for, though
she be not of the tall and lusty sort of
trees, yet she is of great extent ; for
there drops from her limbs a Kinde of
Gum which hangs together one drop af-
ter anouther, til it touch the ground, and
then takes root and makes an addition to
the tree. So that if all these may be said
to be one of the same tree, we may say
that a Mangrove tree may very well hide
a troop of Horse." 2

Most readers will be surprised to learn
how important a tree the Diospyros (Per-
simmon) is. About one hundred and sixty
species are now known. " In Japan it is
the universally cultivated fruit-tree ; it
is found in every garden and by every
cottage, and in the early autumn, when
the trees are covered with their lustrous
leaves and brilliant fruit, they form the
most striking feature of the rural land-
scape, and are not equaled in beauty by
any fruit-tree of cold temperate cli-
mates."

In our own forests there are only two
species.

" They have a plomb which they caP.
pessemmins, like to a medler, in England,
but of a deeper tawnie cullour ; they
grow on a most high tree. When they
are not fully ripe, they are harsh and
choakie, and f urre in a man's mouth like
allam, howbeit, being taken fully ripe, yt
is a reasonable pleasant fruict, somewhat
lushious. I have seene our people put
them into their baked and sodden pud-
dings ; there be whose tast allowes them
to be as pretious as the English apricock ;
I confesse it is a good kind of horse
plomb." 3

About six hundred species of Ficus
(Fig trees) are known to botanists, two of
which, Ficus aurea and Ficus populnea,
are inhabitants of our tropical Florida
forests :

" What is probably the largest speci-

2 Richard Ligon, A true and exact History
of the Island of Barbados, p. 72.

8 The Historic of Travaile into Virginia Bri-
tannia, ed. Major, p. 118.

Sargent's iSilva.

men of Ficus aurea in the United States
grows on a wooded hummock, locally
known as The Hunting-Ground, about
ten miles west of the mouth of the Miami
River and close to the shores of Bay Bis-
cayne. This remarkable tree covers
about a quarter of an acre of ground with
its numerous distinct stems formed from
roots developed from the branches of the
original trunk, and its dense wide crown
of foliage.

" The noble tree in front of the United
States barracks on Key West, which is an
object of interest to all visitors to the Is-
land, is of this species."

Hicoria is peculiarly a North Ameri-
can genus ; all the twelve species, except
one in Mexico, are our own :

"No other trees give greater dignity
and character to the forests of eastern
North America or surpass the Hickories
in vigor and beauty of appearance."

" Hiccory Nuts have very hard Shells,
but excellent sweet Kernels, with which,
in a plentiful Year, the old Hogs, that
can crack them, fatten themselves, and
make excellent Pork. These Nuts are
gotten, in great Quantities, by the Sav-
ages, and laid up for Stores, of which
they make several Dishes and Banquets.
One of these I cannot forbear mention-
ing ; it is this : They take these Nuts, and
break them very small betwixt two
Stones, till the Shells and Kernels are in-
different small ; And this Powder you are
presented withal in their Cabins, in little
wooden Dishes ; the Kernel dissolves in
your Mouth, and the Shell is spit out.
This tastes as well as any Almond. An-
other Dish is the Soup which they make
of these Nuts, beaten, and put into Veni-
son-Broth, which dissolves the Nut, and
thickens, whilst the Slieli pr.ecipitates,
and remains at the bottom. This Broth
tastes very rich." l

" I have seen above an hundred bushels
of these nuts belonging to one family." 2

The Oak volume, filled from begin-
1 Lawson, History of Carolina, p. 98.

ning to end with the tough all-enduring
race, is the largest of the fourteen, and
in it the author is seen at his best.

Nearly three hundred species of Oak
have been described, fifty-two of which
dwell in our own forests.

Of his favorite White Oak Professor
Sargent says : " The great size that it at-
tains in good soil, its vigor, longevity,
and stately habit, the tender tints of its
vernal leaves when the sunlight plays
among them, the cheerfulness of its lus-
trous summer green and the splendor of
its autumnal colors, make the White Oak
one of the noblest and most beautiful
trees of the American forest ; and some
of the venerable broad-branched individ-
uals growing on the hills of New England
and of the Middle States realize, more
than any other American tree, that ideal
of strength and durability of which the
Oak has been the symbol in all ages and
throughout all civilized countries."

The great White Oak groves of the
Central Valley of California surpass all
other Oak woods of the world in wide,
serene, romantic beauty :

" Since the eyes of the white man first
looked upon these natural parks, which
surpassed in grandeur of broad effect
and in the dignity of their graceful trees
all the creations of the landscape gar-
dener's art, fields of wheat have replaced
the wild grasses which covered their open
glades, and many of their noblest trees
have been sacrificed to satisfy the de-
mands of civilization. No other region
in North America, however, presents to-
day anything that compares with their
park-like beauty, the nobility of their in-
dividual trees, or the charm of the long
vistas stretching beneath them."

" Quercus in its different species is
known to afford support to a much larger
number of insects than any other genus
of trees whose insect enemies have been
studied, . . . Packard enumerates about
four hundred and fifty identified species

2 William Bartram, Travels in North Amer-
ica, p. 38.

Sargent's Silva.

as living upon Oak-trees in North Amer-
ica exclusive of those found in their de-
cayed wood." Magnificent pasturage for
large flocks and herds of very small cat-
tle !

" The American Beech, with its noble
habit, its smooth, pale, bluish gray bark
and its cheerful foliage, is one of the
most beautiful inhabitants of the forests
of eastern North America. It is de-
lightful in early spring when the length-
ening buds display the closely folded
leaves between their delicate, lustrous,
brightly tinted scales, and when, a few
days later, it is covered with graceful
drooping clusters of staminate flowers.
The tender green of its vernal leaves en-
livens the forest when the Oaks and Hick-
ories are but just beginning to awaken
from their winter slumbers ; and the con-
trasts of light and shade, as the sun plays
through its wide-spreading branches, in-
crease its beauty when it is clothed with
the deep green foliage of summer or with
its brilliant yellow autumnal garment.
But it is in winter, when the color of its
bark is brightest, when the structure of
its head is plainly seen, and the fine
spray of its slender shining branchlets is
thrown into clear relief against the sky,
that the Beech displays its greatest beau-
ty ; and then the charm of this tree is
unsurpassed by that of any other inhab-
itant of the forest or the park."

The following is from Gerard's cele-
brated Herball : " The kernels or mast
within are reported to ease the paine of
the kidneies proceeding of the stone if
they be eaten, and to cause the grauell
and sand the easier to come foorth : with
these, mice and squirrels be greatly de-
lighted, who do mightily increase by feed-
ing thereon ; swine also be fattened here-
with, and certaine other beasts : also
deere do feede thereon very greedily.
They be likewise pleasant to thrushes and
pigeons."

Hooker f . Fl. Antarct. ii. p. 345. See, also,
P. Parker King, Narrative of the Surveying

Fagus betuloides " forms the prevail-
ing feature of the scenery of Tierra del
Fuego, especially in winter-time, from
having persistent evergreen leaves, and
from its upper limit being sharply de-
fined and contrasting with the dazzling
snow that covers the matted but naked
branches of Fagus antarctica, which im-
mediately succeeds it." *

"The glory of the maritime forests of
the south, and one of the most valuable
and interesting trees of the continent, the
Bald Cypress, with its tali massive trunk
rising high above waters darkened by
the shadows of its great crown draped
in streamers of the gray Tillandsia, is an
object at once magnificent and mourn-
ful."

"The Cupressus distieha (Bald Cy-
press) stands in the first order of North
American trees. Its majestic stature is
surprising, and on approaching them, we
are struck with a kind of awe at behold-
ing the stateliness of the trunk, lifting its
cumbrous top towards the skies, and cast-
ing a wide shade upon the ground, as a
dark intervening cloud, which, for a time,
precludes the rays of the sun. The deli-
cacy of its color, and texture of its leaves,
exceed everything in vegetation." 2

The biographical sketches, of which
there are about one hundred and fifty,
form an attractive feature of the book,
both to roving methodless readers and to
students, bringing to view so many joy-
ful old nature - lovers wandering alone
through the vast wild woods, men whose
names shine like crystals on mountains,
Bartrarn, Catesby, Kalm, Michaux,
Menzies, Mackenzie, Raffinesque, Nut-
tall, David Douglas, and many a later
worthy, dear to the hearts of tree-lovers
and trees, blessed Torrey and Gray,
Mohr, Engelmann, Parry, Kellogg, etc.,
who spent their lives studying our plants
and helping Nature to scatter them

abroad.

Voyages of His Majesty's Ships Adventure and
Beagle, i. pp. 22, 37.

2 W. Bartram, Travels, p. 88.

20 Sargent's Silva.

With fullness of knowledge the leafy whole forests instead of fragmentary her-

story goes on from section to section, from barium specimens, standing out in bold

volume to volume, in easy, orderly devel- relief, scarce at all obscured either by

opment. The descriptions of the species rhetoric or technical terms, while the

are so full and clear, he must be a care- great wealth of footnotes is like varied

less reader who fails to see the trees and picturesque underbrush,

through them standing before him in the The author, too, is seen hard at work,

flesh, alive and communicative. They able, indomitable, studiously calm, ab-

always begin with a sketch of a repre- staining from fine writing or display of

sentative tree in its prime, showing its any sort not essential to the matter in

height, size of trunk, habit, how it wears hand, concealing emotion even in the

its branches, etc. Then the distinguish- midst of the Indian summer glory when

ing characters are described, the bark, the whole face of the country is aglow

winter buds, branchlets, leaves, flowers, with divine enthusiasm. Therefore we

fruit. All these are given in the first get only hints and glimpses of his warm

paragraph and in the same sequence, poetic imagination in bright lines which

so that one knows exactly where to look glow here and there in his massive prose

for them. In the second the geograph- like the first spots and patches of autumn-

ical distribution of the species is pointed colored leaves in the general summer ver-

out, the places where it grows in great- dure. Most readers will probably feel

est vigor and abundance, the forests it that in thus hiding his heart he has in

makes, its companions, and how they are some measure diminished the inspiring

associated, etc. value of his book. To those unable to

In the third the wood is described, its read between the lines some of the de-
color, weight, strength, durability, uses, scriptions may seem formal and monoto-
etc. In the fourth what is known of nous where the color naturally belonging
the history of the tree is given, when to them would have made them shine,
and by whom it was first discovered or Had the bright lines outside of the tech-
cultivated, its distribution by the agency nical parts been doubled or trebled, they
of man, its value for shade and orna- could have done no harm any more than
ment, timber, fruit, etc. light and flowers on mountains, or on the

The closing paragraph consists usually trees themselves.

of a general appreciation of the tree, with The author's energizing enthusiasm

remarks on its name, homes, etc. Here, burning out of sight beneath the cool

for example, is the last paragraph of the dignity he wears is well known to his

description of the Engelmann Spruce friends, and often brings to mind a

(Picea Engelmanni) : hot-hearted volcanic mountain clad with

"In its specific name, this tree, the snow.

fairest of its race, braving the fiercest But " for a' that and a' that," style and

mountain blasts, the fiery rays of the methods are quickly lost to view, and,

southern sun, and the Arctic cold of forgetting that we are reading a book,

the northern winter, with tall and mass- the trees themselves seem to be speak-

ive shafts brilliant in color, and grace- ing, saying, " See how tall and beautiful

ful, spire-like crowns of soft foliage of we are, how strong our branches, how

tenderest hue, keeps green on a thou- leafy and flowery and fruitful. With

sand mountain-tops the memory of a cooling shadows we guard the fountains,

good and wise man." and to all comers spread tents and food,"

Each species is thus displayed at home each in turn telling its wonderful story,

and described to the life, whole trees as In the very beginning we are charmed

our fellow inhabitants of the world, and away into the glorious forests of the

Sargent's Silva.

Alleghanies, among the Magnolias, large
trees with great, creamy white, fragrant
flowers, a foot wide some of them, and
with leaves more than two feet long,
growing with a host of noble companions
where the stream-banks and openings are
embossed with Rhododendrons, and Kal-
mia becomes a tree fifty feet high, laden
with rich purple flowers. We see the
Palms and Pines and Oaks of the South
assembled together, forming forests
above forests ; the giant Sequoias and
Pines, silvery Spruces and Firs in glori-
ous array on the mountains of the West ;
Oaks in the valleys and on the hills re-
joicing in their strength ; and Poplars
and Willows waving and fluttering in
lithe, graceful beauty beside lakes and
streams from sea to sea.

There is so much large scenery in the
book, such strength and steadiness in its
broad sweeping currents, however cool at
times they may seem, that we are borne
smoothly along, hardly realizing that we
are not actually out of doors in the woods,
traveling unwearied, free as the winds.
We fancy we feel the weather, hear the
wind in the trees, see them budding and
blooming and ripening their fruit, enjoy
their fragrance and the light on their
leaves and bark, smell the peaty reek of
tamarack and cedar swamps, and the bal-
sam of resiny evergreens. Passing from
climate to climate enchanted, we are now
on sun-baked deserts, now far north on
ground ever frozen, now wandering in
sunless forests, pushing our way through
dense tangled underbrush, vainly trying
to find an opening where we can look up
and see the trees in full proportion ; now
climbing an eastern hill overlooking Oaks
and Elms, Maples and Hickories, with
round bossy heads modeled like cumulous
clouds packed together in glorious colors,
swelling and dimpling and fading around
the horizon. Anon we are on a lofty
peak of the Rockies, contemplating a
boundless sea of dark conifers innumer-
able as grass panicles in a meadow, every
spire pointing true to the zenith as if

thinking only of the heavens. Turning
a page or two, we are in the natural
landscape gardens of Dakota, saunter-
ing through sunny flower-painted spaces
among Spruces and Yellow Pines ; or on
the rim of a crater in Arizona, overlook-
ing strange black dwarf woods of Nut
Pine and Cedar, or groves of lily-flowered
Yucca and Cactus trees.

In another volume we are among the
giant trees of the Pacific, wading through
tall ferns and Rhododendrons and Cea-
nothus chaparral beneath the Redwoods,
wandering among the colossal brown pil-
lars of the Sierra Sequoia, Libocedrus,
and Sugar Pine, or far up the gray sum-
mit ridges and peaks, walking over the
tops of Dwarf Pines beside the glaciers.

Of all the nature -books I have ever
read, the Silva is the largest and best,
everywhere breathing the peace of the
wilderness, restful, yet inciting to action,
infinitely suggestive and picturesque.
How magical is the stillness of its deep
lonely woods, how sublime its landscapes,
and how wonderful the contrasts dis-
played to awaken imagination ! What
sylvan scenery, for example, can be more
impressive than the billowy Appalachian
forests so often described in these pages,
stretching away in boundless exuberance
of varied leaf and flower and color ; limb
meeting limb, overarching, embowering
a thousand broad ridges and hills and
streams ; compared with forests of Ce-
reus giganteus, blooming in the tremu-
lous haze of hot deserts, the strange trees
but little more than fluted cylindrical
trunks, leafless, and almost branchless
and motionless, standing apart on bare
sun-beaten ground like architectural col-
umns crowned with flowers ; or the dark
majestic forests of the West compared
with those of the North, whose hardy
Poplars and Spruces, dwarfing and strag-
gling, push bravely on and on into the
frozen realms of silence and mystery.

Think of a forest of Tree-lilies in bloom,
not another tree in sight over all the wide
desert, the whole top of each tree a

Voices of Rain.

snowy mass of lilies in superb panicles,
the trunks so large they are sometimes
sawed into lumber ! And think of the
. still stranger forests and timber of Cereus
giganteus ! Who can read of such trees
without longing to see them, or of the
kingly Sequoias, venerable aborigines
carrying the greatest load of years of all
living things, Sugar Pine tasseled with
cones nearly two feet long, the Silver Fir
and Mountain Hemlock in flower and
fruit, Douglas Spruce and the giant Arbor
Vitae waving their plumes in the balmy
winds of the Pacific, the noble Menzies
Arbutus blooming in garden spots beside
them, alive with happy, humming, flut-
tering, feasting insects, a bee, or but-
terfly, for every white waxen bell !

And how many other glorious trees
come to mind, the grand Larch of
Wyoming and Montana, the Florida

Banian Tree and Tillandsia-draped Live
Oak, Oxydendrum, Taxodium, Lirioden-
dron, Magnolia, Sassafras, Gordonia,
Silver Bell Tree, etc., etc. How one's
heart beats and eyes brighten but to
read their names, and how fast, as we
turn the telling pages, they seem to come
crowding about us, bowing, waving, shim-
mering, showering down pollen and pet-
als and fruit, all the mighty host, rank
beyond rank in glorious array, as clearly
defined as Pines in rows along snow-la-
den ridges beheld against a white sky !

And so we might go on wondering,
admiring, describing, until this review
reached the size of the Silva itself. Let
every one read the book, travel, and see
for himself, and, while fire and the axe
still threaten destruction, make haste to
ceme to the help of these trees, our
country's pride and glory.

John Muir.

VOICES OF RAIN.

REST.

THE mountain world is very still to-day,
Shadowed, and hushed, and gray.

All yesterday a mad wind shrieking past

Harried the canon's silence old and vast,

Lashing the yellow grass in billows deep

Against the parching steep.

Hot glare of sunlight smote the walls that stand

Purple with pines heaven-high on either hand,

Hot glare of sunlight to the splendid blue

Where driven cloud-fleets flew.

Black cedars goaded clung against the edge

Of yonder granite ledge,

And far below where white-chafed waters run

The stinging gravel spun,

Whirled in the gusts that snapped the alder's crest,

And crushed the willows cowering to the west.

But with the night came cloud, and rain, and rest.

Voices of Rain. . 23

Hushed in the peace that held the whole world fast

Morning drew near at last,

With gray soft mist flung close on scaur and steep

Above the forest's sleep ;

And murmur of a million rain-chords blent

In rhythms of content.

The air is sharp with fragrance strong as wine

From steeping sod and pine,

And yonder where the willow branches sway

A meadow-lark among their green and gray

Watches the clouds, and questions of the day.

There is a little grove beside the hill

Where aspens shake and thrill,

With silver stems beneath their glimmering green

Against the pines' dark screen.

And all day long the rain unceasing weaves

Ripples of light among their tremulous leaves,

And all day long the moss against their feet,

Tufted, and starred, and sweet,

Flashes in flickering splendor with the crown

Of diamond drops swept down.

Through pillared arches of the forest aisles,

Sacred untrodden miles,

The voiceless throngs in this God's temple dim

Bow to the rain's soft hymn ;

Walls on whose pile nor axe nor hammer wrought

The Master-builder's thought,

Unchiseled font and granite altar stair

Wait on the wordless prayer.

And overhead against a brooding sky

The priestly pine trees high

With lifted hands invoke on vale and crest

Infinitudes of rest.

II.

CONSOLATION.

Out of the hard-fought years,

Out of the aching grief, the want unfed,

An answer to thy tears

Wakes in the midnight by thy sleepless bed.

An answer very low,

Murmured in muffled cadence, hushed and slow,

Reiterant rhythms still

Rising and falling, soft on roof and sill,

Out of the losing strife,

Out of the desert where old worlds lie dead,

An answer to thy life

Stirs in the starless midnight by thy bed.

The Last Antelope.

Hast thou forgotten God Who gives the rain ?
Plenteous and merciful the long showers pour
On parching fields where dust and drouth were sore ;
Yet will thine eyes watch out the night again?
Peace on the shadowed hills and sky is deep ;
Shall not thine heart be comforted with sleep
As earth is comforted and lulled of pain ?
Before thy prayer the heavens are brazen still,
Nor yet to cool thy thirst the fountains fill.
Nevertheless His word shall not be vain.
What hope had earth, gasping at yesternoon ?
What hope hast thou, whose comfort shall be soon?
Are ye not in His hands for bliss or bane ?
To-morrow, where the upland fields lay black,
Thou shalt go forth and look on life come back ;
Harvest shall follow seedtime yet again.
To-morrow, where thy heart lay withering,
Fountains of love before His feet shall spring ;
Peace shall repay thee sevenfold for pain.
Hast thou forgotten God Who gives the rain ?

Mabel Earle

THE LAST ANTELOPE.

THERE were seven notches in the ju-
niper by the Lone Tree Spring for the
seven seasons that Little Pete had sum-
mered there, feeding his flocks in the
hollow of the Ceriso. The first time
of coming he had struck his axe into the
trunk meaning to make firewood, but
thought better of it, and thereafter
chipped it in sheer friendliness, as one
claps an old acquaintance, for by the
time the flock has worked up the tree-
less windy stretch from the Little An-
telope to the Ceriso, even a lone juni-
per has a friendly look. And Little
Pete was a friendly man, though shy of
demeanor, so that with the best will in
the world for wagging his tongue, he
could scarcely pass the time of day with
good countenance; the soul of a jolly
companion with the front and bearing
of one of his own sheep.

He loved his dogs as brothers; he
was near akin to the wild things; he

communed with the huddled hills, and
held intercourse with the stars, saying
things to them in his heart that his
tongue stumbled over and refused. He
knew his sheep by name, and had respect
to signs and seasons; his lips moved
softly as he walked, making no sound.
Well what would you ? a man must
have fellowship in some sort.

Whoso goes a-shepherding in the des-
ert hills comes to be at one with his com-
panions, growing brutish or converting
them. Little Pete humanized his sheep.
He perceived lovable qualities in them,
and differentiated the natures and dis-
positions of inanimate things.

Not much of this presented itself
on slight acquaintance, for in fact he
looked to be of rather less account than
his own dogs. He was undersized and
hairy, and had a roving eye ; probably
he washed once a year at the shearing
as the sheep were washed. About his

The Last Antelope.

body he wore a twist of sheepskin with
the wool outward, holding in place the
tatters of his clothing. On hot days
when he wreathed leaves about his head,
and wove him a pent of twigs among
the scrub in the middle of his flock, he
looked a faun or some wood creature
come out of pagan times, though no pa-
gan, as was clearly shown by the medal
of the Sacred Heart that hung on his
hairy chest, worn open to all weathers.
Where he went about sheep camps and
shearings, there was sly laughter and
tapping of foreheads, but those who kept
the tale of his flocks spoke well of him
and increased his wage.

Little Pete kept to the same round
year by year, breaking away from La
Liebre after the spring shearing, south
around the foot of Pinos, swinging out
to the desert in the wake of the quick,
strong rains, thence to Little Antelope
in July to drink a bottle for La Qua-
torze, and so to the Ceriso by the time
the poppy fires were burned quite out
and the quail trooped at noon about the
tepid pools. The Ceriso is not properly
mesa nor valley, but a long healed crater
miles wide, rimmed about with the jag-
ged edge of the old cone.

It rises steeply from the tilted mesa,
overlooked by Black Mountain, darkly
red as the red cattle that graze among
the honey-colored hills. These are blunt
and rounded, tumbling all down from
the great crater and the mesa edge to-
ward the long, dim valley of Little An-
telope. Its outward slope is confused
with the outlines of the hills, tumuli of
blind cones, and the old lava flow that
breaks away from it by the west gap and
the ravine of the spring; within, its
walls are deeply guttered by the torrent
of winter rains.

In its cuplike hollow, the sink of its
waters, salt and bitter as all pools with-
out an outlet, waxes and wanes within
a wide margin of bleaching reeds. No-
thing taller shows in all the Ceriso, and
the wind among them fills all the hol-
low with an eerie whispering. One

spring rills down by the gorge of an old
flow on the side toward Little Antelope,
and, but for the lone juniper that stood
by it, there is never a tree until you
come to the foot of Black Mountain.

The flock of Little Pete, a maverick
strayed from some rodeo, a prospector
going up to Black Mountain, and a soli-
tary antelope were all that passed
through the Ceriso at any time. The
antelope had the best right. He came
as of old habit; he had come when the
lightfoot herds ranged from here to the
sweet, mist- watered canons of the Coast
Range, and the bucks went up to the
windy mesas what time the young ran
with their mothers, nose to flank. They
had ceased before the keen edge of
slaughter that defines the frontier of
men.

All that a tardy law had saved to the
district of Little Antelope was the buck
that came up the ravine of the Lone
Tree Spring at the set time of the year
when Little Pete fed his flock in the
Ceriso, and Pete averred that they were
glad to see one another. True enough
they were each the friendliest thing the
other found there, for though the law
ran as far as the antelope ranged, there
were hill dwellers who took no account
of it, namely, the coyotes. They hunted
the buck in season and out, bayed him
down from the feeding grounds, fended
him from the pool, pursued him by relay
races, ambushed him in the pitfalls of
the black rock.

There were seven coyotes ranging the
east side of the Ceriso at the time when
Little Pete first struck his axe into the
juniper tree, slinking, sly-footed, and
evil-eyed. Many an evening the shep-
herd watched them running lightly in
the hollow of the crater, the flash -flash
of the antelope's white rump signaling
the progress of the chase. But always
the buck outran or outwitted them, tak-
ing to the high broken ridges where no
split foot could follow his seven-leagued
bounds. Many a morning Little Pete,
tending his cooking pot by a quavering

The Last Antelope.

sagebrush fire, saw the antelope feed-
ing down toward the Lone Tree Spring,
and looked his sentiments. The coyotes
had spoken theirs all in the night with
derisive voices ; never was there any love
lost between a shepherd and a coyote.
The pronghorn's chief recommendation
to an acquaintance was that he could
outdo them.

After the third summer, Pete began
to perceive a reciprocal friendliness in
the antelope. Early mornings the shep-
herd saw him rising from his lair, or
came often upon the warm pressed hol-
low where he had lain within cry of his
coyote-scaring fire. When it was mid-
day in the misty hollow and the shadows
drawn close, stuck tight under the juni-
per and the sage, they went each to his
nooning in his own fashion, but in the
half light they drew near together.

Since the beginning of the law the an-
telope had half forgotten his fear of man.
He looked upon the shepherd with
steadfastness, he smelled the smell of his
garments which was the smell of sheep
and the unhandled earth, and the smell
of wood smoke was in his hair. They
had companionship without speech ; they
conferred favors silently after the man-
ner of those who understand one another.
The antelope led to the best feeding
grounds, and Pete kept the sheep from
muddying the spring until the buck had
drunk. When the coyotes skulked in
the scrub by night to deride him, the
shepherd mocked them in their own
tongue, and promised them the best of
his lambs for the killing; but to hear
afar off their hunting howl stirred him
out of sleep to curse with great hearti-
ness. At such times he thought of the
antelope and wished him well.

Beginning with the west gap oppo-
site the Lone Tree Spring about the first
of August, Pete would feed all around
the broken rim of the crater, up the gul-
lies and down, and clean through the
hollow of it in a matter of two months,
or if the winter had been a wet one,
a little longer, and in seven years the

man and the antelope grew to know each
other very well. Where the flock fed
the buck fed, keeping farthest from the
dogs, and at last he came to lie down
with it.

That was after a season of scant rains, '
when the feed was poor and the ante-
lope's flank grew thin; the rabbits had
trooped down to the irrigated lands, and
the coyotes, made more keen by hunger,
pressed him hard. One of those smoky,
yawning days when the sky hugged the
earth, and all sound fell back from a
woolly atmosphere and broke dully in
the scrub, about the usual hour of their
running between twilight and mid -af-
ternoon, the coyotes drove the tall buck,
winded, desperate, and foredone, to re-
fuge among the silly sheep, where for
fear of the dogs and the man the howl-
ers dared not come. He stood at bay
there, fronting the shepherd, brought
up against a crisis greatly needing the
help of speech.

Well he had nearly as much gift
in that matter as Little Pete. Those
two silent ones understood each other;
some assurance, the warrant of a free
given faith, passed between them. The
buck lowered his head and eased the
sharp throbbing of his ribs; the dogs
drew in the scattered flocks ; they moved,
keeping a little cleared space nearest
the buck ; he moved with them ; he be-
gan to feed. Thereafter the heart of
Little Pete warmed humanly toward the
antelope, and the coyotes began to be
very personal in their abuse. That same
night they drew off the shepherd's dogs
by a ruse and stole two of his lambs.

The same seasons that made the
friendliness of the antelope and Little
Pete wore the face of the shepherd into
a keener likeness to the weathered hills,
and the juniper flourishing greenly by
the spring bade fair to outlast them both.
The line of ploughed lands stretched out
mile by mile from the lower valley, and
a solitary homesteader built him a cabin
at the foot of the Ceriso.

In seven years a coyote may learn

The Last Antelope.

somewhat; those of the Ceriso learned
the ways of Little Pete and the ante-
lope. Trust them to have noted, as the
years moved, that the huck's flanks were
lean and his step less free. Put it that
the antelope was old, and that he made
truce with the shepherd to hide the fail-
ing of his powers ; then if he came ear-
lier or stayed later than the flock, it
would go hard with him. But as if he
knew their mind in the matter, the ante-
lope delayed his coming until the salt
pool shrunk to its innermost ring of
reeds, and the sun-cured grasses crisped
along the slope. It seemed the brute
sense waked between him and the man
to make each aware of the other's near-
ness. Often as Little Pete drove in by
the west gap he would sight the prongs
of the buck rising over the barrier of
black rocks at the head of the ravine.
Together they passed out of the crater,
keeping fellowship as far as the frontier
of evergreen oaks. Here Little Pete
turned in by the cattle fences to come at
La Liebre from the north, and the an-
telope, avoiding all man- trails, growing
daily more remote, passed into the wood-
ed hills on unguessed errands of his own.

Twice the homesteader saw the ante-
lope go up to the Ceriso at that set time
of the year. The third summer when
he sighted him, a whitish speck moving
steadily against the fawn-colored back-
ground of the hills, the homesteader took
down his rifle and made haste into the
crater. At that time his cabin stood
on the remotest edge of settlement, and
the grip of the law was loosened in so
long a reach.

"In the end the coyotes will get him.
Better that he fall to me," said the
homesteader. But, in fact, he was
prompted by the love of mastery, which
for the most part moves men into new
lands, whose creatures they conceive
given over into their hands.

The coyote that kept the watch at the
head of the ravine saw him come, and
lifted up his voice in the long-drawn
dolorous whine that warned the other

watchers in their unseen stations in the
scrub. The homesteader heard also, and
let a curse softly under his breath, for
besides that they might scare his quarry,
he coveted the howler's ears, in which
the law upheld him. Never a tip nor a
tail of one showed above the sage when
he had come up into the Ceriso.

The afternoon wore on; the home-
steader hid in the reeds, and the coyotes
had forgotten him. Away to the left
in a windless blur of dust the sheep of
Little Pete trailed up toward the cra-
ter's rim. The leader, watching by the
spring, caught a jack rabbit and was eat-
ing it quietly behind the black rock.

In the meantime the last antelope
came lightly and securely, by the gully,
by the black rock and the lone juniper
into the Ceriso. The friendliness of
the antelope for Little Pete betrayed
him. He came with some sense of home,
expecting the flock and protection of
man - presence. He strayed witlessly
into the open, his ears set to catch the
jangle of the bells. What he heard was
the snick of the breech bolt as the home-
steader threw up the sight of his rifle,
and a small demoniac cry that ran from
gutter to gutter of the crater rim, impos-
sible to gauge for numbers or distance.
At that moment Little Pete worried
the flock up the outward slope where the
ruin of the old lava flows gave sharply
back the wrangle of the bells. Three
weeks he had won up from the Little
Antelope, and three by way of the Sand
Flat, where there was great scarcity of
water, and in all that time none of his
kind had hailed him. His heart warmed
toward the juniper tree and the antelope
whose hoof -prints he found in the white
dust of the mesa trail. Men had small
respect by Little Pete, women he had
no time for: the antelope was the no-
blest thing he had ever loved. The
sheep poured through the gap and spread
fan-wise down the gully; behind them
Little Pete twirled his staff, and made
merry wordless noises in his throat in an-
ticipation of friendliness. "Ehu! " he

The Last Antdope,.

cried when he heard the hunting howl,
"but they are at their tricks again,"
and then in English he voiced a volley
of broken, inconsequential oaths, for he
saw what the howlers were about.

One imputes a sixth sense to that son
of a thief misnamed the coyote, to make
up for speech, persuasion, concerted
movement, in short, the human faculty.
How else do they manage the terrible
relay races by which they make quarry
of the fleetest footed? It was so they
plotted the antelope's last running in
the Ceriso : two to start the chase from
the black rock toward the red scar of a
winter torrent, two to leave the mouth
of the wash when the first were winded,
one to fend the ravine that led up to the
broken ridges, one to start out of the
scrub at the base of a smooth upward
sweep, and, running parallel to it, keep
the buck well into the open; all these
when their first spurt was done to cross
leisurely to new stations to take up an-
other turn. Round they went in the
hollow of the crater, velvet-footed and
sly even in full chase, and biding their
time. It was a good running, but it was
almost done when away by the west gap
the buck heard the voice of Little Pete
raised in adjuration and the friendly
blether of the sheep. Thin spirals of
dust flared upward from the moving
flocks and signaled truce to chase. He
broke for it with wide panting bounds
and many a missed step picked up with
incredible eagerness, the thin rim of his
nostrils oozing blood. The coyotes saw
and closed in about him, chopping quick
and hard. Sharp ears and sharp muz-
zles cast up at his throat, and were
whelmed in a press of gray flanks.
One yelped, one went limping from a
kick, and one went past him, returning
with a spring upon the heaving shoulder,
and the man in the reeds beside the bit-
ter water rose up and fired.

All the luck of that day's hunting
went to the homesteader, for he had
killed an antelope and a coyote with

one shot, and though he had a bad quar-
ter of an hour with a wild and loathly
shepherd, who he feared might denounce
him to the law, in the end he made off
with the last antelope, swung limp and
graceless across his shoulder. The coy-
otes came back to the killing ground
when they had watched him safely down
the ravine, and were consoled with what
they found. As they pulled the body
of the dead leader about before they be-
gan upon it, they noticed that the home-
steader had taken the ears of that also.

Little Pete lay in the grass and wept
simply; the tears made pallid traces in
the season's grime. He suffered the tor-
ture, the question extraordinary of be-
reavement. If he had not lingered so
long in the meadow of Los Robles, if he
had moved faster on the Sand Flat trail,
but, in fact, he had come up against
the inevitable. He had been breathed
upon by that spirit which goes before
cities like an exhalation and dries up
the gossamer and the dew.

From that day the heart had gone
out of the Ceriso. It was a desolate
hollow, reddish - hued and dim, with
brackish waters, and moreover the feed
was poor. His eyes could not forget
their trick of roving the valley at all
hours ; he looked by the rill of tbe spring
for hoof -prints that were not there.

Fronting the west gap there was a
spot where he would not feed, where the
grass stood up stiff and black with what
had dried upon it. He kept the flocks
to the ridgy slopes where the limited
horizon permitted one to believe the
crater was not quite empty. His heart
shook in the night to hear the long-
drawn hunting howl, and shook again
remembering that he had nothing to be
fearing for. After three weeks he
passed out on the other side and came
that way no more. The juniper tree
stood greenly by the spring until the
homesteader cut it down for firewood.
Nothing taller than the rattling reeds
stirs in all the hollow of the Ceriso.

Mary Austin.

Life at a Mountain Observatory.

LIFE AT A MOUNTAIN OBSERVATORY.

TRAVELERS entering the Santa Clara
Valley at the foot of San Francisco Bay
in California may see from their car
windows, on one of the peaks of the
Monte Diablo Range to the east, the
faint white domes of a famous observa-
tory. There stands the great telescope
erected by the will of James Lick, once
the most powerful, and still the most
effective in the world, his unique tomb
and title to immortality in the regard
of men.

Forty miles in from the sea, pro-
tected from its direct winds by the far-
ther Santa Cruz hills, and lifted above
its prevailing fogs, Mount Hamilton has
proved the wisdom of its choice as an
outpost on the world's frontier. It is
rendered accessible from the town of San
Jos by one of the finest mountain roads
in America, twenty-eight miles of wind-
ing even grade through scenery at all
times beautiful, from the orchards and
vineyards of the foothills to the barren
steeps of the Mountain itself. From
the summit sweeps a view that is unsur-
passed : the pale white haze of the sea
over Monterey ; the flashing Point Reyes
Light on the headlands far beyond San
Francisco ; the first white peaks at the
Lassen Buttes two hundred miles to the
north; thence the magnificent Sierras,
circling the east and dipping lower and
lower till they meet the cross ranges by
Tehachapi in the far southeast, an un-
broken arc of perpetual snow exceeding
the distance from Boston to Baltimore,
and equaling that between Philadelphia
and Cleveland.

But it is the equable climate of mid-
California that has justified this Moun-
tain's distinction as the site of a great
observatory. Lifting far enough above
the populous valleys to escape their dust
and smoke, it yet avoids the rigors of
greater altitudes and their varying ex-
tremes. Over it domes a sky like Italy's,

sparing of rain, prodigal of sun, where
by night's magic heights of blue grow
depths of blackness, and, reach beyond
reach, the far stars shine that we cannot
number. This untroubled atmosphere
has kept the Lick telescope, no longer
the largest in the world, still king in its
realm, and has drawn to the wilderness
a group of men who count the heavens
a recompense for the loss of the world,
men who are willing to give their lives
to the working out of problems that may
take a lifetime to solve. For discov-
eries of sudden or startling facts and
phenomena, in which the Lick Observa-
tory has had its share, are usually inci-
dental, things picked up by the way in
the prosecution of long inquiries such
as only observatories of pure research
may undertake. The patient saving
of detail, the persistent following of
uncertain clues, the applying of mathe-
matical tests, the interpreting of math-
ematical prophecy, the handling of ma-
chinery, the designing of delicate in-
struments, and the making and the care
of them, all these things make up
the astronomer's workaday life, but are
hardly guessed by the visitor who is en-
tertained of a Saturday night with a sur-
face view of results and by a look at the
stars through the telescopes that James
Lick willed should be free to all.

Now and again this visitor, turning
from the domes and instruments, craves
to know of the human side of life in so
remote a community. He counts the
half-dozen astronomers and assistants,
the three or four fellows just out of the
universities, the instrument - makers,
machinists, and workmen, the few fami-
lies that stand for what there is of so-
cial life, thirty adults, perhaps, with
a little colony of children, - - summing
in all less than half a hundred : not a
man but is concerned in the service of
the Observatory; not a house, not an

Life at a Mountain Observatory.

implement but is owned by the state.
No civic or social machinery, no doctor,
no church, no club, my tourist, look-
ing at the wide skies and the lonely
hills, says blankly, "What do you do
up here ? ' And my friend there is
no doubt of it hides pity in his voice
as he looks from my broad windows and
talks of the things I love in the*world.
And my butcher boy, when I go to town,
commiserates me openly, and my grocer
sighs and shakes his head. All this
amazed me when first I ran upon it!
They do not know how we shut our eyes
when we come down from the clean wil-
derness and ride in over the backyards
of their cities ; they little think how we
choke with the disintegrated refuse that
floats in their air; they do not guess
how the commonplace streets pall upon
one from the heights. Here the air we
breathe is undefiled, the water we drink
is crystal pure; here is no one aged or
poor or sick ; here each man does what
he most would do, and money is not the
goal : these are conditions unique, to be
read of in philosophers' dreams.

And when asked what I do up here,
being not an astronomer, and when pit-
ied for my loneliness, I look at my
Mountain's white domes and clustered
dwellings ; I count her peaks of famous
names, Huyghens, Kepler, Coperni-
cus, Ptolemy; I think of her hidden
canons, her bird-songs, her gentle wild
things, and of many a fern bank and
moss-deep glen that has told its tale to
me : resources, these, they do not guess,
nor can they understand.

For the visitor sees the Mountain in
one mood ; for him she puts on her sum-
mer veil, her winter mask, or a radiant
gown at her whim : to us she shows a
thousand moods ; nor in a year, nor in
many years, may we compass her varie-
ty. I boast I will know my Wilder-
ness ; with one rock of lichens she baf-
fles me. I mount my pony and make
the circle of the hills ; when I go back
they are not the same. For sun and
cloud work their ceaseless witchery, and

Nature holds the charm of change in
changelessness that is like the fascina-
tion of personality. California valleys
are one of two things, sun-steeped and
still, or incredibly chill under depths
of fog. The Mountain may be all things
in a day: tempest-swept, lost to sun,
to stars, to earth itself, till it breaks
into sudden visions of color, light, and
vastness, revealing cloud-framed bits of
emerald valleys, or of purple peaks, or
of steely Bay turned crimson under the
setting sun ; or wreathing itself in white-
ness to stand like a pale nun before the
morning.

Dearest of all are the wild ways, and
best of all are the wild days. It is one
of the mysteries that humanity houses
itself when it rains. Never is the smell
of outdoors so sweet, never are colors
so fine as in wet air. You know not
what stuff is in you till you have bat-
tled with a tempest. You have never
guessed Nature's tenderness till you have
felt dropping rain on your face. You
have never learned her ineffable peace
till you have stood in the wilderness in
the encompassing silence of falling snow.
Then the wild things lose their fear.
"Little things with lovely eyes" look
out of the copses and make no move to
run away; furry rabbits stop in your
path, and gold en- crowned sparrows hop
about in the pouring rain, and with much
bobbing of bright heads elect you to
their stout-hearted company.

These are times when I forget I am
of the conventional, and have a stren-
uous creed of golf and tennis to live up
to on other days. Yet when the sun
shines, down we shall plunge to the foxy
links that lure us with high hopes and
send us back without them. It is meet
that sometimes we should toil; there-
fore were the Mount Hamilton Links
invented and devised. They have fur-
nished exercise for all the men of the
staff for five years, exercise with hoe
and scuffle and rake and roller, and still
the untamed ground-squirrel collects
our balls into the depths of the earth;

Life at a Mountain Observatory.

still does the heaven-kissing hazard rise
at every turn, and tempers and clubs
and scores go down before him.

"What is a reasonable score for our
links ? ' I ask of an expert from across
the Continent. The Man from Midlo-
thian mops his brow : "Eight hundred ! '
he says with conviction. I should have
inquired before he had climbed " Mount
Pisgah " and had fallen into the " Cro-
codile 's Jaw! '

But this is golf; and the game, be-
gun in earnest with the first fall rains,
carries its enthusiasts far into spring,
when the conquering march of rampant
lupines and paint-brush and purple clo-
ver sweeps the brassey off the field. Nor
at tennis, nor on the links, may the game
absorb one utterly. When the hollow
ball flies wild, and a player follows after
it over the too near edge of a canon,
there again are the enchanting shadows
stealing in a way quite new across Mount
Day. Beyond the white domes, we
know, Copernicus, sharp like a rock in
rapids, cuts through the flying mist ; far
on the blue horizon the snowy Sierras
rim the frozen east; while under our
eyes in the west lies the shadowed Bay
with the ships of the world at anchor.
"Through the green " the meadow lark
is singing the winter long his Exsultate
Deo, while the great hawks in the air
at play, rolling over and over, attack,
retreat, and circle ever higher till they
take their meteor flight into the invis-
ible.

But if the winter so enchants, how
does the spring entice! In at the win-
dow flutes the rock wren, "See, see,
see! ' And up in the oaks the ash-
throat chuckles, " Look ! Look here ! '
In the Kepler copses the thrasher chants
and trills; by the Joaquin trail the
buntings swing like scintillant jewels;
while in the shimmering maples the
grosbeaks warble an Elisir d' Amore, and
act it, too, with consummate grace.
Oh, we have our Tivolis and our Alca-
zars! And there are rivalries among
the artists, and delicious human come-

dies in feathers, and little fights in the
wings ; but you would miss the cheap
pretense and the tinsel and the paint
you pay two dollars a seat to see, O my
Critic of the Pitying Voice!

But you will be saying this is far
afield. What of the housekeeper and
her house that she can no more escape
than the snail his shell? She thinks a
little further ahead, that is all; she
uses a little longer prevision. Even in
practical affairs the touch of the unique
obtains. We market with the invisible,
and we pay with invisible coin. The
World that somehow sends us our beef
and mutton daily is but a voice at the
telephone, and a sense of the uncanny
still clings to that elfish toy which has
so emancipated us from the time-con-
suming mails, the prompt small voice
out of the silence that is Humanity's
response to our call.

We live in the shadow of the great
Observatory: it is very renowned, and
we are very proud of it, and have as
little to do with it as possible. " What ?
You don't study astronomy ? You don't
work with your husband ? ' exclaims
the shocked enthusiast. Chastened, I
explain : If the women have a duty in
a place like this, it is to bring variety
into its life; to be intelligent concern-
ing all that is being done, and interested
of course, and to lend a helping hand
when one really can help; but for the
rest, to live in different interests and
to resist the tendency to narrowness that
is inevitable to isolation ; in fine, to re-
alize a home in the wilderness, and what
we can of the wider culture, this seems
to us a plainer duty than hanging to the
skirts of Science.

Yet the Great Telescope dominates
us all : it shapes our ends ; our talk is as
likely to be "shop " as in any circle.
The great glass never stands unused
when the "seeing' 1 is possible; Sun-
days, holidays, there is no exception, -
not because there is any law to that ef-
fect, but because, if he knows that in-
strument is idle, an astronomer cannot

The Voice of the Scholar.

be kept away from it. The same is true
of the whole equipment to an almost
equal degree. There are lesser tyrants,
and each is the law to the man who uses
it. Therefore, when the hostess sends
out her invitations for an evening, it is
understood, no clouds, no party. Even
in winter the mists are fickle, and after
a day of gloom, may settle and leave a
sky resplendent. Hence social func-
tions are likely to be impromptu, and
as the years go on, the charm of the fire-
side and the books that so invite grows
dearer, without doubt. Indeed, as a
dear old German woman once put it,
" It is well to be goot friends mit your-
self on Mount Hamilton."

For there is the time of solitude, the
time of the summer regnant, when the
astronomers work all of the night and
sleep most of the day ; when the yellow
sun never veils its relentless glare;
when the yellow dust settles wide and
deep ; when the panting birds grow still
in the copses ; when the smoke of burn-
ing forests shuts down on the rim of the
hills; when the land is parched, and
the streams in the cafions fail. Then
the wise woman gets to the seashore, but
the obstinate one stays on, and learns
what a wonderful thing is the sky at
Mount Hamilton's best. Then the nights
have a softness that Eastern summers
know, without the enervate air. Then
the heavens grow familiar, and the stars
assume their names, and under their
stately passing there is time to think,
to feel, and to be one's self.

Then it depends on one's resources,

Gentle Critic, whether one comes to the
state of Du Maurier's Bride and Groom
who spent three weeks in the wilder-
ness. Then the Bride sighs, "Would
n't it be lovely if one of our friends
would step in just now?' Says the
Bridegroom, "Yes, or even an enemy ! '
But if the hunger is too much for us we
send for you, O Guest, who never so
charmed as in these solitudes. And
sometimes without our asking, just by
way of the gift of the gods, you come,
and how various your names and how
fragrant your memories ! I see you now
in review: the thoughtful guest who
never lets us know because he means we
shall take no trouble, may he be some
time perched twenty-eight miles from
a lemon and the Queen step in to tea!
There 's the enthusiastic guest who has
never looked down upon a cloud, alas
that he sometimes happens upon an in-
side view of one! And the worshipful
guest to whom an astronomer is a being
not of earth, may he never outstay his
illusion! The zealous guest, too, who
perceives all our lacks and would have
us a missionary station, adding naively,

"There must be lots of ministers who
would be glad to be entertained a week
and give you a sermon ! ' But last and
dearest is the delightful guest who brings
a breath of all humanity and gives us
speech of the great world. And he per-
ceives that we, too, have our "concerns
and duties ; " that we, too, are trying to

"play the man and perform them with
laughter and kind faces.". Heaven bless
him, and bring him again and often !
Ethel Fountain Hussey.

THE VOICE OF THE SCHOLAR.

THE greatest need of popular govern-
ment is the University. The greatest
need of higher education is Democracy.
The scholar and the man must work to-
gether. The free man must be a scholar.
The scholar must be a man.

It is not the necessary function of
Democracy to do anything very well.
There is nothing in collective effort which
insures right action. Its function is to de-
velop intelligence and patriotism through
doing for ourselves all things possible

The Voice of the Scholar.

which concern us individually or collec-
tively. To take responsibility is the sur-
est way to rise to it, but the time may be
long and errors may be costly. Courage
and willingness do not guarantee success.
Exact knowledge and thorough training
are essential to right results. In these
regards, Democracy is, in the nature of
things, deficient. These the University
must contribute. Government by the peo-
ple needs its trained and educated men
more than any other kind of government ;
for while monarchy seeks far and wide
for strong men and wise to be used as its
tools, strength and wisdom are the daily
life of successful Democracy. But De-
mocracy is always prone to undervalue
wise men, and imagines vainly that it can
get along well enough without their help.

On the other hand the University needs
the people. In their wants and their up-
lifting it finds the best reason for its ex-
istence. " The bath of the people," which
Lincoln said was good for public men, is
essential to the University. It keeps it
in touch with life. It holds it to hu-
manity.

Those who regard higher education as
a social ornament, valueless except as a
badge for the delight of its possessor, and
those who regard culture as the private
perquisite of the elect few, are alike in
the wrong. The presence of men of cul-
ture and training raises the value of
everything about them. It insures the
success of enterprise, the safety of per-
son and property, the contact with right-
eousness of thought and action which is
the mainspring of right thought and
right deed in the future.

Moreover if clear thinking with clean
living is good for the elect few, it is equal-
ly good for the mutable many. Culture
not only raises the man above the mass, it
turns the masses into men. That the mul-
titude may imagine themselves men be-
fore they hold a man's grasp on life is the
grievous danger of Democracy. Here
again the University plays its part, teach-
ing the relative value of ideals. Under

VOL. xcn. NO. 549. 3

its criticism men learn that good results
are better than good intentions, and that
they demand a far higher order of skill
and courage.

I heard a man say the other day that
the university men were not on his side
of a certain question. In fact, he said,
the college men are always on the con-
trary side of every question. This is
probably true in the sense he meant ; for
it is the province of college men to judge
intentions and pretenses by ultimate re-
sults. When the final end, according to
the experience of human wisdom, is sure
to be bad, wise men must oppose the be-
ginning. The Universities have many
times stood in opposition to the popular
feeling of the time, but they have rarely
found condemnation in the final verdict
of history. Only he who has studied
the affairs of men critically, impartially,
coldly, can discover the real trend of
forces in the movements of to-day. This
the University has means to do. It does
not carry elections. It has seldom tried
to do so, for the results of an election
play a very small part in the evolution
of Democracy : not to carry elections, but
rather to carry wisdom to the people ; that
is something worth doing. The words of
experience which are wasted in the noise
of the hustings become potent as the tu-
mult passes by.

The people suffer many ills in our so-
cial order, for most of which they only
are responsible. Because men are not
wise, they know not what to do. In igno-
rance and weakness they find themselves
the sport of Fate, the flotsam of " mani-
fest destiny," the victims of evils that
wisdom and virtue instinctively avoid.

Next to knowing what to do is the
willingness to believe that some one else
possesses this knowledge. Skepticism as
to the existence of skill and intolerance
toward the possessor of knowledge are
common features of Democracy. This is
its vulgar side, the disposition to do mean
things in a mean way, doubting that there
exist any better things or better ways of

34 The Voice of the Scholar.

doing them. Through this kind of vul- that the public weal is bound up. No

garity, the average American is his own honest or worthy cause appeals to the

physician, healing himself with drugs of self-pity of those it addresses. All calls

which he does not even know the name, to the weakness, or vanity, or prejudice,

As a result, he suffers half his life from or passion of men are dishonest. All

self-inflicted poisoning. The American dishonesty results in evil. Virtue that

is his own architect, and for this reason can last rests on growing honesty and

our cities are filled with buildings in which growing wisdom. Because the Univer-

nightmares might house, were it not for sity stands for the free search for truth,

their fresh paint and smart ornamenta- its influence must be opposed to that of

tion. The American is his own states- passion and prejudice. It must be above

man, following his own impulses, guided the heats of the hour, and therefore in

by his own prejudices. Thus he fills the some degree antagonistic to them. Thus,

land of the free with oppression and in- those who strive on the sands of the

justice. When he can no longer shut his arena find the University distant and

eyes to the misery he has wrought he cold. This again is its danger, that it

falls back on his good intentions, casting shall be cold and distant. Never to " vex

the blame for his blunders on impersonal at the land's ridiculous miserie " was an

destiny. old ideal of the University. It is an ideal

The sense of personal responsibility long cherished in the great Universities

and personal adequacy, which Demo- of England. But it was never a worthy

cracy gives, is of vital importance in the ideal. To exist for the needs of the

development of man. But it has its people is a mission worthy of Oxford or

bad side as well as its good. It is the of Harvard or of Berlin. It is the final,

function of the University to struggle highest function of all the glorious bro-

against the bad, day and night, in season therhood of plain life and high thought,

and out of season, to convert it into the To keep up wisdom among men is the

other. That vulgarity is free to express natural function of the University. The

itself in our system does not exalt vul- need of the times is not of men to die for

garity. In the long run, vulgarity finds the right, but of men to live for it. Not of

its surest cure in freedom. men to oppose popular feeling, nor even

The people at large even yet do not to rouse the public conscience. Better
understand nor value knowledge and than this, is to train the public thought,
power. Only those who know well and What we want is not a revival of zeal,
see clearly can do well. Knowledge does not even for the cause of righteousness,
not flatter or coddle, and men take to It is rather a revival of wisdom. This
that which pleases them. The fact that is followed by no chill nor backsliding,
the majority do not believe in knowledge while zeal, however well-meaning, is sub-
is the reason why the University must al- ject to ebbs and flows,
ways be in opposition to prevailing senti- I heard a very rich man say not long
ment and current action. " When were ago that he had no faith in higher edu-
the good and true ever in the majority ? " cation. " Nine college men out of every
There are not many of those who speak ten," he said, " build up a wall between
and write on public affairs who really themselves and life." By life, he seemed to
care for what is just. The interest of mean the business of making money. If
most men lies in the success of the this be life, the statement may be true ;
"cause." But the cause, whatever it but judged even by this standard, we
may be, is only an incident in intellectual must believe that the college men who
awakening, a mere episode in social de- thrust themselves upon his notice were
velopment. It is in the actual truth not typical of their kind. Some people

The Voice of the Scholar.

look upon men as useful only as they can
use them. The rest are merely compet-
ing organisms, poor beggars who ought to
be got under ground as soon as possible,
to " save the cost of their keep." But it
is not true that most college men build
up a wall between themselves and life.
If true in any individual case, it is be-
cause the man was not worth educating,
or because the education was itself spuri-
ous. For higher education cannot make
a man where manhood did not exist be-
fore. It can only take a man already
created, and raise him to higher effec-
tiveness. Moreover, there are frauds
and imitations in education as well as
anywhere else, and misfit articles are
thrown on the market, cheap, every day.
It is said that " our schools which teach
young people to talk do not teach them
how to live." This would mean that some
schools are shams, not giving real educa-
tion. But it is not by mistakes and mis-
fits that higher education is to be judged.
It is by its finished and adapted product.
In every walk in life the higher education
works to the benefit of humanity. The
man who knows one thing well can do it
well. His presence in life is a help to his
neighbor. He does not enter into com-
petition, but into elevation. He makes
the business of living respectable.

In the Atlantic Monthly for March,
1899, Dr. William DeWitt Hyde has
given a striking account of the value of
the life-work of a single scholar, the hon-
ored President of Harvard.

" No one," says Dr. Hyde, " can be-
gin to measure the gain to civilization
and human happiness his services have
wrought. . . . His leadership has dou-
bled the rate of educational advance not
in Harvard alone, but throughout the
United States. He has sought to ex-
tend the helping hand of sympathy and
appreciation to every struggling capa-
city in the humblest grammar grade ;
to stimulate it into joyous blossoming
under the sunshine of congenial studies
throughout the secondary years ; to

bring it to a sturdy and sound matu-
rity in the atmosphere of liberty in col-
lege life ; and finally, by stern selection
and thorough specialization, to gather a
harvest of experts in all the higher
walks of life, on whose skill, knowledge,
integrity, and self-sacrifice their less
trained fellows can implicitly rely for
higher instruction, professional counsel,
and public leadership. In consequence
of these comprehensive reforms, we see
the first beginnings of a rational and
universal church, not separate from ex-
isting sects, but permeating all; pro-
perty rights in all their subtle forms
are more secure and well defined ; hun-
dreds of persons are alive to-day who
under physicians of inferior training
would have died long ago ; thousands
of college students have had quickened
within them a keen intellectual interest,
an earnest spiritual purpose, a l personal
power in action under responsibility,'
who under the old regime would have
remained listless and indifferent ; tens
of thousands of boys and girls in sec-
ondary schools can expand their hearts
and minds with science and history and
the languages of other lands, who but
for President Eliot would have been
doomed to the monotonous treadmill of
formal studies for which they have no
aptitude or taste ; and, as the years go
by, hundreds of thousands of the chil-
dren of the poor, in the precious tender
years before their early drafting into
lives of drudgery and toil, in place of
the dry husks of superfluous arithmetic,
the thrice-threshed straw of unessential
grammar, and the innutritious shells of
unrememberable geographical details,
will get some brief glimpse of the won-
drous loveliness of Nature and her laws,
some slight touch of inspiration from the
words and deeds of the world's wisest and
bravest men, to carry with them as a her-
itage to brighten their future humble
homes and gladden all their after-lives.
In such 'good measure, pressed down,
shaken together, running over/ has there

The Voice of the Scholar.

been given to this great educational re-
former, in return for thirty years of gen-
erous and steadfast service of his Univer-
sity, his fellow men, his country, and his
God, what, in true Puritan simplicity, he
calls ' that finest luxury, to do some per-
petual good in this world.'

Not long since one of our writers ex-
pressed regret at the numbers of young
men sent forth each year from the Uni-
versities to swell the educated prole-
tariat of America. His assumption is
that each is to scramble for his living,
struggling with his competitors, dissat-
isfied because his ambitions far outrun
every possible achievement. The very
reverse of this is the fact in America,
whatever may be the case elsewhere,
as, for instance, in the " bedridden offi-
cialism of France." The man of char-
acter who is educated aright finds very
soon his place in our community. Before
he came he may not have been wanted,
but once in his position, everybody
seems looking for him. The college
men of America need no help and no
pity from any source. They can take
care of themselves, and they can take
care of others. To them, as to Emer-
son, "America means opportunity," and
there are more opportunities to-day than
ever before to the man who is able to
grasp them. But to grasp the greater
opportunities, the first essential is not
to despise the small ones. An educa-
tion that turns a man away from any
honest work, however humble, that lies
in the line of duty, is not sound educa-
tion. That some education is unsound,
and some men are unmanly, in nowise
shows that real training does not strength-
en real men.

Each year, it is true, makes higher de-
mands. There are not so many things
worth having to be had for the simple
asking. This is because the nation is
growing more critical. It is beginning
to demand fitness, not alone mere will-
ingness. The opportunities it has to of-
fer are falling into the hands of trained

men, and these men demand still higher
training from those who are to be their
successors.

A skilled engineer will not choose as
his assistant and successor a man who
knows wheels and engines only by rule
of thumb. An educated chemist will not
make way for a druggist's clerk, nor
a graduate of West Point for a politi-
cian's parasite, whose military training
was gained as elevator boy or as driver
of a beer wagon. Training counts alike
in all walks of life, in a Democracy not
less than in an empire. As the people
come to understand the reality of know-
ledge, so will they learn to appreciate its
worth.

Another very rich man doubts the
value of college education ; at the same
time he places the highest estimate on ap-
plied chemistry, because through the skill
of the chemist employed in his steel man-
ufactory he laid the foundations of his
own wealth. But applied chemistry rests
on the broader chemistry not yet applied,
and is a part of higher knowledge. To
train chemists is likewise a part of the
higher education. Higher education con-
sists no longer, as many seem to suppose,
in writing Latin verses and in reading
mythology in Greek. These things have
their place, and a great place in the his-
tory of culture, but it is to " Greek-mind-
ed men and Roman-minded men" that
they belong. They form no longer the
sole avenue by which the goal of the
scholar can be reached.

The keynote of the modern University
is its usefulness. Its help is no longer
limited to one kind of man or to one kind
of ability, cramping or excluding all oth-
ers. It welcomes " every ray of varied
genius to its hospitable halls." It is its
highest pride that no man who brings to
its classrooms brains and courage is ever
turned away unhelped.

Because of this broadening of univer-
sity ideals, there are ten college students
in our country to-day where there was
one twenty years ago. For this reason,

The Voice of the Scholar.

the same twenty years have witnessed a
marvelous expansion in all Universities
where generous ideals have found lodg-
ment.

Where the old notion that all culture
runs in a single groove still obtains ;
where it is attempted to train all men by
one process, whatever this process be,
there is no growth in numbers, no exten-
sion of influence, no sign of greater abun-
dance of life. Just in proportion as con-
structive individualism in education has
been a guiding principle have our Univer-
sities grown in numbers and in influence.
In this proportion and for this reason
have they deserved to grow. For this
reason James Bryce declares that of all
results of Democracy, the American Uni-
versity offers the largest promise for the
future.

The scholar in the true sense is the
man or woman for whom the schools have
done their best. The scholar knows some
one thing thoroughly, and can carry his
knowledge into action. With this, he
must have such knowledge of related sub-
jects and of human life as will throw this
special knowledge into proper perspec-
tive. Anything less than this is not
scholarship. The man with knowledge
and no perspective is a crank, a disturber
of the peace, who needs a guardian to
make his knowledge useful. The man
who has common sense, but no special
training, may be a fair citizen, but he
can exert little influence that makes for
progress. There may be a wisdom not
of books, but it can be won by no easy
process. To gain wisdom or skill, in
school or out, is education. To do any-
thing well requires special knowledge,
and this is scholarship whether attained
in the University or in the school of life.
It is the man who knows that has the
right to speak.

That the monarchy needs the Univer-
sity has been recognized ever since cul-
ture began. The Universities of Europe
were founded by the great kings ; the
wiser the king the more he felt the need

of scholars as his helpers. So Alfred
founded Oxford, and Charlemagne the
University of Paris, while the founder
of the University of Berlin well deserved
the name of " Great," even though it
were for nothing else. In the darkest
days of Holland, William the Silent
erected the University of Leyden. He
needed it in his struggle against Spain.
He needed it in the warfare for indepen-
dence. A University breeds free men,
men whom physical force cannot bind.

But the need of the monarchy for men
of high culture and exact training is less
than that of the Democracy. Under a
monarchy such men must hold office. In
a Democracy they must hold the peo-
ple. They must form fixed points in the
civic mass, units of intelligence, not to be
bribed nor stampeded.

The presence of the king is not the
essential feature of a monarchy. It is
the absence of the people. Where the
people are not consulted, it is not vital to
the government that they be wise, nor
even that wise men should be among
them. In fact, they are more easily han-
dled without this kind of obstruction.
Therefore the tendency of the monarchy
is to separate the men from the mass, as
we might choose the sheep from among
the goats. But in a Democracy, those who
are ruled must also rule. They have no
less need of individual wisdom, but they
must have it diffused among themselves,
not concentrated in a ruling class. No-
thing can be done for a Democracy save
what the people do for themselves. It is
impossible to provide for it an educated
oligarchy. Its public servants are of its
own kind. They must be its agents or its
attorneys, in no sense its rulers, not often
even its leaders. For the most part, there-
fore, the wisest men in the Democracy
will not be in office. The voice of wis-
dom should rise from the body of the
people to the throne of power. When a
Democracy needs a leader in the seat of
authority, it is because it has in one fash-
ion or other gone out of its way. Going

The Voice of the Scholar.

out of its way, it has come to a crisis.
The cause of every crisis, in a Democracy,
is a mistake of one sort or another. A
crisis arises with a question of right and
wrong. Such a question never becomes
a burning one unless the popular feeling
has somewhere gone wrong and worked
itself out in wrong action.

When this is the case, it is the schol-
ar's business to know it. He is the sen-
sitive barometer who feels first the low-
ered pressure of rejected duty, the first
warning of the coming storm. The warn-
ing he gives, his neighbors will not receive
with favor. He will not receive a " do-
nation party," nor a vote of thanks, nor
a new pair of boots for giving it expres-
sion, but it is his business to speak, and
he cannot remain a scholar if he takes
refuge in silence. Dr. Norman Bridge
has well expressed a similar thought in
these words :

" The mere fact that one or two men
in a hundred are known to be uninflu-
enced by the clamors of any rabble, good
or bad, is to any community a force of
unspeakable value. The excitable ones
know well that the fiftieth man must be
met and conciliated or overcome in any
hot-headed movement. He is a factor as
a voter and a citizen that cannot be ig-
nored, and he exercises a wholesome,
regulating, and modifying, often repres-
sive influence on the hasty tendencies of
the crowd. The thieves of the public
treasury, of all classes and shades, are
afraid of him. Even one forceful man
in a hundred thousand may have an
amazing influence on public affairs, if he
has the time and inclination to devote to
disinterested care of the public interests.
There are a few such men in each of our
large cities. In one of the large centres
of the East a wealthy man of leisure was
for many years a terror to the hot-headed
and to the filchers of the public, and
solely because he gave himself to the task,
and they knew they would have to meet
him at every turn. This one man in the
multitude may be called a croaker or a

fossil, but often he is the sole force that
is able to check the rising of the mob or
the stampede of the army, or to compel
men to stop and think before taking ac-
tion that may be hasty or regrettable."

The scholar will not go far out of his
way in matters of this kind. Because his
knowledge is intense, it must correspond-
ingly be narrow. The tendencies to good
and evil in our social condition are so
varied and so intertangled that those who
trace out the relations of one set of combi-
nations must perforce neglect the others.
The scholar who raises his voice against
unjust or unwise taxation may be silent
on the question of misapplied charity.
The scholar who becomes an authority on
the purity of water cannot be an equal
judge of the purity of elections. The ex-
pert on electricity is not necessarily the
best judge of ghost stories. He may be
so, but we cannot expect it. Each must
do his own part in his own way in his own
section of the field of knowledge. Each
must say his own word as his own truth
comes to him, though he know that his
own times may let it pass unheeded, and
though he know that his voice may be
overborne by the louder tones of mere
pretenders to knowledge. For it is one
of the conditions of Democracy that wis-
dom and its counterfeit go along together
side by side. There can be no tag or
label to mark one from the other, and the
people would not heed it if there were.
We can only know wisdom from impos-
ture by its results, or by the test of our
own wisdom. The government cannot
brand a Keeley, lest the public mistake
him for a Faraday. A Tesla and a Helm-
holtz pass as great alike, and in the public
mind he is greatest whose name is often-
est in the daily newspapers. All this is
well. It is better for men to choose the
voice of wisdom for themselves rather
than to have it infallibly pointed out to
them by the government. For the seat
of wisdom is in the individual soul, and
it grows through individual effort.

The scholar is silent for the most part

The Voice of the Scholar.

in the rush and hurry of the world. When
he has no reason for speaking he reserves
his strength for his own due season and
his own line of action. But he must be
free to speak when needs arise. He can-
not breathe in confined air, and his speech
or his silence must be at his own will,
subject to his own conscience and to the
demands of truth.

In our days men talk too much, in the
papers, in the magazines, in the open
atmosphere. They fill the literary air
with vain shoutings. But there can never
be too clear or too frequent statements
of the results of real knowledge. The
old elementary truths of justice and hu-
manity need to be recalled to us day after
day, while on the other hand, the discov-
eries of science give us every day better
tools and surer command over the forces
of Nature. The voice of the oldest and
the newest must together somehow reach
our ears, if our actions are to be righteous
and our enterprises successful.

To the scholar we must look for this.
Only he who knows for himself some
truth which rests on the foundations of
the Universe has a right to the name of
scholar. And the scholar will speak when
the time comes for speaking. What-
ever our creeds and conventions, he will
break through them with the truth. He
can never afford to do less, if the truth
he utters be really his own and the out-
come of his own contact with the powers
that never lie. No authority can bend
him to silence ; no title can bribe him ;
no force can close his mouth. He must,
if need be, have the spirit of the martyr.
He must consider, not the consequences
to himself, to his business, to society,
only the demands of truth.

That the scholar must speak, again
emphasizes his need of common sense.
Common sense is that instinct which
throws all knowledge into right perspec-
tive. It rests on sound habits of orienta-
tion. He who knows where the sun rises
never fails to make out all the other points
of the compass. This power the schools

alone cannot give. They can strengthen
it, but they cannot create it, and they
must not take it away. It is the founda-
tion of all true culture, for science is only
enlightened common sense.

As a part of common sense, the scholar
must distinguish his truth from his opin-
ions. He must not mistake for the eternal
verity his own prejudice, his own ambi-
tion, or his own desire. For he is human
on all his human sides, and is subject to
temptations that master other men. He
is in better form to resist, no doubt, but
that does not insure immunity. More-
over, his truth may be only half truth at
the best, and the other half truths may
seem to contradict it. To know a half
truth from a whole one is the part of com-
mon sense, but common sense is a pos-
session still more rare than learning.
When scholars forget, their voices arise
in discord, and this discord casts discredit
over knowledge. When half truths are
set off one against another, we may find
displayed all the vulgarity of intolerance
in quarters where intolerance should be
unknown. All this should teach the
scholar modesty. It should warn him of
the need of charity, but it should not si-
lence his voice.

He must speak, he will speak, and it is
for the safety of Democracy that sooner
or later his word is triumphant. The
final outcome of all action rests with the
educated man. Not all the politicians
of all the parties in all the republics have
secured so many final victories in thought
and action as the Universities.

I read lately an attempt to show that
the scholar or the clergyman should nev-
er write or speak on any public or pass-
ing question, lest he expose himself to
criticism, or find his personality tumbled
about in the dust of the political arena.
The clergyman devotes his life to the
study of moral questions in the light of
religion. The scholar devotes himself to
the study of truth wherever found and
to the ways by which truth may be avail-
able to men. If the scholar and the

40 The Voice of the Scholar.

clergyman are to be silent on questions The rabble of to-day which the scholar

of vital interest to men, who indeed is has to face is not the rabble of yester-

to speak ? Is it the politician of the day, day. The axe and the fagot, the club

a mere echo without an idea of his own ? and the paving-stone, have as means of

Is it the man of money who may have an argument gone out of date. The wea-

axe to grind in every movement in pub- pon of the mob of to-day is mud. When

lie affairs, or who again may be seeking a scholar stands for unwelcome truth,

undisturbed possession of that which jus- the answer of the day is personal abuse,

tice would place in other hands ? Is it To a man the rabble cannot understand

the popular agitator to whom the social are ascribed all the vulgar motives of

order is one long fit of hysteria ? Must the rabble. His words and his teachings

we confine all public utterance to those are distorted and vulgarized until the

whose passions are excited or whose in- multitude recognize them as brought

terests are touched ? Shall Emerson and down to their own level.

Lowell, Theodore Parker and Phillips In this gloomy outlook two facts may

Brooks, Eliot and Butler, be silent when console the scholar. To Truth's marble

the fighting editor speaks ? statue mud will never cling. Men with-

The scholar should be above all influ- out brains have no permanent influence,
ences of passion or profit. He should A little patience and the storm will pass
speak for the clear, hard, unyielding, un- by. When the air clears, with Emerson
flattering, unpitying truth. If he enters the scholar shall again behold above him,
the arena, he must as a man take his " the gods sitting on their thrones, they
chances with the rest. His thoughts alone and he alone."
must be his only weapon. Passion, rhet- We say sometimes that certain schol-
oric, satire, these are arms for weaker ars have the right to be heard. But one
men to use, not for the scholar. His thing can give this right, and that is the
only sword is the truth. His personal value of what they have to say. This may
credentials may be challenged. He will be judged by the soundness of their lives
meet the scorn of men who do not know and the breadth of their previous experi-
the truth when they see it, and to whom ences. This right must be won by merit,
thought seems but a puny weapon. More not claimed as a privilege. The duty to
than this, he will meet, as adversaries, proclaim truth belongs to him who has
scholars, real or pretended, men who see shown that he knows Truth when he sees
the truth from a single side, or who have her, and that he knows how to find her
never seen it at all, yet feign to be its when he does not see her. It cannot ex-
defenders, ist in full degree for men without experi-

As to all this, the scholar must be pa- ence in life, for men who live in a vision-

tient. If he is right, the ages will find ary world, for men whose ready eloquence

him out. If he is wrong, the fault is takes the place of science. The youth's

with his own weakness, not with truth, fitness to speak usually dates from the

He must be loyal to the best he knows, period when he makes the discovery that

caring no more for majorities than the he is not yet ready. It is not the fear of

stars do, unshaken by feeling, by tradi- the public, of the press, of the rich, or of

tion, or by fear. The voice of a clamor- the poor, that should deter a young man

ous mob on the one hand is no more from rash speaking. It is the fear that

to him than the dictum of a pope or a he may not tell the truth, the fear that

king, or all antiquity. Nor is it less ; he may mislead others or bring reproach

for these are matters not to be taken in on himself or on his colleagues by undue

evidence when the scholar makes his final proclamation of his own crudity. The

decision. Universities of the world have shown that

On Mount Hamilton.

they fear neither man nor devil, if a
struggle for principle is on. But this
they do fear, that in the multiplicity of
speech and writing for which they are
held responsible the truth shall be lost
in the heat of controversy or concealed
in meshes of eloquence. The University
must stand for infinite patience and the
calm discussion of the ideas and ideals
which it must leave to men of action to
frame into deeds. The passionate appeal
is not part of its function. That poli-
tics may not creep into the University, it
is necessary that men of the University
shall not plunge into politics. This is
not because the University is afraid of
reprisals. The politicians of the hour
cannot hurt it much. It is rather that

the University fears degeneration within
itself if its energies are turned largely
into temporary or " timely " ends.

The function of the University in af-
fairs of the day must be essentially judi-
cial. This does not mean that the scholar
should be silent in times of moral issues.
Now and then it is his duty to take the
great bull of Public Opinion by the horns,
regardless of results to himself or his as-
sociates. All honor to the scholar who
recognizes the moment of decision and
seizes it regardless of what follows to him-
self or others. But such moments come
not every day, and the small battles of
society must be fought by men of ac-
tion who enroll themselves under banners
which flutter for the hour.

David Starr Jordan.

ON MOUNT HAMILTON.

ATOP a bold crag, cloudward piled, alone,
O'erwatching far-flung valleys, dim and blue,
Serried with ridge on ridge to bound the view,

A band of warders scan the vasty zone

Where Night's innumerable hosts are strown
Wide through the universe, in orbits true,
Hurled from the fire-mist, whence they grandly grew,

To bournes of darkness in the void unknown.

What seekest thon, O watchers of the vast ?

The whirlwind of Orion's fiery mist,
The trackless comet proudly steering past,

Star-twins that roll in wonder as they list ?
Lo, thou art peering with thy giant eye
On God's great works-hop in the silent sky !

Charles Keeler.

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

THE GOLD-HUNTERS OF THE NORTH.

" Where the Northern Lights come down o'
nights to dance on the houseless snow."

" IVAN, I forbid you to go farther in
this undertaking. Not a word about this,
or we are all undone. Let the Americans
and the English know that we have gold
in these mountains, then we are ruined.
They will rush in on us by thousands, and
crowd us to the wall to the death."

So spoke the old Russian governor,
Baranov, at Sitka, in 1804, to one of his
Slavonian hunters, who had just drawn
from his pocket a handful of golden nug-
gets. Full well Baranov, fur-trader and
autocrat, understood and feared the coin-
ing of the sturdy, indomitable gold-hunt-
ers of Anglo-Saxon stock. And thus he
suppressed the news, as did the govern-
ors that followed him, so that when the
United States bought Alaska in 1867,
she bought it for its furs and fisheries,
without a thought of its treasures under-
ground.

No sooner, however, had Alaska be-
come American soil than thousands of our
adventurers were afoot and afloat for the
north. They were the men of " the days
of gold," the men of California, Fraser,
Cassiar, and Cariboo. With the mysteri-
ous, infinite faith of the prospector, they
believed that the gold streak, which ran
through the Americas from Cape Horn
to California, did not " peter out " in Brit-
ish Columbia. That it extended farther
north, was their creed, and " Farther
North ! " became their cry. No time was
lost, and in the early seventies, leaving
the Treadwell and the Silver Bow Basin
to be discovered by those who came after,
they went plunging on into the white un-
known. North, farther north, till their
picks rang in the frozen beaches of the
Arctic Ocean, and they shivered by drift-
wood fires on the ruby sands of Nome.

But first, in order that this colossal ad-
venture may be fully grasped, the recent-

ness and the remoteness of Alaska must
be emphasized. The interior of Alaska
and the contiguous Canadian territory
was a vast wilderness. Its hundreds of
thousands of square miles were as dark
and chartless as Darkest Africa. In 1847,
when the first Hudson Bay Company
agents crossed over the Rockies from the
Mackenzie to poach on the preserves of
the Russian Bear, they thought that the
Yukon flowed north and emptied into the
Arctic Ocean. Hundreds of miles below,
however, were the outposts of the Russian
traders. They, in turn, did not know
where the Yukon had its source, and it
was not till later that Russ and Saxon
learned that it was the same mighty
stream they were occupying. In 1850,
Lieutenant Barnard, of the English navy,
in search of Sir John Franklin, was killed
in a massacre of Russians at Nulato, on
the Lower Yukon. And a little over ten
years later, Frederick Whymper voyaged
up the Great Bend to Fort Yukon under
the Arctic Circle.

From fort to fort, from York Factory
on Hudson's Bay to Fort Yukon in
Alaska, the English traders transported
their goods, a round trip requiring
from a year to a year and a half. It
was one of their deserters, in 1867, es-
caping down the Yukon to Bering Sea,
who was the first white man to make the
Northwest Passage by land from the At-
lantic to the Pacific. It was at this time
that the first accurate description of a
fair portion of the Yukon was given by
Dr. W. H. Ball, of the Smithsonian In-
stitution. But even he had never seen
its source, and it was not given him to ap-
preciate the marvel of that great natural
highway.

No more remarkable river in this one
particular is there in the world, taking
its rise in Crater Lake, thirty miles from
the ocean, the Yukon flows for twenty-

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

five hundred miles, through the heart of
the continent, ere it empties into the sea.
A portage of thirty miles, and then a
highway for traffic one tenth the girth
of the earth !

As late as 1869, Frederick Whymper,
fellow of the Royal Geographical Society,
stated on hearsay, that the Chilcat In-
dians were believed occasionally to make
a short portage across the Coast Range
from salt water to the head-reaches of
the Yukon. But it remained for a gold-
hunter, questing north, ever north, to be
first of all white men to cross the terrible
Chilcoot Pass, and tap the Yukon at its
head. This happened only the other
day, but the man has become a dim leg-
endary hero. Holt was his name, and
already the mists of antiquity have
wrapped about the time of his passage.
1872, 1874, and 1878 are the dates va-
riously given, a confusion which time
will never clear.

Holt penetrated as far as the Hoota-
linqua, and on his return to the coast re-
ported coarse gold. The next recorded
adventurer is one Edward Bean, who in
1880 headed a party of twenty-five min-
ers from Sitka into the uncharted land.
And in the same year, other parties (now
forgotten, for who remembers or ever
hears the wanderings of the gold-hunt-
ers ?) crossed the Pass, built boats out of
the standing timber, and drifted down
the Yukon and farther north.

And then, for a quarter of a century,
the unknown and unsung heroes grappled
with the frost, and groped for the gold
they were sure lay somewhere among the
shadows of the Pole. In the struggle
with the terrifying and pitiless natural
forces, they returned to the primitive,
garmenting themselves in the skins of
wild beasts, and covering their feet with
the walrus mucluc and the moosehide
moccasin. They forgot the world and its
ways, as the world had forgotten them ;
killed their meat as they found it ; feasted
in plenty and starved in famine, and
searched unceasingly for the yellow lure.

They crisscrossed the land in every di-
rection, threaded countless unmapped
rivers in precarious birch-bark canoes,
and with snowshoes and dogs broke trail
through thousands of miles of silent white,
where man had never been. They strug-
gled on, under the aurora borealis or the
midnight sun, through temperatures that
ranged from one hundred degrees above
zero to eighty degrees below, living, in
the grim humor of the land, on " rabbit
tracks and salmon bellies."

To-day, a man may wander away from
the trail for a hundred days, and just as
he is congratulating himself that at last
he is treading virgin soil, he will come
upon some ancient and dilapidated cabin,
and forget his disappointment in wonder
at the man who reared the logs. Still,
if one wanders from the trail far enough
and deviously enough, he may chance
upon a few thousand square miles which
he may have all to himself. On the other
hand, no matter how far and how devi-
ously he may wander, the possibility al-
ways remains that he may stumble, not
alone upon a deserted cabin, but upon an
occupied one.

As an instance of this, and of the vast-
ness of the land, no better case need be
cited than that of Harry Maxwell. An
able seaman, hailing from New Bedford,
Massachusetts, his ship, the brig Fannie
E. Lee, was pinched in the Arctic ice.
Passing from whaleship to whaleship, he
eventually turned up at Point Barrow in
the summer of 1880. He was north of
the Northland, and from this point of
vantage he determined to pull south into
the interior in search of gold. Across
the mountains from Fort Macpherson,
and a couple of hundred miles eastward
from the Mackenzie, he built a cabin and
established his headquarters. And here,
for nineteen continuous years, he hunted
his living and prospected. He ranged
from the never-opening ice to the north
as far south as the Great Slave Lake.
Here he met Warburton Pike, the author
and explorer, - an incident he now looks

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

back upon as chief among the few inci-
dents of his solitary life.

When this sailor-miner had accumu-
lated $20,000 worth of dust he conclud-
ed that civilization was good enough for
him, and proceeded " to pull for the out-
side." From the Mackenzie he went up
the Little Peel to its headwaters, found
a pass through the mountains, nearly
starved to death on his way across to the
Porcupine Hills, and eventually came out
on the Yukon River, where he learned
for the first time of the Yukon gold-hunt-
ers and their discoveries. Yet for twenty
years they had been working there, his
next-door neighbors, virtually, in a land
of such great spaces. At Victoria, Brit-
ish Columbia, just previous to his going
east over the Canadian Pacific (the ex-
istence of which he had just learned), he
pregnantly remarked that he had faith
in the Mackenzie watershed, and that he
was going back after he had taken in the
World's Fair, and got a whiff or two of
civilization.

Faith! It may or may not remove
mountains, but it has certainly made the
Northland. No Christian martyr ever
possessed greater faith than did the pi-
oneers of Alaska. They never doubted
the bleak and barren land. Those who
came remained, and more ever came.
They could not leave. They " knew '
the gold was there, and they persisted.
Somehow, the romance of the land and
the quest entered into their blood, the
spell of it gripped hold of them and
would not let them go. Man after man
of them, after the most terrible privation
and suffering, shook the muck of the
country from his moccasins and departed
for good. But the following spring al-
ways found him drifting down the Yukon
on the tail of the ice jams.

Jack McQuestion aptly vindicates the
grip of the North. After a residence of
thirty years he insists that the climate is
delightful, and declares that whenever he
makes a trip to the States he is afflict-
ed with homesickness. Needless to say,

the North still has him and will keep
tight hold of him until he dies. In fact,
for him to die elsewhere would be inar-
tistic and insincere. Of three of the
" pioneer ' pioneers, Jack McQuestion
alone survives. In 1871, from one to
seven years before Holt went over Chil-
coot, in the company of Al Mayo and
Arthur Harper, McQuestion came into
the Yukon from the Northwest over the
Hudson Bay Company route from the
Mackenzie to Fort Yukon. The names of
these three men, as their lives, are bound
up in the history of the country, and so
long as there be histories and charts, that
long will the Mayo and McQuestion riv-
ers and the Harper and Ladue town site
of Dawson be remembered. As an agent
of the Alaska Commercial Company, in
1873, McQuestion built Fort Reliance,
six miles below the Klondike River. In
1898 the writer met Jack McQuestion at
Minook, on the Lower Yukon. The old
pioneer, though grizzled, was hale and
hearty, and as optimistic as when he first
journeyed into the land along the path of
the Circle. And no man more beloved
is there in all the North. There will be
great sadness there when his soul goes
questing on over the Last Divide, " far-
ther north," perhaps, who can tell ?

Frank Dinsmore is a fair sample of
the men who made the Yukon Country.
A Yankee, born in Auburn, Maine, the
Wanderlust early laid him by the heels,
and at sixteen he was heading west on
the trail that led " farther north." He
prospected in the Black Hills, Montana,
and in the Co3ur d'Alene, then heard the
whisper of the North, and went up to Ju-
neau on the Alaskan Panhandle. But
the North still whispered, and more in-
sistently, and he could not rest till he went
over Chilcoot, and down into the myste-
rious Silent Land. This was in 1882,
and he went down the chain of lakes,
down the Yukon, up the Pelly, and tried
his luck on the bars of McMillan River.
In the fall, a perambulating skeleton, he
came back over the Pass in a blizzard,

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

with a rag of a shirt, tattered overalls,
and a handful of raw flour.

But he was unafraid. That winter he
worked for a grubstake in Juneau, and
the next spring found the heels of his
moccasins turned toward salt water and
his face toward Chilcoot. This was re-
peated the next spring, and the follow-
ing spring, and the spring after that,
until, in 1885, he went over the Pass for
good. There was to be no return for
him until he found the gold he sought.

The years came and went, but he re-
mained true to his resolve. For eleven
long years, with snowshoe and canoe,
pickaxe and goldpan, he wrote out his
life on the face of the land. Upper Yu-
kon, Middle Yukon, Lower Yukon, he
prospected faithfully and well. His bed
was anywhere. The sky was his cover-
let. Winter or summer he carried neither
tent nor stove, and his six-pound sleep-
ing-robe of Arctic hare was the warmest
thing he was ever known to possess.
Rabbit tracks and salmon bellies were his
diet with a vengeance, for he depended
largely on his rifle and fishing tackle.
His endurance equaled his courage. On
a wager he lifted thirteen fifty-pound
sacks of flour and walked off with them.
Winding up a seven-hundred-mile trip
on the ice with a forty-mile run, he came
into camp at six o'clock in the evening
and found a " squaw dance " under way.
He should have been exhausted. Any-
way, his muclucs were frozen stiff. But
he kicked them off and danced all night
in stocking feet.

At the last fortune came to him. The
quest was ended, and he gathered up his
gold and pulled for the outside. And
his own end was as fitting as that of his
quest. Illness came upon him down in
San Francisco, and his splendid life
ebbed slowly out as he sat in his big easy-
chair, in the Commercial Hotel, the " Yu-
koner's home." The doctors came, dis-
cussed, consulted, the while he matured
more plans of Northland adventure ; for
the North still gripped him and would

not let him go. He grew weaker day
by day, but each day he said, " To-mor-
row I '11 be all right." Other old-timers,
u out on furlough," came to see him.
They wiped their eyes and swore under
their breaths, then entered and talked
largely and jovially about going in with
him over the trail when spring came. But
there in the big easy-chair it was that his
Long Trail ended, and the life passed out
of him still fixed on " farther north."

From the time of the first white man,
famine loomed black and gloomy over
the land. It was chronic with the In-
dians and Esquimos ; it became chronic
with the gold-hunters. It was ever pre-
sent, and so it came about that life was
commonly expressed in terms of " grub,"
was measured by cups of flour. Each
winter, eight months long, the heroes of
the frost faced starvation. It became
the custom, as fall drew on, for partners
to cut the cards or draw straws to de-
termine which should hit the hazardous
trail for salt water, and which should re-
main and endure the hazardous darkness
of the Arctic night.

There was never food enough to winter
the whole population. The A. C. Com-
pany worked hard to freight up the grub,
but the gold -hunters came faster and
dared more audaciously. When the A. C.
Company added a new stern-wheeler to
its fleet, men said, " Now we shall have
plenty." But more gold-hunters poured
in over the passes to the South, more
voyageurs and fur-traders forced a way
through the Rockies from the East, more
seal-hunters and coast adventurers poled
up from Bering Sea on the West, more
sailors deserted from the whaleships to
the North, and they all starved together
in right brotherly fashion. More steam-
ers were added, but the tide of prospec-
tors welled always in advance. Then the
N. A. T. & T. Company came upon the
scene, and both companies added steadily
to their fleets. But it was the same old
story ; famine would not depart. In
fact, famine grew with the population,

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

till, in the winter of 1897-98, the United
States government was forced to equip
a reindeer relief expedition. As of old,
that winter partners cut the cards and
drew straws, and remained or pulled for
salt water as chance decided. They were
wise of old time, and had learned never
to figure on relief expeditions. They had
heard of such things, but no mortal man
of them had ever laid eyes on one.

The hard luck of other mining coun-
tries pales into insignificance before the
hard luck of the North. And as for the
hardship, it cannot be conveyed by print-
ed page or word of mouth. No man
may know who has not undergone. And
those who have undergone, out of their
knowledge claim that in the making of
the world God grew tired, and when
he came to the last barrowload, u just
dumped it anyhow," and that was how
Alaska happened to be. While no ade-
quate conception of the life can be given
to the stay-at-home, yet the men them-
selves sometimes give a clue to its rigors.
One old Minook miner testified thus :
" Have n't you noticed the expression on
the faces of us fellows ? You can tell a
newcomer the minute you see him ; he
looks alive, enthusiastic, perhaps jolly.
We old miners are always grave, un-
less we 're drinking."

Another old-timer, out of the bitter-
ness of a " home-mood," imagined him-
self a Martian astronomer explaining to
a friend, with the aid of a powerful tele-
scope, the institutions of the earth.
" There are the continents," he indicated ;
" and up there near the polar cap is a
country, frigid and burning and lonely
and apart, called Alaska. Now in other
countries and states there are great in-
sane asylums, but, though crowded, they
are insufficient ; so there is Alaska given
over to the worst cases. Now and then
some poor insane creature comes to his
senses in those awful solitudes, and, in
wondering joy, escapes from the land
and hastens back to his home. But most
cases are incurable. They just suffer

along, poor devils, forgetting their for-
mer life quite, or recalling it like a
dream." Again the grip of the North,
which will not let one go, - - for " most
cases are incurable."

For a quarter of a century the battle
with frost and famine went on. The very
severity of the struggle with Nature
seemed to make the gold-hunters kindly
toward one another. The latch-string
was always out, and the open hand was
the order of the day. Distrust was un-
known, and it was no hyperbole for a man
to take the last shirt off his back for a
comrade. Most significant of all, per-
haps, in this connection, was the custom
of the old days, that when August the
first came around, the prospectors who
had failed to locate "pay dirt" were
permitted to go upon the ground of their
more fortunate comrades and take out
enough for the next year's grubstake.

In 1885 rich bar-washing was done on
the Stewart River, and in 1886 Cassiar
Bar was struck just below the mouth of
the Hootalinqua. It was at this time
that the first moderate strike was made
on Forty Mile Creek, so called because it
was judged to be that distance below
Fort Reliance of Jack McQuestion fame.
A prospector named Williams started for
the outside with dogs and Indians to
carry the news, but suffered such hard-
ship on the summit of Chilcoot that he
was carried dying into the store of Cap-
tain John Healy at Dyea. But he had
brought the news through coarse gold f
Inside three months more than two hun-
dred miners had passed in over Chilcoot,
stampeding for Forty Mile. Find fol-
lowed find, Sixty Mile, Miller, Glacier,
Birch, Franklin, and the Koyokuk. But
they were all moderate discoveries, and
the miners still dreamed and searched
for the fabled stream, " Too Much Gold,"
where gold was so plentiful that gravel
had to be shoveled into the sluice-boxes
in order to wash it.

And all the time the Northland was
preparing to play its own huge joke. It

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

was a great joke, albeit an exceeding bit-
ter one, and it has led the old-timers to
believe that the land is left in dark-
ness the better part of the year because
God goes away and leaves it to itself.
After all the risk and toil and faithful
endeavor, it was destined that few of the
heroes should be in at the finish when
Too Much Gold turned its yellow belly
to the stars.

First, there was Robert Henderson,
and this is true history. Henderson
had faith in the Indian River district.
For three years, by himself, depending
mainly on his rifle, living on straight
meat a large portion of the time, he
prospected many of the Indian River
tributaries, just missed finding the rich
creeks, Sulphur and Dominion, and
managed to make grub (poor grub) out
of Quartz Creek and Australia Creek.
Then he crossed the divide between In-
dian River and the Klondike, and on
one of the " feeders " of the latter found
eight cents to the pan. This was con-
sidered excellent in those simple days.
Naming the creek " Gold Bottom," he re-
crossed the divide and got three men,
Munson, Dalton, and Swanson, to return
with him. The four took out $750.
And be it emphasized, and emphasized
again, that this was the first Klondike
gold ever shoveled in and washed out.
And be it also emphasized, that Robert
Henderson was the discoverer of Klon-
dike, all lies and hearsay tales to the
contrary.

Running out of grub, Henderson again
recrossed the divide, and went down the
Indian River and up the Yukon to Sixty
Mile. Here Joe Ladue ran the trading
post, and here Joe Ladue had originally
grubstaked Henderson. Henderson told
his tale, and a dozen men (all it con-
tained) deserted the Post for the scene
of his find. Also, Henderson persuaded
a party of prospectors, bound for Stewart
River, to forego their trip and go down
and locate with him. He loaded his boat
with supplies, drifted down the Yukon to

the mouth of the Klondike, and towed
and poled up the Klondike to Gold Bot-
tom. But at the mouth of the Klondike
he met George Carmack, and thereby
hangs the tale.

Carmack was a squawman. He was fa-
miliarly known as " Siwash " George,
a derogatory term which had arisen out
of his affinity for the Indians. At the
time Henderson encountered him he was
catching salmon with his Indian wife and
relatives on the site of what was to be-
come Dawson, the Golden City of the
Snows. Henderson, bubbling over with
good will and prone to the open hand,
told Carmack of his discovery. But Car-
mack was satisfied where he was. He
was possessed by no overweening desire
for the strenuous life. Salmon were good
enough for him. But Henderson urged
him to come on and locate, until, when
he yielded, he wanted to take the whole
tribe along. Henderson refused to stand
for this, said that he must give the pre-
ference over Siwashes to his old Sixty
Mile friends, and it is rumored, said some
things about Siwashes that were not nice.

The next morning Henderson went on
alone up the Klondike to Gold Bottom.
Carmack, by this time aroused, took a
short-cut afoot for the same place. Ac-
companied by his two Indian brothers-
in-law, Skookum Jim and Tagish Char-
ley, he went up Rabbit Creek (now Bo-
nanza), crossed into Gold Bottom, and
staked near Henderson's discovery. On
the way up he had panned a few shovels
on Rabbit Creek, and he showed Hender-
son " colors " he had obtained. Hender-
son made him promise, if he found any-
thing on the way back, that he would
send up one of the Indians with the news.
Henderson also agreed to pay for this
service, for he seemed to feel that they
were on the verge of something big, and
he wanted to make sure.

Carmack returned down Rabbit Creek.
While he was taking a sleep on the bank
about half a mile below the mouth of
what was to be known as Eldorado,

The Gold-Hunters of the North.

Skookum Jim tried his luck, and from
surface prospects got from ten cents to
a dollar to the pan. Carmack and his
brothers-in-law staked and " hit the high
places " for Forty Mile, where they filed
on the claims before Captain Constan-
tino, and renamed the creek Bonanza.
And Henderson was forgotten. No word
of it reached him. Carmack broke his
promise.

Weeks afterward, when Bonanza and
Eldorado were staked from end to end
and there was no more room, a party of
late-comers pushed over the divide and
down to Gold Bottom, where they found
Henderson still at work. When they
told him they were from Bonanza, he
was nonplussed. He had never heard of
such a place. But when they described
it, he recognized it as Rabbit Creek.
Then they told him of its marvelous rich-
ness, and, as Tappan Adney relates,
when Henderson realized what he had
lost through Carmack's treachery, "he
threw down his shovel and went and sat
on the bank, so sick at heart that it was
some time before, he could speak."

Then there were the rest of the old-
timers, the men of Forty Mile and Cir-
cle City. At the time of the discovery,
nearly all of them were over to the West
at work in the old diggings or prospect-
ing for new ones. As they said of them-
selves, they were the kind of men who
are always caught out with forks when
it rains soup. In the stampede that fol-
lowed the news of Carmack's strike very
few old miners took part. They were
not there to take part. But the men who
did go on the stampede were mainly
the worthless ones, the newcomers, and
the camp hangers-on. And while Bob
Henderson plugged away to the East,
and the heroes plugged away to the West,
the greenhorns and rounders went up and
staked Bonanza.

But the Northland was not yet done
with its joke. When fall came on and
the heroes returned to Forty Mile and to
Circle City, they listened calmly to the

up-river tales of Siwash discoveries and
loafers' prospects, and shook their heads.
They judged by the calibre of the men
interested, and branded it a bunco game.
But glowing reports continued to trickle
down the Yukon, and a few of the old-
timers went up to see. They looked over
the ground, the unlikeliest place for
gold in all their experience, and they
went down the river again, " leaving it
to the Swedes."

Again the Northland turned the tables.
The Alaskan gold-hunter is proverbial,
not so much for his unveracity, as for his
inability to tell the precise truth. In a
country of exaggerations, he likewise is
prone to hyperbolic description of things
actual. But when it came to Klondike,
he could not stretch the truth as fast as
the truth itself stretched. Carmack first
got a dollar pan. He lied when he said
it was two dollars and a half. And when
those who doubted him did get two-and-
a-half pans, they said they were getting
an ounce, and lo ! ere the lie had fairly
started on its way, they were getting, not "
one ounce, but five ounces. This they
claimed was six ounces ; but when they
filled a pan of dirt to prove the lie, they
washed out twelve ounces. And so it
went. They continued valiantly to lie,
but the truth continued to outrun them.
But the Northland's hyperborean laugh
was not yet ended. When Bonanza was
staked from mouth to source, those who
had failed " to get in," disgruntled and
sore, went up the " pups " and feeders.
Eldorado was one of these feeders, and
many men, after locating on it, turned
their backs upon their claims and never
gave them a second thought. One man
sold a half-interest in five hundred feet
of it for a sack of flour. Other owners
wandered around trying to bunco men
into buying them out for a song. And
then Eldorado " showed up." It was far,
far richer than Bonanza, with an average
value of a thousand dollars a foot to every
foot of it.

A Swede named Charley Anderson

A Lochinvar of the East.

had been at work on Miller Creek the year
of the strike, and arrived in Dawson with
a few hundred dollars. Two miners, who
had staked No. 29 Eldorado, decided that
he was the proper man upon whom to
" unload." He was too canny to approach
sober, so at considerable expense they
got him drunk. Even then it was hard
work, but they kept him befuddled for
several days, and finally inveigled him
into buying No. 29 for $750. When
Anderson sobered up, he wept at his fol-
ly, and pleaded to have his money back.
But the men who had duped him were
hard-hearted. They laughed at him,
and kicked at themselves for not having
tapped him for a couple of hundred more.
Nothing remained for Anderson but to
work the worthless ground. This he did,
and out of it he took over three quarters
of a million of dollars.

It was not till Frank Dinsmore, who
already had big holdings on Birch Creek,
took a hand, that the old-timers developed
faith in the new diggings. Dinsmore re-
ceived a letter from a man on the spot,
calling it "the biggest thing in the world,"
and harnessed his dogs and went up to
investigate. And when he sent a letter

back, saying that he had " never seen any-
thing like it," Circle City for the first
time believed, and at once was precipi-
tated one of the wildest stampedes the
country had ever seen or ever will see.
Every dog was taken, many went with-
out dogs, and even the women and chil-
dren and weaklings hit the three hundred
miles of ice through the long arctic night
for the biggest thing in the world. It
is related that twenty people, mostly crip-
ples and unable to travel, were left in
Circle City when the smoke of the last
sled disappeared up the Yukon.

Since that time gold has been discov-
ered in all manner of places, under the
grass-roots of the hillside benches, in the
bottom of Monte Cristo Island, and in
the sands of the sea at Nome. And now
the gold-hunter who knows his business
shuns the " favorable looking " spots, con-
fident in his hard-won knowledge that he
will find the most gold in the least likely
place. This is sometimes adduced to sup-
port the theory that the gold-hunters, ra-
ther than the explorers, are the men who
will ultimately win to the Pole. Who
knows ? It is in their blood, and they
are capable of it.

Jack London.

A LOCHINVAR OF THE EAST.

ANY one looking up at the Hong Far
Restaurant would have known that some-
thing unusual was going on. The big
gauze lanterns were new, and fresh lilies
blossomed in vases of pale green porce-
lain, luminous as jade stones. Every-
where the gilding had been brightened
and renewed. Hong Far was always
spotless, but this day it fairly shone, for
was not Ong Chee, son of Ong Wing, of
age, and was not the entire aristocracy
of the Quarter bidden to the great feast
to be given in honor of his majority ?
All day the attendants at the fashion-

VOL. xcn. NO. 549. 4

able eating-place had been hurrying up
and down the polished stairway with
burdens on their heads; all day savory
incense had been floating from the kitch-
en, and white-bloused cooks had been
succeeding one another in relays over
the perspiring range, for the most ex-
pensive and elaborate of feasts was not
a whit too good to grace this important
occasion. Every difficult and expensive
dish of the Chinese cuisine was upon
the menu, for Ong Wing was rich, and
it was rumored that the banquet would
not cost less than five dollars a plate.

A Lochinvar of the East.

Besides the rice brandy, a great deal of
French champagne had been carried in.
Ong Wing's guests were to be, above all
things, merry.

In the beautiful restaurant, with its
elaborately carved gilt walls, through
the interstices of which came the dull
glow of ebony, five great tables were
set, at each round and polished board,
twenty places. The table tops were of
onyx, with carved ebony hanging like
black lace from their edges, and the
shining stools were dark as rosewood
with a mirror-like polish.

At dark the candles were lighted in
their great gauze houses. A child of
six might have stood in any one of these
giant lanterns. The soft glow gave the
effect of a dozen full moons shining on
the scene of jollity. In the corner near
the balcony the orchestra was gathering,
and, without any preliminary tuning or
scraping, was setting up the long wail of
tortured strings and the resonant reply
of drum and sturdy brass. The con-
glomerate sound was terrible to Cauca-
sian ears, but soothing, evidently, to
Oriental ones, since numbers of the un-
invited lingered below the windows to
drink in rapturously this robust ensem-
ble harmony.

By this time hacks had begun to rum-
ble up the narrow street, white men
drove them, and each carried two or
three or four Chinese gentlemen in long
blue or purple or plum-colored brocaded
garments, which flapped about their silk-
en-bound ankles as they briskly climbed
the steps, frankly stared at by the un-
bidden on the pavement. Ong Wing
and his handsome young son are wel-
coming the arriving guests at the head
of the stairs, quite in Caucasian fash-
ion. Presently the round tables are full
of guests with aristocratic, or keen, or
shrewd, or fat, comfortable faces, but
all beautifully clothed and with beau-
tiful, well-kept hands, which manipu-
late the ivory chopsticks with the ex-
treme of deftness and delicacy.

Above the rasping music rises the

clatter of tongues. The bird's - nest
soup comes on, twelve dollars a pound in
China, and the epicures wag their heads
approvingly, even while their words of
praise die away before the excellence of
a quail and bean salad, the perfec-
tion of its kind. With the sprouts of
young bamboo come renewed volleys of
champagne. Perhaps this explains why
the voices grow a bit louder, the laughter
more hearty, and the toasts to the heir
and the speech-making quite Western
in their volubility.

Unnoted by the banqueters, the shrill
voices of women had mingled themselves
with the sharp screams of the orchestra ;
professional singing and dancing girls
had come in from the most aristocratic
resorts of the Quarter, and were adding
the music of their high, falsetto voices,
and the grace of their slender wrists and
ankles, to the merriment of this memo-
rable evening.

Ong Chee alone was not unmindful.
He had noted the slave girls when they
entered, had observed their smiling
eyes and their daintily tinted cheeks.
He saw the eyebrows so carefully nar-
rowed by art ; the glossy hair ornament-
ed with gold and pearl and jade; the
exquisite sahms of pink and green and
lavender and yellow, delicate sleeve
showing within sleeve, in a rainbow of
pastel tints. He saw the long tapering
fingers with the highly polished, inch-
long nails, telling their tale of freedom
from manual labor, and he saw, without
realizing, that these are the most beau-
tiful hands in the world, with their soft,
creamy tints and their weight of trans-
lucent jade, set off by yellowest gold.
Particularly he noted one pair of hands
on which the jade and the chased rings
and bracelets were of the finest, for some
of these had been his gifts. As the eyes
of the other men followed Yun Ho's
graceful, rustling figure, Ong Chee knew
a little spasm of jealousy ; decidedly,
one breathes in Occidental ideas through
mere living on Occidental soil.

At last the banquet was over. Ong

A Lochinvar of the East. 51

Ghee's health had been drunk so many smiled in the glass, removed the pre-
times that his head was quite turned by cious things from her hair, and folded
it, and he felt like a college senior on herself away on the high, narrow bed
Commencement Day. He did not know like the berth in a ship's cabin, with
whether he should ever get down to earth long rows of polished boxes full of toilet
again or not. The champagne, drunk secrets above her, and silken curtains
from big water goblets, was all gone, hanging between her and the room,
and Ong Wing had heard at least a hun- The next morning, before the hair-
dred times that his banquet had been an dresser had finished with Yun Ho, Ong
immense success. The carriages had Chee was in Gum Cook Alley, craving
taken the guests home through the nar- an audience. He had something on his
row streets, not, however, until the silly mind, something that must be sub-
young heart of Ong Chee had been lacer- mitted at once to Yun Ho. The youth
ated by many open compliments to Yun of twenty-one knew well the story of the
Ho and careless inquiries as to where sixteen-year-old belle of Gum Cook Al-
she lived, each one like a blow in the ley, how the girl, sent by her parents
face to him. to buy something in the market place of

Yun Ho was not only the prettiest the tiny village on the river-bank, had

slave, but new to the Quarter, and Ong been met by the aged Ah Ma, now her

Chee was in love with her. His father duenna and jailer. The old woman, al-

was rich enough to buy her, and would ways on the lookout for youth and good

probably have humored his son so far, looks, had been struck by the child's

though Ong Chee knew that he would beautiful, slanting eyes, her small mouth,

never consent to a marriage between red without any rouge, the pale,

them. Ong Chee would be expected to luminous, faintly yellow skin, and the

marry a little-foot woman in his own abundant black hair ; it seemed a shame

station in life, and though Ong Wing that so much marketable loveliness,

might listen to the suggestion of the worth precisely so much a pound, should

beautiful Yun Ho as a second wife, it be wasted on this Chinese river-bank,

would be years before Ong Chee would likely to be swallowed any spring by

be able to afford such an extravagance, the horrible, resistless Yellow Terror.

In the meantime what might not happen Ah Ma worked herself into quite a

to Yun Ho? Decidedly this being in frenzy in her unselfish desire to save

love was a tiresome business and likely this fragile bit of femininity from the

to complicate things. No one had ever spring freshets. So she smiled at the

heard before of a Chinese gentleman girl, addressed her in her own dialect,

permitting love for a slave girl to inter- and, observing that she was more poorly

fere with his career, and Ong Chee was dressed than others of her class, asked

quite angry with himself. What would her if she would not like to go to Cali-

his father say ? It was perhaps as well fornia, which was full of rich Chinamen,

not to think about that. to sell handkerchiefs on the street until

Meanwhile little Ynn Ho had gone some rich man took a fancy to her and
home with her duenna to Gum Cook Al- married her. It was a fascinating pic-
ley. She stood before her mirror, slowly ture that Ah Ma drew, and Yun Ho
divesting herself of one exquisitely tint- did not dare to go home for fear that
ed blouse after another, until she looked her elderly admirer might change her
more like a tea rose than ever, with mind. So the aged Ah Ma and the
her beautiful bare yellow arms, and her lovely runaway were housed in the steer-
hands with their burden of good-luck age of the next steamer that sailed with
jade and purest gold. Would the jade her head to the East, and Yun Ho never
bring her luck, she wondered. She saw the river villages of China again.

A Lochinvar of the East.

Nor, in truth, did she ever see the hand-
kerchiefs which she was to sell, and but
very little of the streets of San Fran-
cisco where her rich countrymen abound-
ed, for Ah Ma sold her at once to Ah
Fong, the slave dealer, for $1650,
which was a good price for a slave who
had cost nothing but her passage money.

Yet unlike Ah Fong's other slaves,
Yun Ho was not happy. She hated the
house, she loathed her fine clothes, and
she envied the hardest- working, small-
pox-pitted, ugliest coolie-woman who
passed, envied her her freedom and
the burden on her back, and the privi-
lege of doing drudgery. It was the sad
look in the young eyes and the discon-
tent of the red mouth which had first
attracted Ong Chee as he passed down
the Alley, for Ong Chee had been sent
to the American day school because his
father wished his English to be faultless.
Ong Wing would have been horrified
had he known that his son had drunk
in English ideas with the words that
represented them. Happily, he did not
know.

The reason for Ong Ghee's visit to
Yun Ho so early in the day after the
enervating birthday feast was that he
had thought it all out overnight, and had
news of real importance to communicate.
If only he could win her consent to his
plans! Ah Ma smiled to see him, for
she had not been unconscious of his
glances the night before, and she had
said to Ah Fong, "You will have an
offer for Yun Ho from the Ong family,
mark my words. See that you get
a good price for her, she is worth at
least $2500. " And Ah Fong had sworn
at the old woman for her officiousness.
As though one would take advice from a
woman !

Ong Chee came close to Yun Ho and
took her hand. The Golden Lily, as she
was sometimes called, smiled into his
eyes, for he was good to see, and they
sat down on the carved stools, while Ong
Chee talked long and earnestly. Dur-
ing the rest of that day Yun Ho seemed

less unhappy than usual, but if she was
joyful in anticipation of another visit
from Ong Chee her hope was not grati-
fied, for he was not seen again in the
Alley that day or the next. On the fol-
lowing day, however, he came again, and
Yun Ho brightened wonderfully, and her
drooping mouth lost some of its pathetic
curve. His stay was brief, since he had
an engagement, and early that evening
he might have been seen taking a round-
about course to a brick building on the
hill which overlooks the Quarter, where
his impatient ring was answered by a
brisk" young woman who ushered him
into the sitting-room and sat down with
him in serious converse. Presently,
Ong Chee passed her a paper, and soon
after they shook hands and parted, Ong
Chee hurrying along the street and
avoiding the street lamps.

Things were as usual in Gum Cook
Alley the following day. Yun Ho
dressed carefully, ate her meals, sent in
from a near-by restaurant, with perfect
Oriental stoicism, and showed a sad and
impassive face to passers-by. What a
loss to the Chinese stage that woman
with such powers of repression should
be excluded from the boards!

Toward five o'clock there was a com-
motion in the Alley. A carriage had
stopped two blocks away, and from it
had stepped two American ladies and
a stout policeman. Up the Alley they
came, turning hurriedly in at Ah Fong's
place, for in those days, before white
lookouts were employed, front doors
stood open. But scarcely had the party
turned in than there was a cry from the
Chinese lookout within the hall, fol-
lowed by a banging of doors, a shoot-
ing of bolts, a rattling of chains, and a
falling into place of barricades. The
picket had disappeared from the open
wicket, and a yellow silk curtain had
fallen where he had been sitting. The
policeman was now joined by two oth-
ers, and their brawny shoulders and a
crowbar or two against the first iron-
bound door forced it at last, only to

A Lochinvar of the East.

show another and still heavier one just
beyond. The whole corridor was full
of doors, and, meanwhile, beyond these
barricades there was such a scamper-
ing and hurrying and shrieking as was
scarcely believable . Every slave girl in
the place vied with every other to see
who could climb to the roof first, and
the Highbinder, Ah Fong, whose pro-
perty they were, seeing the flying feet
and the white-stockinged ankles disap-
pearing up the bamboo ladder, decided
that this was an unprovoked raid, and
that the Mission folk were out with a
dragnet, not seeking any particular girl
who had signified a desire to leave, but
looking merely for girls in general, if
there should happen to be any under age.
And so Ah Fong, though he took to the
roofs, too, was not very much alarmed,
for he had taken care to have his slaves
thoroughly terrified on this Mission
question, and there was not a girl of
them all who did not believe that the
food at the Mission was poisoned, that
the inmates were subjected to fearful
tortures, and that those who survived
these things were worked to death at the
commonest and most menial occupations,
fatal alike to beauty of hand and of face.

While the noise of stout blows and
falling doors resounded through the
house, Ah Fong marshaled his little
company on the roof. All were there,
all but Yun Ho, most beautiful and
valuable of his chattels.

"Where is Yun Ho? " he cried.

" She was too late to get to the roof, "
replied Ah Tai. " She was at the wicket
when the white devils came, but I saw
her pulling the rice mats over her as I
came up the ladder, and she was com-
pletely hidden."

"Good," said Ah Fong; "she is too
pretty to swell up and die from poi-
soned food."

Then the girls scattered to adjoining
roofs and disappeared down their sky-
lights, after a plan as carefully re-
hearsed as any fire-drill, and Ah Fong
drew up the ladder, and, climbing

through a neighboring window, com-
menced to smoke peacefully, as though
nothing at all had happened to disturb
his serenity. A chance police officer,
happening to come out on the roof, would
never have dreamed that this peaceful
Celestial was the owner of the house be-
ing raided below.

In the meantime the officers and the
ladies had effected an entrance to the
main room of the house, to find evi-
dences of hasty flight all about, here a
fancy pin, and there a little embroidered
slipper, shed by some fleeing Cinderella,
but never a sign of a slave girl.

" Oh, dear, " said the younger of the
two women, "I hope she did n't change
her mind, or that they didn't suspect
her and carry her off over the roofs."

"Well, that 's the way they 've gone,
all right," said the officer, eyeing the
skylight. "Ah Fong 's a clever devil,
and I bet he had 'em well trained."

"Yes, but Yun Ho was expecting us
to-day, and I didn't think she would
stampede with the rest. We sent her
word to hang back and give us some sign
so that we might know her."

"Well, there 's nothing here, nor in
the rooms beyond, sure enough," said
the officer, "for I 've been through the
house."

At that moment there came a faint
cough, delicate and tiny, but the young
woman heard it, and ran to the rice mats
in the corner, calling, " Yun Ho ! Yun
Ho ! " and from behind the mats came
the prettiest young girl, with a charming
red mouth and hands of old ivory laden
with translucent jade and yellow gold.
She looked up smilingly at the young
missionary, and bashfully offered her
hand as she breathed, rather than
spoke,

" Miss Camelon, Yun Ho, Ong Chee. "

And Miss Cameron cried delightedly,
"This is she! This is she! '

If the missionary had had more expe-
rience she would not have been so glee-
ful, since it was her tone more than her
words which brought Ah Fong back from

A Lochinvar of the East.

his peaceful pipe in his neighbor's win-
dow, brought him back to the skylight
and the bamboo ladder with even more
celerity than he had exhibited in leav-
ing the place, his yellow face growing
dark with passion when he saw the po-
licemen and the ladies in possession of
the evidently willing Yun Ho. And as
he saw that very desirable young lady
departing with her new-found friends,
he said, in eloquent Cantonese, things
that made Yun Ho blanch in spite of
herself, for he vowed to be revenged
upon Ong Chee. And Ah Fong came
of a noted Highbinder clan, and Yun
Ho knew that he would keep his word.

Yun Ho was the prettiest girl who
had ever been in the Mission, and one
of the sweetest. Laziness, the curse of
her sex and the mother of immorality,
was no quality of hers, and every one,
from the matron to the meanest scullery
maid, saw that Yun Ho was going to
make a perfect wife in that day when the
little mirrors and the tiny bells should
be sewed around the edge of her sahm,
mirrors in which a bride sees reflect-
ed her future happiness, and little bells
to keep her always in tune. Yun Ho
studied industriously, was content with
cambric blouses instead of silk, and when
Ong Chee came to see her, she received
him modestly enough, and giggled in his
presence under the eye of the official
chaperon.

But a dubious thing had happened to
Ong Chee. He had told his father of
his infatuation, and though Ong Wing
had threatened and stormed, the son had
preserved his Oriental calm, combining
with it more than Oriental obstinacy and
firmness. Ong Wing had been obstinate
too, and had issued an ultimatum. Ong
Chee was to give up all thought of Yun
Ho, or be disinherited, and this deci-
sion was made somewhat easier for Ong
Wing because of the fact that his third
wife had just presented him with a son,
and this unexpected good fortune made
it certain that his bones would not go

unworshiped. Ong Chee could be spared
if he insisted upon setting up his own
will; he was no longer an only son.

Ong Chee did insist. Very quietly
he laid aside the fine raiment of his fa-
ther's providing, the mandarin cap
and the silken hose, and purchased
the commoner garb of a workingman,
the while he began to cast about to see
what a young Oriental without capital
or business experience might do to earn
a living. Incidentally, he dropped the
fine name of Ong Chee, which presup-
posed a pedigree, and took the name of
Chew Bim, non-committal as Smith or
Brown or Jones, and raising no false
hopes in the breasts of those who heard.

Ong Chee had been bred for a mer-
chant. It had never been expected that
he would soil his fine hands with coarse
work, but he had a pretty gift of cook-
ery, and had he been an American would
have taken to messing with chafing
dishes in a bachelor apartment. As it
was, he applied at an uptown hotel for
a position as cook, became at once an
assistant in the kitchen, and at the end
of the year had attained a monthly
wage which was quite a fortune in Ori-
ental eyes.

There followed a very quiet wedding
in the Mission chapel, which has wit-
nessed many such affairs, and Yun Ho
and her husband went to live in a single
room in a house occupied by Christian
Chinese, and were as happy as only two
persons can be who have worked and
waited and surmounted obstacles.

One secret Chew Bim kept from his
wife. She knew, of course, that he had
been disinherited because of her, and she
was grateful in her shy, undemonstra-
tive way, but she did not know that there
was a price on his head. She knew that
Chew Bim did not go abroad after dark.
They lived on the edge of the Chinese
Quarter, so that he was not obliged to
thread the streets and alleys when he
returned from work, and, except when
he left the house in the morning and
returned at night, he was never out of

A Lockinvar of the East.

doors. On Sundays, Yun Ho went to
church, always with the girls from the
Mission. Chew Bim professed nothing
except love for her.

One day it was Chew Bim's even-
ing off he was returning early from
his work, and he slipped across Sacra-
mento Street and turned into the nar-
row alley that led past the Mission to
his home. He had seen Ah Fong lean-
ing against a lamp-post just outside the
Quarter, and he made a detour of two or
three blocks, slipped through a narrow
alley or two, and was just hurrying by
the stone steps of the Mission, which had
been Yun Ho's shelter, when a shot rang
out. It was a sharp report, quickly fol-
lowed by another, and Chew Bim clapped
his hands to his breast and fell on the
sloping walk in front of the House of
Refuge. A man or two ran out from
the corner grocery over the way ; shirt-
sleeved men hurried from a near-by
lodging-house; and Miss Cameron and
one or two of her girls rushed from the
Mission.

" What is it ? " Miss Cameron asked.

"Chink killed," said a bartender la-
conically.

Miss Cameron pressed her way
through the crowd to where the man lay,
and there was little Ong Chee with a
red stream staining his workaday blouse.

" Oh, my poor Ong Chee ! " cried the
missionary, kneeling by his side, "I am
so sorry. Are you much hurt ? Poor
Yun Ho."

The dim eyes focused themselves on
the gentle face as Miss Cameron tender-
ly took the hand of the little cook, and
he gasped out,

"Ah Fong, he shot me and then he
run. Oh, Miss Cameron, don't let
them spoil my wife."

" We will take care of her, " promised
Miss Cameron. "Poor Ong Chee."

"There is money enough you
take - - it " he said slowly, every word
a gasp of pain.

'Yes, yes," she returned, pressing
her handkerchief to stop the red flow.

Ill news travels fast. Yun Ho had
already heard, and forgetting the com-
mand of her husband, never under any
circumstances to leave the house alone,
she was running along the alley, her soft-
soled shoes making no noise, and when
she reached the crowd, she threw her-
self on the sidewalk beside Miss Cam-
eron, and took her husband's hand, while
the tired eyes opened and looked at her
with infinite compassion.

"Miss Cameron take care of you,"
was all he said.

The patrol wagon was coming now,
and Ong Chee was lifted into it not un-
gently. Yun Ho and Miss Cameron,
both hatless, sat in the wagon with
him, and the horses were walked to the
Receiving Hospital, where the wounded
man was laid on the operating- table.

"He 's got about one chance in a
thousand, " said the rough doctor, after
they had finished probing. "But he 's
pure grit all through. I never saw a
man stand it better. Poor little dog,
some trouble between the tongs, I
suppose."

Miss Cameron did not explain, the
doctor was scarcely of fine enough fibre
to feel the delicacy of the sacrifice.

Yun Ho went back to the Mission and
safety, for it was quite possible that Ah
Fong's plan was not only to murder Ong
Chee, but to carry off his beautiful prize,
and each day some one accompanied Yun
Ho to the hospital, where she sat and
looked at Ong Chee with dumb, loving
eyes.

For he did live, perhaps because he
wanted to so much, perhaps because the
big Highbinder bullet went a hair too
high to accomplish its purpose. Ah
Fong had disappeared, of course, as
though the earth had swallowed him,
but that is an old, old story in China-
town murders.

It was a month before Ong Chee
could be moved to the little room which
was home, and several months before he
could work again, and after that a body-
guard accompanied him to and from his

What is "Comparative Literature"?

work, for though Ah Fong had failed,
some other of his family would certainly
attempt to finish the work.

Little Yun Ho has stopped going to
church, and at night she and her husband
are prisoners in the upper room, where
heavy dark shades hang at the windows,
and where no one ever moves between
the lamp and the blind.

Some people might think it a high
price to pay for living and loving, but
Ong Chee's entrees are as perfect and
his salads as irreproachable as though he
had nothing at all on his mind, not to

mention a bullet in his body. Before
Yun Ho he never refers to the matter,
though she watches for him anxiously,
and is worried if he is five minutes late
on the stairs. Theirs is the peace of
fatalism.

Only to Miss Cameron does Ong
Chee express himself with real freedom.

"They '11 get me, of course, some
day," he says, without a trace of feel-
ing, but in his voice comes a subtle
change as he adds,-^-

"But you won't let them spoil my
wife. "

Mabel Craft Deering.

WHAT IS "COMPARATIVE LITERATURE"?

SOME ten years ago, I made bold to
publish a plea for the formation of a So-
ciety of Comparative Literature ; and to
call attention to the fact that the work
which such a society might perform had
not been undertaken by any English or
American organization, or by any period-
ical or series of publications in the Eng-
lish language. I was then of the opinion,
which I still hold, that the principles of
literature and of criticism are not to be
discovered in aesthetic theory alone, but
in a theory which . both impels and is
corrected by scientific inquiry. No indi-
vidual can gather from our many litera-
tures the materials necessary for an in-
duction to the characteristic of even one
literary type ; but an association, each
member of which should devote himself
to the study of a given type, species, move-
ment, or theme, with which he was spe-
cially and at first hand familiar, might
with some degree of adequacy prosecute
a comparative investigation into the na-
ture of literature, part by part. Thus,
gradually, wherever the type or move-
ment had existed, its quality and history
might be observed. And in time, by sys-
tematization of results, scholarship might

attain to the common, and probably some
of the essential, characteristics of classi-
fied phenomena, to some of the laws ac-
tually governing the origin, growth, and
differentiation of one and another of the
component literary factors and kinds. A
basis would correspondingly be laid for
criticism not in the practice of one nation-
ality or school, nor in aesthetics of spo-
radic theory, otherwise interesting and
profitable enough, but in the common
qualities of literature, scientifically deter-
mined. To adopt, as universal, canons
of criticism constructed upon particular
premises, by Boileau or Vida, Putten-
ham, Sidney, or Corneille, or even Les-
sing and Aristotle, and to apply them to
types, or varieties of type, movement, or
theme, with which these masters were
unacquainted, is illogical, and therefore
unhistorical. And still, that is precisely
what the world of literary dictators per-
sists in doing. Alle Theorie ist grau.
The principles of the drama cannot be
derived from a consideration of the Greek
drama alone, nor of European drama, but
of all drama, wherever found, European,
Peruvian, Chinese ; among aboriginal as
well as among civilized peoples ; and in

What is "Comparative Literature'''?

all stages of its history. From such com-
parative formulation of results proceed
the only trustworthy canons for that kind
of composition ; some of them general,
some dependent upon conditions histori-
cally differenced. So also with the na-
ture and laws of other types, movements
or moods, forms or themes, and ulti-
mately of literature as a unit. Our cur-
rent aesthetic canons of judgment, based
upon psychological and speculative pre-
mises that sometimes by accident fit the
case, but more frequently upon historical
inexperience, might thus be renovated
and widened with the process of scientific
knowledge.

That dream seems now in a fair way
to be realized. The society is yet to be
founded ; but the periodical is on its feet.
And it was in prospect of its first appear-
ance that I asked myself some months
ago, what this term " Comparative Lit-
erature " might now mean to me ; and
answered it in the manner that follows. 1
Imperfect as the answer may be, it is
possibly of interest, if f OY no other reason,
that it makes a different approach to a
subject which since then Professor Wood-
berry has discussed in the Journal of
Comparative Literature. To his signi-
ficant and poetic utterance, I shall ac-
cordingly in due season recur.

What, then, is " Comparative Litera-
ture " ? Of the name itself, I must say
that I know of no occurrence in English
earlier than 1886, when we find it used
for the comparative study of literature,
in the title of an interesting and sugges-
tive volume by Professor H. M. Posnett.
The designation had apparently been
coined in emulation of such nomencla-
ture as the vergleichende Grammatik of
Bopp, or Comparative Anatomy, Com-
parative Physiology, Comparative Poli-
tics. If it had been so constructed as to
convey the idea of a discipline or method,
there would have been no fault to find.

1 American Philological Association, Presi-
dent's Address before the Pacific Coast Divi-
sion, December 29, 1902.

Before Posnett's book appeared, Carriere
and others in Germany had spoken pro-
perly enough of vergleichende Littera-
turgeschichte ; and the French and Ital-
ians, not only of the comparative method
or discipline, Vhistoire comparative, but
also of the materials compared, Vhistoire
comparee des litteratures, la storia com-
parata, or, from the literary avenue of
approach, la litterature comparee, let-
teratura comparata. At Turin and
Genoa, the study had been listed under
such captions long before the English
misnomer was coined. Misnomer it, of
course, is ; for to speak of a comparative
object is absurd. But since the name has
some show of asserting itself, we may as
well postpone consideration of a better,
till we have more fully determined what
the study involved, no matter how called,
is ordinarily understood to be.

It is, in the first place, understood of
a field of investigation, the literary re-
lations existing between distinct nation-
alities : the study of international bor-
rowings, imitations, adaptations. And
to recognize such relations as incidental
to national growth is of the utmost im-
portance social as well as literary.
" C'est prouver sa jeunesse et sa force,"
says Gaston Paris, " c'est s'assurer un ave-
nir de renouvellement et d'action au de-
hors, que de faire connaitre tout ce qui
se fait de grand, de beau, de neuf en de-
hors de ses f rontieres, de s'en servir, sans
1'imiter, de 1'assimiler, de le transformer
suivant sa nature propre, de conserver sa
personnalite' en 1'elargissant et d'etre
ainsi toujours la meme et toujours chan-
geante, toujours nationale et toujours
europe'enne." Such is also the thought
of M. Texte, when he writes in his intro-
duction to Betz's Litterature compared
of " the great law which regulates the lit-
erary development of every nation : that
of growth by successive stages of concen-
tration and expansion . . . the law of
the moral development of nations, as of
individuals." And M. Texte is but echo-
ing Matthew Arnold's "Epochs of con-

What is " Comparative Literature " ?

centration cannot well endure forever;
epochs of expansion in the due course of
things follow them." Arnold was writ-
ing in 1865, but earlier still, Goethe had
called attention to the limitations of a
literature exclusively national : " Eine
jede Literatur ennuyirt sich zuletzt in
sich selbst, wenn sie nicht durch fremde
Theilnahme wieder aufgefrischt ist."
Whether this " periodicity " of digesting
what one has, and acquiring what one
has not, is the only law of moral devel-
opment, is not for us now to answer.
International dependence is a fact. Lit-
erary reciprocity is natural, even if not
necessary. Nor was Goethe the first to
announce the principle.

This attention to literary relations is,
of course, the consequent of the study of
literatures as national : first the history
of each literature ; then the historic rela-
tions between literatures. That in turn
is naturally followed by the synthesis in
literature as a unit. " The nineteenth
century," says M. Texte, " has seen the
national history of literatures develop
and establish itself : the task of the twen-
tieth century will undoubtedly be to write
the comparative history of those litera-
tures." Likewise, Professor Brandes is
conducted from the study of individual
literatures to that of reciprocal move-
ments, and so to the comparative view.
In his Hauptstromungen, written about
1870, he takes for the central subject of
his work the reaction in the first decades
of the nineteenth century against the lit-
erature of the eighteenth, and the over-
coming of that reaction. " This historic
incident," he says, " is of European in-
terest, and can only be understood by a
comparative study of European litera-
ture. Such a study I purpose attempting
by simultaneously tracing the course of
the most important movements in French,
German, and English literature. The
comparative view possesses the double
advantage of bringing foreign literature
so near to us that we can assimilate it
and of removing our own until we are

enabled to see it in its true perspective."
It will undoubtedly have been remarked
that while Brandes regards the compar-
ative study of literature from the point
of view of international relations, he
also passes beyond the strictly objective
realm of research. For, in his esteem,
the comparative view has the advantage
of " removing our own literature until
we are enabled to see it in its true per-
spective. We neither see what is too
near the eye nor what is too far away
from it." This is to add to the proper
function of historical research an ap-
praisement of one's own literature after
impartial comparison with the literatures
of other nations. " The scientific view
of literature," proceeds Brandes, " pro-
vides us with a telescope of which the
one end magnifies, and the other dimin-
ishes ; it must be so focused as to reme-
dy the illusions of unassisted eyesight.
The different nations have hitherto held
themselves so distinct, as far as literature
is concerned, that each has only to a very
limited extent been able to benefit by the
productions of the rest." Here, again,
the way had been marked out by Arnold,
when he advocated the comparison of
literary classics in one language, or in
many, with a view to determining their
relative excellence, that is, to displacing
personal or judicial criticism by a method
more scientific. I am aware that this con-
ception of the study concerns its method
and purpose rather than its field. But I
mention it here because it implies a more
comprehensive and deeper conception un-
derlying all these statements of the ma-
terial of comparative study : the solidar-
ity of literature. Not, by any means,
what Goethe projected in his dream of a
cosmopolitan literature to which the best
of all national efforts should contribute.
" Everywhere," wrote the poet, " one
hears and reads of the progress of the
human race, and of broader views of re-
lationships, natural and human. How
this may in general come about, it does
not fall to me to inquire or to determine-

What is "Comparative Literature"?

I will, however, of my own accord, call
the attention of my friends to one fact :
I am persuaded that there is a Weltlit-
teratur in process of construction, in
which is reserved for us Germans an hon-
orable role." But under this prophetic
cosmopolitanism of ideal and art this
millennial Bible lay that same belief in
an essential, historical oneness of litera-
ture. And that is the working premise
of the student of Comparative Literature
to-day : literature as a distinct and in-
tegral medium of thought, a common
institutional expression of humanity ; dif-
ferentiated, to be sure, by the social con-
ditions of the individual, by racial, his-
torical, cultural, and linguistic influences,
opportunities, and restrictions, but, ir-
respective of age or guise, prompted by
the common needs and aspirations of
man, sprung from common faculties, psy-
chological and physiological, and obeying
common laws of material and mode, of
the individual, and of social humanity.
Writing in 1896, Professor Marsh put it
thus : " To examine the phenomena of
literature as a whole, to compare them,
to inquire into the causes of them, this is
the true task of Comparative Literature."
Posnett's statement, ten years before, im-
plied the same " solidarity " of the sub-
ject matter; and so, again, Matthew
Arnold's, ten years earlier still : " The
criticism [and criticism covers histori-
cal as well as logical comparison] I am
really concerned with the criticism
which alone can much help us for the
future is a criticism which regards
Europe as being, for intellectual and
spiritual purposes, one great confedera-
tion, bound to a joint action, and working
to a common result ; and whose members
have, for their proper outfit, a knowledge
of Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity,
and of one another."

From this conception of the material
as a unit, scholars naturally advance to
the consideration of its development, the
construction of a theory. If a unity, and
an existence approximately contempora-

neous with that of society, why not a life,
a growth ? " We no longer have to ex-
amine solely the relations of one nation
with another," says one, " but to unfold
the simultaneous development of all liter-
atures, or, at least, of an important group
of literatures." It is the task of Com-
parative Literature, according to another,
to find whether the same laws of literary
development prevail among all peoples or
not. The internal and external aspects
of literary growth, Mr. Posnett announces
to be the objects of comparative inquiry ; '
and, accepting as the principle of litera-
ry growth the progressive deepening and
widening of personality, in other words,
the contraction and expansion of Arnold
and Texte, with the development of
the social unit in which the individual is
placed, this author finds a corresponding
differentiation of the literary medium
from the primitive homogeneity of com-
munal art, a gradual individualizing of
the literary occasion and an evolution of
literary forms. While, as I have said,
he recognizes the importance of the com-
parative study of external sources of
national development and the resulting
social and literary reaction upon the liter-
ature in question, he devotes himself,
preferably, to the " comparative study
of the internal sources of national devel-
opment, social or physical, and of the
effects of different phases of this devel-
opment on literature ; " and in pursuance
of this method he adopts, whether right
or wrong, "the gradual expansion of
social life, from clan to city, from city to
nation, from both of these to cosmopoli-
tan humanity, as the proper order of
studies in Comparative Literature." Mr.
Posnett's method is perhaps impaired by
the fact that he regards the relation of
literary history to the political rather
than to the broader social development
of a people, but he certainly elaborates
a theory ; and it is the more instructive
because he does not treat literature as
organic, developing by reason of a life
within itself to a determined end, but as

What is " Comparative Literature " ?

secondary and still developing with the
evolution of the organism from which it
springs. In this theory of institutional
growth result also the methods of Buckle
and Ernst Grosse, which may be termed
physiological and physiographical ; and
the physio - psychological of Schiller,
Spencer, and Karl Groos ; and the meth-
od of Irj6 Hirn, which combines the so-
cial and psychological in the inquiry into
the art impulse and its history ; and that
of Schlegel and Carriere, who, empha-
sizing one side of Hegel's theory, rest
literary development largely upon the
development of religious thought. In
M. Brunetiere, on the other hand, we
have one who boldly announces his inten-
tion to trace the evolution of literary
species, not as dependent upon the life
of an organism such as society, but in
themselves. He frankly proposes to dis-
cover the laws of literary development
by applying the theory of evolution to
the study of literature. The question
of the growth of literary types, he says
in the first volume of his Evolution des
genres dans 1'histoire de la litte'rature,
resolves into five subsidiary questions :
the reality and independence of types,
their differentiation, their stability, the
influences modifying them, and the pro-
cess of their transformation. When he
asserts that the differences of types cor-
respond to differences in the means and
ends of different arts and to diversities
in families of minds, and that the princi-
ple of differentiation is the same that op-
erates in nature from homogeneity to het-
erogeneity, most of us concur ; but when
he details the signs of youth, maturity,
and decay which the type may exhibit,
and the transformation of one type into
another as, for instance, the French
pulpit oration into the ode according
to principles analogous in their operation
to the Darwinian struggle for existence,
survival of the fittest, and natural selec-
tion, we become apprehensive lest the
parallel be overworked. If Brunetiere
would only complete the national portion

of his history, or, at least, try to substan-
tiate his theory, we should be grateful.
He has, however, enunciated one of the
problems with which Comparative Liter-
ature must grapple, and is grappling.
Does the biological principle apply to
literature ? If not, in how far may the
parallel be scientifically drawn ?

That leads us to still a third concep-
tion of the term under consideration.
Comparative Literature, say some, is not
a subject-matter nor a theory but a
method of study. With the ancients it
was the habit of roughly matching au-
thors Virgil with Homer, Terence with
Menander, or Terence with Plautus
with a view to determining relative excel-
lence, the habit of which we cherish a
vivid reminiscence from our undergrad-
uate struggles with Quintilian and the
Ars Poetica. The method has existed
ever since there were two pieces of lit-
erature known to the same man, it has
persisted through the Middle Ages and
the Renaissance, and it is alive to-day.
Its merits and defects are those of the
man who uses it. To others the compara-
tive method means the attempt to obtain
by induction from a sufficient variety of
specimens the characteristics, distinguish-
ing marks, principles, even laws of the
form, movement, type or literature under
discussion. For instance, Carriere's com-
parative study of the drama in various
periods and literatures ; or portions of
Freytag's inquiry into the technique of
tragedy, irrespective of the nationality
producing it ; or even Aristotle's Poetics,
for it is based upon an induction from
all dramas and epics, even though only
Greek, that were known to him. And
here we are reminded that in the disci-
pline under consideration historical se-
quence is just as important as comparison
by cross sections. The science is called
" comparative literary history ' rather
than " literature compared " by French,
German, and Italian scholars, not for
nothing. The historian who searches
for origins or stages of development in a

What is " Comparative Literature " ?

single literature may employ the com-
parative method as much as he who zig-
zags from literature to literature ; and
so the student whose aim is to establish
relations between literary movement and
literary movement, between author and
author, period and period, type and
type, movement and movement, theme
and theme, contemporaneous or succes-
sive in any language, nationality, clime,
or time. To repeat, the comparison is
not alone between diverse national liter-
atures, but between any elements in-
volved in the history of literature, or
any stages in the history of any element.
There have been, within my own know-
ledge, those who would confine the word
literature to the written productions of
civilized peoples, and consequently would
exclude from consideration aboriginal
attempts at verbal art. But students
nowadays increasingly recognize that the
cradle of literary science is anthropology.
The comparative method therefore sets
civilized literatures side by side with the
popular, traces folklore to folklore, and
these so far as possible to the matrix in
the undifferentiated art of human ex-
pression. Such is " Comparative Litera-
ture ' when used of the work of the
Grimms, Steinthal, Comparetti, Dono-
van, Talvj or Ernst Grosse. The term
is also properly used of the method of
Taine, which in turn derives from that
recommended by Hegel in the first
volume of his JEsthetik (the appraise-
ment of the literary work in relation to
Zeit, Volk, und Umgebung), and of the
method of Brunetiere so far as he has
applied it, for it is in theory the same,
save that it purports to emphasize the
consideration of the element of individ-
uality. But that the method is suscep-
tible of widely varying interpretations
is illustrated by the practice of still an-
other advocate thereof, Professor Wetz,
who, in his Shakespeare from the Point
of View of Comparative Literary His-
tory, of 1890, and in his essay on the his-
tory of literature, insists that Compara-

tive Literature is neither the literary
history of one people, nor investigations
in international literary history ; neither
the study of literary beginnings, nor
even the attempt to obtain by induction
the characteristics of Weltlitteratur, its
movements and types. While he accepts
the analytical critical method of Taine
in combination with the historical and
psychological of Herder, Goethe, and
Schiller, he insists that the function of
Comparative Literature is to determine
the peculiarities of an author by com-
parison with those of some other author
sufficiently analogous. To flood the pe-
culiarities of Shakespeare, for instance,
with the light of the personality of Cor-
neille, that is Comparative Literature,
according to Wetz ! And there its work
ends and the work of literary history
and aesthetic criticism begins.

This, then, would seem to be the view
of Comparative Literature, its field, theo-
ry, and method, that one might obtain
from perusal of the more evident contri-
butions to the exposition of the subject.

I remember that some twelve years ago
Colonel Higginson pointed out in the Cen-
tury Magazine the desirability of study-
ing literature from the general rather
than from the national or provincial point
of view, and expressed surprise that no
University in this country supported a
chair of what I think he called World-
Literature. In reply a student of the Uni-
versity of Michigan described a course in
the comparative study of literary types
which had been given there as early I
think as 1887. It goes without saying
that courses in literary history and induc-
tive poetics not called comparative but
comparative in fact had been given by pro-
fessors of languages, ancient or modern,
many times before. Such, for instance,
were the courses of Professor Child at
Harvard. At the present day courses
of comparative study are pursued in all
larger universities. Most of the gradu-
ate work in philology would fall within
the purview of Comparative Literature.

What is " Comparative Literature " ?

Courses in the nature and history of lit-
erary types and movements in general,
and in the theory and history of criticism,
have been given, sometimes under some
special designation, at others under that
of Comparative Literature, at California
since 1889. A chair for the study was
established at Harvard in the early nine-
ties. At Columbia the study of literature
" at large," as Professor Matthews calls
it, "that is, the tracing of the evolution
of literary form and of the development
of criticism as masterpieces " was recog-
nized by courses as early as 1892, though
the department was not organized under
the title Comparative Literature until
1899. At Yale and Princeton the his-
tory of literary types and movements,
national and general, and the compara-
tive study of poetics have been growing
in importance during the same period.
An examination of the courses offered in
American universities distinctively under
the title of Comparative Literature shows
that effort is at present chiefly directed
to the study of international borrowings,
commonly called " source-hunting " or
of the larger influences or movements in-
volving various literatures. Next in or-
der of cultivation come courses in the
theory of literature in general, and the
history and theory of types such as lyric
or drama. In general, however, teachers
of Comparative Literature seem to re-
gard European letters as a totality un-
related and self-explanatory. With the
exception of a course or two such as
Woodberry's Oriental Element in Euro-
pean Literature, no provision has been
made for the investigation of the wider
unit which alone can afford a basis for
scientific processes and results. Of Eu-
ropean universities, the Italian have
longest and most effectually cultivated
the study under consideration. Turin,
for instance, has offered the course of
which I have already spoken in the
comparative history of the neo-Latin lit-
eratures since 1876 ; and the same cur-
riculum seems to obtain at the other

Universities of Italy. Genoa, Padua,
Bologna, and Rome as well as Turin an-
nounce their literary courses always as
follows : Letteratura italiana, latina y
greoa, storia comparata delle lettera-
ture e lingue neo-latine. Of these the
last is, so far as it goes, genuinely a course
in Comparative Literature, bounded to be
sure by natural affinities, but not by lim-
its of modern history. As to literary
courses in German Universities, those
listed as neuere Philologie are confined
usually by the boundaries of national-
ity. When vergleichende Litteratur-
geschichte is specifically announced in-
ternational relationships are of course
investigated, but the European unit of
literary solidarity does not appear as yet
to have been in any considerable degree
exceeded, at any rate by workers in
modern philology. Inter-European in-
fluences have been treated by Koch and
Kslbing at Breslau, by Schultze at Halle,
by Brandl and Geiger at Berlin, and in
many other universities. Courses like
that offered by Meyer at Berlin on the
method and function of the comparative
history of literature, and dissertations
such as Grosse's on the aim and method
of literary science, Ten Brink's on the
function of literary history with Wetz's
reply to it, and Elster's Antrittsrede at
Leipsic on the same subject indicate the
steady development of the conception
from the empirical and particular to
the inductive and systematic stage. The
work of Klein in the broad field of the
drama, and of Brandes of Copenhagen
in literary movements, mark epochs in
the application of the science. And still,
so far as may be gathered from systems
of study, the palm must be given, not
to Italy, Germany, or Denmark, but
to Switzerland, to Geneva, where the
courses of research are international in
the widest sense. Lyons, indeed, at one
time promised to eclipse the rest, but it
was unfortunately deprived of Professor
Joseph Texte by his death when he had
served but two years.

What is " Comparative Literature " ? 63

Judging from the articles and books of literature our survey shows that two
reviewed in the Zeitschrif t f iir verglei- distinct doctrines contend for acceptance :
chende Litteraturgeschichte uud Re- one, by evolution, which is an attempt to
naissance Litteratur, and making allow- interpret literary processes in accordance
ance for such material as belongs exclu- with biological laws ; the other, by what
sively to the latter category and is not I prefer to call permutation. Since liter-
comparative, we may say that the editors ature like its material, language, is not
classify under Comparative Literature an organism, but a resultant medium,
international literary history, researches both product and expression of the soci-
into sources of individual works, liter- ety whence it springs, the former theory
ary aesthetics, the history of types, and must be still in doubt. It can certainly
minor elements of literary form and ma- not be available otherwise than meta-
terial, and finally folklore. The term phorically unless it be substantiated by
Comparative Literature seems to be used just such methods comparative and
vaguely but with especial regard to in- scientific as those of which we have
ternational relativity; still any article spoken.

treating of poetry or of its antecedent How much of this is new, of the nine-
conditions scientifically and with some teenth century, for instance ? Very lit-
show of comparative method seems eligi- tie in theory ; much, and that impor-
ble to their pages. tant, in discipline and fact. The solidar-

This survey might be extended to the ity of literature was long ago announced
practice of our American philological by Bacon, who in his Advancement of
journals and associations. The academic Learning says, " As the proficience of
conception will, however, be found to be learning consisteth much in the orders
as I have stated it : Comparative Litera- and institutions of universities in the
ture works in the history of national as same states and kingdoms, so it would be
well as of international conditions, it em- yet more advanced if there were more
ploys, more or less prominently, the com- intelligence mutual between the univer-
parative method, logical and historical, it sities of Europe than there now is. ...
presupposes, and results in, a conception And surely as nature createth brother-
of literature as a solidarity, and it seeks hoods in families, and arts mechanical
to formulate and substantiate a theory of contract brotherhoods in communities,
literary development whether by evolu- and the anointment of God superinduc-
tion or permutation, in movements, types, eth a brotherhood in kings and bishops,
and themes. With these main considera- so in like manner there cannot but be
tions it is but natural that scholars should a fraternity in learning and illumina-
associate the attempt to verify and sys- tion, relating to that paternity which is at-
tematize the characteristics common to tributed to God who is called the Father
literature in its various manifestations of illuminations or lights." Bacon was
wherever found ; to come by induction, the founder, in England, of that species
for instance, at the eidographic or generic of literary history which, as soon as na-
qualities of poetry, the characteristics tional literatures were placed in com-
of the drama, epic, or lyric ; at the dy- parison, could not but result in the con-
namic qualities, those which character- ception of literary unity. He was our
ize and differentiate the main literary first distinguished advocate of the gen-
movements, such as the classical and ro- etic method of critical research : the pro-
mantic ; and at the thematic, the causes cedure by cause and effect to movement,
of persistence and modification in the his- influence, relation, change, decay, revi-
tory of vital subjects, situations, and val ; and he emphasized the elasticity of
plots. As to the growth, or development, literary forms and types, ideas all es-

What is "Comparative Literature"?

sential to the understanding of literature
as a growth. But he was not the only
forerunner of the present movement. In
one way or another the solidarity of lit-
erature, the theories of permutation or
of evolution, sometimes crudely, some-
times with keen scientific insight, were
anticipated by Englishmen, Germans,
Frenchmen, Italians of note all the way
from Dante, Scaliger, and Sidney down.
In England, Webbe, Puttenham, and
Meres, Ben Jonson, Edmund Bolton,
prepared for Bacon ; and Bacon was well
followed by the Earl of Stirling (whose
Anacrisis furnishes hints by the score
for the comparative method of literary
research), by Davenant in his Preface to
Gondibert, by Cowley (a fine advocate
of the analytical and historical methods) ;
and by our prince of criticism, the per-
spicacious Dryden, who in his Heads of
an Answer to Rymer insists upon a stan-
dard of literary judgment at once histori-
cal and logical, upon the recognition of
development in literary types, the prin-
ciples of milieu and national variety, and
the adoption accordingly of criteria that
shall allow for the diversity and gradual
modification of literary conditions. Most
worthy, too, of recognition which, I think,
he has never fully obtained, is John Den-
nis ; for in his Remarks upon Black-
more's Prince Arthur and in his Ad-
vancement and Reformation of Modern
Poetry he more clearly than any prede-
cessor foreshadows the theories of the
early and middle nineteenth century con-
cerning the influence of religious ideals in
the permutations of literature. Shaf tes-
bury, Bentley, Swift, the Wartons, Hurd,
Addison, Hallam, Carlyle, and De Quin-
cey, it was not necessary that any of
these should defer his birth till 1900 to
appreciate what the comparative study
of literature, in one or more of its
phases, meant.

In Germany, Herder and Schiller may
have been the first, as Professor Wetz
has said, to give the science a compre-
hensive foundation. They, however,

owed not a little to Bodmer and Breitin-
ger and others of the Swiss school of
1740, to the .ZEsthetica of Baumgarten
of 1750, and to Winckelmann's applica-
tion of the historical method to the study
of fine art. When we come down the
line and add the contributions of Goethe,
Richter, the Schlegels to literary science,
and then of Gervinus, Boeckh, Paul, and
Elze, we begin to wonder what there is
left of system for the student of Com-
parative Literature to devise.

In France, likewise, there have been
approaches to one or another side of the
idea and discipline from the Defense of
Joachim du Bellay, 1549, and the Poet-
ics of Scaliger (one of the greatest com-
parers of literary history) down. The
Recueil of Claude Fauchet, 1581, Pas-
quier's Treatise on the Pl&ade, Mairet's
Preface to Sylvanire, the early battles of
Corneille with the Academy and Chape-
lain, all illustrate phases of this slowly
maturing method of study. Rapin's
Poetes Anciens et Modernes, of 1674,
aims not only to adapt Aristotle's Poet-
ics to modern practice, but to teach the
moderns that certain qualities of poetry,
no matter what the conditions of the age,
endure. And the age felt Rapin, espe-
cially the England of the age, Dryden
and his school. The scientific importance
of literary history and the advantages
of the comparative method in criticism
were clearly apprehended by Saint-Evre-
mond as early as by Rapin. Desma-
rets de Saint Sorlin had advanced to a
conception of poetry as an institutional
mouthpiece for society and religion as
far back as 1657, but nine years after
Davenant's famous Preface on the same
theory, and fully two hundred before its
more distinguished elaboration by Car-
rier e. Tli at Perrault, Fontenelle, the
Daciers, La Fontaine, Fdnelon, indeed,
and the younger heroes of the Battle of
the Books, should by some be supposed
to be the founders of the comparative
method is extremely odd : they were an-
ticipated not only by several whom I

What is " Comparative Literature " ? 65

have mentioned and by the Pleiade in determination of literary types, their
France, but by the Areopagus in Eng- reality and characteristics, and the study
land as well. Why multiply examples ? of literary conditions antecedent and en-
I believe that without difficulty one could vironing, were but vaguely comprehend-
indicate a forerunner earlier than 1830 ed. The facts were insufficient. As to
for every doctrine or ideal comprised a growth of literature, our earlier schol-
to-day under the term Comparative Lit- ars utterly failed to elaborate a theory,
erature, except the theory of evolution failed generally to surmise ; and that be-
on the Darwinian principle, and for ing so, a study of movements, national or
much of the method. Dubos, Batteux, international, and the moods that under-
Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, La Harpe, lie them, was incapable of prosecution.
Madame de Stael, Chateaubriand, Gin- How could they build a science the social
guene', Baour-Lormian, Stendhal, Hugo, and psychological foundations of which
Villemain, a host of prophets before were not vet established ?
the immortal Sainte-Beuve and those Advances in historical method, in psy-
Monday chats that gathered up in method chological, sociological, linguistic, and
and ideal all that was worth gathering ethnological research have, now, fur-
and gave the impetus to most of the the- nished the discipline with an instrument
ory and method current to-day ! unknown to its forbears in critical pro-

This cloud of witnesses is not pro- cedure ; and with fresh and rich mate-
duced, however, to discredit, but to con- rials for illumination from without. The
firm the scope and hope of the so-called conception of literature as a unit is no
Comparative Literature of to-day. They longer hypothetical ; the comparison of
testify to the need of a science in the national histories has proved it. The
nature of things. They perform their idea of .a process by evolution may be
service by anticipations in detail of a unproved ; but that some process, as by
discipline that could not be designated permutation, must obtain is recognized,
a science until the sciences propaedeutic We no longer look upon the poet as in-
thereto had been developed. The ex- spired. Literature develops with the
perimental stage of literary theory has entity which produces it, the common
by its antiquity, its persistence, and its social need and faculty of expression ;
faith, given proof of the naturalness and and it varies according to differentice of
worth of the science that was to follow racial, physiographic, and social condi-
when experience should be ripe. Ex- tions, and of the inherited or acquired
perimental efforts accomplished this characteristics of which the individual
much at least : they marked out the field, author is constituted. The science of
the relativity of literature ; they shad- its production must analyze its corn-
owed the substance and significance of ponent factors and determine the laws
the ideal of literary solidarity, and they by which they operate. By a constant
foreshadowed that of spiritual commu- factor are fixed the only possible moulds
nity ; they apprehended a comparative or channels of expression, and, therefore,
method of procedure, and applied it to the integral and primary types, as, for
some few objects of investigation, to the instance, within the realm of poetry, the
history of sources, for instance, and of lyric, narrative, and dramatic. By the
themes ; and to artistic and literary anal- presence of other factors, both incon-
ogies with a view to inductive canons stant, these types are themselves liable to
of criticism. But, on the other hand, modification. I refer, of course, to envi-
the method as conceived was, in the na- ronment, that is to say, to the antecedent
ture of the case, but imperfectly scienti- and contemporary condition of thought,
fie ; and the objects of its application, the social tendency, and artistic fashion ; and

VOL. xcii. NO. 549. 5

What is "Comparative Literature"?

to the associational congeries called the
author. So far as physiological and psy-
chological modes of expression may be
submitted to objective and historical anal-
ysis, so far as the surrounding condi-
tions which directly or indirectly affect
the art in which the author works, and
the work of the author in that art, may
be inductively studied, and their nature
interpreted and registered in relation to
other products of society, such as lan-
guage, religion, and government, so far
is the discipline of which we speak legit-
imately scientific. And as rapidly as
experimental psychology, anthropology,
ethnology, or the history of art in gen-
eral, prove their right to scientific recog-
nition, they become instruments for the
comparative investigation of the social
phenomenon called literature. It is thus
that the literary science, just now called
Comparative Literature, improves upon
the efforts of the former stylistic or po-
etics, largely traditional or speculative,
and displaces the capricious matching of
authors, the static or provincial view of
history, and the appraisement lacking at-
mosphere.

While this science must exclude from
the object under consideration the pure-
ly subjective element, and the specula-
tive or so-called "judicial" (mejudice)
method from criticism and history, it
need not ignore or disregard the unex-
plained quantity, the imaginative. Its
aim will be to explore the hitherto un-
explained in the light of historical se-
quence and scientific cause and effect,
physical, biological, psychological, or
anthropological, to reduce the appar-
ently unreasonable or magical element,
and so to leave continually less to be
treated in the old-fashioned inspirational
or ecstatic manner. We shall simply
cease to confound the science with the
art. We no longer refer history to
Clio, law to the tables of the Mount,
or medicine to the Apollo-born sage of
Epidaurus ; but while we acknowledge
the science, we none the less respect

the genius, the Herodotus, or Mar-
shall, or Lorenz. Not only does liter-
ary science take up into itself the best
methods that literary history has so far
devised, the analytical-critical of Dry-
den and Hegel and Taine, the psycho-
logical and cultural of Schiller, as ex-
pressed in his matchless essay on poetry
naive and sentimental, and of Goethe in
his Deutsche Baukunst and his Wahr-
heit und Dichtung, and the efforts at a
comparative discipline exerted by Sainte-
Beuve and Arnold, it avails itself, as
I have said, of the results, and so far
as possible of the methods, of the sciences
that most directly contribute to the com-
prehension of man the producer ; it
partly bases and partly patterns its pro-
cedure upon those other records of
human consciousness, the histories of
ethics and religion and society ; it gathers
hints from theories not yet scientific,
but historically on the way, theories
of art in general, aesthetic, physiological,
and psychological, or even speculative,
if, as in the case of Winckelmann, the
speculation be founded upon induction
from facts historically considered. The
more immediate advantages of the prose-
cution of literary research in such a way
as this are an ever increasing knowledge
of the factors that enter into world-lit-
erature and determine its growth, its
reasons, conditions, movements, and ten-
dencies, in short, its laws ; and a poet-
ics capable not only of detecting the
historical but of appreciating the social
accent in what is foreign and too often
despised, or contemporary and too often
overpraised if not ignored. The new
science of literature will in turn throw
light upon that which gave it birth ; it
will prove an index to the evolution of
soul in the individual and in society ; it
will interpret that sphinx, national con-
sciousness or the spirit of the race, or,
mayhap, destroy it. It will in one case
and in all assist a science of comparative
ethics.

This is what Comparative Literature

What is " Comparative Literature " ?

means to me. Before I attempt to show
what the science should be called, let us
see what it means to the editors of the
new periodical. In his scholarly and
poetic editorial in the first number of the
Journal of Comparative Literature, Pro-
fessor Woodberiy, treating of what the
subject already is, announces the meth-
od, the field, the theory of literary com-
munity substantially as we have already
conceived them ; save that under the
objects of comparative investigation he
does not explicitly include literary move-
ments, and that in the category of forms
he appears to assimilate the fundamental
and generic modes of expression, lyric,
drama, etc., with the extrinsic and more
or less conventional and interchangeable,
trappings such as alliteration and rhyme.
He fails consequently to attach to a par-
ticular phase, the comparative study of
literary types or modes, the significance
which, in my opinion, it possesses. That,
however, matters little. His forecast of
the course of the science is inspiring.
" The study of forms," he says, " should
result in a canon of criticism, which
would mean a new and greater classi-
cism ; . . . the study of themes should
reveal temperamentally, as form does
structurally, the nature of the soul." " It
is in temperament," he continues, "in
moods, that romanticism, which is the
life of all literature, has its dwelling-
place. To disclose the necessary forms,
the vital moods of the beautiful soul, is
the far goal of our effort, to help in
this, in the bringing of those spiritual
unities in which human destiny is ac-
complished." With this the genuine
student of literary science must agree.
And yet it may strike him as peculiar,
that in the outlook over literary theory
the possibility of growth appears to be
ignored. The omission can hardly be
accidental. I take it to indicate non-ac-
ceptance of a theory of evolution such as
Brunetiere's, however, rather than rejec-
tion of all theory of development. Move-
ments are the corollaries of the " vital

moods in which is the life of literature ; "
and the life of literature changes with the
gradual deepening and widening of the
" beautiful soul ' individual, racial, or
integrally human. I find, therefore, a
testimony to our theory of literary per-
mutation in Professor Woodberry's reti-
cence. I rejoice also to note his insist-
ence upon a matter of method apparently
minor but of importance to our com-
prehension of the discipline, namely, that
the study of international relations and
influences is but one of the objects of
Comparative Literature : the study of a
single literature may be just as scientifi-
cally comparative if it seek the reason and
law of the literature in the psychology
of the race or of humanity.

Now what shall this science be called,
since the name which it has is malformed
and misleading ? If it were not for
traditional prejudice, the term stylis-
tic should be recognized as of scientific
quality, and it should cover the history as
well as the theory of all kinds of writ-
ing. According to the older nomencla-
ture, the individuality and the purpose
of the author, the quality of his thought
and the objective characteristics of liter-
ary species and form, are, all of them,
factors of style. Elze, Boeckh, Maas,
and others arrange the matter thus :
Style is the form and method of expres-
sion in language. Stylistic is the general
theory of style, and this general theory
divides itself naturally into the theory of"
prose style or rhetoric and the theory of
poetic style or poetics. I am not going:
to propose " stylistic." The old stylis-
tic is limited by tradition, by its specula-
tive quality, .and by that well-worn and
slippery dictum of Buff on, style is
of the individual. What is called Com-
parative Literature has, on the other
hand, brought to the study of all kinds of
writing a scientific objectivity and the
historical method. It has taken up into
itself what is objective and historical of
the older stylistic : it aims to reject or
confirm former theories but on purely

A Boy's Love.

scientific grounds. It is the transition
from stylistic to a science of literature
which shall still find room for aesthetics,
but for aesthetics properly so called, de-
veloped, checked, and corrected by scien-
tific procedure and by history.

Without our modern psychology, an-
thropology, linguistics, and the com-
parative sciences of society, religion, and
art, literature could be studied neither
in relation to its antecedents nor to its
components. Otherwise our study would
long ago have been known as com-
parative philology, a name improper-
ly usurped by a younger branch of the
philological discipline. Such indeed is
the name by which Professor Whitney
would have called the comparative study
of the literatures of different countries
had the discipline been prosecuted as a
science when he wrote. Comparative
Literature is a reaffirmation of that as-
pect of philology the literary which,
both because it was eclipsed by, and de-
pendent upon, the development of lin-
guistics, has long ceased to be regard-
ed as philology at all ; save in Germany,
where philological seminars have dealt
not only with the phonology and history
of language as they asserted themselves,
but also as of old with whatever concerns
the literary side of language as an ex-
pression of the national, or more broadly
human spirit. Since all study of origins
and growth, whether of one phenomenon
or more than one, must be comparative

if scientifically conducted, it is not neces-
sary to characterize the literary science,
of which we speak, by that particular
adjective. More methods than the com-
parative enter into it, and it is more than
a method ; it is a theory of relativity
and of growth ; and its material is verti-
cally as well as horizontally disposed.
The Comparative Literature of to-day,
based upon the sciences of which I have
spoken and conducted in the scientific
method, is literary philology, nothing
more nor less ; it stands over against lin-
guistic philology or glottology, and it
deals genetically, historically, and com-
paratively with literature as a solidarity
and as a product of the social individual,
whether the point of view be national or
universal. We welcome academic depart-
ments and journals, devoted to its inter-
ests, but literary philology is not and can-
not be measured by the scope and effort
of a distinct academic department, or of
a specific journal, however excellent the
latter, like this to which we wish God-
speed, may be. The new discipline is
already the property and method of all
scientific research in all literatures, an-
cient or modern, not only in their com-
mon but in their individual relations to
the social spirit in which they live and
move and have their being. The more
we develop what now is called Compara-
tive Literature, the more rapidly will
each literature in turn seek its explana-
tion in Literary Philology.

Charles Mills Gayley-

A BOY'S LOVE.

it i

; 0n, Nick! ' called Mrs. Ford.

"Yes, mother," answered a some-
~what reluctant voice from the hall.

"Do come and hold this wool for
me, like a dear boy. "

"But, my dear mother, I have just
time to keep an engagement." Nicho-

las appeared in the doorway, very much
dressed up, very self-conscious and dig-
nified. "I promised to call for Miss
Arthur at four o'clock. She 's going
to walk with me, " he added, drawing
on new gloves with a man-about-town
air, a heavy stick under one arm.

A Soy's Love.

"How did it come about? ' asked
Mrs. Ford, properly impressed.

"Oh, I simply asked her, and she
said she would be charmed to." Then
the small boy came to the surface in a
delighted giggle. " What 's the matter
with Willie ? " he demanded, swagger-
ing. His mother laughed.

"What are you going to talk to her
about ? " she asked.

" Why, whatever the lady chooses ; '
he suddenly became dignified again.
"Books, theatre, art, music, she can't
stump me. Would you wear these ? '
He pulled forward a buttonhole bursting
with lilies of the valley and studied it
anxiously. "They say flowers in your
buttonhole are bad form now, but I do
like 'em. What would you do? '

"Wear them," said Mrs. Ford.
"And then, if there is a good chance,
you can give them to her. You have
enough there for a corsage bouquet."

"Great eye," commented Nick.
"I '11 do it. Au revoir, Mrs. Ford."
At the door he paused, hesitating.
"Say, do you suppose I '11 bore her to
death? " he broke out. "I know I 'm
only a foolish boy. Won't she be wish-
ing me in Jericho ? '

"No, of course not," exclaimed his
mother. "Go on, dear, and don't
think about yourself. She told me you
interested her very much. "

Nicholas was beaming and confident
again,

"All right, then. Here goes ! ' And
he swung out, chest high and head up,
young life cavorting perilously under
manly dignity. Mrs. Ford leaned back
in her chair with eyes full of laughter.
At a mental picture of the lady in the
case it suddenly brimmed over. Well,
if Miss Arthur found it amusing, she
was more than satisfied.

Nicholas came home radiant, with
empty buttonhole.

"Now that 's what I call a lady,"
he confided to his mother. " You ought
to have seen her, all velvet and fur
and bully white gloves. She didn't

just wear any old thing because she was
going out with me. I tell you, we
were a couple! '

"And how did you get on? " asked
Mrs. Ford, deeply interested.

"Well, the first ten minutes, it was
pretty bad," he admitted. "Some
way, she was so handsome, and so
grown up, you know, I wanted to ex-
cuse myself for living, and I just fell
over my feet, right and left. I could n't
even talk straight, felt as though I
had a mouth full of cold blotting paper.
But she did n't notice a thing, and talked
along as if we walked up Fifth Avenue
every day of our lives ; and so I got on
to myself, and after that it was lovely.
She 's great."

"And you gave her your flowers? '
Mrs. Ford was longing to know more,
but could not question him too closely.

"Did I! You ought to have seen
me. She said something about them,
and I said I had just worn them in the
hope she 'd notice, so that I could have
an excuse to offer them. How was that
for a kid ? ' And Nick's chuckle would
have assured the most anxious mother
that in spite of his manly stature she
had not yet lost her small boy. "I
wish I dared ask her to go to the the-
atre with me, " he went on. "Do you
think she would ? I suppose we 'd have
to have a chaperon."

Mrs. Ford, taken unawares, let a
sudden laugh escape. Her son was in-
dignant.

"Oh, I know she 's ten years older
than I am! But she doesn't look it,
does she? And isn't a chaperon just
for looks, anyway? " he demanded.

"Yes, dear. You are perfectly
right;" Mrs. Ford hastily recovered
her gravity. " And I like it that you
are punctilious about women."

"Well, of course," said Nick, mol-
lified.

The theatre suggestion was not fol- .
lowed up, but Miss Arthur let Nick
take her to a service at the cathedral a
few days later, and then she asked him

A Boy's Love.

to help her rearrange her library. His
devotion grew with the weeks, and all
the time that could be spared from his
studies (and possibly some that could
not) went to making her a Christmas
offering, an ingenious little wooden
chest for jewels. He talked of her till
only his mother would stand him. She
met Miss Arthur on the street one day,
and both women laughed as they shook
hands.

"I am afraid my big boy is boring
you to death," Mrs. Ford began.

"Indeed he is not. He is the nicest
boy I ever knew," said Miss Arthur.
"I enjoy him immensely."

"Well, you have utterly won his
heart; and you are the very first."
Mrs. Ford sighed a little. "You will
never find any truer devotion. A boy's
love can be so angelic once in his
life! " she added.

" I hope I should hate " Miss
Arthur hesitated. Mrs. Ford put out
her hand.

"You are making him immensely
happy, and doing him good. Only
don't let him bore you."

"Oh, he never does that."

The first day of the Christmas holi-
days Nick was allowed to go skating
with his lady. For twenty-four hours
afterwards he was like a jovial tornado
in the little apartment. His mother,
wearied with his noise and her own
laughter, was thankful to see him go
forth the following afternoon in the
punctilious array that had only one
meaning.

"Here is two hours of quiet, any-
way," she said, smiling after him. "If
the lady will only keep him to dinner ! '

But in less than an hour he was back,
a very different Nick, silent, moody,
with a look of tragic anger in his eyes
that made his mother ache for him.
He offered no explanation, and for the
first time evaded a chance to talk of
Miss Arthur. Indeed, he would not
talk on any subject, but sat through a
long evening with his eyes held sternly

on a book, whose leaves were not turned.
Mrs. Ford at last made an excuse to
cross the room, that she might gently
rub his hair in passing.

"Well, dear boy ?" she said. "Can't
you tell me about it ? ' He lifted his
eyebrows in polite surprise.

"Why, there is nothing to tell," he
said. " Some one else a fellow named
Courtney came to call on Miss Ar-
thur, so I didn't stay. That's all.
She asked me to come again to-morrow
evening, but I don't know whether I
shall or not."

Mrs. Ford sat down by the fire and
waited. Presently Nick threw aside
his book and jerked himself to his
feet.

"I don't see how men like that get
into nice houses, " he burst out. "Mo-
ther, you know what kind of a woman
she is why, you want to take your
shoes off when you go into the same
house with^her. She 's the sort of wo-
man you 'd expect a queen to be all
lady, inside and out. And that man
sat up there in her drawing-room and
smoked ! '

Mrs. Ford would have strangled
rather than laughed ; but she attempted
a faint defense.

" But, dearie, perhaps she has known
him a long time. You know we like
to have some people smoke here. " Nick
brushed aside the argument as not worth
attention.

"And then I did n't like a story the
fellow told," he went on, with an out-
raged shake of his head. "I don't
mean it was shady ; it would have been
all right in most places. But to tell
that kind of a thing before her ! Would
n't you think a stable boy would know
better ? Of course she had to laugh,
she 's so kind, but / could see she
didn't like it. I felt I 'd punch the
fellow if I stayed another minute, so I
got out. And if he 's going to be there,
I '11 stay out. Good-night." And he
marched off to his own room.

Only a mother, and perhaps not all

A Boy^s Love.

mothers, could have endured Nicholas
the next twenty-four hours. Late in the
afternoon, a little worn but still per-
fectly sympathetic, Mrs. Ford dragged
him out for a walk, and the boy, be-
wildered and angry at his own sore-
heartedness, followed sulkily where she
led. He would not seem to notice when
they passed Miss Arthur's house.

"Suppose we run in and see her for
a moment, " suggested Mrs. Ford in a
sudden-bright-idea tone. "I really owe
her a call."

"Oh, I don't believe I care to," was
the grand reply.

" Of course you are invited for the
evening. I had forgotten that," she
amended cheerfully. "Is it to be "

But Nick was not listening. A cab
had just passed, and the street lamp
showed a young woman in velvet and
furs inside. Mrs. Ford glanced back
in time to see a man alight, then turn
and offer his hand to the young woman.
The pavement was slippery with ice,
and she went up the steps with her
hand still on his arm. Mrs. Ford in-
stinctively knew that this must be the
fellow named Courtney.

"Shall we go home now? " she said.
"A fire will feel good."

"You go. I '11 walk a little more."
And Nick trudged off into the early
winter darkness with his neck sunk into
Ms coat collar and his hat pulled far
over his eyes.

When he came home, late for dinner,
there was a note waiting for him. He
took it up with a sudden light in his
face that died out as he read.

"It 's just a note from Miss Arthur
to say she can't see me to-night: she
has a bad headache, " he explained care-
lessly. "She says she will write me
to-morrow and make another date.
Dinner ready ? '

Pride had set in, and any one but
a mother would have welcomed the
change. Nick's whole soul was bent
on showing that he had never been
gayer in his life, and Mrs. Ford saw

only what he wanted her to, patiently
biding her time. He was formal with
her these days, and he kissed her good-
night with such an effort that she con-
trived to let him avoid what had never
before been a ceremony, knowing how
wholly he would come back to her when
his bruised and bleeding self could bear
the light again. The postman came
seven times a day, and seven times a
day Nick slipped out and trudged down
the two long flights to watch for him ;
and each time his mother felt her heart
thump in sympathy till a glance at his
face told her hope was over for this
hour, and the promised note had not
come. When, hunting in the dark
corner of a store closet, she came across
the unfinished jewel chest, thrust down
behind a box, she could have cried.

It was a dreary week, and at the
end of it Mrs. Ford drew up to the
little coal fire in the early dark to make
some stern resolutions. But instead
she found herself listening to the soft
fall of the snow against the windows
and wondering where Nick was. His
quick step in the hall foretold news,
and she Burned eagerly as he burst into
the room, snowy, breathless, all his
pose and self-consciousness swept away
by some overwhelming feeling.

"Oh, mother, mother ! ' He flung
himself down beside her and buried his
face on her shoulder. "She's ill
dreadfully, terribly ill she 's been ill
all these days, and I 've never even
been to ask about her. She 's getting
worse and worse, and they don't know
whether she'll and I 've been sulking
around thinking about myself, and never
even sent her a message! Think of
her " His breath came in quick
gasps, and she felt his arms tremble.

"How did you find it out, dear? '

Nick did not answer for some mo-
ments. Then with a long sigh he drew
away from her and settled down at her
feet, his face turned to the fire.

"Why, I walked by the house- -I
happened to and there was a little

A Boy's Love.

card over the bell, saying please not
ring because of serious illness. So I
asked at the basement. She had most
fainted that day, at a tea, and some
one had brought her home in a cab.
And sick as that, she bothered to send
me a note, so that I shouldn't come
round that night think of it ! And
I never went near her. And now it 's
-too - - la "

His mother waited awhile, then she
told him about various wonderful re-
coveries she had known. It was not
long before she had him cheerful with
new hope. After dinner she heard
him whistling softly in his own room,
and, glancing in, saw him surrounded
by his tools, working busily at the little
jewel chest.

The morning news of Miss Arthur
was encouraging. Nick worked all day
on the chest, and at dark, when it was
finished, went buoyantly off for a last
bulletin. His heavy step when he came
back prepared his mother for his tragic
face. Miss Arthur was very much
worse. The doctor would be there on
and off all night. By midnight they
would probably know.

It was Christmas Eve, and the two
were promised for a small party. Nick
would not go, but was so vehemently
opposed to his mother's staying away
that she finally went without him. But
she could see nothing all the evening
but the boy up there alone with his
first grown trouble, and finally she
slipped away. It was barely eleven
when she let herself in, and, after a
glance at the empty sitting-room, stole
to his door. He was not there, and
his overcoat was gone from the hall.

She got together materials for a little
supper and placed the gas stove ready
to light, then sat down to wait. An
hour later bells and whistles announced
Christmas Day, and fell away into
silence again. At half -past twelve she
could stand it no longer. Putting on
her wraps, she went down the street,
uncannily still now, and muffled in fresh

snow. Only a few blocks lay between
her and Miss Arthur's house, and she
had no fear of the city at any hour.
As she turned the last corner, she stopped
short and drew back into the shadow.
Across the street a lonely figure was
pacing slowly along the block, pausing
now and then to glance up at a house
opposite. She knew him long before
the street lamp showed her the boyish
face, pale and set. Something in it
kept her from speaking. She let him
turn and go back. A wide path had
been trodden in the snow on that side.

"I have no small boy any more,"
she thought sadly, and went home alone.

An hour later Nick came in, making
clumsy attempts at noiselessness.

"I'm up, Nick in the dining-
room," called Mrs. Ford. He entered
shining with good news.

"Oh, mother, she's better! She
has passed the crisis,, they think she '11
pull through! '

"I 'm so glad, dear! How did you
find out ? ' He looked a little confused.

"Oh, I wasn't sleepy, so I thought
I might as well run round there and
see the doctor as he left. I waited a
few minutes for him," he explained.
" Have you been in long ? '

"Oh, not so very; " Mrs. Ford was
stirring busily. "I felt just like some
chocolate. Will you have some ? '

"You bet," said Nick.

News from Miss Arthur continued
better and better. Before she was
taken out of town she was able to write
with her own hand a little note of thanks
for .the jewel box and the lilies of the
valley.

A few weeks after she had gone,
Nick's mother sighed to see a new phase
of the affair develop. He showed a
growing reserve on the subject of Miss
Arthur, and her name was almost never
mentioned now. The expansive boy
was evidently become a man in the
concerns of his heart, and his mother
would not force his confidence, though
she wondered incessantly what was go-

The Youngest.

ing on back of this new secretiveness,
and ached in sympathy for the ache she
could only divine. All the boy's spare
time went to experiments in book bind-
ing, and she bore the endless litter
without a murmur, suspecting some new
offering to the lady as its ultimate
object.

Then one day she came running up
the stairs, her eyes shining with joy
for his joy.

"Oh, Nick, whom do you think I
just saw? '

He was at a critical place in adjust-
ing an end paper, and did not lift his
head.

" Dunno, " he said, evidently without
a suspicion.

' Miss Arthur looking so well and
pretty ! And she sent you her love. "

Nicholas did not spring to his feet.
He did not even look up.

"Good work," he said cheerfully.
"I must go and see her some time.
Mother, will you put your finger here
for a moment? '

Mrs. Ford stared at him blankly.
There was no duplicity in his serene
voice, no pose in the frowning attention
the end paper was receiving. And all
this time She turned and went to
her own room.

"The little brute! " she muttered.
Then she smiled broadly. After all,
it only meant that she still had a small
boy.

Juliet Wilbor Tompkins.

THE 'YOUNGEST.

LITTLE rider where the trails are steep,
Little gazer from the hills above,

Little wanderer where the woods are deep
Over the roads I love.

Little dreamer on the gusty knoll,

Little listener where the dark trees blow,

Pines with voices like a human soul
Those are the woods I know.

Little reader in the firelight,
Little sleeper at a lonely mine,

Little one ! I long for thee to-night
And for my home, and thine.

Elizabeth Foote.

A National Type of Culture.

A NATIONAL TYPE OF CULTURE.

CULTURE I fear has fallen upon evil
days; at least the name has. "Total-
ity " and the " study of perfection " and
the "passion for sweetness and light '
would seem to be in general attractive
objects of pursuit, and there never was
a time when the all-round man stood
higher in demand than to-day. And yet
culture sags in the market. The pur-
veyors of educational wares obedient to
quotations incline either to change the
labels and write some name like charac-
ter upon them, or else more likely to
deal in specialties, and spread long lists
of new and monstrous names. It may
be that culture or the samples of it which
were offered failed in the counting-test
for good red blood ; it may be there was
too much self-consciousness and selfish-
ness withal about the nurture, too much
suggestion of an intellectual manicur-
ing ; it may be there was too little evi-
dence that the comely hands were ready
to lay hold on the world's work; one or
all of these counts against culture may
have really counted, but damning above
all has weighed the evidence of foreign
manufacture. Indications that the ar-
ticle as currently commended was made
in England or made in Athens have not
been lacking, and Matthew Arnold has
sometimes been the author of the stan-
dard recipe, sometimes Plato. The
" sweetness and light " of Culture and
Anarchy has the breath of the Oxford
gardens with it, and the real and true
Philistines are the English non - con-
formists. Its culture is based on lei-
sure, a leisure guaranteed by compe-
tence, and the competence is of that
solid, reliable sort that speaks of ances-
tors and estates and of so many hundreds
or thousands a year, yesterday, to-day,
and forever, and no worry, but only an
agent or attorney; and no hurry, but
only an orderly succession of bath and
breakfast, work and luncheon, tennis

and tea, with time enough for all ; no-
thing too much and nothing too many.

This English culture is maintained
too at a cost for which we Americans
are not prepared. It consolidates Phi-
listinism beyond a pale which it neither
hopes nor desires to pass, and leaves
the Barbarian unconvicted of sin ; of the
Populace it has not even reached the
ears. A self-complacent Philistinism,
a scornful Barbarism, and a deaf and
stolid Populace are the price England
pays for its sifted culture. Believers
in the doctrine of the saving remnant
esteem the price well paid and worth
paying, and the believers are many and
good. The doctrine is honored in the
experience of many civilizations, and
suffers no lack in age, but it is not
wholly unchallenged, and the "vulgar
mediocrity " is not its only alternative.

It is a fair question nowadays if Eng-
land be not after all the true land of
liberty. I believe it is the present fash-
ion in America to admit it. Some esti-
mate in terms of the domestic problem,
though England has one too. But our
household mechanism is more complicat-
ed and more brittle than the English,
and the American housewife is bowing
into slavery beneath the cooks and but-
lers, and city families are fast being
driven into hotels and boarding houses.
Others estimate in terms of other slav-
eries. One is the slavery to publicity.
England has spared more refuges for
privacy. The garden wall more fre-
quently rebuffs the street, and the homes
that count even the telephone a noxious
intrusion of the outer world are more
the rule than the exception. Again
there is the slavery to a something we
call public opinion, but which is not
really the opinion of the great public,
so much as a congeries of various sets
of opinions publicly set forth, each un-
der the guarantee of some organization

A National Type of Culture.

or institution. Public opinion has in-
deed of late years yielded so largely to
the organizational form that it becomes
difficult to discover what public opinion
really is. Every proposal for reform or
for standing pat, every phase of view
or plan of procedure, must have its or-
ganization with pages of officers and
honorary councilors. One by one the
subjects concerning which a public man
may with immunity from organizational
attack freely express himself are with-
drawn from the open field and lodged
behind entrenchments. The result is,
naturally, that for the tactful states-
man and tact has of late years been
forced high above par a chief stock
in trade has become the cautious list of
taboos. I pray you, my promising
young man, embroil not thyself in the
days of thy youth with those various
combinations of initial letters which are
nowadays the powers that be ; so speaks
the voice of carnal Wisdom. This is
undoubtedly a land of freedom and free
speech, but freedom of speech means
that one is at perfect liberty to express
such of his convictions as he dares to.

In spite of all these slaveries, how-
ever, and many others, it remains that
American life possesses a form of free-
dom quite its own, a freedom conditioned
in an absence of caste lines. It is in-
deed this very lack which has offered
the chief opportunity and temptation to
the spread of organizationalism as a sys-
tem of platforms for social life to climb
upon in the vast levels of the unclassi-
fied, temporary stagings from which
it seems to get view and outlook and
realize itself.

The caste lines, although they be but
dotted lines, avail to set limits upon the
cravings; their effect is restful. In
America there is no class or craft whose
members have signed a quitclaim upon
any of the hopes of progress and achieve-
ment, still less have accepted for their
children the doom of subservience or
mediocrity. Herein lies the difference.
The masses in the older country are well

content to leave the maintenance of the
higher social ritual to one class, the pur-
suit of sweetness and light to another,
and keep for themselves the plain satis-
factions of the unembroidered life. So
English culture is a class pursuit. So
was the Greek culture upon which it is
in large measure consciously based. The
Athenian type of cultured gentleman
was made possible by the institution of
human slavery. It scorned the toil of
the hands because it made of the body
a machine. "It is evident, " says Aris-
totle, 1 "that one must participate in
such only of the useful arts as do not
make the participant a mere mechanic ;
and we must stamp as mechanical any
work, art, education, which cripples the
body of freemen or their intelligence for
the full exercise of manly excellence
(that is, detracts from all-roundness).
Therefore such arts as have a tendency
to impair the efficiency of the body we
call mechanical, also those practiced
for pay. " Manual labor was proper only
for the slave, " the animated tool. " The
"dignity of labor " no one had heard of.
The Christian doctrine of the possibil-
ity of a divine service implicit in every
act, small or great, of body or brain,
had not yet been conceived. The Athe-
nian gentleman must needs also despise
trade and call in question all services
rendered for money. For the possibil-
ity that Euripides' mother had once
sold garden products on the market
place the scathing wit of Aristophanes
would have no rest. Trade was left to
the aliens and other people who could
have no social hopes for the future.
There was an unmistakable danger of
taint attaching to all production of the
useful, lest it partake of subservience
and slavishness. It was the awful pre-
sence of slavery that pointed the issue.
The ideals of Greek culture are the
ideals of a slave-served class. Even
our term " liberal " as used in the phrases
liberal culture, liberal studies, liberal
education labels a concept that was first
i Polit. V. 2. 1.

A National Type of Culture.

fashioned in the atmosphere of slavery,
and it is only as we trace its history
back to its source that we may really
understand it, or be protected against
the miasma it may bring with it out of
the shadow and the swamp. The word
as the Greek used it meant what belongs
to a freeman as distinguished from a
slave. To quote Aristotle again (1. c.) :
"In certain of the liberal sciences it is
not slavelike to participate up to a cer-
tain point, but to give them continuous
attention with a view to professional ac-
curacy involves this risk. " Here, then,
specialization or professional training is
distinctly set over against liberal cul-
ture as the slavish vs. the non-slavish.
Now we understand why Alcibiades quit
flute-playing.

But, after all, the English type of cul-
ture and the Greek have served us only
as illustrations. The point is that cul-
ture as we have had it commended to us
hereabouts bears the connotation of ex-
otic. But culture is not cosmopolitan-
ism. Men of culture are or ought to be
good gold coins valid everywhere, and
all the more as bearing the national
stamp. Cosmopolitanism is apt to be
rather a thing of versatility, adaptabil-
ity, f acundity, sojourning homelessness,
and the general use of common denom-
inators. There is a something which
the word culture ought to denote, or
some other less battered word appointed
to its place, and this something is a
goodly thing much to be desired, and
indeed much prized and sought for
among men, but it is not isolated from
citizenship, it is not without a country ;
it must grow out of the ground whereon
it stands. It is otherwise like the pale
psyches who flit over the asphodel moor
with a chirping cry, reft of phrenes and
fatherland.

Peoples and civilizations that have
not come to a genuine self -consciousness
borrow their culture. The triumph over
the Persians impelled the Athenian
gentry to abandon their Ionic- Oriental
dress for a hardier national costume, and

this incident was typical of a movement
that created in the fifth and following
centuries the national type of culture we
call Greek. The American people has,
to be sure, not failed in self-assertion
and bluster, but these spoke for sensi-
tiveness and were a confession of weak-
ness, the pouting and vaunting of
children, not the strength and self-know-
ledge of maturity and responsibility. A
man's work to do and consciousness of
strength to do it and of responsibility
in doing it ripen a people.

The American people has acquired by
coming of age the right to feel that it
has ways and a work of its own which
determine for it the form and temper
of that standard of human competency
in men and communities which yields
a national type of culture. This type
will not be provincial ; Americans travel
too much and are too open-eyed; their
population is mixed of too many bloods ;
they dwell too much in the open, on the
great east and west routes that follow
the north temperate zone and join Eu-
rope to the Farther East. It is more
likely to represent the most universal
type.

It will not be the possession of a few.
It is based in a system of public edu-
cation reaching from the kindergarten
through the university, and, in its ac-
tual use by all classes and conditions of
the population, constituting an institu-
tion of human life without historic par-
allel. The apprehension that diffusion
of enlightenment involved a vulgariza-
tion of culture and a contentment with
mediocrity is the fallacy of small faith,
what shall these loaves among so
many ; the fallacy of distrust in men
that relies on compulsion rather than on
opportunity and inspiration, and these
are fallacies already disproved by the
facts. The opening of the higher edu-
cation to women and the entrance of ed-
ucated women into social service would
be of themselves sufficient vindication
of the national right to a distinctive type
of culture.

Marg'et Ann.

It will not be a culture for its own
sake. The methods of its acquisition
tend more and more toward becoming
through doing, as the ideals of its use
tend toward leading by serving. Ed-
ucation from being a mere preparation
for life, an artificial ripening off the
tree, has shifted to the intensive prac-
tice of life itself. The old education
sought by painful processes to isolate
training from action, the new shapes it
upon the living mould of action. The
definition of a university as a "place

where nothing practical is taught " is
laudable only if practical means void of
ideal. The American university has
made no greater contribution to educa-
tion than in combining technical schools
of engineering and the like in parity
with schools of the humanities. Both
sides have gained ; the one has acquired
scope and ideals, the other zeal for
learning by doing. The American pas-
sion for sweetness and light will be
fulfilled in such as are not knowers only,
but doers of the doctrine.

Benjamin Ide Wheeler. .

MARG'ET ANN.

IT was sacrament Sabbath in the
little Seceder congregation at Blue
Mound. Vehicles denoting various de-
grees of prosperity were beginning to
arrive before the white meeting-house
that stood in a patch of dog-fennel by
the roadside.

The elders were gathered in a solemn,
bareheaded group on the shady side of
the building, arranging matters of deep
spiritual portent connected with the
serving of the tables. The women en-
tered the church as they arrived, car-
rying or leading their fat, sunburned,
awe-stricken children, and sat in sub-
dued and reverent silence in the un-
painted pews. There was a smell of
pine and peppermint and last week's
gingerbread in the room, and a faint
rustle of bonnet strings and silk man-
tillas as each newcomer moved down
the aisle ; but there was no turning of
heads or vain, indecorous curiosity con-
cerning arrivals on the part of those
already in the pews.

Outside, the younger men moved
about slowly in their creased black
clothes, or stood in groups talking cov-
ertly of the corn planting which had be-
gun ; there was an evident desire to
compensate by lowered voices and lack

of animated speech for the manifest
irreverence of the topic.

Marg'et Ann and her mother came
in the farm wagon, that the assisting
minister, the Rev. Samuel McClanahan,
who was to preach the "action sermon, "
might ride in the buggy with the pastor.
There were four wooden chairs in the
box of the wagon, and the floor was
strewn with sweet-scented timothy and
clover. Mrs. Morrison and Miss Nancy
McClanahan, who had come with her
brother from Cedar Township to com-
munion, sat in two of the chairs, and
Marg'et Ann and her younger sister
occupied the others. One of the boys
sat on the high spring seat with his
brother Laban, who drove the team, and
the other children were distributed on
the hay between their elders.

Marg'et Ann wore her mother's
changeable silk made over and a cot-
tage bonnet with pink silk strings and
skirt and a white ruche with a wreath
of pink flowers in the face trimming.
Her brown hair was combed over her
ears like a sheet of burnished bronze
and held out by puff combs, and she
had a wide, embroidered collar, shaped
like a halo, fastened by a cairngorm
in a square setting of gold.

Marg'et Ann.

Miss Nancy McClanahan and her
mother talked in a subdued way of the
fast day services, and of the death of
Squire Davidson, who lived the other
side of the creek, and the probable re-
sult of Esther Jane Skinner's trouble
with her chest. There was a tacit
avoidance of all subjects pertaining to
the flesh except its ailments, but there
was no long-faced hypocrisy in the tones
or manner of the two women. Marg'et
Ann listened to them and watched the
receding perspective of the corn rows in
the brown fields. She had her token
tied securely in the corner of her hand-
kerchief, and every time she felt it she
thought regretfully of Lloyd Archer.
She had hoped he would make a con-
fession of faith this communion, but he
had not come before the session at all.
She knew he had doubts concerning
close communion, and she had heard
him say that certain complications of
predestination and free will did not ap-
pear reasonable to him. Marg'et Ann
thought it very daring of him to exact
reasonableness of those in spiritual high
places. She would as soon have thought
of criticising the Creator for making
the sky blue instead of green as for any
of His immutable decrees as set forth
in the Confession of Faith. It did
not prevent her liking Lloyd Archer
that her father and several of the elders
whom he had ventured to engage in
religious discussion pronounced him a
dangerous young man, but it made it
impossible for her to marry him. So
she had been quite anxious that he should
see his way clear to join the church.

They had talked about it during in-
termission last Sabbath; but Marg'et
Ann, having arrived at her own position
by a process of complete self-abnega-
tion, found it hard to know how to pro-
ceed with this stalwart sinner who in-
sisted upon understanding things. It
is true he spoke humbly enough of him-
self, as one who had not her light, but
Marg'et Ann was quite aware that she
did not believe the Catechism because

she understood it. She had no doubt
it could be understood, and she thought
regretfully that Lloyd Archer would be
just the man to understand it if he would
study it in the right spirit. Just what
the right spirit was she could not per-
haps have formulated, except that it
was the spirit that led to belief in the
Catechism. She had hoped that he
would come to a knowledge of the truth
through the ministrations of the Rev.
Samuel McClanahan, who was said to
be very powerful in argument; but he
had found fault with Mr. McClanahan 's
logic on fast day in a way that was quite
disheartening, and he evidently did not
intend to come forward this communion
at all. Her father had spoken several
times in a very hopeless manner of
Lloyd's continued resistance of the
Holy Spirit, and Marg'et Ann thought
with a shiver of Squire Atwater, who
was an infidel, and was supposed by
some to have committed the unpardon-
able sin. She remembered once when
she and one of the younger boys had
gone into his meadow for wild straw-
berries he had come out and talked to
them in a jovial way, and when they
were leaving, had patted her little
brother's head, and told him, with a
great, corpulent laugh, to "ask his fa-
ther how the devil could be chained
to the bottomless pit." She did not
believe Lloyd could become like that,
but still it was dangerous to resist the
Spirit.

Miss Nancy McClanahan had a bit
of mint between the leaves of her psalm
book, and she smelled it now and then
in a niggardly way, as if the senses
should be but moderately indulged on
the Sabbath. She had on black netted
mitts which left the enlarged knuckles
of her hands exposed, and there was a
little band of Guinea gold on one of her
fingers, with two almost obliterated
hearts in loving juxtaposition. Mar-
g'et Ann knew that she had been a
hardworking mother to the Rev. Sam-
uel's family ever since the death of his

Marg^et Ann.

wife, and she wondered vaguely how it
would seem to take care of Laban's
children in case Lloyd should fail to
make his peace with God.

When they drove to the door of the
meeting-house, Archibald Skinner came
down the walk to help them dismount.
Mrs. Morrison shook hands with him
kindly and asked after his sister's cough,
and whether his Grandfather Elliott was
still having trouble with his varicose
veins. She handed the children to him
one by one, and he lifted them to the
ground with an easy swing, replacing
their hats above their tubular curls
after the descent, and grinning good-
naturedly into their round, awe-tilled,
freckled countenances.

Miss Nancy got out of the wagon
backwards, making a maidenly effort
to keep the connection between the hem
of her black silk skirt and the top of
her calf-skin shoes inviolate, and brush-
ing the dust of the wagon wheel from
her dress carefully after her safe arri-
val in the dog-fennel. Marg'et Ann
ignored the chair which had been placed
beside the wagon for the convenience
of her elders, and sprang from the
wheel, placing her hands lightly in
those of the young man, who deposited
her safely beside her mother and turned
toward her sister Rebecca with a blush
that extended to the unfreckled spaces
of his hairy, outstretched hands, and
explained his lively interest in the dis-
embarkation of the family.

Laban drove the team around the
corner to a convenient hitching-place,
and the women and children went up
the walk to the church door. Mrs.
Morrison stopped a moment on the step
to remove the hats of the younger boys,
whose awe of the sanctuary seemed to
have deprived them of volition, and
they all proceeded down the aisle to the
minister's pew.

The pastor and the Rev. Samuel
McClanahan were already in the pul-
pit, their presence there being indicated
by two tufts of hair, one black and the

other sandy, which arose above the high
reading-desk; and the elders having
filed into the room and distributed them-
selves in the ends of the various well-
filled pews, the young men and boys
followed their example, the latter tak-
ing a sudden start at the door and pro-
jecting themselves into their places with
a concentration of purpose that seemed
almost apoplectic in its results.

There was a deep, premonitory still-
ness, broken only by the precentor, who
covertly struck his tuning-fork on the
round of his chair, and held it to his ear
with a faint, accordant hum; then the
minister arose and spread his hands in
solemn invocation above the little flock.

"Let us pray."

Every one in the house arose. Even
old Mrs. Groesbeck, who had sciatica,
allowed her husband and her son Eben-
ezer to assist her to her feet, and the
children who were too small to see over
the backs of the pews slipped from their
seats and stood in downcast stillness
within the high board inclosures.

After the prayer, Mr. Morrison read
the psalm. It was Rouse's version:

" I joy'd when to the house of God,
Go up, they said to me.
Jerusalem, within thy gates
Our feet shall standing be.
Jerus'lem as a city is
Compactly built together.
Unto that place the tribes go up,
The tribes of God go thither."

The minister read it all and "lined
out " the first couplet. Then the pre-
centor, a tall, thin man, whose thinness
was enveloped but not alleviated by an
alpaca coat, struck his tuning-fork more
openly and launched into the highly
rarefied atmosphere of China, being
quite alone in his vocal flight until the
congregation joined him in the more ac-
cessible regions of the second line.

Marg'et Ann shared her psalm book
with Laban, who sat beside her. He
had hurt his thumb shelling seed corn,
and his mother had made him a clean
thumb-stall for Sabbath. It was with

Marg'et Ann.

this shrouded member that he held the
edge of the psalm book awkwardly.
Laban's voice was in that uncertain
stage in which its vagaries astonished no
one so much as its owner, but he joined
in the singing. "Let all the people
praise Thee " was a command not to be
lightly set aside for worldly considera-
tions of harmony and fitness, and so
Laban sang, his callow and ill-adjusted
soul divided between fears that the peo-
ple would hear him and that the Lord
would not.

Marg'et Ann listened for Lloyd
Archer's deep bass voice in the Amen
corner.

She wished his feet were standing
within the gates of Jerusalem, as he so
resonantly announced that they would
be. But whatever irreverence there
might be in poor Laban refusing to sing
what he did not dream of doubting,
there was no impiety to these devout
souls in Lloyd Archer's joining with
them in the vocal proclamation of things
concerning which he had very serious
doubts. Not that Jerusalem, either
new or old, was one of these things;
the young man himself was not con-
scious of any heresy there ; he believed
in Jerusalem, in the church militant
upon earth and triumphant in heaven,
and in many deeper and more devious
theological doctrines as well. Indeed,
his heterodoxy was of so mild a type
that, viewed by the incandescent light
of to-day, which is not half a century
later, it shines with the clear blue ra-
diance of flawless Calvinism.

If the tedious "lining out," tradi-
tionally sacred, was quite unreasonable
and superfluous, commemorating nothing
but the days of hunted Covenanters and
few psalm books and fewer still who
were able to read them, perhaps the
remembrance of these things was as con-
ducive to thankfulness of heart as Da-
vid's recital of the travails and triumphs
of ancient Israel. Certain it is that
profound gratitude to God and devotion
to duty characterized the lives of most

of these men and women who sang the
praises of their Maker in this halting
and unmusical fashion.

Marg'et Ann sang in a high and
somewhat nasal treble, compassing the
extra feet of Mr. Rouse's doubtful ver-
sion with skill, and gliding nimbly over
the gaps in prosody by the aid of his
dextrously elongated syllables.

Some of the older men seemed to
dwell upon these peculiarities of versi-
fication as being distinctively ecclesi-
astical and therefore spiritually edi-
fying, and brought up the musical
rear of such couplets with long-drawn
and profoundly impressive "shy-un's"
and "i-tee's; " but these irregularities
found little favor in the eyes of the
younger people, who had attended sing-
ing school and learned to read buck-
wheat notes under the direction of Jona-
than Loomis, the precentor.

Marg'et Ann listened to the Rev.
Mr. McClanahan's elaborately divided
discourse, wondering what piece of the
logical puzzle Lloyd would declare to be
missing; and she glanced rather wist-
fully once or twice toward the Amen
corner where the young man sat, with
his head thrown back and his eager eyes
fixed upon the minister's face.

When the intermission came, she ate
her sweet cake and her triangle of dried
apple pie with the others, and then
walked toward the graveyard behind the
church. She knew that Lloyd would
follow her, and she prayed for grace to
speak a word in season.

The yung man stalked through the
tall grass that choked the path of the
little inclosure until lie overtook her
under a blossoming crab-apple tree.

He had been "going with " Marg'et
Ann more than a year, and there was
generally supposed to be an understand-
ing between them.

She turned when he came up, and
put out her hand without embarrass-
ment, but she blushed as pink as the
crab-apple bloom in his grasp.

They talked a little of commonplace

Marg'et Ann.

things, and Marg'et Ann looked down
and swallowed once or twice before she
said gravely,

"I hoped you 'd come forward this
sacrament, Lloyd."

The young man's brow clouded.

"I 've told you I can't join the
church without telling a lie, Marg'et
Ann. You wouldn't want me to tell
a lie," he said, flushing hotly.

She shook her head, looking down,
and twisting her handkerchief into a
ball in her hands.

" I know you have doubts about some
things ; but I thought they might be re-
moved by prayer. Have you prayed ear-
nestly to have them removed ? ' She
looked up at him anxiously.

"I 've asked to be made to see things
right, " he replied, choking a little over
this unveiling of his holy of holies ; "but
I don't seem to be able to see some
things as you do."

She pondered an instant, looking ab-
sently at the headstone of " Hephzibah, "
who was the later of Robert McCoy's
two beloved wives, then she said, with
an effort, for these staid descendants
of Scottish ancestry were not given to
much glib talking of sacred things :

" I suppose doubts are sent to try our
faith ; but we have the promise that they
will be removed if we ask in the right
spirit. Are you sure you have asked
in the right spirit, Lloyd ? '

"I have prayed for light, but I have
n't asked to have my doubts removed,
Marg'et Ann ; I don't know that I want
to believe what doesn't appear reason-
able to me."

The girl lifted a troubled, tremulous
face to his.

'That isn't the right spirit, Lloyd,
you know it isn't. How can God
remove your doubts if you don't want
him to ? "

The young man reached up and broke
off a twig of the round, pink crab-apple
buds and rolled the stem between his
work -hardened hands.

4 1 've asked for light, " he repeated,

VOL, xcii. NO. 549. 6

"and if when it comes I see things dif-
ferent, I '11 say so ; but I can't want to
believe what I don't believe, and I can't
pray for what I don't want."

The triangle of Marg'et Ann's brow
between her burnished satin puffs of hair
took on two upright, troubled lines.
She unfolded her handkerchief nervous-
ly, and her token fell with a ringing
sound against tired Hephzibah 's grave-
stone and rolled down above her pa-
tiently folded hands.

Lloyd stooped and searched for it in
the grass. When he found it he gave
it to her silently, and their hands met.
Poor Marg'et Ann! No hunted Cove-
nanter amid Scottish heather was more
a martyr to his faith than this rose-
cheeked girl amid Iowa cornfields. She
took the bit of flattened lead and
pressed it between her burning palms.

"I hope you won't get hardened in
unbelief, Lloyd," she said soberly.

The congregation was drifting toward
the church again, and the young people
turned. Lloyd touched the iridescent
silk of her wide sleeve.

"You ain't a-going to let this make
any difference between you and me, are
you, Marg'et Ann? " he pleaded.

"I don' t know, " wavered the girl.
"I hope you'll be brought to a sense
of your true condition, Lloyd." She
hesitated, smoothing the sheen of her
skirt. "It would be an awful cross to
father and mother."

The young man fell behind her in the
narrow path, and they walked to the
church door in unhappy silence.

Inside, the elders had accomplished
the spreading of the tables with slow-
moving, awkward reverence. The spot-
less drapery swayed a little in the after-
noon breeze, and there was a faint fruity
smell of communion wine in the room.

The two ministers and some of the
older communicants sat with bowed
heads, in deep spiritual isolation.

The solemn stillness of self-examina-
tion pervaded the room, and Marg'et
Ann went to her seat with a vague stir-

Marg'et Ann.

ring of resentment in her heart toward
the Rev. Samuel McClanahan, who,
with all his learning, could not convince
this one lost sheep of the error of his
theological way. She put aside such
thoughts, however, before the serving
of the tables, and walked humbly down
the aisle behind her mother, singing the
one hundred and sixteenth psalm to the
quaint rising and falling cadences of
Dundee.

Once, while the visiting pastor ad-
dressed the communicants, she thought
how it would simplify matters if Lloyd
were sitting opposite her, and then
caught her breath as the minister ad-
jured each one to examine himself,
lest eating and drinking unworthily he
should eat and drink damnation to him-
self.

It was almost sunset when the service
ended, and as the Morrisons drove into
the lane the smell of jimson-weed was
heavy on the evening air, and they could
hear the clank of the cow bells in the
distance.

Marg'et Ann went to her room to lay
aside her best dress and get ready for
the milking, and Mrs. Morrison and
Rebecca made haste to see about supper.

Miss Nancy McClanahan walked
about the garden in her much made-over
black silk, and compared the progress of
Mrs. Morrison's touch-me-nots and four-
o' clocks with her own, nipping herself
a sprig of tansy from the patch under
the Bowerly apple tree.

She shared Marg'et Ann's room that
night, and after she had taken off her
lace head-dress and put a frilled night-
cap over her lonesome little knot of gray
hair and said her prayers, she composed
herself on her pillow with a patient sigh,
and lay watching Marg'et Ann crowd
her burnished braids into her close-fit-
ting cap without speaking; but after
the light was out, and her companion
had lain down beside her, the old maid
placed her knotted hand on the girl's
more shapely one, and said :

"There 's worse things than living

single, Marg'et Ann, and then again I
suppose there 's better. Of course every
girl has her chances, and the people we
make sacrifices for don't always seem
quite as grateful as we calculated they 'd
be. I 'm not repinin', but I sometimes
think if I had my life to live over again
I'd do different."

Marg'et Ann pressed the knotted
fingers, that felt like a handful of hick-
ory nuts, and touched the little circle
with its two worn-out hearts, but she
said nothing.

She had heard that the Rev. Samuel
McClanahan was going to marry the
youngest Groesbeck girl, now that his
children were u getting well up out of
the way, " and she knew that her mother
had been telling Miss Nancy something
about her own love affair with Lloyd
Archer.

Whatever Mrs. Morrison may have
confided to Miss Nancy McClanahan
concerning Marg'et Ann and her lover
must have been entirely suppositional
and therefore liable to error; for the
confidence between parent and child did
not extend into the mysteries of love and
marriage, nor would the older woman
have dreamed of intruding upon the sa-
cred precinct of her daughter's feelings
to ward a young man. She had remarked
once or twice to her husband that she
was afraid sometimes that there was
something between Lloyd Archer and
Marg'et Ann; but whether this some-
thing was a barrier or a bond she left
the worthy minister to divine.

That he had decided upon the latter
was evidenced, perhaps, by his reply
that he hoped not, and his fear, which
he had expressed before, that Lloyd was
getting more and more settled in habits
of unbelief; and Mrs. Morrison took
occasion to remark the next day in her
daughter's hearing that she would hate
to have a child of hers marry an unbe-
liever.

Marg'et Ann did not, however, need
any of these helps to an understanding
of her parents' position. She knew too

Market Ann.

well the danger that was supposed to
threaten him who indulged in vain and
unprofitable questionings, and she had
too often heard the vanity of human rea-
son proclaimed to feel any pride in the
readiness with which Lloyd had an-
swered Squire Wilson in the argument
they had on foreordination at Hiram
Graham's infare. Indeed, she had felt
it a personal rebuke when her father had
said on the way home that he hoped no
child of his would ever set up his feeble
intellect against the eternal purposes of
God, as Lloyd Archer was doing. Mar-
g'et Ann knew perfectly well that if she
married Lloyd in his present unregener-
ate state she would, in the estimation of
her father and mother, be endangering
the safety of her own soul, which, though
presumably of the elect, could never be
conclusively so proved until the gates of
Paradise should close behind it.

She pondered on these things, and
talked of them sometimes with Lloyd,
rather unsatisfactorily, it is true; for
that rising theologian bristled with ques-
tions which threw her troubled soul into
a tumult of fear and uncertainty.

It was this latter feeling, perhaps,
which distressed her most in her calmer
moments; for it was gradually forcing
itself upon poor Marg'et Ann that she
must either snatch her lover as a brand
from the burning or be herself drawn
into the flames.

She had taken the summer school
down on Cedar Creek, and Lloyd used
to ride down for her on Friday evenings
when the creek was high.

Rebecca and Archie Skinner were to
be married in the fall, and her mother,
who had been ailing a little all summery
would need her at home when Rebecca
was gone. Still, this would not have
stood in the way of her marriage had
everything else been satisfactory; and
Lloyd suspected as much when she urged
it as a reason for delay.

'If anybody has to stay at home
on your mother's account, why not let
Archie Skinner and Becky put off their

wedding awhile ? They 're younger, and
they have n't been going together near
as long as we have, " said Lloyd, in an-
swer to her excuses.

They were riding home en horseback
one Friday night, and Lloyd had just
told her that Martin Prather was going
back to Ohio to take care of the old
folks, and would rent his farm very rea-
sonably.

Marg'et Ann had on a slat sunbonnet
which made her profile about as attrac-
tive as an " elbow " of stovepipe, but it
had the advantage of hiding the concern
that Lloyd's questioning brought into
her face. It could not, however, keep
it out of her voice.

"I don't know, Lloyd," she began
hesitatingly; then she turned toward
him suddenly, and let him see all the
pain and trouble and regret that her
friendly headgear had been sheltering.
"Oh, I do wish you could come to see
things different ! " she broke out tremu-
lously.

The young man was quiet for an in-
stant, and then said huskily, "I just
thought you had something like that in
your mind, Marg'et Ann. If you 've
concluded to wait till I join the church
we might as well give it up. I don't
believe in close communion, and I can't
see any harm in occasional hearing, and
I have n't heard any minister yet that
can reconcile free will and election ; the
more I think ab.out it the less I believe ;
I think there is about as much hope of
your changing as there is of me. I
don't see what all this fuss is about,
anyway. Arch Skinner isn't a church
member! '

It was hard for Marg'et Ann to say
why Archie Skinner's case was consid-
ered more hopeful than Lloyd's. She
knew perfectly well, and so did her
lover, for that matter, but it was not
easy to formulate.

"Ain't you afraid you '11 get to be-
lieving less and less if you go on ar-
guing, Lloyd ? ' she asked, ignoring
Archie Skinner altogether.

Marg'et Ann.

"I don't know," said Lloyd some-
what sullenly.

They were riding up the lane in the
scant shadow of the white locust trees.
The corn was in tassel now, and rustled
softly in the fields on either side. There
was no other sound for awhile. Then
Marg'et Ann spoke.

"I '11 see what father thinks " -

"No, you won't, Marg'et Ann,"
broke in Lloyd obstinately. "I think
a good deal of your father, but I don't
want to marry him; and I don't ask
you to promise to marry the fellow I
ought to be, or that you think I ought
to be ; I 've asked you to marry me.
I don't care what you believe, and I
don't care what your father thinks; I
want to know what you think."

Poor Lloyd made all this energetic
avowal without the encouragement of a
blush or a smile, or the discouragement
of a frown or a tear. All this that a
lover watches for anxiously was hidden
by a wall of slats and green -checked
gingham.

She turned her tubular head covering
toward him presently, however, showing
him all the troubled pink prettiness it
held, and said very genuinely through
her tears,

"Oh, Lloyd, you know well enough
what I think ! " '

They had reached the gate, and it
was a very much mollified face which
the young man raised .to hers as he
helped her to dismount.

"Your father and mother wouldn't
stand in the way of our getting married,
would they ? ' he asked, as she stood
beside him.

"Oh no, they would n't stand in the
way," faltered poor Marg'et Ann.

How could she explain to this mus-
cular fellow, whose pale-faced mother
had no creed but what Lloyd thought
or wanted or liked, that it was their un-
spoken grief that made it hard for her ?
How shall any woman explain her family
ties to any man ?

Marg'et Ann did not need to consult

her father. He looked up from his
writing when she entered the door.

"Was that Lloyd Archer, Marg'et
Ann ? " he asked kindly.

"Yes, sir."

"I 'd a little rather you would n't go
with him. He seems to be falling into
a state of mind that is likely to end in
infidelity. It troubles your mother and
me a good deal."

Marg'et Ann went into the bedroom
to take off her riding skirt, and she did
not come out until she was sure no one
could see that she had been crying.

Mrs. Morrison continued to complain
all through the fall; at least so her
neighbors said, although the good wo-
man had never been known to murmur ;
and Marg'et Ann said nothing whatever
about her engagement to Lloyd Archer.

Late in October Archie Skinner and
Rebecca were married and moved to the
Martin Prather farm, and Lloyd, rest-
less and chafing under all this silence
and delay, had no longer anything to
suggest when Marg'et Ann urged her
mother's failing health as a reason for
postponing their marriage.

Before the crab-apples bloomed again
Mrs. Morrison's life went out as quietly
as it had been lived. There was a short,
sharp illness at the last, and in one of
the pauses of the pain the sick woman
lay watching her daughter, who was
alone with her.

"I 'm real glad there was nothing
between you and Lloyd Archer, Mar-
g'et Ann, " she said feebly ; " that would
have troubled me a good deal. You '11
have your father and the children to
look after. Nancy Helen will be com-
ing up pretty soon, and be some help;
she grows fast. You '11 have to man-
age along as best you can."

The girl's sorely troubled heart failed
her. Her eyes burned and her throat
ached with the effort of self-control.
She buried her face in the patchwork
quilt beside her mother's hand. The
woman stroked her hair tenderly.

"Don't cry, Marg'et Ann, " she said,

Marg^et Ann.

"don't cry. You '11 get on. It 's the
Lord's will."

The evening after the funeral Lloyd
Archer came over, and Marg'et Ann
walked up the lane with him. She was
glad to get away from the Sabbath hush
of the house, which the neighbors had
made so pathetically neat, taking up
the dead woman's task where she had
left it, and doing everything with scru-
pulous care, as if they feared some vi-
sion of neglected duty might disturb her
rest.

The frost was out of the ground and
the spring ploughing had begun. There
was a smell of fresh earth from the fur-
rows, and a. red-bud tree in the thicket
was faintly pink.

Lloyd was silent and troubled, and
Marg'et Ann could not trust her voice.
They walked on without speaking, and
the dusk was deepening before they
turned to go back. Marg'et Ann had
thrown a little homespun shawl over her
head, for there was a memory of frost
in the air, but it had fallen back and
Lloyd could see her profile with its new
lines of grief in the dim light.

"It don't seem right, Marg'et Ann, "
he began in a voice strained almost to
coldness by intensity of feeling.

"But it is right, we know that,
Lloyd, " interrupted the girl ; then she
turned and threw both arms about his
neck and buried her face on his shoul-
der. "Oh, Lloyd, I can't bear it I
can't bear it alone you must help me
to be to be reconciled ! '

The young man laid his cheek upon
her soft hair. There was nothing but
hot unspoken rebellion in his heart.
They stood still an instant, and then
Marg'et Ann raised her head and drew
the little shawl up and caught it under
her quivering chin.

'We must go in," she said staidly,
choking back her sobs.

Lloyd laid his hands on her shoulders
and drew her toward him again.

"Is there no help, Marg'et Ann? '
he said piteously, looking into her tear-

stained face. In his heart he knew
there was none. He had gone over the
ground a thousand times since he had
seen her standing beside her mother's
open grave with the group of frightened
children clinging to her.

" God is our refuge and our strength,

lu straits a present aid ;
Therefore, although the earth remove.
We will not be afraid,"

repeated the girl, her sweet voice break-
ing into a whispered sob at the end.
They walked to the step and stood there
for a moment in silence.

The minister opened the door.

"Is that you, Marg'et Ann," he
asked. "I think we 'd better have wor-
ship now; the children are getting
sleepy. "

Almost a year before patient, tireless
Esther Morrison's eternal holiday had
come, a man, walking leisurely along
an empty mill-race, had picked up a few
shining yellow particles, holding in his
hand for an instant the destiny of half
the world. Every restless soul that
could break its moorings was swept
westward on the wave of excitement that
followed. Blue Mound felt the magnet-
ism of those bits of yellow metal along
with the rest of the world, and wild
stories were told at singing school and
in harvest fields of the fortunes that
awaited those who crossed the plains.

Lloyd Archer, eager, restless, and
discontented, caught the fever among
the first. Marg'et Ann listened to his
plans, heartsore and helpless. She had
ceased to advise him. There was a tacit
acknowledgment on her part that she
had forfeited her right to influence his
life in any way. As for him, uncon-
sciously jealous of the devotion to duty
that made her precious to him and un-
able to solve the problem himself, he
yet felt injured that she could not be
true to him and to his ideal of her as
well. If she had left the plain path
and gone with him into the byways, his
heart would have remained forever with

Market Ann.

the woman he had loved, and not with
the woman who had so loved him ; and
yet he sometimes urged her to do this
thing, so strange a riddle is the "way
of a man with a maid."

Lloyd had indulged a hope which he
could not mention to any one, least of
all to Marg'et Ann, that the minister
would marry again in due season. But
nothing pointed to a fulfillment of this
wish. The good man seemed far more
interested in the abolition of slavery in
the South than in the release of his
daughter from bondage to her own flesh
and blood, Lloyd said to himself, with
the bitterness of youth. Indeed, the
household had moved on with so little
change in the comfort of its worthy head
that a knowledge of Lloyd's wishes
would have been quite as startling to
the object of them as the young man's
reasons for their indulgence.

The gold fever had seemed to the min-
ister a moral disorder, calling for spirit-
ual remedies, which he had not failed to
administer in such quantity and of such
strength as corresponded with the reli-
gious therapeutics of the day.

Marg'et Ann hinted of this when her
lover came to her with his plans.

She was making soap, and although
they stood on the windward side of the
kettle, her eyes were red from the smoke
of the hickory logs.

"Do you think it is just right,
Lloyd ? " she asked, stirring the unsa-
vory concoction slowly with a wooden
paddle. "Isn't it just a greed for gold,
like gambling ? '

Lloyd put both elbows on the top of
the ash hopper and looked at her laugh-
ingly. He had on a straw hat lined
with green calico, and his trousers were
of blue jeans, held up by "galluses " of
the same; but he was a handsome fel-
low, with sound white teeth and thick,
curling locks.

"I don't know as a greed for gold is
any worse than a greed for corn, " he
said, trying to curb his voice into seri-
ousness.

" But corn is useful it is food
and, besides, you work for it." Mar-
g'et Ann pushed her sunbonnet back and
looked at him anxiously.

"Well, I 've planted a good deal more
corn than I expect to eat this year,
and I was calculating to sell some of
it for gold, you would n't think that
was wrong, would you, Marg'et Ann ? '

"No, of course not; but some one
will eat it, it 's useful," maintained
the girl earnestly.

" I have n't found anything more use-
ful than money yet, " persisted the young
man good-naturedly; "but if I come
home from California with two or three
bags full of gold, I '11 buy up a township
and raise corn by the wholesale,
that '11 make it all right, won't it? '

Marg'et Ann laughed in spite of her-
self.

"You're such a case. Lloyd," she
said, not without a note of admiration
in her reproof.

When it came to the parting there
was little said. Marg'et Ann hushed
her lover's assurances with her own,
given amid blinding tears.

"I '11 be just the same, Lloyd, no
matter what happens, but I can't let
you make any promises; it wouldn't
be right. I can't expect you to wait for
me. You must do whatever seems right
to you ; but there won't be any harm in
my loving you, at least as long as you
don't care for anybody else."

The young man said what a young
man usually says when he is looking
into trustful brown eyes, filled with
tears he has caused and cannot prevent,
and at the moment, in the sharp pain
of parting, the words of one were not
more or less sincere than those of the
other.

The years that f olloAved moved slow-
ly, weighted as they were with hard
work and monotony for Marg'et Ann,
and by the time the voice of the corn
had changed three times from the soft
whispering of spring to the hoarse rus-

Market Ann. 87

tling of autumn, she felt herself old and acquaintance ; indeed, there was no one

tired. among them all whose taste in striping

There had been letters and messages a carpet, or in "piecing and laying out

and rumors, more or less reliable, re- a quilt," was more sought after than

peated at huskings and quiltings, to Marg'et Ann's.

keep her informed of the fortunes of " She always was the old-f ashionedest
those who had crossed the plains, but little thing, " said Grandmother Elliott,
her own letters from Lloyd had been who had been a member of Mr. Morri-
few and unsatisfactory. She could not son's congregation back in Ohio. "I
complain of this strict compliance with never did see her beat." The good old
her wishes, but she had not counted upon lady's remark, which was considered
the absence of her lover's mother, who highly commendatory, and had nothing
had gone to Ohio shortly after his de- whatever to do with the frivolities of
parture and decided to remain there changing custom, was made at a quilt-
with a married daughter. There was ing at Squire Wilson's, from which
no one left in the neighborhood who Marg'et Ann chanced to be absent,
could expect to hear directly from Lloyd, "It's a pity she don't seem to get
and the reports that came from other married," said Mrs. Barnes, who was
members of the party he had joined told marking circles in the white patches of
little that poor Marg'et Ann wished to the quilt by means of an inverted tea-
know, beyond the fact that he was well cup of flowing blue ; "she 's the kind of
and had suffered the varying fortunes a girl / 'd 'a' thought young men would
of other gold-hunters. 'a' took up with."

There were moments of bitterness in "Marg'et Ann never was much for

which she tried to picture to herself the boys, " said Grandmother Elliott,

what her life might have been if she had disposed to defend her favorite, " and

braved her parents' disapproval and dear knows she has her hands full ; it's

married Lloyd before her mother's quite a chore to look after all them

death; but there was never a moment children."

bitter enough to tempt her into any neg- The women maintained a charitable

lect of present duty. The milking, the silence. The ethics of their day did

butter-making, the washing, the spin- not recognize any womanly duty incon-

ning, all the relentless hard work of the sistent with matrimony. "A disap-

women of her day, went on systemati- pointment ' : was considered the only

cally from the beginning of the year to dignified reason for remaining single,

its end, and the younger children came Grandmother Elliott felt the weakness

to accept her patient ministrations as of her position.

unquestioningly as they had accepted "I 'm sure I don't see how her father

their mother's. would get on," she protested feebly;

She wondered sometimes at her own "he ain't much of a hand to manage."

anxiety to know that Lloyd was true to "If Marg'et Ann was to marry, her

her, reproaching herself meanwhile with father would have to stir round and get

puritanic severity for such unholy self- himself a wife, " said Mrs. Barnes, with

ishness ; but she discussed the various cheerful lack of sentiment, confident

plaids for the children's flannel dresses that her audience was with her.

with Mrs. Skinner, who did the weav- "I 've always had a notion Marg'et

ing, and cut and sewed and dyed the Ann thought a good deal more of Lloyd

rags for a new best room carpet with Archer than she let on, at least more

the same conscientious regard for art in than her folks knew anything about, "

the distribution of the stripes which asserted Mrs. Skinner, stretching her

was displayed by all the women of her plump arm under the quilt and feeling

Marg'et Ann.

about carefully. "I shouldn't wonder
if she 'd had quite a disappointment."

" I would have hated to see her marry
Lloyd Archer, " protested Grandmother
Elliott; "she's a sight too good for
him; he 's always had queer notions."

"Well, I should 'a' thought myself
she could 'a' done better," admitted
Mrs. Barnes, "but somehow she has n't.
I tell 'Lisha it 's more of a disgrace to
the young man than it is to her."

Evidently this discussion of poor
Marg'et Ann's dismal outlook matri-
monially was not without precedent.

One person was totally oblivious to
the facts and all surmises concerning
them. Theoretically, no doubt, the
good minister esteemed it a reproach
that any woman should remain unmar-
ried; but there are theories which re-
finement finds it easy to separate from
daily life, and no thought of Marg'et
Ann's future intruded upon her father's
deep and daily increasing distress over
the wrongs of human slavery. Mar-
g'et Ann was conscious sometimes of a
change in him ; he went often and rest-
lessly to see Squire Kirkendall, who kept
an underground railroad station, and
not infrequently a runaway negro was
harbored at the Morrisons'. Strange
to say, these frightened and stealthy
visitors, dirty and repulsive though they
were, excited no fear in the minds of
the children, to whom the slave had be-
come almost an object of reverence.

Marg'et Ann read her first novel that
year, a story called Uncle Tom's
Cabin, which appeared in the National
Era, read it and wept over it, adding
all the intensity of her antislavery
training to the enjoyment of a hitherto
forbidden pleasure. She did not fail
to note her father's eagerness for the
arrival of the paper; and recalled the
fact that he had once objected to her
reading Pilgrim's Progress on the Sab-
bath.

"It 's useful, perhaps," he had said,
"useful in its way and in its place, but
it is fiction nevertheless."

There were many vexing questions
of church discipline that winter, and the
Rev. Samuel McClanahan rode over
from Cedar Township often and held
long theological discussions with her
father in the privacy of the best room.
Once Squire Wilson came with him, and
as the two visitors left the house Mar-
g'et Ann heard the Rev. Samuel urging
upon the elder the necessity of "hold-
ing up Brother Morrison's hands."

It was generally known among the
congregation that Abner Kirkendall had
been before the session for attending the
Methodist Church and singing an unin-
spired hymn in the public worship of
God, and it was whispered that the min-
ister was not properly impressed with
the heinousness of Abner's sin. Then,
too, Jonathan Loomis, the precentor,
who had at first insisted upon lining out
two lines of the psalm instead of one,
and had carried his point, now pushed
his dangerous liberality to the extreme
of not lining out at all. The first time
he was guilty of this startling innova-
tion, "Rushin' through the sawm, " as
Uncle John Turnbull afterwards said,
"without deegnity, as if it were a mere
human cawmposeetion, " two or three of
the older members arose and left the
church ; and the presbytery was shaken
to its foundations of Scotch granite when
Mr . Morrison humbly acknowledged that
he had not noticed the precentor's bold
sally, until Brother Turnbull 's depar-
ture attracted his attention.

It is true that the minister had
preached most acceptably that day from
the ninth and twelfth verses of the thir-
ty-fifth chapter of Job : " By reason of
the multitude of oppressions they make
the oppressed to cry : they cry out by
reason of the arm of the mighty. . . .
There they cry, but none giveth answer,
because of the pride of evil men."
And it is possible that the zeal for
freedom that burned in his soul was
rather gratified than otherwise by Jon-
athan's bold singing of the prophetic
psalm :

Marg'et Ann.

" He out of darkness did them bring

And from Death's shade them take,
Those bands wherewith they had been bound
Asunder quite he brake.

" O that men to the Lord would give

Praise for His goodness then,
And for His works of wonder done
Unto the sons of men."

But such absorbing enthusiasm even in
a good cause argued a doctrinal laxity
which could not pass unnoticed.

"A deegnifyin' of the creature above
the Creator, the sign above the thing
seegnified, " Uncle Johnnie Turnbull
urged upon the session, smarting from
the deep theological wound he had suf-
fered at Jonathan's hands.

A perceptible chill crept into the ec-
clesiastical atmosphere which Marge 't
Ann felt without thoroughly compre-
hending.

Nancy Helen was sixteen now, and
Marg'et Ann had taught the summer
school at Yankee Neck, riding home
every evening to superintend the young-
er sister's housekeeping.

Laban had emerged from the period
of unshaven awkwardness, and was go-
ing to see Emeline Barnes with ominous
regularity.

There was nothing in the affairs of
the household to trouble Marg'et Ann
but her father's ever increasing restless-
ness and preoccupation. She wondered
if it would have been different if her
mother had lived. There was no great
intimacy between the father and daugh-
ter, but the girl knew that the wrongs
of the black man had risen like a dense
cloud between her father and what had
once been his highest duty and pleasure.

She was not, therefore, greatly sur-
prised when he said to her one day,
more humbly than he was wont to speak
to his children :

"I think I must try to do something
for those poor people, child ; it may not
be much, but it will be something. The
harvest truly is great, but the laborers
are few,"

"What will you do, father? "

Marg'et Ann asked the question hes-
itatingly, dreading the reply. The min-
ister looked at her with anxious eager-
ness. He was glad of the humble ac-
quiescence that obliged him to put his
half -formed resolution into words.

"If the presbytery will release me
from my charge here, I may go South
for awhile. Nancy Helen is quite a girl
now, and with Laban and your teaching
you could get on. They are bruised for
our iniquities, Marg'et Ann, they are
our iniquities, indirectly, child."

He got up and walked across the rag-
carpeted floor. Marg'et Ann sat still
in her mother's chair, looking down at
the stripes of the carpet, dark blue
and red and "hit or miss; " her mother
had made them so patiently ; it seemed
as if patience were always under foot
for heroism to tread upon. She fought
with the ache in her throat a little. The
stripes on the floor were beginning to
blur when she spoke.

" Is n't it dangerous to go down there,
father, for people like us, for Aboli-
tionists, I mean; I have heard that it

was.

"Dangerous! ' The preacher's face
lighted with the faint, prophetic joy
of martyrdom ; poor Marg'et Ann had
touched the wrong chord. "It cannot
be worse for me than it is for them,
I must go, " he broke out impatiently ;
" do not say anything against it, child ! *

And so Marg'et Ann said nothing.

Really there was not much time for
words. There were many stitches to be
taken in the threadbare wardrobe, con-
cerning which her father was as ignorant
and indifferent as a child, before she
packed it all in the old carpet sack and
nerved herself to see him start.

He went away willingly, almost cheer-
fully. Just at the last, when he came
to bid the younger children good-by,
the father seemed for an instant to rise
above the reformer. No doubt their
childish unconcern moved him.

"We must think of the families that
have been rudely torn apart. Surely

Marg'et Ann.

it ought to sustain us, it ought to sus-
tain us, " he said to Laban as they drove
away.

Two days later they carried him home,
crippled for life by the overturning of
the stage near Cedar Creek.

He made no complaint of the drunk-
en driver whose carelessness had caused
the accident and frustrated his plans;
but once, when his eldest daughter was
alone with him, he looked into her
face and said, absently, rather than to
her,

" Patience, patience ; I doubt not the
Lord's hand is in it."

And Marg'et Ann felt that his pur-
pose was not quenched.

In the spring Lloyd Archer came
home. Marg'et Ann had heard of his
coming, and tried to think of him with
all the intervening years of care and
trial added; but when she saw him
walking up the path between the flower-
ing almonds and snowball bushes, all
the intervening years faded away, and
left only the past that he had shared,
and the present.

She met him there at her father's
bedside and shook hands with him and
said, "How do you do, Lloyd? Have
you kept your health ? " as quietly as
she would have greeted any neighbor.
After he had spoken to her father and
the children she sat before him with her
knitting, a very gentle, self-contained
Desdemona, and listened while he told
the minister stories of California, men-
tioning the trees and fruits of the Bible
with a freedom and familiarity that
savored just enough of heresy to make
him seem entirely unchanged.

When Nancy Helen came into the
room he glanced from her to Marg'et
Ann ; the two sisters had the same tints
in hair and cheek, but the straight,
placid lines of the elder broke into
waves and dimples in the younger.
Nancy Helen shook hands in a limp,
half-grown way, blushingly conscious
that her sleeves were rolled up, and
that her elders were maturely indiffer-

ent to her sufferings; and Lloyd jok-
ingly refused to tell her his name, in-
sisting that she had kissed him good-by
and promised to be his little sweetheart
when he came back.

Marg'et Ann was knitting a great
blue and white sock for Laban, and
after she had turned the mammoth heel
she smoothed it out on her lap, pains-
takingly, conscious all the time of a
tumultuous, unreasonable joy in Lloyd's
presence, in the sound of his voice, in
his glance, which assured her so unmis-
takably that she had a right to rejoice
in his coming.

She did not see her lover alone for
several days. When she did, he caught
her hands and said, "Well, Marg'et
Ann ? " taking up the unsettled question
of their lives where they had left it.
And Marg'et Ann stood still, with her
hands in his, looking down at the snow
of the fallen locust-bloom at her feet,
and said,

"When father is well enough to be-
gin preaching again, then I think
perhaps - - Lloyd "

But Lloyd did not wait to hear what
she thought, nor trouble himself greatly
about the "perhaps."

The minister's injuries were slow to
mend. They were all coming to under-
stand that his lameness would be per-
manent, and there was on the part of
the older children a tense, pained curi-
osity concerning their father's feeling
on the subject, which no word of his
had thus far served to relieve. There
was a grave shyness among them con-
cerning their deepest feelings, which
was, perhaps, a sense of the inadequacy
of expression rather than the austerity
it seemed. Marg'et Ann would have
liked to show her sympathy for her
father, and no doubt it would have
lightened the burdens of both ; but any
betrayal of filial tenderness beyond the
dutiful care she gave him would have
startled the minister, and embarrassed
them both. Life was a serious thing

Marg'et Ann.

to them only by reason of its relation
to eternity ; a constant underrating of
this world had made them doubtful of
its dignity. Marg'et Ann felt it rather
light-minded that she should have a
lump in her throat whenever she thought
of her father on crutches for the rest
of his life. She wondered how Laban
felt about it, but it was not likely that
she would ever know. Laban had made
the crutches himself, a rude, temporary
pair at first, but he was at work on
others now that were more carefully
made and more durable ; and she knew
from this and the remarks of her father
when he tried them that they both un-
derstood. It was not worth while to
talk about it of course, and yet the
household had a dull ache in it that a
little talking might have relieved.

Marg'et Ann had begged Lloyd not
to speak to her father until the latter
was "up and about." It seemed to
her unkind to talk of leaving him when
he was helpless, and Lloyd was very
patient now, and very tractable, work-
ing busily to get the old place in readi-
ness for his bride.

Mr. Morrison sat at his table, read-
ing, or writing hurriedly, or gazing
absently out into the June sunshine.
He was sitting thus one afternoon, tap-
ping the arms of his chair nervously
with his thin fingers, when Marg'et
Ann brought her work and sat in her
mother's chair near him. It was not
very dainty work, winding a mass of
dyed carpet rags into a huge, madder-
colored ball, but there were delicate
points in its execution which a restless
civilization has hurried into oblivion
along with the other lost arts, and Mar-
g'et Ann surveyed her ball critically
now and then, to be sure that it was
not developing any slovenly one-sided-
ness under her deft hands. The min-
ister's crutches leaned against the arm
of his painted wooden chair with an air
of mute but patient helpfulness. Mar-
g'et Ann had cushioned them with patch-
work, but he had walked about so much

that she already noted the worn places
beginning to show under the arms of
his faded dressing-gown. He leaned
forward a little and glanced toward her,
his hand on them now, and she put
down her work and went to his side.
He raised himself by the arms of his
chair, sighing, and took the crutches
from her patient hand.

"I am not of much account, child,
not of much account, " he said wearily.

Marg'et Ann colored with pain. She
felt as a branch might feel when the
trunk of the tree snaps.

"I 'm sure you 're getting on very
well, father; the doctor says you '11 be
able t^ begin preaching again by fall."

The minister made his way slowly
across the room and stood a moment in
the open door ; then he retraced his halt-
ing steps with their thumping wooden
accompaniment and seated himself
slowly and painfully again. One of
the crutches slid along the arm of the
chair and fell to the floor. Marg'et
Ann went to pick it up. His head was
still bowed and his face had not relaxed
from the pain of moving. Standing a
moment at his side and looking down
at him, she noticed how thin and gray
his hair had become. She turned away
her face, looking out of the window and
battling with the cruelty of it all. The
minister felt the tenderness of her silent
presence there, and glanced up.

" I shall not preach any more, Mar-
g'et Ann, at least not here, not in this
way. If I might do something for those
down- trodden people, but that is per-
haps not best. The Lord knows. But
I shall leave the ministry for % time,
until I see my way more clearly."

His daughter crossed the room, stoop-
ing to straighten the braided rug at his
feet as she went, and took up her work
again. Certainly the crimson ball was
a trifle one-sided, or was it the uneven-
ness of her tear-filled vision ? She un-
wound it a little to remedy the defect
as her father went on.

"Things do not present themselves

Marcfet Ann.

to my mind as they once did. I have
not decided just what course to pursue,
but it would certainly not be honorable
for me to occupy the pulpit in my pre-
sent frame of mind. You 've been a
very faithful daughter, Marg'et Ann,"
he broke off, "a good daughter."

He turned and looked at her sitting
there winding the great ball with her
trembling fingers ; her failure to speak
did not suggest any coldness to either
of them; response would have startled
him.

"I have thought much about it," he
went on. "I have had time to think
under this affliction. Nancy Helen is
old enough to be trusted now, and when
Laban marries he will perhaps be will-
ing to rent the land. No doubt you
could get both the summer and winter
schools in the district ; that would be a
great help. The congregation has not
been able to pay much, but it would be
a loss "

He faltered for the first time ; there
was a shame in mentioning money in
connection with his office.

"I have suffered a good deal of dis-
tress of mind, child, but doubtless it is
salutary it is salutary."

He reached for his crutches again
restlessly, and then drew back, remem-
bering the pain of rising.

Marg'et Ann had finished the ball of
carpet rags and laid it carefully in the
box with the others. She had taken
great pains with the coloring, thinking
of the best room in her new home, and
Lloyd had a man's liking for red.

And now the old question had come
back; it was older than she knew.
Doubtless it was right that men should
always have opinions and aspirations
and principles, and women only ties
and duties and heartaches. It seemed
cruel, though, just now. She choked
back the throbbing pain in her throat
that threatened to make itself seen and
heard.

"Of course I must do right, Marg'et
Ann. "

Her father's voice seemed almost
pleading.

Of course he must do right. Marg'et
Ann had not dreamed of anything else.
Only it was a little hard just now.

She glanced at him, leaning forward
in his chair with the crutches beside him.
He looked feeble about the temples and
his patched dressing-gown hung loose in
wrinkles. She crossed the room and
stood beside him. Of course she would
stay with him. She did not ask herself
why. She did not reason that it was
because motherhood underlies wifehood
and makes it sweet and sufficing ; makes
every good woman a mother to every
dependent creature, be it strong or
weak. I doubt if she reasoned at all.
She only said :

" Of course you will do right, father,
and I will see about the school ; I think
I can get it. You must not worry ; we
shall get on very well."

Out in the June sunshine Lloyd was
coming up the walk with Nancy Helen.
She had been gathering wild strawber-
ries in the meadow across the lane, and
they had met at the gate. Her sunbon-
net was pushed back from her crinkly
hair, and her cheeks were stained redder
than her finger tips by Lloyd's teasing.

Marg'et Ann looked at them and
sighed.

After her brother's return from pres-
bytery Miss Nancy McClanahan bor-
rowed her sister-in-law's horse and rode
over to visit the Morrisons. It was not
often that Miss Nancy made a trip of
this kind alone, and Marg'et Ann ran
down the walk to meet her, rolling down
her sleeves and smoothing her hair.

Miss Nancy took the girl's soft cheeks
in her hands and drew them into the
shadow of her cavernous sunbonnet for
a withered kiss.

"I want to see your father, Margie,"
she whispered, and the gentle constraint
of spiritual things came into Marg'et
Ann's voice as she answered:

"He's in the best room alone; I

Marg'et Ann.

moved him in there this morning to be
out of the sweeping. You can go right

in.

She lingered a little, hoping her old
friend's concern of soul might not have
obscured her interest in the salt-rising
bread, which had been behaving un-
towardly of late ; but Miss Nancy turned
her steps in the direction of the best
room and Marg'et Ann opened the door
for her, saying,

"It 's Miss McClanahan, father."

The minister looked up, wrinkling
his forehead in the effort to disentangle
himself from his thoughts. The old
maid crossed the room toward him with
her quick, hitching step.

"Don't try to get up, Joseph," she
said, as he laid his hand on his crutches ;
"I '11 find myself a chair."

She sat down before him, crossing
her hands in her lap. The little worn
band of gold was not on her finger, but
there was a smooth white mark where
it had been.

"Samuel got home from presbytery
yesterday ; he told me what was before
them. I thought I 'd like to have a
little talk with you."

Her voice trembled as she stopped.
A faint color showed itself through the
silvery stubble on the minister's cheeks ;
he patted the arms of his chair ner-
vously.

"I 'm hardly prepared to discuss my
opinions. They are vague, very vague,
at best. I should be sorry to unsettle
the faith " -

'I don't care at all about your opin-
ions, " Miss Nancy interrupted, pushing
his words away with both hands; "I
only wanted to speak to you about Mar-
g'et Ann."

"Marg'et Ann! " The minister's
relief breathed itself out in gentle sur-
prise.

"Yes, Marg'et Ann. I think it 's

time somebody was thinking of her,

Joseph." Miss Nancy leaned forward,

her face the color of a withered rose.

"She 's doing over again what I did.

Perhaps it was best for you. I believe
it was, and I don't want you to say a
word you must n't but I can speak,
and I 'm not going to let Marg'et Ann
live my life if I can help it."

'I don't understand you, Nancy."

The minister laid his hands on his
crutches and refused to be motioned
back into his chair. He stood before
her, looking down anxiously into her
thin, eager face.

"I know you don't. Esther never
understood, either. You did n't know
that Marg'et Ann gave up Lloyd
Archer because he had doubts, but I
knew it. I wanted to speak then, but
I could n't to her Esther and
now you don't know that she 's going
to give him up again because you have
doubts, Joseph. That 's the way with
women. They have no principles, only
to do the hardest thing. But I know
what it means to work and worry and
pinch and have nothing in the end,
not even troubles of your own, they
would be some comfort. And I 'm
going to save Marg'et Ann from it.
I 'm going to come here and take her
place. I 've got a little something of
my own, you know ; I always meant it
for her."

She stopped, looking, at him expect-
antly. The minister turned away, rub-
bing his hands up and down his polished
crutches. There was a soft, troubled
light in his eyes.

"Why, Nancy!"

His companion got up and moved a
step backward. Her cheeks flushed a
pale, faded red.

"Oh no," she said, with a quick,
impatient movement of her head, "not
that, Joseph; that died years ago, -
you are the same to me as other men,
excepting that you are Marg'et Ann's
father. It 's for her. It 's the only
way I can live my life over again, by
letting her live hers. I don't know
that it will be any better ; but she will
know, she will have a certainty in place
of a doubt. I don't know that my life

Dreams in the Redwoods.

would have been any better; I know
yours would not, and anyway it 's all
over now. I know I can get on with
the children, and I don't think people
will talk. I hope you 're not going to
object, Joseph. We 've always been
very good friends."

He shook his head slowly.

"I don't see how I can, Nancy.
It 's very good of you. Perhaps,"
he added, looking at her with a wist-
ful desire for contradiction, "perhaps
I 've been a little selfish about Marg'et
Ann."

"I don't think you meant to be,
Joseph," said the old maid soothingly;
"when anybody 's so good as Marg'et
Ann she does n't call for much grace in
the people about her. I think it 's a
duty we owe to other people to have
some faults."

Outside the door Marg'et Ann still
lingered, with her anxiety about the
bread on her lips and the shadow of
much serving in her soft eyes. Miss
Nancy stopped and drew her favorite
into the shelter of her gaunt arms.

"I 'm coming over next week to help
you get ready for the wedding, Mar-
gie," she said, "and I 'm going to stay
when you 're gone and look after things.
They don't need me at Samuel's now,
and I '11 be more comfortable here. I ' ve
got enough to pay a little for my board
the rest of my life, and I don't mean
to work very hard, but I can show Nancy
Helen and keep the run of things. There,
don't cry. We '11 go and look at the
sponge now. I guess you 'd better ride
over to Yankee Neck this afternoon,
and tell them you don't want the winter
school, there, there."

Margaret Collier Graham.

DREAMS IN THE REDWOODS.

WHEN early stars down twilight pathways rove
And deep-set, leaf-set canon streamlets croon
Their canticles unto the crescent moon,

What rare enchantment fills this redwood grove !

Gone is the net of care that Daylight wove,
The toil and weariness of afternoon,
And up from crimson sea and rose lagoon

Night drives her dreams, a misty, drowsy drove.

These redwood dreams ! The silver Mission bells,
The footprints of the Padres, fading fast,

The sails adventurous that decked the shore;
Then on and on into the purple past

Where redwood after redwood softly tells
Mysterious tales of immemorial lore !

Clarence Urmy.

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

A BUNCH OF TEXAS AND ARIZONA BIRDS.

ALMOST or quite the brightest bird
that I saw in Arizona the Arizona
cardinal, well named superbus, being
a doubtful exception was the vermil-
ion flycatcher. I had heard of it as
sometimes appearing in the neighbor-
hood of Tucson, but entertained small
hope of meeting it there myself. A
stranger, straitened for time, and that
time in winter, blundering about by
himself, with no pilot to show him the
likely places, could hardly expect to
find many besides the commoner things.
So I reasoned with myself, aiming to
be philosophical. Nevertheless, there
is always the chance of green hand's
luck ; I knew it by more than one happy
experience; and who could tell what
might happen ? Possibly it was not for
nothing that my eye, as by a kind of
magnetic attraction, fell so often upon
Mrs. Bailey's opening sentence about
this particular bird as day after day,
on one hunt and another, I turned the
leaves of her Handbook. "Of all the
rare Mexican birds seen in southern
Arizona and Texas," so I read, "the
vermilion flycatcher is the gem." One
thing was certain : this Mexican rarity
was not confusingly like anything else,
as so many of its Northern relatives
have the unhandsome trick of being.
If I saw it, ever so hurriedly, I should
recognize it.

Well, I did see it, and almost of
course at a moment when I was least
looking for it. This was on the 5th of
February, my fifth day in Tucson. I
had crossed the Santa Cruz valley, west
of the city, by one road, and after a
stroll among the foothills opposite, was
returning by another, when a bit of
flashing red started up from the wire
fence directly before me. I knew what
it was, almost before I saw it, as it
seemed, so eager was I, and so well
prepared; and as the solitary's com-

panionable habit is, I spoke aloud.
"There 's the vermilion flycatcher! " I
heard myself saying.

The fellow was every whit as splendid
as my fancy had painted him, and to
my joy he seemed to be not in the least
put out by my approach nor chary of
displaying himself. He was too inno-
cent and too busy ; darting into the air
to snatch a passing insect, and anon re-
turning to his perch, which was now a
fence-post, now the wire, and now, best
of all, the topmost, tilting spray of a
dwarf mesquite. Thus engaged, every
motion a delight to the eye, he flitted
along the road in advance of me, till
finally, having reached the limit of his
hunting-ground, the roadside ditches
filled with water from the overflow of
the irrigated barley fields, he turned
back by the way he had come.

I went home a happy man; I had
added one of the choicest and most
beautiful of American birds to my men-
tal collection. But one thing was still
lacking : flycatchers are not song-birds,
but the humblest of them has a voice,
and having things to say is apt to say
them. My new acquaintance had kept
his thoughts to himself.

This was in the forenoon, and after
luncheon I went back to walk again
over that muddy road between those
ditches of muddy water. The bird
might still be there. And he was,
still catching insects, and still silent.
But so handsome ! At first sight most
people, I suppose, would compare him,
as I did, with the scarlet tanager. The
red parts are of nearly or quite the same
shade, - a little deeper and richer, if
anything, - - while the wings, tail, and
back are dark brown, approaching black,
- the wings and tail especially, - - dark
enough, at any rate, to afford a brilliant
contrast. His scientific name is Pyro-
cephalus, which is admirable as far as

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

it goes, but falls far short of telling the
whole truth about him ; for not only is
his head of a fiery hue, but his whole
body as well, with the exceptions already
noted. In size he ranks between the
least flycatcher and the wood pewee. In
liveliness of action he is equal to the
best of his family, with a flirt of the
tail which to my eye is identical with
that of the phoebe. His gorgeous color
is the more effective because of his aerial
habits. The tanager is bright sitting
on the bough, but how much brighter he
would look if every few minutes he were
seen hovering in mid-air with the sun-
light playing upon him !

Certainly I was in great luck, and I
felt it the more as day after day I found
the dashing beauty in the same place.
I could not spend my whole winter va-
cation in visiting him, but I saw him
there at odd times, nearly as often as
I passed, until February 17. Then
he disappeared ; but a week later I dis-
covered him, or another like him, in a
different part of the valley, and on the
26th I saw two. The next day, for the
first time, one of the birds was in voice,
uttering a few fine, short notes, little
remarkable in themselves, but thorough-
ly characteristic ; not suggestive of any
other flycatcher notes known to me ; so
that, from that time to the end of my
stay in Tucson, I was never in doubt as
to their authorship, no matter where I
heard them.

All these earlier birds were males in
full plumage. The first female her-
self a beauty, with a modest tinge of
red upon her lower parts was noticed
March 5. Males were now becoming
common, and on the 9th, although my
walks covered no very wide territory, I
counted, of males and females together,
seventeen. From first to last not one
was met with on the creosote and cac-
tus-covered desert, but after the first
few days of March they were well dis-
tributed over the Santa Cruz and Rillito
valleys and about the grounds of the
university. I found no nest until March

27, although at least two weeks earlier
than that a female was seen pulling
shreds of dry bark from a cottonwood
limb, while her mate flitted about the
neighborhood, now here, now there, as
if he were too happy to contain himself.

The prettiest performance of the
male, witnessed almost daily, and some-
times many times a day, after the ar-
rival of the other sex, was a surprisingly
protracted ecstatic flight, half flying,
half hovering, the wings being held un-
naturally high above the back, as if on
purpose to display the red body (a most
peculiar action, by which the bird could
be told as far as he could be seen), ac-
companied throughout by a rapid repe-
tition of his simple call ; all thoroughly
in the flycatcher manner; exactly such
a mad, lyrical outburst as one frequently
sees indulged in by the chebec, for in-
stance, and the different species of
phoebe. In endurance, as well as in
passion, Pyrocephalus is not behind the
best of them, while his exceptional
bravery of color gives him at such mo-
ments a glory altogether his own. Some-
times, indeed, he seems to be emulous of
the skylark himself, he rises to such a
height, beating his way upward, hover-
ing for breath, and then pushing higher
and still higher. Once I saw him and
the large Arizona crested flycatcher in
the air side by side, one as crazy as the
other ; but the big magister was an awk-
ward hand at the business, compared
with the tiny Pyrocephalus.

It was good to find so showy a bird
so little disposed to shyness. At Old
Camp Lowell, where I often rested for
an hour at noon in the shade of one of
the adobe buildings, the bachelor winter
occupants of which were kind enough to
give me food and shelter (together with
pleasant company) whenever my walk
took me so far from home, our siesta
was constantly enlivened by his bright
presence and his engaging tricks. One
day, as he perched at the top of a low
mesquite, on a level with our eyes, I
put my glass into the hand of the younger

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

of my hosts. He broke out in a tone
of wonder. "Well, now," said he (he
spoke to the bird), "you are a peach."
And so he is. It is exactly what, in my
more old-fashioned and less collegiate
English, I have been vainly endeavoring
to say.

And to be a "peach " is a fine thing.
A vivacious living essayist, it is true,
who is probably a handsome man him-
self, at least in the looking-glass, de-
clares that "male ugliness is an endear-
ing quality. " The remark may be true
in a sense ; by all means let us hope
so, seeing how generous Nature has been
with the commodity in question ; but
I arn confident that the female vermil-
ion flycatcher would never admit it. As
for her glorious dandy of a husband,
there can be no doubt what opinion he
would hold of such an impudent reflec-
tion upon feminine perspicacity and
taste. "A plague upon paradoxes and
aphorisms," I hear him answer. "If
fine feathers don't make fine birds, what
in Heaven's name do they make? '

It was only two days after my discov-
ery of the vermilion flycatcher (if I re-
member correctly I was at that moment
on my way to enjoy a third or fourth
look at him) that I first saw a very dif-
ferent but scarcely less interesting bird.
I was on the sidewalk of Main Street,
in the busy part of the day, my thoughts
running upon a batch of delayed letters
just received, when suddenly I looked
up (probably I had heard a voice with-
out being conscious of it) and saw swifts
shooting overhead. People were pass-
ing, but it was now or never with me,
and I whipped out my opera-glass. There
were six of the birds, and their throats
were white. So much I saw, having
known what to look for,, and then they
were gone, as if the heavens had
opened and swallowed them up. It was
a niggardly interview, at pretty long
range, but a deal better than nothing;
enough, at all events, for an identifica-
tion. They were white-throated swifts,
Aeronautes melanoleucus.

VOL. xcii. NO. 549. 7

Three days later a flock of at least
seventeen birds of the same species were
hawking over the Santa Cruz valley, and
now, as they swept this way and that
at their feeding, there was leisure for
the field-glass and something like a real
examination. To my surprise (surprise
is the compensation of ignorance) I saw
that they had not only white throats,
as their name implies, but white breasts,
and more noticeable still, white rumps.
Those who know our common dingy,
soot-colored chimney swift of the East
will be able to form some idea of the
distinguished appearance of this West-
erner : a considerably larger bird, built
on the same rakish lines, shooting about
the sky in the same lightning-like zig-
zags, and marked in this striking and
original manner with white. I saw the
birds only four times afterward, the last
time on the 17th of February. The
explanation of their sudden appearance
and disappearance at such a season is
beyond my guessing; but I am glad I
saw them. Indeed I can see them now,
their white rumps lighting up as they
wheel and catch the sun. It pleases me
to learn that it is next to impossible to
shoot them, and that they are scarce in
collections. So may they continue.
They were made for better things.

The most beautiful bird that I saw
in Arizona (so I think, but one speaks
of such matters under self-correction,
as the mood changes) was the Arizona
Pyrrhuloxia. I should be glad to give
the reader, as well as to have for my
own use, an English name for it, but
so far as I am aware it has none. It
has lived beyond the range of the ver-
nacular. My delight in its beauty was
less keen than naturally it would have
been, because I had spent my first rap-
tures upon its equally handsome Texas
relative of the same name a few weeks
before. This was at San Antonio, in
the chaparral just outside the city,
had been listening to a flock of lark
sparrows, I remember, and looking at
sundry things, where almost everything

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

was new, when all at once I saw before
me at the foot of a bush the loveliest
bunch of feathers that I had ever set
eyes on. Without the least thought of
what I was doing I began repeating to
myself under my breath, "O my soul!

my soul! ' And in sober truth the
creature was deserving of all the admira-
tion it excited : a bird of the cardinal's
size and build, dressed not in gaudy red,
but in the most exquisite shade of gray,
with a plentiful spilling of an equally
exquisite rose color over its under parts.
Its bright orange bill was surrounded at
the base by a double ring of black and
rose, and on its head was a most distin-
guished-looking, divided crest, tipped
with rose color of a deeper shade. It
was loveliness to wonder at. I cannot
profess that I was awe-struck (not being
sure that I know just what that excel-
lent word means), but it would hardly
be too much to say that "as I passed,

1 worshiped."

The Arizona bird, unhappily, was
not often seen (the Texas bird treated
me better), though when I did come
upon it, it was generally in accessible
places (in wayside hedgerows) not far
from houses. No one could see either
the Texas or the Arizona bird for the
first time without comparing it with the
cardinal, the two are so much alike, and
yet so different. The cardinal is bright-
er, but for beauty give me Pyrrhuloxia.
I do not expect the sight of any other
bird ever to fill me with quite so rap-
turous a delight in pure color as that
first unlooked-for Pyrrhuloxia did in
the San Antonio chaparral. It was like
the joy that comes from falling sud-
denly upon a stanza of magical verse, or
catching from some unexpected quarter
a strain of heavenly music.

If Pyrocephalus was the brightest and
Pyrrhuloxia the most beautiful of my
Arizona birds, Phainopepla must be
called the most elegant, the most su-
premely graceful, if I may be pardoned
such an application, of the word, the
most incomparably genteel. I saw it

first at Old Camp Lowell, before men-
tioned, near the Rillito, at the base of
the low foothills of the Santa Catalina
Mountains. At my first visit to the
camp, which is six or seven miles from
the city of Tucson, straight across the
desert, I mistook my way at the last
and approached the place from the far-
ther end by a cross-cut through the
creosote bushes. Just as I reached the
adobe ruins, all that is left of the old
camp, I descried a black bird balancing
itself daintily at the tip of a mesquite.
I lifted my glass, caught sight of the
bird's crest, and knew it for a Phai-
nopepla. How good it is to find some-
thing you have greatly desired and little
expected !

The Phainopepla (like the Pyrrhu-
loxia it has no vernacular appellation,
living only in that sparsely settled,
Spanish-speaking corner of the world)
is ranked with the waxwings, though
except for its crest there is little or
nothing in its outward appearance to
suggest such a relationship; and the
crest itself bears but a moderate resem-
blance to the pointed topknot of our
familiar cedar-bird. What I call the
Phainopepla's elegance comes partly
from its form, which is the very perfec-
tion of shapeliness, having in the high-
est degree that elusive quality which
in semi-slang phrase is designated as
"style;' partly from its motions, all
prettily conscious and in a pleasing sense
affected, like the movements of a dan-
cing-master ; and partly from its color,
which is black with the most exquisite
bluish sheen, set off in the finest manner
by broad wing-patches of white. These
wing-patches are noticeable, further-
more, for being divided into a kind of
network by black lines. It is for this
reason, I suppose, that they have a pe-
culiar gauzy look (I speak of their ap-
pearance while in action), such as I
have never seen in the case of any other
bird, and which often made me think
of the ribbed, translucent wings of cer-
tain dragon-flies,

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

Doubtless this peculiar appearance
was heightened to my eyes because of
the mincing, wavering, over-buoyant
method of flight (the wings being car-
ried unusually high) to which I have
alluded, and which always suggested to
me the studied movements of a dance.
I think I never saw one of the birds so
far forget itself as to take a direct,
straightforward course from one point
to another. No matter where they
might be going, though the flight were
only a matter of a hundred yards, they
progressed always in pretty zigzags,
making so many little, unexpected, in-
decisive tacks and turns by the way, but-
terfly fashion, that you began to wonder
where they would finally come to rest.

The two birds first seen the female
in lovely gray were evidently at home
about the camp. The berry -bearing para-
sitic plants in the mesquites seemed to
furnish them with food, and no doubt
they were settled there for the season;
and at least two more were wintering
out among the Chinese kitchen gardens,
not far away. Some weeks afterward
I came upon a pair in a similar mesquite
growth on the Santa Cruz side of the
desert. But though in the one place
and the other I passed a good many
hours in their society, I never once
heard them sing, nor, so far as I can
now recall, did they ever utter any sound
save a mellow pip, almost exactly like
a certain call of the robin ; so like it,
in fact, that to the very last I never
heard it suddenly given, but my first
thought was of that common Eastern
bird, whose voice in those early spring
days it would have been so natural and
so pleasant to hear, I could have spared
a dozen or two of thrashers, I thought
(not brown thrashers), for a pair of rob-
ins and a pair of bluebirds. But south-
ern Arizona is a kind of thrasher para-
dise, while robins and bluebirds desire

1 It should be said, nevertheless, that strag-
gling flocks of Western bluebirds lovely
creatures were met with on the desert on
rare occasions, and once, at Old Camp Lowell,

a better country, and seemingly know
where to find it. 1

In the last week of March, however,
there took place, as well as I could
judge, a concerted movement of Phai-
nopeplas northward. They showed them-
selves in the Santa Cruz valley, here
and there a pair, until they became, not
abundant, indeed, but a regular, every-
day sight. Those that I had heretofore
seen, it appeared, were only a few win-
ter "stay-overs." Now the season had
opened ; and now the birds began sing-
ing. For curiosity's sake it pleased me
to hear them, but the brief measure, in
a thin, squeaky voice, was nothing for
any bird to be proud of. They sing
best to the eye. Birds of the shining
robes, their Greek name calls them ; and
worthily do they wear it, under that un-
clouded Arizona sun, perching, as they
habitually do, at the tip of some bush
or tree, where the man with birds in
his eye can hardly fail to sight them and
name them, across the widest barley
field.

One of the birds whose acquaintance
I chiefly wished to make on this my
first Western journey was the famous
canyon wren, famous not for its
beauty (beauty is not the wren family's
mark), but for its voice. Whether my
wish would be gratified was of course a
question, especially as my very modest
itinerary included no exploration of can-
yons; but I was not without hope.

I had been in Tucson nearly a week,
when one cool morning after a cold night
(it was February 7) I went down into
the Santa Cruz valley and took the road
that winds where there is barely room
for it between the base of Tucson
Mountain and the river. Steep, broken
cliffs, perhaps a hundred feet high, were
on my right hand, and the deep bed of
the shallow river lay below me on my
left. Here I was enjoying the sun,

three robins Westerners, no doubt passed
over my head, flying toward the mountains, in
which they are said to winter.

100

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

and keeping my eyes open, when a set
of loud, clear bird-notes in a descending
scale fell upon my ears from overhead.
I stopped, pulled myself together, and
said, "A cany on wren." I remembered
a description of that descending scale.
The next instant a small hawk took wing
from the spot on the cliff whence the
notes had seemed to fall. My mind
wavered, but only for a moment. "No,
no," I said, "it is not in any hawk's
throat to produce sounds of that qual-
ity ; " and I waited. A rock wren be-
gan calling, but rock wrens did not count
with me at that moment. Then, in a
very different voice, a wren, presumably
the one I was in search of, began fret-
ting, unseen, somewhere above my head ;
and then, silence. I waited and waited.
Finally I tried an old trick I started
on. If the bird was watching me, as
likely enough he was, a movement to
leave his neighborhood would perhaps
excite him pleasurably. And so it did ;
or so it seemed ; for almost at once the
song was given out and repeated: a
hurried introductory phrase, and then
the fuller, longer, more liquid notes,
tripping quietly down the scale.

The singer could be no other than the
canyon wren ; but of course I must see
him. At last, my patience outwearing
his, he fell to scolding again, and glan-
cing up in the direction of the sound, I
saw him on the jutting top of the very
highest stone, his white throat and breast
flashing in the sun, and the dark, rich
brown of his lower parts setting the
whiteness off to marvelous advantage.
There he stood, calling and bobbing,
calling and bobbing, after the familiar
wren manner, though why he should re-
sent an innocent man's presence so far
below was more than any innocent man
could imagine.

It would be an offense against the
truth not to confess that the celebrated
song fell at first a little short of my
expectations. Perhaps I had heard it
celebrated somewhat too loudly and too
often. It was very pleasing ; the voice

beautifully clear and full, and the ca-
dence of the sweetest ; it had the grace
of simplicity ; indeed, there was nothing
to be said against it, except that I had
supposed it would be well, I hardly
know what, but somehow wilder and
more telling.

Within a few days I discovered a
second pair of the birds not far away,
about an old, long-disused adobe mill.
They were already building a nest some-
where inside, entering by a crack over
one of the windows. The female ap-
peared to be doing the greater part of
the work, while her mate sat upon the
edge of the flat roof and sang for her
encouragement, or railed at me for my
too assiduous lounging about the pre-
mises. The more I listened to the
song, the better I enjoyed it ; it is cer-
tainly a song by itself; I have never
heard anything with which to compare
it; and I was especially pleased to see
how many variations the performer was
able to introduce into his music, and
yet leave it always the same.

The first pair, on the precipitous face
of the mountain, had chosen the more
romantic site, and I often stopped to
admire their address in climbing about
over the almost perpendicular surface
of the rock ; now disappearing for a few
seconds, now popping into sight again
a little further on; finding a foothold
everywhere, no matter how smooth and
steep the rock might look.

The canyon wren is a darling bird
and a musical genius ; and now that I
have ceased to measure his song by my
extravagant expectations concerning it,
I do not wish it in any wise altered.
His natural home is by the side of fall-
ing water (I have heard him since, where
I should have heard him first, in a can-
yon), and his notes fall with it. I seem
to hear them dropping one by one, every
note by itself, as I write about them. If
they are not of a kind to be ecstatic over
at a first hearing (a little too simple for
that), they are all the surer of a long
welcome. Indeed, I am half ashamed

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

101

to have so much as referred to my own
early lack of appreciation of their ex-
cellence. Perhaps this was one of the
times when the truth should not have
been spoken.

My mention just now of the wren's
cleverness in traveling over the steep
side of Tucson Mountain called to mind
a similar performance on the part of a
very different bird a road-runner
in the same place ; and though it was not
in my plan to name that bird in this
paper, I cannot deny myself the digres-
sion.

I had taken a friend, newly inoculated
with ornithological fever, down to this
mountain-side road to show him a black -
chinned hummingbird. We had seen
it, to his amazement, on the very mes-
quite where I had told him it would be
( " Well ! " he said, and a most elo-
quent "well " it was, when I pointed
the bird out as we came in sight of the
bush), and were driving further, when I
laid my hand on the reins and bade him
look up. There, halfway up the precipi-
tous, broken cliff, was the big, mottled,
long-tailed bird, looking strangely out
of place to both of us, who had never seen
him before except in the lowlands, run-
ning along the road, or dodging among
clumps of bushes. Even as we looked
he began climbing, and almost in no
time was on the very topmost stone, at
the base of a stunted palo-verde. There
he fell to cooing (like a dove, I said
I forgot at the moment that the road-
runner is a kind of cuckoo), and by the
time he had repeated the phrase three
or four times we remarked that before
doing so he invariably lowered his head.
We sat and watched and listened
( " There ! " one or the other would say,
as the head was ducked) for I know not
how many minutes, commenting upon
the droll appearance of the bird, perched
thus above the world, and cooing in this
(for him) ridiculous, lovelorn manner.

Then, as we drove on, I recalled the
strangely rapid and effortless manner in
which he had gone up the mountain.

"He did n't use his wings, did he? " I
asked ; and my companion thought not.
I was reminded of a bird of the same
kind that I had seen a few days before
cross a deep gully perhaps twenty feet
in width. " He seemed to slide across, "
said the man who was with me. That
was exactly the word. He did not lift
a wing, as far as we noticed, nor rise
so much as an inch into the air, but as
it were stepped from one bank to the
other. So this second bird went up the
mountain side almost without our seeing
how he did it. A few steps, and he
was there, as by the exercise of some
special gift of specific levity. He did
not fly ; and yet it might have "seemed
he flew, the way so easy was." Take
him how you will, the road -runner's
looks do not belie him: he is an odd
one ; and never odder, I should guess,
than when he stands upon a mountain-
top and with lowered head pours out
his amorous soul in coos as gentle as a
sucking dove's. I count myself happy
to have witnessed the moving spectacle.

I am running into superlatives, but
no matter. The feeling against their
use is largely prejudice. Let me suit
myself with one or two more, therefore,
and say that the rarest and most excit-
ing bird seen by me in Arizona was a
painted redstart, Setophaga picta. It
was at the base of Tucson Mountain,
close by the canyon wrens' old mill.
The vermilion flycatcher, rare as I con-
sidered it at first, became after a while
almost excessively common. I believe
it is no exaggeration to say that forty
or fifty pairs must have been living in
and about Tucson before the first of
April. Unless you were out upon the
desert, you could hardly turn round
without seeing or hearing them. But
there was no danger of the painted red-
start's cheapening itself after this fash-
ion. I saw it twice, for perhaps ten
minutes in all, and as long as I live I
shall be thankful for the sight.

I was playing the spy upon a pair of
what I took to be Arkansas goldfinches,

102

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

and the question being a nice one, had
got over a wire fence to have the sun at
my back. There I had barely focused
my eight-power glass upon a leafless wil-
low beside an irrigation ditch, when all
at once there moved into its field such a
piece of pure gorgeousness as I have no
hope of making my reader see by means
of any description : a small bird in three
colors, deep, velvety black, the snow-
iest white, and the most brilliant red.
Its glory lay in the depth and purity of
the three colors ; its singularity lay in a
point not mentioned in book descrip-
tions, being inconspicuous, I suppose,
in cabinet specimens : a line (almost
literally a line) of white about the eye.
From its position and its extreme tenu-
ity I took it for the lower eyelid, but
as to that I cannot speak with positive-
ness. It would hardly have showed,
even in life, I dare say, but for its in-
tensely black surroundings. As it was,
it fairly stared at me. I cannot affirm
that it added to the bird's beauty.
Apart from it the colors were all what I
may call solid, laid on in broad masses,
that is : a red belly, a long white band
(not a bar) on each wing, some white tail
feathers, white lower tail coverts, and
everything else black. It does not sound
like anything so very extraordinary, I
confess. But the reader should have
seen it. Unless he is a very dry stick
indeed, he would have let off an excla-
mation or two, I can warrant. There
are cases in which the whole is a good
deal more than the sum of all its parts.

The bird was on one of the larger
branches, over which it moved in some-
thing of the black-and-white creeper's
manner, turning its head to one side and
the other alternately as it progressed.
Then it sat still a long time (a long time
for a warbler), so near me that the glass
brought it almost into my hand, while
I devoured its beauty; and then, of a
sudden, it took flight into the dense,
leafy top of a tall cottonwood,and I saw
it no more.

No more for that time, that is to

say. In my mind, indeed, I bade it
good-by forever. It was not to be
thought of that such a bit of splendor
(I had read of it as a mountain bird)
should happen in my way more than
once. But eight days afterward (March
28), in nearly the same place, it ap-
peared again, straight over my head;
and I was almost as much astonished
as before. It was exploring the bare
branches of a row of roadside ash trees,
and I followed it, or rather preceded
it, backing away as it flitted from one
tree to the next, keeping the sun be-
hind me. It carried itself now much
like the common redstart ; a little more
inclined to moments of inactivity, per-
haps, but at short intervals darting into
the air after a passing insect with all
conceivable quickness.

And such colors ! Such an unspeak-
able red, so intense a black, and so pure
a white! If I said that the vermilion
flycatcher was the brightest bird I saw
in Arizona, I was like the Hebrew psalm-
ist. I said it in my haste.

This time the redstart was in a sing-
ing mood. On the previous occasion
it had kept silence, and I had thought
I was glad to have it so, feeling that no
voice could be good enough to go with
such feathers. In its way the feeling
was justified ; but, after all, it would
have been too bad to miss the song.
Curiosity has its claims, no less than
sentiment. And happily the song proved
to be a very pretty one ; similar to that
of the Eastern bird, to be sure, but less
hurried (so it seemed to me), less over-
emphatic, and in a voice less sharp and
thin; a very pretty song (for a war-
bler), though, as is true of the Phaino-
pepla and most other brilliantly hand-
some birds (and all good children), the
redstart's proper appeal is to the eye.
So far as human appreciation is con-
cerned, it need make no other.

I have heard a canyon wren in a can-
yon, I said. It was a glorious day in
a glorious place, Sabino Canyon, it is
called, in the Santa Catalina Mountains.

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

103

And it was there, where the ground was
all a flower garden, and the dashing
brook a doubly delightful sight and sound
after so much wandering over the desert
and so many crossings of dry, sandy
river-beds, - it was there, amid a clus-
ter of leafy oaks (strange leaves they
were) and leafless hackberry trees, that
I saw my first and only solitaire,
Myadestes townsendii. I have praised
other birds for their brightness and
song ; this one I must praise for a cer-
tain nameless dignity and, as the pre-
sent-day word is, distinction. He did
not deign to break silence, or to notice
in any manner, unless it were by an
added touch of patrician reserve, the
presence of three human intruders. I
stared at him, - exercising a cat's
privilege, for all his hauteur, admir-
ing his gray colors, his conspicuous
white eye-ring, and his manner. I say
" manner, " not " manners. " You would
never liken him to a dancing-master.

He was the solitaire, I somehow felt
certain (certain with a lingering of un-
certainty), though I had forgotten all
description of that bird's appearance.
It was the place for him, and his looks
went with the name. Moreover, to
confess a more prosaic consideration,
there was nothing else he could be.

"Myadestes," I said to my two com-
panions, both unacquainted with such
matters; "I think it is Myadestes,
though I can't exactly tell why I think
so."

We must go into the canyon a little
way, gazing up at the walls, picking a
few of the more beautiful flowers, feel-
ing the place itself (the best thing one
can do, whether in a canyon or on a
mountain-top) ; then we came back to
the hackberry trees, but the solitaire was
no longer in them. I had had my op-
portunity, and perhaps had made too lit-
tle of it. It is altogether likely that I
shall never see another bird of his kind.

For now those cloudless Arizona days,
the creosote-covered desert, and the
mountain ranges standing round about

it, are all for me as things past and
done ; a bright memory, and no more.
One event conspired with another to put
a sudden end to my visit (which was
already longer than I had planned), and
on the last day of March I walked for
the last time under that row of " leafless
ash trees, " no longer quite leafless,
and no longer with a painted redstart
in them, and over that piece of wind-
ing road between the craggy hill and the
river. Now I courted not the sun but
the shade^ it was the sun, more than
anything else, that was hurrying me
away, when I would gladly have stayed
longer ; but sunny or shady, I stopped a
bit in each of the more familiar places.
Nobody knew or cared that I was taking
leave. All things remained as they had
been. The same rock wrens were prac-
ticing endless vocal variations here and
there upon the stony hillside ; the same
fretful verdin was talking about some-
thing, it was beyond me to tell what,
with the old emphatic monotony; the
hummingbird stood on the tip of his
mesquite bush, still turning his head ea-
gerly from side to side, as if he expected
her, and wondered why on earth she was
so long in coming ; the mocker across the
field (one of no more than half a dozen
that I saw about Tucson !) was bringing
out of his treasury things new and old
(a great bird that, always with another
shot in his locker) ; the Lucy warbler,
daintiest of the dainty, was singing amid
the willow catkins, a chorus of bees ac-
companying; the black cap of the pil-
eolated warbler was not in the blossom-
ing quince-bush hedge (that was a pity) ;
the desert-loving sparrow hawk sat at
the top of a giant cactus, as if its thorns
were nothing but a cushion ; the happy
little Mexican boy, who lived in one cor-
ner of the old mill, came down the road
with his usual smile of welcome (we
were almost old friends by this time)
and a glance into the trees, meaning to
say, what he could not express in Eng-
lish, nor I understand in Spanish, " I
know what you are doing ; " and then,

104

A Bunch of Texas and Arizona Birds.

as I rounded the bend, under the bee-
tling crags, the same canyon wren, my
first one, not dreaming what a favor he
was conferring upon the man he had so
often chided as a trespasser, let fall a
few measures of his lovely song. How
sweet and cool the notes were ! Unless
it was the sound of the brook in the
Sabino Canyon, I heard nothing else so
good in Arizona.

But at San Antonio, on my way
homeward, I heard notes not to be
called musical, in the smaller and more
ordinary sense of the word; as unlike
as possible, certainly, to the classic
sweetness of the canyon wren's tune;
but to me even more exciting and mem-
orable. On a sultry, indolent after-
noon (April 9) I had betaken myself
to Cemetery Hill for a lazy stroll, and
had barely alighted from the electric
car, when I heard strange noises some-
where near at hand. In my confusion
I thought for an instant of the scissor-
tailed flycatchers, with whose various
outlandish outcries and antics I had
been for several days amusing myself.
Then I discovered that the sound came
from above, and looking up, saw straight
over my head, between the hilltop and
the clouds, a wedge-shaped flock of large
birds. Long slender necks and bills,
feet drawn up and projecting out be-
hind the tails, wing-action moderate
(after the manner of geese rather than
ducks), color dark, so much, and no
more, the glass showed me, while the
birds, sixty or more in number, as I
guessed, were fast receding northward.
They should be cranes, I said to myself,
since they were surely not herons, and

then, like a flash, it came over me that
I knew the voice. By good luck I had
lived the winter before where I heard
continually the lusty shouts of a captive
sandhill crane ; and it was to a chorus
of sandhill cranes that I was now listen-
ing.

The flock disappeared, the tumult
lessened and ceased, and I passed on.
But fifteen minutes afterward, as I was
retracing my steps over the hill, sud-
denly I heard the same resounding chorus
again. A second flock of cranes was
passing. This, too, was in a V-shaped
line, though for some reason it fell into
disorder almost immediately. Now I
essayed a count, and had just concluded
that there were some eighty of the birds,
when a commotion behind me caused
me to turn my head. To my amaze-
ment, a third and much larger flock was
following close behind the second. There
was no numbering it with exactness, but
I ran my glass down the long, wavering
line, as best I could, and counted one
hundred and fifteen.

An hour before I had never seen a
sandhill crane in its native wildness (a
creature nearly or quite as tall as my-
self), and behold, here was the sky full
of them. And what a judgment-day
trumpeting they made ! Angels and arch-
angels, cherubim and seraphim! Per-
haps I did not enjoy it, there, with
the white gravestones standing all about
me. After all, there is something in
mere volume of sound. If it does not
feed the soul, at least it stirs the blood.
And that is a good thing, also. I won-
der if Michelangelo did not at some time
or other see and hear the like.

Bradford Torrey.

Principles of Municipal School Administration. 105

PRINCIPLES OF MUNICIPAL SCHOOL ADMINISTRATION.

ARISTOTLE is said to have collected Indianapolis, New Haven, New York
the constitutions of a hundred ancient Rochester, Baltimore, San Francisco
republics, and from the study of these St. Louis, and elsewhere, and radically
to have developed the principles of an new systems have been proposed for Bos-
ideal republic. The writer can attempt ton, Chicago, and Providence. Each
nothing so ambitious ; but the method of these new systems has certain good
employed by Aristotle is the right one, features ; each has been advocated by in-
induction from experience ; and by telligent, experienced, and honest men.
comparative study of the constitutions Which is best? The only satisfactory
of many educational republics we may answer must come from experience. The
formulate certain principles in regard true test of any system is its practical
to the best form of organization. working. Now although experience in

The school systems in our cities have this country has been too short to give

come down to us from a relatively dis- any complete answer to this question,

tant past, and in most cases they remain and more experimentation will be neces-

to-day what they were twenty-five or sary before the ideal can perhaps even

perhaps fifty years ago. The adminis- be described, still it does seem possible

trative machinery represents the accre- to formulate a few general principles by

tion of years of widening functions : it which to judge the character of any form

is cumbrous and complex, not adapted of school administration,
to new conditions and present needs. The points upon which there is prob-

Thus it has come to pass that in many ably a general consensus of those who

cities in this country there is dissatis- have studied the facts may be summed

faction with the school organization. In up under ten heads, representing merely

some there has been waste of public a formulation of what seem to be the

money, in some there has been shameful teachings of experience thus far. As

neglect of the schoolhouses, in others soon as we have more experience they

there has been division of authority, may be modified, but they are what

the school department has often been at might be called, without lack of rever-

cross-purposes with the municipal gov- ence, the decalogue for the immediate

ernment, and in case of defect or mis- future :

management it has been difficult to fix 1. Any system of school administra-
the responsibility. In still others, not- tion should be economical. All doubt-
ably Philadelphia and San Francisco, less agree upon this point. The people's
there has been gross corruption, and the money should not be wasted,
sacred office of the teacher has been sold 2. Any system of school administra-
tor money or for political favor. As a tion should be free from party politics
result of these evils many cities have al- and political methods. It is absurd,
ready radically changed their school sys- for example, to suppose that a man will
terns, other cities are trying to do the make a good member of a school board
same ; and the problem of the best form because he happens to be a democrat or
of municipal school administration has a republican. As long as the school
become one worth studying. administration remains a part of city

The old systems of school organiza- politics, so long it will be impossible to

tion teach many important lessons. And have interest properly centred upon edu-

during the last ten years new systems cational needs,
have been tried in Cleveland, Toledo, An editorial in the Detroit Free Press

106

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

of March 15 of this year, describing the
condition in that city, presents perhaps
the typical situation where party poli-
tics rule. "The affairs of the board,"
says the writer, "are in a most deplor-
able condition. ... In addition, the
manners, customs, and laws of the board
have approached the proportions of a
public scandal. The board has neither
dignity, nor average intelligence, nor
business methods. It has made itself
simply an arena in which tumultuous
pothouse politicians fight with one an-
other for the spoil of the office. Mem-
bership on the board has long been
treated merely as a step toward polit-
ical advancement, like the chairman-
ship of the ward committees or mem-
bership in the city or county committee.
Few members 'of the board care a flip
of a copper for the general interests of
the public school system. The schools
are considered only as a means to an
end, and the funds of the board are
freely disbursed for the payment of po-
litical debts contracted by the inspec-
tors, or so disposed as to insure the
greatest possible political advantage in
the future. . . . Superintendent Mar-
tindale recently taunted the board with
the fact that the applicant with the
1 pull ' always got the position, and not
an inspector dared deny the charge."

3. A system of school administration
should be of such a character as to stim-
ulate and not check the local feeling
of interest and responsibility for educa-
tion. This is a principle of wide ap-
plication. It concerns many other edu-
cational matters as well as that of school
administration. Whenever money, for
example, is given for school purposes
without regard to this principle the re-
sult is likely to be bad. In the middle
of the last century, for illustration, Con-
necticut received money from the sale of
western lands which to a large extent
supported her schools. This was dis-
tinctly a disadvantage to education, and
the state superintendent a few years ago
reported that when the money from this

source was at a maximum the condition
of education in that state was at its low-
est ebb. This money pauperized the
community because it checked the local
feeling of interest and responsibility;
and this is perhaps one cause of the de-
generation recently reported in the rural
districts of that state. Any form of
state aid, too, like that proposed by the
old Blair Bill, is likely to defeat its own
end if this principle is not regarded.
The efficiency of the schools must rest
in the last resort upon the vigilance of
the citizen. And any system that weak-
ens the feeling of personal responsibility
is so far destroying its own foundation.

4. A school system should be free
from artificial limitations. There should
be, for example, no distinctions as re-
gards sex in school matters. Women
should be allowed to vote on matters re-
lating to the schools and to hold school
offices. Any distinction with regard to
sex, or race, or religion, is an artificial
limitation. Again, election of members
of a school board by wards is an artifi-
cial limitation. The city or township
is the natural political unit; the ward
is an artificial unit. Men living in one
ward are very apt to do business in an-
other; they often have more acquain-
tances in some other ward than in their
own. They may be much nearer the
schools of another ward than to those
in their own ; and, as the division is an
artificial division, any ward system of
election is an artificial limitation.

5. Any system of school administra-
tion to be efficient must be adapted to
the community where it exists. The
needs of one community differ from
those of another; and more important
still, the local traditions and customs
differ ; and, finally, different communi-
ties represent different stages of civic
development. It is useless to have a
system of school administration so far
beyond the public opinion of the citizens
that they cannot be made to appreciate
and support it. For a community in a
low stage of civic development the para-

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

107

dox may be true that a poorer system is
the better one. There is practically lit-
tle danger, however, of getting a system
too far beyond the stage of development
of the people. It should be considerably
in advance, because it always has an
educating influence ; and for this reason
whenever possible it is usually wise to
force an improved system on a back-
ward community.

6. The school system should be, as
far as possible, independent of the muni-
cipal government. It should be autono-
mous, having full power, and responsible
only to the people. The importance of
this has been sufficiently shown by the
experience of those cities that have had
such independent school departments ;
and the evils of divided authority have
been still more frequently shown by ex-
perience.

President Draper goes so far as to
maintain that the complete separation
of school administration from municipal
business is imperative. "Laws," he
writes, "which put the schools at the
mercy of a board of aldermen are un-
sound in principle and deplorable in
their operation. Even the determina-
tion of the sum to be levied for school
purposes should not be left to a common
council, which, by legislation and by
usage, has come to represent, and has
become representative of, interests not
in harmony or sympathy with school
administration. If there is a finance
board or tax commission which receives
estimates from all sources and finally
determines the amount to be levied, it
is not so objectionable that the school
estimates should go with the others to
this board, for such a board may be as-
sumed to be independent of all special
interests and representative of the best
sentiment of the whole city. But the
only sound rule is that school adminis-
tration shall be entirely independent of
municipal business. The two do not
rest upon the same foundation; the
power which manages each proceeds
from entirely different sources, and the

objects and purposes of each have no-
thing in common." 1

7 . Other things being equal, the work
of the school board will be more efficient
the smaller the number of its members.
Experience in politics and business has
amply shown the advantage of having
small bodies of men for the management
of complicated and important affairs;
and the experience in Cleveland, Indian-
apolis, New Haven, and in several other
cities, has shown the advantage of small
school boards in the management of
educational affairs. The number must
depend largely on the size of the city,
but the smaller the number consistent
with adequate representation of the dif-
ferent classes and social interests of the
community and adequate management
of the work of the board the better.

There seems now to be a general ten-
dency to reduce the number of mem-
bers. A typical opinion is that of Mr.
Gushing, president of the Boston School
Board. In an address reported in the
daily papers of March 16 of this year
he mentioned among the conditions ne-
cessary for the best results : -

"A board of about nine members.
Larger boards are handicapped by argu-
ing and wire-pulling among members
who strive to please the people who elect
them. Small boards can transact busi-
ness ' at closer quarters.'

" More time and investigation should
be devoted to choosing the members be-
fore nominations are made Nine suit-
able men should require as many months
of careful search. ... At present such
are nominated in practically as many
days."

The advantages of the small school
board are obvious. In the first place,
it is easier to find seven honest and ca-
pable men with leisure to devote to pub-
lic affairs than it is to find twenty-five ;
and it is not only easier to find compe-
tent men and more probable that such

1 Draper, Andrew S. Plans for Organization
for School Purposes in Large Cities, Educa-
tional Review, vol. vi. p. 14. New York. 1893.

108

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

will be elected, but the small board is
better even if composed of bad men, be-
cause it is easier to fix responsibility,
and with more simple machinery there
is less opportunity to cover up jobbery
and corruption. The objection is often
made that the small board is undemo-
cratic. The number of officials, how-
ever, has nothing to do with the demo-
cracy of a system. If this were so,
then a board of seventy-two like that
in some Pennsylvania cities would be
more democratic than a board of twenty-
five ; but that system is most democratic
which is nearest the people and most
directly and efficiently serves to carry
out the will of the people. The small
board has been found to do precisely
this ; and the large board, on the other
hand, with its complicated machinery
offers ready means for thwarting the
will of the people. It is true, however,
that the board should not be too small
to represent different classes and differ-
ent social interests.

8. The executive officers under any
system of school administration should
be experts. The executive functions
are threefold : first, care of the business
affairs of the school ; second, supervision
of the educational affairs ; third, inspec-
tion of sanitary conditions and care for
the health of the school-children. In a
town or small city these three functions
are likely to be united in one person.
In a large city there should be three
officials, with duties distinctly defined
by law, and each of these should be an
expert. In the proposed bill for Boston
it is distinctly stated that "no person
shall be eligible to be chosen to the po-
sition of business director unless he holds
a degree as architect or engineer from
an institution empowered from the Com-
monwealth of Massachusetts to confer
degrees, or from an institution of similar
rank outside the state, or is approved as
competent for such position by the Bos-

1 Senate Bill, No. 279, April 4, 1899. An
Act Relative to the School Committee of the
City of Boston.

ton Society of Architects and the Mas-
ter Builders' Association of Boston." *
It is equally important that the other
two executive officers should be experts.
When a health inspector is appointed
it will of course be imperative that he
should furnish evidence of his expert
knowledge by the possession of a medi-
cal degree or the like; and the time is
likely to come when no one will be eligi-
ble to the position of city superinten-
dent who has not a degree or certificate
from some recognized authority which
is prima facie evidence of his expert
character in educational matters.

9. So far as is practicable, civil ser-
vice principles should prevail in regard
to the teaching body and school officials.
If the superintendent do not serve dur-
ing good behavior, as in Cleveland, then
he should be appointed for a long term
of four or five years, as in Indianapolis
and New Haven ; and teachers ' also
should feel secure in their tenure of
office as long as efficient work is done.

10. There should be concentration
of power and responsibility. The valid-
ity of this principle has also been amply
shown by the experience of Cleveland
and many other cities. This involves
separation of the legislative and execu-
tive functions, and likewise separation
of educational executive functions from
the business executive functions. The
importance of this has been recognized
by the Chicago Commission, 2 and by
many educators.

These, then, are some of the general
principles apparently demonstrated by
experience thus far. Any system of
school administration should be (1)
economical ; (2) free from politics ; (3)
of such a character as to stimulate and
not check the local feeling of interest
and responsibility for education; (4)
free from artificial limitations, limi-
tations as regards sex, race, religion,
or election of officers; (5) adapted to

2 Report of the Educational Commission of
the City of Chicago. 1899.

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

109

the community where it exists ; (6) in-
dependent of the municipal government ;

(7) the school board should be small;

(8) the executive officers should be ex-
perts ; (9) civil service principles should
prevail; (10) 'there should be concentra-
tion of power and responsibility.

These principles should all be taken
together; they are interrelated. We
began by noting that the school adminis-
tration should be economical ; we closed
by noting that there should be concentra-
tion of power and responsibility. Now
it is quite impossible to have economy
without having concentration of power
and responsibility. Experience in all
large business affairs has shown the ad-
vantage of placing the management in
the hands of a few capable men with
great power and large responsibility.
The management of school affairs is a
large business involving in a city of
100,000 inhabitants an expenditure of
probably $500, 000 annually ; the same
business principles adopted in modern
industry should be employed here ; and
experience in school administration in
cities that have followed this principle
indicates the great advantage of it. The
evil of the ordinary plan of large boards
and divided authority is obvious when
we reflect on what would be the result
of a similar policy in the management
of any large business. Where the power
and responsibility for the management
are vested in a small body of directors
and in a single executive officer business
methods can be followed in school mat-
ters. The director can buy in the cheap-
est market because he buys in large
quantities and at the most favorable
time. He can forecast the future and
often make large savings. He can in
many matters by immediate extrava-
gance save large sums in the end. For
example, in the heating and ventilating
of large school buildings experience has
shown that it is much cheaper Mr.
Morrison, an expert on ventilation, says
about nine times cheaper to have a
mechanical system of heating and ven-

tilating rather than a natural system,
although the initial cost of the plant is
greater ; but if money can be saved by
spending a little more at first, business
common sense makes that wise. Again
in making contracts for land and the
like, great saving may be effected by
adopting business methods. The town
of Andover, Mass., a few years ago
bought a tract of land in the heart of
the village, paying some $10,000 for
it, although having no immediate need
for the land whatever, but simply fore-
casting the future. And in St. Louis
such foresight is reported under the new
system in that city.

Without concentration of power and
responsibility, with the ordinary large
school board arid its cumbrous machin-
ery of special sub-committees of various
kinds, it is impossible to exercise econ-
omy in large matters, and there is op-
portunity for jobbery of all kinds ; and
if a defective schoolhouse or the like is
built nobody knows who is responsible.
Again our first principle is dependent
upon our second. A school system can
hardly be economical if it is political.
The great advantage of taking the ad-
ministration of the schools out of party
politics, even to the extent of having a
bi-partisan board, has been admirably
shown in St. Louis during the five years
of its experience under its new form of
school administration . Professor Wood-
ward writes : l

" In a general way good management
has resulted in vast and unexpected sav-
ings to the schools. . . .

" Ordinarily repairs cost about twice
as much per year under the old plan as
under the present plan. Under the old
plan members of the board were sup-
posed to control repairs and contracts
in their respective districts. The re-
sult was high prices, false measurements,
and poor work ... a day's work of-
ten covered less than three hours of real
work, and so on.

1 Quoted by Dr. Eng-ler. See Worcester Tel-
egram, February 3, 1903.

110 Principles of Municipal School Administration.

"Every janitor was appointed for and even principalships of schools in

political reasons and for political effi- certain wards are regarded as the per-

ciency. He was generally a poor jani- quisitesof representatives of such wards,

tor, and the premises under his charge Buildings are secured for wards by mem-

suffered from neglect and incompetency. bers having the greatest 'pull,' and

"Bids were solicited from approved other districts are deprived of schools

parties, and prices were exorbitant. . . . regardless of the needs of such districts.

Moreover, bills for extras were numer- The whole school management becomes

ous and large, so that poorly constructed a system of trading of ward interests,

buildings with wooden floors, partitions, The school district should be a unit if

and roofs, cost as much per room as they economical and systematic arrangement

now cost with higher prices for labor, is to be possible."
when built fireproof throughout. Except in one or two instances I have

"Every year it is found necessary to not spoken of the concrete questions of

buy land for new schoolhouses. The school organization. But if I am right

greatest care is taken in determining in formulating the teachings of experi-

the location of sites and in securing rea- ence, the principles mentioned will help

sonable offers. This is usually managed in these practical questions. Take a

through confidential agents, so that no question upon which opinion is divided,

one can take advantage of the board and Cleveland has a school board elected by

run up the price. The result is that the people at large. New Haven has

we purchase at reasonable figures, and a board appointed by the mayor. Which

usually we purchase far ahead of imme- plan is better ? This question should be

diate use." considered in regard to several of the

Again our second principle is depen- principles mentioned, especially in re-
dent upon our fourth. A system can gard to stimulating the local feeling
hardly be free from politics when it is of responsibility for the schools. If it
created under the artificial limitations should appear from experience, as I
of a ward system. The Philadelphia think there are already some indications
system with a central board appointed that it may, that election at large stim-
by judges is ostensibly a method of tak- ulates this feeling of personal respon-
ing school management out of politics; sibility, and that appointment by the
but being subject to the limitations of mayor tends to lessen this, then the
the ward system in its local boards, it former plan has one great advantage
has not escaped political corruption of over the latter,
the worst sort. Again as regards the executive offi-

The worst scandals connected with cers. In Cleveland the business director

the administration of the public schools is elected by the people. In Indianapo-

have arisen in connection with this ward lis he is appointed by the board. Which

system. Prof essor Salmon in a recent plan is better? If we were right in

article 1 quotes the words of a citizens' maintaining that he, as well as the other

committee of one of our cities which executive officers, should be an expert,

reports: "The natural tendency is for then the Indianapolis plan seems better ;

the holders of places on the board to be for experience indicates that it is easier

governed by considerations of ward poli- to get real expert talent by appointment

tics rather than by the interests of the than by election.

schools at large. This is not theory ; Of the new systems referred to at the

at present janitorships are traded off, beginning of this paper, that of the city

i Salmon, Lucy M. Civil Service Reform of Cleveland is specially instructive be-

Principles in Education, Educational Review, cause it has a history of ten years, and

April, 1903, pp. 352, 353. a fairly good test of its working has

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

Ill

already been made. Let us take it as
an example and consider it in relation
to the principles above formulated.

The Cleveland system of school ad-
ministration is called the Federal sys-
tem because it has some features similar
to those of our Federal government. It
is similar also to the general system of
municipal government which has just
come to an end in the city of Cleveland,
though the school department is distinct
from the municipal government. It is
independent, autonomous, and responsi-
ble only to the people. It levies its own
taxes, subject to the approval of the tax
commissioners, and has sole power in
the expenditure of all money for school
purposes, making its own contracts, and
the like.

In 1892 a law was passed by the
Ohio legislature which gave the oppor-
tunity to try this system. The essen-
tial features very briefly are as follows :

First a school council of seven mem-
bers is elected by the city at large. Each
member serves two years and receives
a salary of $260. The special func-
tions of this council are legislative. It
passes resolutions in regard to levying
taxes, the expenditure of school money,
the establishment of schools, the ap-
proval of contracts. It frames rules
and regulations governing the schools.
It provides for the appointment of
teachers, fixes their salaries, prescribes
their duties, and adopts the text-books.

Second, a school director is elected
by the city at large for a term of two
years, and receives a salary of $5000.
His special function is executive; he
executes the laws framed by the school
council. His functions, however, are
confined to business matters, except
that he has the power to veto the reso-
lutions of the council. While this di-
rector has nothing to do with educa-
tional matters, it is a part of his duty
to appoint a superintendent in case of
vacancy, and he has the power for suf-
ficient cause to remove the superinten-
dent. This appointment of the super-

intendent is subject to approval and
confirmation by the council.

The superintendent is appointed for
an indefinite term, that is, during good
behavior. His salary is $5000. His
function is to attend to all educational
matters, and he alone is responsible for
such matters. He has full power in
the appointment, promotion, and dismis-
sal of all teachers. Since the character
of the teacher determines the character
of the school and school reform is always
schoolmaster reform, this feature de-
serves special notice.

Such are the essential features of the
Cleveland system. If we compare this
Federal system with our ten principles,
we shall naturally find substantial agree-
ment ; for Cleveland furnished much of
the experience which has demonstrated
these principles, but we shall also find
that it is not ideal. In the first place,
while the system has usually been eco-
nomical, it is liable to occasional brief
periods of extravagance when an incom-
petent or dishonest director is not re-
strained by an independent council.
Further it is not free from politics ; but
the choice of two republican and two
democratic members of the school coun-
cil at the last municipal election, April,
1903, when the city went strongly de-
mocratic, may be taken as an indication
that many of the citizens regard mem-
bership in the council as a non-political
office. Again the executive officers are
supposed to be experts, yet with elec-
tion of the director by the people he is
liable not to have the necessary qualifi-
cations.

This system, on the other hand, does
apparently stimulate the local feeling
of interest and responsibility in edu-
cation; for when a few years ago the
director without cause attempted to re-
move the superintendent, Mr. L. H.
Jones, an able and efficient man, public
opinion forced him to recall his letter of
dismissal, and at the next election the
director was relegated to private life,
another man was chosen in his stead,

112

Principles of Municipal School Administration.

and the superintendent vindicated. The
system also is evidently well adapted
to the needs of the city of Cleveland,
for it receives the approval of intelli-
gent people. A prominent man in that
city writes me that he thinks " the uni-
versal verdict among intelligent people
is that this arrangement has worked
amazingly well at least so far as the edu-
cational side of things is concerned ; '
and the teachers and superintendents
seem to be universally and enthusiasti-
cally in favor of it.

This system is for the most part free
from artificial limitations, and it is also
independent (except for certain finan-
cial checks) of the municipal govern-
ment. The school council, as already
noted, is small, and there is great con-
centration of power and responsibility,
the school council being solely a legis-
lative body, the business executive func-
tions being in the hands of the director,
and all educational affairs in the hands
of the superintendent.

The history of school administration
in Cleveland for the last ten years has
been extremely interesting. The Fed-
eral system represents no vagary of uni-
versity theorists. It was devised by four
citizens of Cleveland, three lawyers and
a banker, and thus is quite free from any
taint of pedagogical theory. The ex-
periment has been long enough to make
a fairly good test of the system and is
very instructive. It has especially de-
monstrated the advantages of concentra-
tion of power and responsibility. If
anything goes wrong it is possible to
know at once who is to blame, and to
put a better man in his place. Unfor-

tunately the law under which this sys-
tem was formed is a kind of special
legislation which has recently been con-
demned in case of the similar municipal
government of Cleveland; hence this
school system also is liable to be de-
clared unconstitutional, since, in Mr.
Dooley's phrase, the decisions of the
Ohio Supreme Court do not follow the
election returns of the city of Cleve-
land.

It is noteworthy that a form of school
administration similar to this, with elec-
tion of a small board by the people at
large, and nomination by petition, was
advocated at the last meeting of the De-
partment of Superintendence of the Na-
tional Educational Association in Cin-
cinnati.

It requires no special prophetic vision
to foresee that great changes in school
administration, especially in our muni-
cipal systems, are likely to be made in
the near future. A country that in the
last twenty-five years has put the ma-
jority of Federal offices under the rules
of a reformed civil service will not per-
mit the 500,000 school positions to be
given over to the spoilsmen. But radi-
cal changes are made with difficulty.
In case of a municipal system, a change
of the city charter and a special act
of the legislature are often necessary.
Hence in making the much needed
changes, it is wise to profit by the ex-
perience which has taught us the prin-
ciples formulated above. Guidance by
these principles would save our cities
millions of dollars annually, and the
increase in the efficiency of the schools
would be inestimable.

William H. Burnham.

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

113

THE FIRST YEAR OF CUBAN SELF-GOVERNMENT.

[Captain Matthew E. Hanna, the author of this paper, and of Public Education in Cuba, in the
ATLANTIC for June, 1902, was on the staff of General Wood during the American occupation of
the island. For two years he was Commissioner of Public Schools. He is, at the present time,
Military Attache* at the American Legation in Havana. THE EDITORS.]

IN the brief period of one year of
independent existence as a nation the
Cubans have shown to a surprising de-
gree the elements that constitute stable
self-government, and it is the purpose
of this article to point them out. The
numerous petty mistakes that might be
noted, or the no less numerous instances
of unsuccessful radicalism and individu-
al attempts to block the very conserva-
tive policy of the administration, have
been omitted.

Undoubtedly the most powerful factor
for honest and stable self-government
has been the calm, patient, conservative
and conciliatory attitude of the Presi-
dent. The people of Cuba are to be
congratulated that they had the wisdom
to select Mr. Palma for their first Pres-
ident, and that he was willing to leave
the retirement of his quiet home in Cen-
tral Valley to accept a position of such
great responsibility and that promised
so little.

President Palma came to Cuba in
answer to the almost unanimous call of
the people of his country. He had
been so long separated from active poli-
tics in the island that he was practically
free from the jealousies and compro-
mises that would have greatly affected
any other possible President in the be-
ginning of his administration. His
tour of the island, prior to his inaugu-
ration, from Gibara to Havana was one
prolonged ovation. He had the love,
respect, and confidence of a very emo-
tional people. He could scarcely have
wanted a more favorable condition of
public esteem under which to begin.

Under these circumstances and feel-
ing as he did, that he had been the
choice of the entire country, rather than

VOL. xcn. NO. 549. 8

of any section or faction, it was not
strange that he chose his cabinet from
all political parties. To have done
otherwise might have precipitated dis-
sensions at a time when he very wisely
considered harmony the principal indi-
cation of success to a skeptical world.
He cannot hope that the support of all
political parties will be given him in-
definitely, but the change when it comes
will be no more violent for the delay.
He has persistently refused to make an
alliance with either of the political par-
ties represented in the Cuban Congress
to obtain a majority, but has ruled with
the better element of each. He has held
that the executive power should be one
of the three forces of the State working
in harmony.

That he has been able to govern the
island for a year with the active assist-
ance of the better element in politics,
and at the same time convince the worse
element of the wisdom of his intentions,
stamps him as a ruler of exceptional ex-
ecutive ability. He has always appealed
to the patriotism of his countrymen, and
has believed that it should be sufficient
stimulus to solve the questions of the
hour and give life to the government.
His influence with Congress has been
sufficiently powerful to temper the hot-
headed and indiscreet and to give com-
plexion to legislation. In one instance
only has he been forced to put his sig-
nature to a bill that did not meet with
his approval, but his reasons for doing
so were good. With a single exception
he has so thoroughly introduced his
ideas in legislation when it was in pro-
cess of formation in Congress that he
has had to exercise the power of veto but
once, and then his reasons for doing this

114

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

were so powerful that the changes he
recommended were promptly made. He
has borne with rare patience the delays
of Congress, and apparently has not ex-
pected the impossible. He has content-
ed himself with the knowledge that but
few radical revolutionary or reaction-
ary laws have been enacted, if he has to
admit that some laws have still to be
framed that the country sorely needs.

His messages to Congress have been
ably prepared, have been conciliatory
and conservative, and have outlined the
work of Congress in a careful and clear
manner. In his first message he em-
phasizes the necessity for providing suffi-
cient revenues to meet the expenses of
the State ; for public and political econ-
omy; for assisting agriculture and cat-
tle raising; for arranging a reciprocity
treaty with the United States ; for de-
veloping public instruction ; for encour-
aging railroads ; for continuing public
works; for maintaining a perfect un-
derstanding with the United States ; for
preserving good sanitary conditions in
the island ; for supporting hospitals and
asylums and improving jails ; for bet-
tering the administration of justice ; for
paying the Liberating Army, and for
organizing the diplomatic and consular
services. How thoroughly this plan has
been carried out will be seen further on.

Both branches of Congress met on
May 5, 1902, at the call of the mili-
tary governor, for the purpose of noti-
fying him officially, before May 20,
who had been elected President and
Vice President of the Republic, and who
Senators and Representatives, and to
thus complete the organization of the
new government as a running machine
before the termination of the occupa-
tion. The Senate held two more ses-
sions and the House three more before
May 20, the day on which the mili-
tary government ended, and in these
sessions both branches passed upon the
credentials of their respective members
and completed their permanent organi-
zations. The House numbers sixty-one

members and the Senate twenty-four.
Of the former but a very small percen-
tage had had much previous experience
in public affairs, or were even familiar
with the rules and customs that were to
guide them in their work. For four
centuries the Cubans had been governed
in such a way that there were no oppor-
tunities for experience in self-govern-
ment, and their ideas at the best were
such as they had got by reading, or by
a term of office in some municipal coun-
cil, or, in rare instances, in the con-
stitutional convention. The Spanish
colonial government had not furnished
the Cubans with training in the organi-
zation and control of legislative bodies
and in the framing of laws. Due to bit-
ter jealousies and antagonisms among
Cubans from different sections of the
island, the Congressmen, when they as-
sembled in Havana, came prepared to be
jealous of one another, and generally
speaking each was anxious to see only
his own ideas triumphant. There were
no strong political organizations to dis-
cipline them, nor was there any one of
sufficient experience as a presiding offi-
cer to control them and direct their en-
ergies. A time so full of opportunities
for personal notoriety would appeal to
any politician, and was not to be per-
mitted to pass by in idleness.

The first task of the two Houses was
the framing of their respective rules
and of those that were to govern both
Houses when acting jointly. This took
the greater part of the time for the first
two months, but in the meantime abso-
lutely necessary legislation was attended
to, and at the earliest possible moment
the consideration of the measures recom-
mended in the President's first message
was begun. Congress has been in ses-
sion almost continuously for the past
twelve months, and has passed sixty-
six laws. The most important of these
are the following:

A law providing that the mayors, mu-
nicipal councilmen, and municipal trea-
surers who were in office on June 30,

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

115

1902 (elected by popular vote during
the occupation), should continue in their
offices, or should be substituted by oth-
ers according to existing statutes, until
their cessation in office should be pro-
vided for by law. The occupation ended
on May 20, 1902. The time for which
these officials were elected expired on
June 30 ; either these officials should
be continued in office, or new elections
should be held between May 20 and
June 30. Due to the excited state of
the country attending the change of
government, it was deemed advisable to
postpone the elections and permit these
officials to continue in office beyond the
time for which they were elected.

A law authorizing the President to
meet all the liabilities of the govern-
ment for the months of July and August,
1902 ; a law creating a board to revise
the rolls of the disbanded Liberating
Army and to determine the amount due
each soldier by the Cuban government ;
a law authorizing the President to meet
the liabilities of the Republic until fur-
ther legislation on the matter; various
laws creating legations and consulates
in different parts of the world; a law
modifying the tariff on stock imported
into the island in such a way as to fa-
vor such importations ; a law reorganiz-
ing the rural guard and increasing its
strength to three thousand men ; a law
empowering the President to contract a
loan of $35,000,000 for the payment
of the Liberating Army and other debts
of the Revolutionary government ; a law
fixing the revenues of consulates ; and a
law establishing the provisional govern-
ment.

Everything considered, neither the
volume nor the quality of the work of
the first year of the Cuban Congress
can be seriously criticised. Viewed in
its entirety, conservatism has prevailed.
For more than ten months Senators and
Representatives have devoted all their
time with unceasing energy and with
honesty of purpose to the completion of
the plan outlined for them by the Pre-

sident. An occasional false note can
be detected, but there is a true ring to
the finished article. The serious mis-
takes, the fraud and corruption, and even
the inefficiency so frequently prophesied
a few months ago are not to be encoun-
tered in the record of Congress up to
date, and the evident desire to continue
the work of government along the gen-
eral lines established by the military
government is shown in the cautious way
in which all serious changes in military
orders have been avoided.

However, in reviewing the work of
the Congress for the first year of its
existence, too much should not be ex-
pected, and it is but just to remember
that it was a newly born legislative body
that was ignorant of the procedure by
which it was to make use of the facul-
ties with which it was endowed. It
had not the organization, training, dis-
cipline, or precedents of previous Con-
gresses to assist it. It numbered among
its members very few who had had any
previous training in a legislative body
of any consequence. The Constitution
of the Republic was new, and interpre-
tations of its less clear paragraphs were
almost as plentiful as people to make
them. Rules for governing the two
branches of Congress had to be made,
and when made they had to be inter-
preted. Almost every day a large part
of the session was spent in wrangling
over some point that would have been
settled in a moment in an older Congress
by some well - established precedent.
There seemed to be no lack of desire
to push legislation, but the machinery
was new and untried, and it was passing
through an adjustment period. In the
meantime there was much working at
cross-purposes and a lack of results.

It should also be remembered that
there was a horde of individuals, cor-
porations, etc., in the island, whose
pet schemes had been politely rejected
from time to time by the military gov-
ernor, and they were crowding the lob-
bies of Congress before the latter had

116

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

been inaugurated, ready to renew their
petitions. An older Congress would
have found it difficult to refuse them
some consideration, but for a Congress
holding its first session this was well-
nigh impossible.

A long series of events, in short, the
history of the island for the past few
years, made it practically impossible for
Congress to avoid giving its first atten-
tion to such powerful questions as the
payment of the army, the restoration
of agriculture, etc. A lack of organi-
zation prevented the well-ordered set-
tlement of these questions one by one,
and from attempting to do all at once,
nothing was accomplished.

It should not be forgotten that the
Cuban Congress, like our Congress or
any other Congress, is composed of poli-
ticians, good, bad, and indifferent, with
perhaps a greater proportion of the first
than is met with elsewhere, and politics
have played their part in shaping, has-
tening, or retarding legislation, modi-
fied however by the lack of experience
and machinery among the politicians.

I believe there is a steady increase
in the volume of business transacted by
Congress, and that as Congress becomes
disciplined, as each member discovers
his own limitations, as political parties
become better organized, and as prece-
dents are established, there will be more
to fear in the future from the meddling
that follows a lack of work than from
the dangers of overwork. Fortunately
the government was turned over to the
Cubans a running machine, and Con-
gress was free to organize, to contem-
plate its duties, and to cautiously pro-
ceed with the legislation recommended
to its consideration by the President.

Hence, in a study of the work of Con-
gress for the past year due weight and
consideration should be given to the
difficulties under which it has labored.
Many of its critics have lost sight of
what it has actually done in contempla-
tion of the delay and wrangling that
have attended its doing, and of the many

radical and unwise bills that have been
proposed from time to time, but which
have failed. Much of the debate has
no doubt proceeded from a Latin fond-
ness for talking, but a large part of it
has also been due to a natural cautious-
ness. If Congress has erred, it has been
on the side of doing too little, which is
far better than if it had rushed head-
long into illy considered legislation.

In one of the first sessions of Con-
gress a representative requested infor-
mation of the amount owing to the army
in order that he might present a bill
providing for payment. The first of
the transitory provisions of the Consti-
tution recognizes the validity of the
claim of the Cuban Liberating Army,
and imposes on the government the ob-
ligation to pay it. The President in his
first message called attention to this ob-
ligation, and emphasized the necessity
for early meeting it. The country was
thus irrevocably pledged to the payment
of the army, and after some months of
lively discussion it appears to be unit-
ed in the opinion that the payment is
wise and just. Boards for revising the
army rolls and determining the correct
amount due each soldier were appointed
and have finished their task, although
the result of their work has not yet been
made public. This important work has
been done in a thorough and systematic
manner, and the report of the boards
should be very accurate. The probable
amount necessary for the payment was
estimated, and on February 28 a law
was enacted authorizing the President
to raise a loan of thirty-five million
dollars, twenty-seven million of which
should be for the payment of the army.
This loan is to be secured and guaran-
teed by a special tax on alcoholic bev-
erages, artificial waters, matches, to-
bacco, sugar, and playing cards, as well
as by the ordinary customs revenues of
the island.

The principal reasons for the payment
of the army are far from sentimental.
It has formed a troublesome, but in no-

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

117

wise dangerous, element in the social
and political existence of the island for
the past five years, and it is generally
conceded that a normal condition will
not be secured until it is paid. The
reason that appeals most strongly to the
business classes is the impetus that will
be given all kinds of business by sud-
denly placing so large an amount of
money in circulation, the effects of which
may be best estimated by the follow-
ing comparison : the whole amount of
money expended by the military govern-
ment for all purposes during the occu-
pation was a little more than fifty-five
million dollars. It is estimated that
it will require twenty-seven million
dollars to pay the army; or within a
few months there would be placed in
circulation almost one half the entire
amount so put in circulation by the
government in four years. With re-
ciprocity there is no doubt of the gov-
ernment's ability to bear the loan, and
but very little doubt of it without re-
ciprocity.

The remaining eight million dollars
of the loan are for assistance to agricul-
ture, and for the payment of the debts
legitimately contracted during the Re-
volution, four million to each. The lat-
ter refers to the liabilities of the corps
commanders between February 24,
1895, and September 19 of the same
year and those of the Revolutionary gov-
ernment enacted after the latter date.

The former four millions are to be
spent in assistance to agriculture in
whatever way that Congress may decide
upon. Mr. Terry, a practical sugar
planter, was President Palma's first
secretary of agriculture. He early an-
nounced his plan for assisting the sugar
planters, and it was warmly received by
the entire country as promising relief
that would be far-reaching in its effects.
It was favorably commented on by the
Cuban press, and was eagerly support-
ed by the planters. The plan was for
the government to borrow four million
dollars to be loaned to such planters

as wished to borrow, such loan not to
exceed fifty cents for every twenty-
five hundredweight of cane ground in
the season 19011902, and to be re-
funded in two payments, made in Feb-
ruary and March of 1903, the govern-
ment holding a lien on the cane as
security for the loan. It received the
unanimous approval of the Senate, but
was amended in the House in such a
manner as to combine the relief of the
planters with the payment of the army.
This was in July last, and the possibil-
ity of a four-million-dollar loan as such
no longer existed after that date. It
has been incorporated in the larger loan
however, and the planters should soon
receive its benefits. For three years
it has been said that if the sugar planter
did not obtain relief soon, and a better
market for his sugar, he would have to
abandon his estate ; yet, despite the fact
that relief has not come from the source
where it was most expected, such is the
vitality of the industry in the island
that the crops have been steadily in-
creasing since the war, and this year's
crop will reach almost a million tons.
The condition of uncertainty that has
attended the delay in settling the reci-
procity treaty has seriously retarded the
development of sugar estates and has
otherwise done much harm, and there
will be general satisfaction when the
matter is definitely settled, although the
treaty should not be ratified. The sugar
industry will struggle along even if all
outside assistance should be denied, but
the prosperity of the government is so
dependent on the prosperity of its sugar
planters that the failure of the latter
means the loss of life and energy in the
former.

The delays in the negotiations for a
treaty of reciprocity with the United
States are so generally known that it
would not be necessary to mention this
important question were it possible to
avoid noting the childlike confidence
with which all classes have founded
their hopes on the desire of the people

118

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

of the United States for fair play with
Cuba, and in spite of repeated failures
they still hope that the treaty will soon
be ratified. Their faith in the Presi-
dent of the United States is unbounded,
and that more than anything else has
influenced the Cuban Senate to accept
the amendments recently made by the
Senate of the United States.

The condition of public health re-
mains about as it was a year ago. The
sanitary methods employed by the mili-
tary government are still enforced . Yel-
low fever has not reappeared ; there has
not been a case in Havana for almost
two years, and in other cities of the
island for a still longer period. An
effective quarantine system is enforced.
One of the last acts of the military
governor was the issuing of a decree for
the reorganization of the sanitary ser-
vice of the island in conformity with
the requirements of modern sanitation ;
it placed the supervision of all matters
relating to the public health in the is-
land in the hands of a superior sanitary
board, and provided for the appointment
of a local sanitary board in each muni-
cipality to assist the superior board.
This decree was published three days
before the termination of the occupa-
tion, and its enforcement was left to the
new government. The reorganization
of the sanitary service in accordance
with this decree has been effected, and
the new department is doing efficient
work.

In the President's first message to
Congress he declared it as his purpose
to encourage public education, and to
give it the preferential support of the
government. He has done this, and in
his efforts he has been assisted by Con-
gress. This department has been dis-
turbed less and subjected to fewer
changes than any other, and such changes
as have been made have been of minor
importance. The Secretary of Public
Instruction was authorized to appoint
as many teachers as were employed last
year until the regular annual appropri-

ations could be made. The last statis-
tics that are to be obtained show the
number of teachers to be a few more
than thirty - four hundred, with more
than one hundred and fifty thousand
pupils enrolled, of whom more than
one hundred and twenty thousand are in
constant attendance. The total amount
of money appropriated for boards of
education up to date is but little less
than during a like period of the year
before.

In October last a law was enacted
increasing the rural guard, the regular
army of Cuba, from about fourteen
hundred to three thousand men, and
giving it an organization more nearly
like that of modern armies. There are
to be three regiments, each consisting
of eight troops of cavalry and two com-
panies of infantry. The total annual
expense of maintaining this force is
estimated at a little more than a mil-
lion and a half dollars. The whole
object of the rural guard is to preserve
order in the island. It is a force made
up of intelligent, self-respecting men,
who are well uniformed, and at all times
have a soldierly bearing, and who are
thoroughly trained and disciplined in
the peculiar work for which they are
intended. Their officers are efficient,
and were trained in the wars of inde-
pendence. Cuba has nothing to fear
from militarism so long as her armed
forces are as highly patriotic as her
present rural guard. The absence of
bandits or disorder of any kind is evi-
dence of how thoroughly it does its duty
and of the respect that it commands.

For some months a movement has
been in progress to reorganize the vari-
ous political elements of the island,
consolidating in one party the radicals
and in another the conservatives. The
work has been gradually progressing
until now the reorganization is all but
completed. The strongest political fac-
tions have been the Nationalists, the
Republicans, and the Democrats. Al-
though they all counted among their

The First Year of Cuban Self -Government.

119

members those varying in opinions from
the most radical to the most conserva-
tive, yet the Nationalists have always
had a decidedly radical complexion, and
the Republicans and Democrats have
leaned toward conservatism. The first
has naturally formed the nucleus about
which the radicals have collected, and
the latter two have formed the rally-
ing point for the conservatives. There
have been the usual number of muni-
cipal, provincial, and national conven-
tions and the usual amount of wrangling
and dissensions, but in the end order
will probably be secured out of the cha-
otic state in which politics existed for-
merly.

In his first message the President
indicated to Congress that its first and
most important duty was to provide
sufficient revenues to meet the expenses
of the State, and to make the yearly ap-
propriations with such care and economy
that they should be within the receipts
and leave a surplus for emergencies.
Economy seems to have pervaded the
atmosphere, and expenditures have been
made with the greatest caution. The
government was transferred to the Cu-
bans with $689, 191.02 in the treasury,
and with more than a million and a half
dollars free from allotments. At the
end of April, 1903, there was in the
treasury a balance of $2,699,071.55.
From May 20, 1902, to April 30,1903,
the total revenues of the island amounted
to $16, 323,029.67, and the expendi-
tures to approximately $14,000,000.
The government is self-supporting, is
without debts, and has a handsome un-
encumbered balance in its treasury.

Diplomatic and Consular services
have been organized, and laws for the
support and control of the latter have
been enacted. It is believed that the
laws fixing the revenues of the consu-
lates will make these services self-sup-
porting. Legations have been estab-
lished in the principal foreign capitals,
and consulates have been opened in all
the principal east and south coast cities

of the United States and in the larger
shipping centres of Europe.

The policy of the government in its
diplomatic relations with the United
States can be shown in no better or
more convincing way than by giving the
following quotation from the message
of President Palma to Congress at the
opening of the third legislature in
April :

"The fellow feeling, the respect, and
the just consideration of the American
people, which day by day we inspire
more and more by our exemplary con-
duct as an independent people, possess-
ing a consciousness of our duties and
responsibilities, as well as of our rights,
are circumstances that contribute power-
fully to guarantee a good understanding
between the two nations.

"It is to our interests to worthily
cultivate these sentiments of the Ameri-
can people, and we cannot do this in a
more fitting way than by proceeding to
comply with our obligations to the gov-
ernment at Washington, in a frank, ex-
peditious, and correct manner, whether
it be by granting what we owe. or by
denying what we do not believe it just
to concede.''

Carrying out this policy an agreement
has been made with the President of
the United States, fixing the bounda-
ries of the Cuban territory to be leased
for coaling and naval stations, and there
is no doubt but that this will soon re-
ceive the approval of the Cuban Sen-
ate.

The treaty for adjusting the title of
ownership to the Isle of Pines and the
permanent treaty spoken of in the eighth
article of the Appendix to the Cuban
Constitution (Platt Amendment), which
shall embody all of the provisions of
the seven other articles of this Appen-
dix, are now being negotiated.

The Cuba Company's railway, begun
during the occupation, has been com-
pleted, and is now in operation. The
road joins the extreme eastern portion
of the island with Havana, passing

120

Books New and Old.

through the richest but wildest and one
of the most sparsely settled regions of
the country, and it will have a wonder-
ful influence on the early development
of this region of virgin soil and forests,
and will no doubt make the most deso-
late part of the island one of its most
productive sections. Everything about
this railroad system smacks of good
management, and gives confidence in
the schemes of the company for the de-
velopment of the country, a greater pro-
ject than the original scheme for build-
ing the road.

It is little less than remarkable, and
speaks volumes for the efficiency of the
recent military government and for the
present civil government, that the work
of the former has been assumed and con-
tinued by the latter without its progress
being materially interrupted by so radi-
cal a change in governmental methods,
and there is every reason to believe that
the government will become more effi-
cient with time. The people of the
island are law abiding and orderly, al-

though an economical condition prevails
that might well produce serious dis-
content. Already there has been op-
portunity for noticing the absence of
Revolutionary tendencies and of any
disposition of the minority to refuse to
be ruled by the majority, conditions so
prevalent in some other Latin republics.
With great wisdom the administration
has devoted itself to the really impor-
tant and urgent questions of the hour,
and has not wasted time and energy.
Much legislation was necessary before
all the departments of the government
were in a condition to properly perform
their constitutional functions, and this
is either complete or nearly so. Of
equal importance have been considered
the restoration of agriculture and busi-
ness and the payment of the army. The
revenues and expenses have been studied
with the idea of raising the former and
making every possible reduction in the
latter. In short, up to date, the Cu-
ban government is conspicuous for en-
ergy, honesty, economy, and ability.
Matthew Elting Hanna.

BOOKS NEW AND OLD.

POETRY AND THE STAGE.

READERS whose interest persists in
the parlous question of the modern
stage are likely to have read, not long
ago, Mr. Gosse's essay in the Atlantic
Monthly on Poetic Drama, and Mr.
Corbin's article in The Forum dealing
with the present dramatic situation in
America. Both writers admit patiently,
if not cheerfully, that most people may
be expected to go to the theatre for
trivial purposes, and that the stage of-
fers little encouragement to those who
wish to take the modern play seriously.
"The drama," says Mr. Corbin, "is
in precisely the condition in which liter-
ature would be if the reading public

were limited to the ten-cent magazines."
Mr. Gosse concedes that there will al-
ways be eighty per cent of theatre-goers
"who take their theatre as if it were
morphia or at least as if it were a glass
of champagne. But, " he proceeds, " we
suggest that the residue, the twenty per
cent, are now strong enough to be ca-
tered for also." This seems a reason-
able demand : not that the stage be in-
stantly "reformed" or bodily "elevat-
ed," simply that it do the right thing
by all of its patrons. What, from the
point of view of that imaginable twenty
per cent, the right thing would be, is
a subject well worth considering.

Books New and Old.

121

By way of reply to the charge of
current indifference to dramatic poetry,
it is easy to allege the continued popu-
larity of Shakespeare on the boards.
Granted our fidelity to the Shakespeare
tradition, it is to be doubted whether the
interest of a modern audience in the
Shakespeare play as now presented on
the stage is often quite sincere. More-
over, even when we are not seduced into
beholding the Ophelia of the lady who
has just come up from vaudeville, or the
Shylock of the gentleman who has just
come down from melodrama, even
when we fare piously to the best at-
tainable modern presentation of Shake-
speare, we have done nothing toward
keeping English poetic drama alive. In
truth, we know that as a practical in-
fluence the Shakespeare tradition it-
self has dominated English dramatic
poetry quite too long. Since that great
day of Elizabeth, the position and the
methods of the stage have inevitably
changed, a new language has arisen,
and a new racial temperament. Yet
there are very few plays in English
verse now written, upon which we may
dare look without fear of being once
more confronted with the pale features
of the exhumed Elizabethan Muse.

Among the surprising number of re-
cent attempts in this kind, hardly one
has succeeded in putting off the trap-
pings of Shakespearean diction. Now
and then the imitation has been delib-
erate, or at least confessed. Mr. Wen-
dell's dramatic studies, 1 for example,
are frank experiments in the Elizabeth-
an manner. This is the result :

' In substance all say this : Your royal James,
At peace with our King Philip, greeteth him,
Sending him message how you are gone forth
To seek rich mines still unpossessed by us.
He bids us guard our own, then ; since aforetime
'T was whispered you were something careless of
The laws of mine and thine. So, if perchance

1 Ralegh in Guiana, etc. By BARRETT
WENDELL. New York : Charles Scribner's
Sons. 1902.

We find you trespassing and let you go
Unprisoned, why, your own just English law
Shall hold you answerable, if for nothing else.
Then for the sentence passed in Cobham's case
Upon your daring neck."

This kind of verse creditably echoes
the rhythm and diction of Shakespeare ;
a fact which limits the play as a whole
to so much credit as is due a clever aca-
demic exercise. Taken even so, such a
production by an accomplished student
of the drama would seem to carry with
it the discouraging implication that
there is no use in trying to unite mod-
ern poetry and modern stage-craft. Of
course the implication is an old one ; it
was made, in a way, by all those nine-
teenth-century cultivators of the "clos-
et-drama." Why, they seem to have
asked, should this abrogation of the foot-
lights and the preoccupied audience mat-
ter much ? One gets more pleasure from
reading a Shakespeare play than from
seeing it performed; why should one
care to have his own poetic play actual-
ly produced ? It would really be unsafe
to appeal to Shakespeare in this connec-
tion, for his own plays probably meant
little to him except as they were worth
acting before an audience whose capacity
he knew ; and we, at this remove, and in
our chosen part as readers, cannot help
sharing in that old direct contact be-
tween the poet, the players, and the
pit. What a leap from this vigorous
kind of play to our reluctant and sed-
entary drama of the closet ! a drama
which substitutes declamation for rapid
dialogue, and retains merely some of
the outward symbols and impedimenta
of action. It has its exits and its en-
trances, its acts and scenes upon which
the curtain is never to rise or fall ex-
cept in fancy. Much admirable poetry
may imbed itself in such a drama ; but
it is, at best, an interesting hybrid,
rather than a pure form of literary or
dramatic art. This was the fatal de-
fect in Tennyson's dramatic essays, and,
though in his case the diction was per-
sonally sincere, of Browning's.

122

Books New and Old.

Apart from personal sincerity of dic-
tion, however, there is a racial and
temporal sincerity which in any age be-
longs to poetry of extensive as well as of
intensive power. We shrink from con-
necting the notion of popularity with
the idea of poetry, as it is probably
right for us to shrink with regard to
the higher lyrical or epical forms. But
the stage is essentially a popular insti-
tution, and poetry, to achieve any vital
connection with it, must in the matters
of structure and diction go quite half-
way to meet it. No play, therefore,
which contravenes the principles of
modern stage- craft, or of the simple dic-
tion which has become normal in mod-
ern poetry, can hope for anything better
than a succes d'estime ; that is, a suc-
cess based upon its having done well
something apart from what it primarily
should have done. There have been
only a few glorious instances in which
the literary value of a dramatic com-
position has seemed to be independent
of its usefulness to the contemporary
stage. Most closet-dramas are seen in
perspective to have been neither here
nor there; neither very good as poems
nor very good as plays. Human nature
is, we are told, always the same ; but
each age and race has its own social
nature, its own mental habit, its own
emotional propriety even, qualities
which the dramatist can least afford to
ignore. A living drama, in short, must
not only "hold the mirror up to na-
ture, " but "show the very age and body
of the time his form and pressure."

ii.

This is what, in its own way, our
prose drama is doubtless attempting to
do. It is natural that the modern play
should have come to be, in form, pretty
much everything that the Shakespeare
play was not. Apart from the substi-
tution of prose for verse, the tendency
has been everywhere for simplification
of substance and amplification of acces-

sory. Our elaborate method of presen-
tation exacts a less elaborate scheme of
composition. The stage-manager, the
costumer, and the scene-shifter have to
be considered as ministers to the plea-
sure, and champions of the convenience,
of the public; the five acts dwindle to
three or four, and the number of scenes
is cut down by more than half. Yet
writers of so-called poetic drama have
ignored this change of usage till the
other day, when Mr. Stephen Phillips,
in his very first play, took pains to re-
quire no impossible feats of modern
stage-craft. A practical merit of Mr.
Percy Mackaye's recently published
comedy 1 consists in its possessing pre-
cisely four scenes. The play is clever-
ly constructed throughout, but it is in
pretty bad taste, and contains little or
no sincere poetry. One does not quite
relish having the name of Chaucer taken
in vain for the title of a romantic hero
who reminds one now of the Villon of If
I Were King and now of M. Rostand's
Cyrano ; and the sentimental affair with
the Prioress and her "little pup," as
it is pleasantly called, is from any rea-
sonable point of view absurd. Nor does
one quite take to the playwright's fancy
of making Chaucer talk like an Eliza-
bethan courtier :

" Sir, with your pardon,

To me, our England is still ' Merry England ! '
Which nature cirqued with its green wall of

seas
To be her home and hearthstone ; where no

slave,
Though e'er he crept in her lap and was nursed

of her ;

But the least peasant, bow'd in lonely fief,
Might claim his free share in her dower of

grace ;

The hush, pied daisy for 's society,
The o'erbubbling birds for mirth, the silly

sheep

For innocence. Mirth, friendship, innocence :
Where nature grants these three, what 's left

for envy ?
These three, sir, serve for my theology."

Nothing could well be more clever than

1 The Canterbury Pilgrims. By PERCY MAC-
KAYE. New York : The Macmillan Co. 1903.

Books New and Old.

123

this is in itself, or more perfectly out
of place from the point of view of either
poetic or dramatic sincerity.

A similar exception must be taken to
the manner of Mr. Cale Young Rice's
recent experiment in poetic drama. 1 It
is a careful study in the style which
least needs to be cultivated by modern
writers of dramatic verse. Partly in
consequence, no doubt, of the artificial
medium of expression employed, the
reader is likely to find himself sadly un-
concerned with either characters or ac-
tion. The play is a product of undoubt-
ed talent and diligence, but it could not
conceivably grip and hold an audience ;
and, of the two, it is better for a play
to hail from the property-room than
from the library. The Princess of Han-
over 2 is also undeniably a closet-play ;
in plot and scenical requirement it is far
too elaborate to be actually produced on
the modern stage. Its style is oddly
eclectic, a striking illustration of the
vagary into which talent, even great
talent, is inclined to lapse. Here is a
passage obviously in the Greek tragic
manner :

" Duchess. Forgive
Princess. Thou, mother, needest

no forgiveness,

Who never sinned but of necessity.
Duchess. Compelled, I brought thee to an

abhorred bridal,
Yielding thy cherished youth to a house

of hate.

Princess. Accursed day !
Duchess. Enough of wasteful grief,

Which blasts thine own dear beauty but

confounds not
One of our enemies. Nay, rejoice, my

daughter,

Because thou hast conquered ancient en-
mity."

And here, a few pages later, a bit of
pseudo-Shakespeare :

' Konigsmarck. No matter what the offense
Closed up my golden book. Let me be

hasty
To seize the opportune moment, since

your Highness

1 Charles di Tocca. By CALE YOUNG RICE.
New York : McClure, Phillips & Co. 1903.

Deigns to review those dim and minor pas-
sages

In her rich memory, which firmly charac-
tered

Stand in my obscure tablets, long perused

Yet no wise worn. Most humbly I be-
seech her.

On the knees of my heart, what is the
newer offense

That has estranged now, since I came to
Hanover,

One who were else unaltered ? "

Mrs. Woods, as her lyrics and her
former dramatic experiment, Wild Jus-
tice, have shown, is an intellectually im-
aginative and technically skillful poet ;
but she lacks the creative imagination
which instinctively grasps and clings to
its own manner of expression. In the
present play she has at least one manner
which may be called her own. It springs
from a theory emphatically stated in her
preface, the not unfamiliar theory that
the rhythm of the best English blank
verse is determined by stress rather than
by the number of syllables. In her own
application of this excellent principle
Mrs. Woods seems at times to go far : -

" Aurora. Yet, my impetuous brother,

Our shrewd Electress may have excellent
reasons

For wishing you in the Morea, at Kam-
schatka,

Anywhere, in short. Your visits to the
Princess

Pass unobserved of the world, you being
accompanied

Always by a young Prince of known de-
votion

To her. But something by the mind's fin-
ger and thumb

Not to be caught in a moment, something
impalpable

As air and full as real, may be perceptible

To this old, hard, well-judging woman."

It is really too bad to cite the authority
of Shakespeare and Milton for such writ-
ing as this, which, to the ordinary ear,
is not verse at all.

Mrs. Woods has not quite succeeded
in developing the materials of tragedy
from the annals of the somewhat hum-

2 The Princess of Hanover. By MARGARET L.
WOODS. New York :Henry Holt & Co. 1903.

124

Books New and Old.

drum House of Hanover. Neither the
Princess nor Konigsmarck is endowed
with sufficient dignity of character to
serve as the central figure of a great
dramatic action. When all is done, it
is the uninspired George, with his con-
sistent drunkenness and his intermin-
able "what-whats, " who has most en-
gaged one's interest and sympathy.

In Maximilian, l blank verse is made
the vehicle of an action still more mod-
ern. Unluckily, blank verse is the po-
etic form least amenable to reason; it
has a way of appearing, after all possible
pains have been taken, to have construct-
ed itself according to the essential gen-
ius, rather than to the talented intention,
of the author. So, too often, the royal
chariot turns out to be nothing but a
one-horse shay. To build a tragedy
upon the career of the most luckless of
emperors was a not unpromising enter-
prise; but it is still to be proved that
American politics is capable of produ-
cing materials for anything graver than
opera-bouffe. Not even the utmost co-
piousness of stage-direction can rescue
the present essay from futility. Its
quality may be fairly suggested by a
quotation of the last few lines, and their
accompanying commentary :

(Maximilian walks towards the door, stops and
endeavors to master his feelings. Then
with a look of inexpressible sorrow he lifts
his hand solemnly and says)

Maximilian Oh, man ! Oh, man !

(He goes out. The convent bells ring, and
through the open door and the window ap-
pears the city, bathed in the morning sunlight.
There is a general ringing of bells, and now
very suddenly, but with a slinking movement,
Lopez enters, pale and nervous : he walks
about rapidly in a distracted manner, mutter-
ing to himself. Then he goes to the window
and clutches at the window frames)

Lopez I will not see it.

(He stabs himself and dies. The bells con-
tinue to ring. Enter Gen. Escobedo, who
goes to the window, and not seeing Lopez's
body steps upon it)

Escobedo Ha ! the renegade

And dead !

1 Maximilian : a Tragedy. By EDGAR LEE
MASTERS. Boston : Richard G. Badger. 1902.

(He looks out of the window. Enter Carlotta

from the chamber and goes up to the table)
Carlotta The bells ! the bells !

(A sound of musketry)
Escobedo (Not seeing Carlotta) Thus are

the roots of liberty refreshed !
(Carlotta kneels, folds her arms upon the table,
and bows her head in her arms as if in
prayer)

CURTAIN.

III.

It has seemed worth while to lay so
much stress upon the matters of struc-
ture and style as points of practical
importance in considering a possible re-
lation between modern poetry and the
modern stage. If we have really no
standards of poetic diction and of stage-
craft which fit our time as the diction
and stage-craft of Shakespeare and his
contemporaries fitted the Elizabethan
time, there is little hope of any such
relation.

The question of theme is a pretty
clear one. The poetic drama, if it con-
tinues to exist, will continue to concern
itself with the ideal. We have, during
the past half century, had much patter
in prose, and not a little in verse, about
the glorious opportunities for literature
in the democracy, of commerce, of edu-
cation and what not; but nobody is
really deceived by it. The enslaving
of electricity, the triumphs of barter,
the iron tutelage of "imperialism,"
have somehow failed to expand the
poet's chest or clear his voice. These
things are business. The dramatic poet
may therefore be expected still to treat
the immemorial themes and, ordinarily,
to reap advantage from a remote setting
for his action. The merit of his work
will depend mainly upon questions of
form and method.

It is reasonable to suppose that both
style and structure will be simple. To
the modern theatre audience, even to
the imaginable twenty per cent of it
which is seeking a high and permanent
satisfaction, the ideal will have to be
presented in some concrete and decisive

Books New and Old.

125

form. There will be no diffusion of in-
terest, we have more than enough of
that in practical life, and there will
be no uncertainty of effect. The fact
has been illustrated very recently by the
surprisingly enthusiastic hearing given
to the revival of Everyman. Many of
its hearers will be glad to possess the re-
print now published. 1 A public taste
which is approachable by that simple
stern old morality need not be despaired
of; it is really alive and ready to em-
ploy itself. It has been put off too
long with imitations of Shakespeare,
and with translations of foreign plays.
Such pretty and melancholy hallucina-
tions as Pelleas and Melisande, such ro-
mantic extravagances as Cyrano de Ber-
gerac, even such graceful parables as The
Sunken Bell it will listen to with some
forcing of the sympathy. In the end, it
will demand something more easily ap-
preciable by a solid, law-cherishing race,
something simple, direct, and human.

Mr. Stephen Phillips, in his first
play, actually achieved merit upon these
terms. Paolo and Francesca, to be sure,
bears marks of its origin in a sophisti-
cated age, which, weary of its compli-
cations and subtleties, is inclined to react
toward simple and stable forms of art.
The simplicity of a twentieth-century
Englishman cannot be quite a Greek or
a mediaeval simplicity. The story of
Paolo and Francesca is not of the sort
we are told the public expects. It is
neither agreeable, nor sentimental, nor
morbid; it is merely direct, sane, and
intelligible. We can easily imagine,
too, a style of less lyrical sweetness and
of greater dramatic force. But the fact
remains that most people who heard the
drama, on both sides of the water, felt
its beauty as poetry, and its effective-
ness as a play. Whether Mr. Phillips
will ever do anything else so good,
whether he is to be the founder of a
school, whether his genius is essentially
dramatic, are questions of theory or of

1 Everyman : A Moral Play. New York :
Fox, Duffield & Co. 1903.

speculation. His first play, at least,
we must value as one of the first plays
in modern English verse.

It cannot be doubted that the prac-
tical success of Mr. Phillips ' plays has
been responsible for the number of sub-
sequent essays in poetic drama, and for
the quality of some of them. More
than one of the best passages in The
Princess of Hanover, the composite
character of whose diction has been
noted, seems to possess something of
the graceful clarity of Mr. Phillips 's
style :

" Princess. ... I never was alive till now,

and afterwards

I shall be dead, but in my sepulchre
Let me be hymning joy because I lived
Once, thus in thine arms.
Konigsmarck. Live happily and longer than

thou bodest.

Here will I charm away unhappy thoughts
With one touch of my magic on thy brow,
Thus with a little rain of tender charms,
Forbid these eyes to tears."

Mr. Ewing's Jonathan 2 is written in
a style of similar purity. The idyllic
passages are perhaps the most success-
ful, but the serene dignity of tone which
belongs to the drama as a whole, the
steady swing of the verse, which is Mil-
tonic rather than Shakespearean, enti-
tle it to a very respectful reading. Here
are a few lines from one of David's
speeches :

" I sleep upon a patch of tender grass,
Upon the borders of a rivulet,
Where sweet composure the vexed earth sur-
rounds,

And all the air is filled with gentle noise
Of sheep at rest, and insects humming lightly,
And rhythmic lapping of the running water,
Which seems to flow along my veins and bathe
My body with a clean and cool refreshment."

It cannot be asserted that the drama
is fit to be acted ; and it will be inter-
esting to see by what difference of treat-
ment Mr.Phillips's promised David and
Bathsheba, the work of a poet who is
also a master of stage-craft, will excel
it in this regard.

2 Jonathan : a Tragedy. By THOMAS EWTNG,
Jr. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Co. 1902.

126

Books New and Old.

Poetic drama is not likely soon, or
ever, to recover its old supremacy on the
English stage. But a beginning has
now been made toward its reestablish-
ment in a position of influence ; and it
is fair to suppose that in the hands of
Mr. Phillips, or of somebody else, the
movement will go on. And if it does
not displace prose which Heaven de-
fend ! work of this sort may, with its
noble simplicity of theme, its noble pu-
rity of line, afford a priceless standard
of current dramatic values, which will
sensibly affect the quality of our prose
drama. There are other good things in
the world beside poetry, but few things
which are not the better for being in the
same world with it. Certainly if we
could imagine a day when poetry should
have been hopelessly exiled from the
boards, we could imagine the drama to
be doomed as a means of art, that is,
as a real influence in modern life.

H. W. Boynton.

THE matter contained in these vol-
Human umes has for the most part

Personality appeared in various publi-
and its Sur- . < i rt p

vivalof cations of the Society for

Bodily Deaths Psychical Research ; but
that fact will hardly make the appear-
ance of the collected work less welcome,
since this vast mass of material is now
brought into a form which makes it pos-
sible to apprehend more clearly and es-
timate more justly the character and
value of the late F. W. H. Myers's
contributions to this new field of human
inquiry.

Readers not familiar with these mat-
ters, and not versed in the technicalities
of modern psychology, will be inclined
to shrink from such a formidable task
as the reading of these two stout vol-
umes ; but a closer scrutiny will assure
them that the undertaking is not so
serious ; they will find the general plan
of the work easy to follow and the ar-

1 Human Personality and its Survival of Bodi-
ly Death. By FREDERIC W. H. MYERS. New
York : Longmans, Green & Co. 1903. 2 vols.

rangement of its matter clear and sys-
tematic ; a glossary will interpret the
hard terms that may discourage at first
glance some readers; syllabuses give a
serviceable analysis of the successive
chapters, and appendices contain abun-
dant and interesting cases, which both
illustrate the author's doctrine and are
intended to establish his propositions.
The work on the whole is admirably
constructed, and can be successfully
read by those not versed in the techni-
calities of such subjects.

F. W. H. Myers, whose death in
January, 1901, was a distinct loss to
the world, had long devoted all his rare
powers to the field of psychical research
in which he was a most enthusiastic and
indefatigable worker, and his contribu-
tions to this branch of science had al-
ready won for him a high recognition.

The substantial value of Myers's
work will remain unaffected by any for-
tune that may await his special theories.
He has opened new fields to psychological
science ; he has made impossible the old
limitations of that science ; he has forced
upon the psychologists of the future the
recognition of new problems and the ne-
cessity of new solutions for old problems.
He has enriched the field of scientific
research by conceptions, by hypotheses,
which, whether they are accepted or re-
jected, are destined to lead the way to
other and truer conceptions.

The title of these volumes is at the
same time the statement of the problem
with which they deal, the nature of
human personality and the possibility
of its continued existence after the death
of the body. The problem itself is as
old as man, and the most momentous
question that has ever engaged his
thought ; for it is, after all, the problem
of the world. These volumes are a new
argument for immortality. Their origi-
nality lies in the method of approach
to this old problem and in the solution
offered. The old lines of speculative
reasoning are abandoned; there is no
appeal to supernatural revelation or to

Books New and Old.

127

authoritative dogmas ; it is a new con-
ception of our human personality, a new
interpretation of the facts of our experi-
ence that is to open the door into that
world which lies beyond death.

Two convictions impel the author in
his undertaking : one is, that it is both
necessary and possible to have a truer
conception of human personality than
the state of our knowledge has hitherto
permitted ; the other conviction is, that
it is necessary to base our hope of im-
mortality upon surer grounds than those
reasons with which we have been com-
pelled to content ourselves. So strong
has become the current of scientific
thought, so dominant its temper in all
circles of culture, that we can no longer
let our immortality remain an unveri-
fied hypothesis, or content ourselves
with the "larger hope; " nor can any
evidence hope for acceptance if it is
not somehow continuous with that kind
of evidence on which our other beliefs
repose.

But if psychological analysis of our
human personality shows it to be some-
thing that no mere blood and brain can
explain; if there appears in our life
here the working of a faculty which is
not earth-born, and not dependent on
bodily conditions ; if there are phenom-
ena which, while they do not break the
continuity of our present experience, at
the same time strongly point to the con-
tinued life of man after the death of
the body, then the old hope can appeal
to the latest science for its justification.
Such is the claim of the author.

What then is this human personality,
this self of ours ? Recent psychology
is making us familiar with a conception
of the soul quite different from that
idea of the human ego we have for the
most part entertained. We are com-
pelled to recognize that each man is
potentially at least more and other than
in his customary consciousness he takes
himself to be ; that what goes on in his
every-day consciousness and above the
threshold of it, so to speak, is not all

that can, and under certain conditions
does, go on within his individuality ; and
further, that the subliminal or sub-
merged portion of our psychical life is
in the case of some persons richer in
content, better organized, wiser and
saner than the supra-liminal portion.

It is no longer possible to regard the
human soul as a single, simple, unchang-
ing substance ; we are rather multiplex
in the structure of our egos; there ex-
ists more than one psychic personality
in the life history of the same human
individual.

Psychologists have known these facts
for a considerable time ; this subliminal
region has long been recognized; but
psychologists have been cautious about
venturing to determine the nature and
the limits of this region of psychic life.
It is just here that Myers strikes out a
new path, ventures a new hypothesis.
That conception is the following : That
which we call the self of every-day ex-
perience is in reality only a portion of
a larger personality which is our true
and larger self ; the self of our custom-
ary consciousness is that part of our
larger self which the conditions of our
terrene existence have made possible.
The constituents and powers of this self
have been determined by a process of
natural selection out of a larger possi-
ble psychic life. The other part of our
total self exists and functions as a sub-
liminal consciousness, at times manifest-
ing itself in the supra-liminal field, as
in the inspired achievements of genius ;
and, in the case of some individuals, this
submerged self invades and takes tem-
porary possession of the supra-liminal
region, as in mediums and in alternat-
ing or secondary personalities.

The true self, the human soul, did
not begin to exist with the life of the
body ; it will not cease with the cessa-
tion of that life. The human soul does
not depend for its existence on the body,
but only for its manifestations, the
transmission of its thoughts to other
souls ; nor is the soul thus dependent

128

Books New and Old.

upon the body for the exercise of all
its faculties; the subliminal self mani-
fests intelligence and communicates
thought independently of bodily func-
tions.

This hypothesis will, to most read-
ers, seem fanciful and romantic, a mere
flight of a speculative genius, and to
promise little help in the solution of
the problems of our existence. But
whoever reads carefully these two vol-
umes will not deny one thing to this
conception: it enabled Mr. Myers to
group together in a most successful way
a bewildering variety of seemingly un-
related phenomena, and this unification
is no superficial affair; these facts are
united by a common principle which
affiliates them as truly and as inti-
mately as does the law of gravitation
the scattered masses of matter in the
universe.

A successful classification of such
widely separated and heterogeneous phe-
nomena as those discussed in these vol-
umes is itself an achievement fit to make
a man's reputation, to say nothing of
the strong indication it affords that the
author is on the right track, and will
ultimately be followed by those men
who most strenuously reject his theory.

Not to follow the author into details,
we note a few instances of the use he
makes of this hypothesis in the explana-
tion of such psychic phenomena as hyp-
notism, telepathy, phantasms of the
living and of the dead, and alleged com-
munications from such persons to the
living. The hypnotic intelligence, the
author maintains, is best explained if
we regard it as only a "fragmentary
intelligence, a dreamlike scrap of the
subliminal self functioning apart from
that central and profounder control; '
these marvels of hypnotism are the
"fragmentary expression of that more
comprehensive intelligence, of a power
which the supra-liminal self does not
possess."

To take another instance; experi-
ments have established as a fact the

communication by one mind of thoughts
to another mind without the medium
of any known sensory or physical chan-
nels; and this communication between
minds is not limited to particular per-
ceptions or ideas; one person has been
able to make himself appear to another
person at a distance, in the entire ab-
sence of his bodily presentation. Ac-
cept the author's hypothesis and these
facts are readily explained and fall into
line with the facts of genius, hypno-
tism and other allied phenomena ; the
hypothesis fits them all.

But the chain of phenomena does not
end here. If the work of the Census
Bureau can be relied upon, these veri-
dical hallucinations are continuous in
kind with experimental cases of telepa-
thy, and tend with them to establish
the author's hypothesis.

More remarkable still, the death
of the body does not seem to break this
chain of evidential facts; the ghost,
rightly understood, presents no essential
difference, no wide departure from the
phenomena of telepathy and phantasms
of the living.

To take a last step in this direction :
whoever has read the alleged communi-
cations made through the medium Mrs.
Piper will not find it easy to reject the
author's contention, that the evidence
which tends to establish the continued
life of the human personality after the
death of the body is continuous with
the evidence that establishes the fact
that a human personality here on the
earth can communicate his thoughts and
manifest himself to other persons with-
out the medium of the body ; and how-
ever reluctant such a reader may be to
accept the author's hypothesis, we think
he will agree with us that it is time
for professed psychologists seriously to
set about putting some other explanation
in its place than the charge of fraud,
self-deception, or childish credulity,
which they have been content to substi-
tute for serious examination of the al-
leged facts.

Books New and Old.

129

The author of these volumes will
have accomplished his substantial pur-
pose, if he compels the science of the fu-
ture to face aright this question of the
human soul and its destiny.

John E. Russell.

AMONG the sins of omission which
are charged against that great
cent Books stupid innocent bogy the Pub-
lic, lack of interest in books
of travel cannot be fairly numbered.
No kind of bound publication seems to
be more sure of a market. Perhaps
this is because the " output " is limited,
possibly six or eight books in the
year, during which the historian is pro-
ducing his thousands and the novelist
his tens of thousands. The writer of
" travels " can even afford to be solid
and improving. Books like Nansen's
Farthest North or Lander's Through
the Forbidden Country are quite as
likely to be forgotten in ten years as
many narratives in which fewer things
happen. Perils and privations are in
fact not essential to the happiness of
your true reader of travels. Descrip-
tion is the main thing, and the object
described does just as well not to be in
any sense too outlandish.

Winter India is a very good travel-
book of the lighter kind. It is the
work of an experienced traveler and
writer of travels, a book of the pleasant,
fluent, chattering variety, written frank-
ly from the tourist's point of view. The
author cares little for foreigners, and
less for foreign problems; she simply
likes to see things, and is clever in de-
scribing them. A good illustration of
her style, which is always animated and
often amusing, is afforded by the ac-
count of her first impression of Nautch
dancing :

"Six barefooted, neat-looking col-

1 Winter India. By ELIZA RUHAMAH SCID-
MORE. New York : The Century Co. 1903.

Through Hidden Shensi. By FRANCIS H.
NICHOLS. New York : Charles Scribner's Sons.
1902.

Across Coveted Lands. By A. H. SAVAGE-

VOL, xcn. NO. 549. 9

ored girls in starched muslin dress skirts
and velvet jackets of antiquated cut
and no fit whatever, stepped forward
and, in methodical march and counter-
march to a nasal chorus, braided the
Maypole's ribbons down to their hands ;
in reverse order unbraided them, and
stepped demurely back in line. We
were breathless with surprise.

" Was that the famous sacred temple
dance ? Could six octoroons, matter-of-
fact young ' yaller gals, ' shuffling slow-
ly around a Maypole, ever give rise to
such visions of beauty and grace as only
the name of the Nautch dance conjures
up? Oh, no! It was surely coining
next. There would be something grace-
ful and bewitching, something in gor-
geous native costume, after this pur-
posely tame and tedious cake-walk by
colored church members in velveteen
basques trimmed with cotton lace."

The author pretends to no sympathy
with the people whom she is observing:
"All these diverse races and peoples are
picturesque to look upon, with their
graceful draperies of brilliant colors and
the myriad forms of turbans ; but they
are not an attractive, a winning, and
sympathetic, or a lovable people. They
are as antipathetic and devoid of charm
as the Chinese, as callous, as deficient
in sympathy and the sense of pity as
those next neighbors of theirs in Asia,
and as impossible for the Occidental to
fathom or comprehend, an irresisti-
ble, inexplicable, unintelligible repul-
sion controlling one."

This is very different from the spirit
in which Mr. Nichols's book is written.
He has not simply observed the Chinese
as a tourist, but has lived with them
as a friend. Consequently he does not
find them "antipathetic," "callous, "or
"deficient in sympathy." Shensi is the
most isolated of the Chinese provinces,
LANDOR. New York : Charles Scribner's Sons.

1903.

The Home-Life of the Borneo Head-Hunters :
Its Festivals and Folk -Lore. By WILLIAM
HENRY FURNESS, 3rd. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott Co. 1902.

130 Books New and Old.

the home of the old race, and therefore Mr. Landor's Across Coveted Lands
the best possible place to study the Chi- is, it must be confessed, disappointing-
nese character in its purity. Mr. Nich- ly dull. The word could not be used
ols entered Shensi shortly after the of his narrative of travels in Thibet, in
Boxer uprising, with no prepossession which many of the recorded adventures
in favor of the natives: "I had all the are of a character which made one de-
prejudices of the foreigner when I lightedly fancy that a new Marco Polo,
crossed the gray plain and met the old not to say Munchausen, had arisen. In
race. They seemed then only a perpet- the present pair of fat volumes the
uation of the commonplace ; but as I reader will find a variety of facts about
went in and out among them they began Persia and the outlying deserts, some
to interest me. I found that they had of them statistics and some of them
achieved much, but were free from matters observed. What one misses is
boasting; that they loved their own any sort of spontaneous enthusiasm of
kind of learning; that their pride was interest on the part of the writer. These
tempered by reason and by the isolated volumes, in short, record the observa-
experience of their country; that they tions of a professional traveler and
strove to do right as they saw the right ; sight-seer during an overland journey
that they did not covet, and that because from Flushing to Calcutta,
they had always honoured their fathers Dr. Furness's book has the advantage
and mothers their days had been longer of dealing with a fresh theme. What
in the land than had been the days of most of us know about Borneo, we owe
any other race on earth. I came to re- to Mr. Barnum ; and it is in the nature
spect their eternity and to admire their of a shock to discover that the natives are
love of their parents, their ancestors, really pretty well domesticated and very
and their past." Mr. Nichols's errand nearly hairless, a race of happy and ir-
(the distribution of money collected in responsible infants not unlike the island
America for the famine - sufferers of peoples described by Herman Melville
Shensi) entailed no hazardous adven- years ago. The life of one of the in-
tures, and his account of his person- land tribes seems to him especially idyl-
al achievements is extremely modest, lie: " Were the choice of a residence in
Moreover, though his impression of a Bornean tribe forced on me, I should
Chinese life is surprisingly favorable, not hesitate long in casting in my lot
the quiet humor of his commentary frees with the Punans. They have never
him from suspicion of being advoccutus thought of the morrow ; no cares ; no
diaboli, for a strong man who does not responsibilities ; no possessions ; no ene-
take himself too seriously may be count- mies, for they desire nothing that other
ed upon for a sensible judgment of other people have, not even clothes ; money is
people. He particularly avoids the set dross ; and home is where they rest their
discussion of problems: "For the fault blow-pipes and hang up their parangs,
of the absence from these pages of both a Night can never find them homeless ;
militant and a missionary spirit, let me home is wherever the setting sun finds
urge in extenuation that this narrative them ; does rain threaten, a few poles
offers no solution of Chinese problems, and a few leaves make a house ; let the
points no morals, and draws no conclu- night be clear, and a soft bed of leaves in
sions. It is an attempt at a picture of a nook between the great flat roots of a
Oldest China and its people as I saw tapang tree is luxury itself ; for * where
them in their land, sowing, reaping, youth with unstuffed brain [never was
toiling, thinking, and misjudging the a Punan brain stuffed] doth couch his
world beyond their mountains as persist- limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. '
ently as that world misjudges them." The luxury of condescension has much

Chadwick's William Ellery Charming.

131

to do with the pleasure of travel, but it
is evident that to the larger mind, whe-
ther it is concerned with the impressions
of an ancient civilization like that of
Shensi, or with an ancient savagery like
that of Borneo, the very finest product
of the unusual contact is in the attain-
ment of a mood quite different from
that of condescension. The richer the

nature of the observer, the more certain
he is to listen to the "message " (to use a
cant word) which only an alien race and
life can have for him. It may be loyal-
ty, it may be light-heartedness, there
will be some quality in which he feels
himself excelled; and his racial conde-
scension will be wholesomely tempered
with something very like humility.

H. W. B.

CHADWICK'S WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

THOSE who revere the memory of
Channing owe a debt of gratitude to Mr.
Chadwick. "The Star of the American
Church," as Emerson called the great
preacher, now shines clearly and hu-
manly for the ordinary reader, to whom
he was practically inaccessible in the
three volumes of the Memoir by his
nephew, or in the abridged but bulky
one-volumed edition of the same, issued
as a Centenary Memorial in 1880 by the
American Unitarian Association. If
Mr. Chadwick would now prepare a vol-
ume of some of the great addresses of
Channing that are still of contemporary
interest and value such as Self-Cul-
ture, On the Elevation of the Laboring
Classes, On Preaching the Gospel to the
Poor, The Present Age, Spiritual Free-
dom, and perhaps War, Temperance,
and Education he would do still more
toward bringing Channing within reach
of the present generation, which needs
him so much, and might thus be tempted
to read him at first hand.

Channing 's main significance is in-
tellectual, spiritual, yet Mr. Chadwick
gives us full details of his life and per-
sonality. It is interesting to hear that
he had vigorous health and sometimes
abandoned himself to unrestrained hi-
larity as a college boy. Austerities at

1 William Ellery Channing, Minister of Ee-
ligion. By JOHN WHITE CHADWICK. Boston
and New York : Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1903.

Richmond, Va., whither he went after-
ward as a tutor, austerities partly
forced by poverty, and partly his own
choice, lowered his animal spirits and
broke his constitution. A certain amount
of irritability he seems to have inher-
ited from his mother, and Mr. Chad-
wick thinks that he was making public
confession when in his preaching he
wrote of the wretchedness caused by
fretfulness and anger in social inter-
course. He was an unsociable man
when he began his ministry, annoyed
rather than pleased by visitors, declin-
ing, if possible, all invitations; and
long afterwards Emerson spoke of his
cold temperament as making him the
most unprofitable companion. His con-
versation wanted ease and freedom,
this and his letters also easily slid into
the sermon tone. Mr. Chadwick "won-
ders " whether with his self -absorption
he did not fall at times into some incon-
siderateness to others, - to his young
colleague, Mr. Gannett, for instance,
who would go to church on Sunday
morning, without knowing till he got
there whether he was to preach or not.
His "self -tending" (which was neces-
sary, since the most he could hope for
was "to keep a sound mind in a weak
body ") sometimes went to an amusing
extreme. "Why do you not go out,
sir, and take a walk? " said a parish-
ioner who found him miserable and

132

Chadwic&s William IZllery Channing.

depressed. Channing pointed a tragic
finger to the vane of Park Street Church
and said, " Do you see that ? ' " Yes, "
answered the parishioner, " I see it, and
it has been stuck fast and pointing
northeast for a fortnight. " Then Chan-
ning sallied out to find the warm south
wind turning the Common green. An-
other incident shows that Channing was
capable of a little humor (as well as
tartness) himself. We owe the story
to Mr. Chadwick, who says he had never
seen it in print :

"Dr. Tuckerman, on one of his fre-
quent visits, enquired for Mrs. Chan-
ning, and was informed that she had
gone to Newport to open the house for
the summer. 4 Alone? ' asked Dr.
Tuckerman. Dr. Channing assented,
and Dr. Tuckerman, responding, said,
' Do I understand you to say that Mrs.
Channing has gone into the country
alone to open the house for the sum-
mer? ' ' That is what I said, Dr.
Tuckerman.' ' Well, Dr. Channing,'
said his friend, ' you will permit me
to say that / should not think of asking
Mrs. Tuckerman to go into the country
alone to open the house for the sum-
mer. ' Then Dr. Channing laughed his
small, dry laugh and said, 4 Very likely,
Dr. Tuckerman; and, if you should,
most probably she would not go. '

These are human touches, but they
are not at all inconsistent with Chan-
ning' s spiritual greatness, with a rare
inner conscientiousness and self-control
(for, according to Mr. Chadwick, he
made a good fight with his native irri-
tability and sharpness of speech and
manner and came off more than con-
queror), with a courage which was all
the greater because it was reflective and
not headlong, and even with a certain
sweetness which made little children run
into his arms, though strong men stood
in awe of him. There was something
quite wonderful about his eye and voice ;
Emerson says that his discourses lose
their best in losing them. If the dis-
courses affect us by their elevation, their

noble ardor, their spiritual passion, as
we read them, what must it have been to
hear them!

There are two notes in Dr. Channing' s
preaching and preaching comes pret-
ty near being the word for almost every-
thing he said and wrote that give
it lasting significance and distinction.
The first is the spirit of intellectual
freedom, the idea of the rights of the
mind; the second, social idealism. To
both, his new biographer does full jus-
tice. Dr. Channing 's specific theolog-
ical opinions, aside from his general
spiritual philosophy, are not perhaps of
particular interest to the present day.
Many shared them in his own time, or
were even more conservative than he,
or, if we like the other tendency bet-
ter, more radical ; but this fact has not
served to give them immortality or even
remembrance. It was not his opinions,
but the spirit in which he held them,
and in which he maintained the right
of others to hold different opinions ; it
was his magnificent assertion of the
ethics of the intellect, and his own free
and open mind, that in part give him
his unique place in American religious
history:

" I am surer that my rational nature
is from God than that any book is the
expression of his will."

"I owe the little that I am to the
conscientiousness with which I have lis-
tened to objections springing up in my
own mind to what I have inclined and
sometimes thirsted to believe, and I
have attained through this to a serenity
of faith that once seemed denied in the
present state."

It is sentences like these, along with
his vindication of the right of men like
Theodore Parker and Abner Kneeland
to say what they thought, though it
grieved or shocked him, that mark the
real greatness of the man. Mr. Chad-
wick does indeed tell us, as he was in
duty bound, the story of the evolution
of Channing 's opinions; he is at much
pains, and does the work with scholarly

Chadwictis William Ellery Charming.

133

exactness; it is interesting, too, as a
matter of not very ancient history. But
Mr. Chadwick himself says, "Chan-
ning's intellectual virtue was the most
characteristic aspect of his life ; ' the
present writer would only correct this
by saying, "one of the two most char-
acteristic aspects of his life."

Social idealism is indeed implicit in
Christianity, but it has been a more or
less elusive quantity since the definite
relegation of the triumph of the social
ideal to another world, that began, we
may roughly say, with St. Augustine.
Secular writers like Hutcheson, Fergu-
son, and Rousseau seem to have awak-
ened it in Channing, though once aroused
it easily blended with the traditional
Christian conceptions of the Kingdom
of Heaven, the original human and so-
cial significance of which scholars are
now at last making us realize. Those
who wish to understand this root-motive
of Channing' s life (and to see an impres-
sive and indeed touching statement of
it) should read the letter written to his
friend, William S. Shaw, in his twen-
tieth year, from Richmond, quoted
by Mr. Chadwick. 1 In it he launches
"into speculations on the possible con-
dition of mankind in the progress of
their improvement, " and he finds "ava-
rice the great bar to all my schemes."
He thinks communism is the only cor-
rective, and his views of human nature
are such that he believes in the possibil-
ity of communism. He grants that man
is selfish, but he holds that benevolence,
sympathy, humanity are also natural,
and that by education they instead of
selfishness might become man's principle
of action. We may set down his com-
munism as a bit of youthful naivete', but
we must remember that it was not a
forced or political but a voluntary scheme
he believed in, that he counted entirely
on education and religious enthusiasm
to accomplish it, that then and always
he distrusted associations not springing

1 Pp. 48, 49 (more fully in Life, pp. 63-67,
Memoir, i. 111-116).

from inner conviction and spiritual af-
finity, becoming indeed as extreme an
individualist as Emerson was. More-
over, if man is capable of the disinter-
ested affection in which Hutcheson had
taught him to believe, and the hour in
which the conviction was borne in upon
him and the clump of willows under
which he was walking, book in hand,
were ever afterwards sacred in his mem-
ory, one weighty practical objection to
community of property vanishes. Such
disinterestedness, too, was a large part
of the meaning of that dignity of hu-
man nature, that greatness of the soul,
which to some is Channing 's character-
istic doctrine, and rightly from one point
of view, since it is the common root
from which his emphasis of the rights
of reason and his social idealism alike
sprang. Man is so great that he can
transcend his prejudices and lay hold
of absolute Divine truth, and so great
that he can transcend his selfishness
and live in universal love. It is a no-
ble conception, covering many sins or
errors of practical calculation. Nothing
ever came of the twenty-year-old propos-
al of an educational propaganda to con-
vince mankind that they are parts of a
great whole, bound to labor for the good
of the whole, but the light of the ear-
ly dream never forsook him. In the
next to the last year of his life he wrote
to the head of the Mendon " Communi-
ty " that he had long "dreamed of an
association in which the members, in-
stead of preying on one another and
seeking to put one another down, after
the fashion of this world, should live to-
gether as brothers, seeking one anoth-
er's elevation and spiritual growth."
He made earnest practical suggestions ;
he had his fears, but also his hopes,
he wrote Miss Peabody a little later
he "never hoped so strongly and so
patiently." "I should die in greater
peace, " he declared, "could I see in any
quarter the promise*of a happier organ-
ization of society." In this, as in the
impassioned prayer closing the Lenox

134

Ohadwick's William Ullery Channing.

address of a year later, we see him as
Matthew Arnold says of Marcus Aure-
lius, stretching out his arms for some-
thing beyond, tendentemque manus
ripce ulterior is amore.

Practically Channing gave the greater
part of his life, aside from his unwilling
excursions into the field of theological
controversy, to the propagation of those
idealistic social principles which were
connected in his youthful mind with
communism and yet are detachable from
it (as a definite, formulated scheme).
If his early preaching was cast in a
somewhat conventional mould, this lea-
ven was still there. The ideal of love
and brotherhood was at a great distance
from the actual world, but under its in-
fluence he opposed slavery and war; he
reasoned about intemperance, "one
cause," he said, "of the commonness
of intemperance in the present state of
things is the heavy burden of care and
toil which is laid on a large multitude
of men ; " he called for improvements in
education, knowing that the preparation
for all social change was there. The in-
dustrial world itself seemed far removed
from the fraternal spirit, it was
broken up into classes warring with one
another; "rich and poor," he said,
" seem to be more and more oppressed
with incessant toil, exhausting fore-
thought, anxious struggles, feverish com-
petition ; " and again, " Business is war,
a conflict of skill, management, and, too
often, fraud ; to snatch the prey from our
neighbor is the end of all this stir."
According to Mr. Chad wick, he "dis-
trusted absolutely the competitive sys-
tem of trade, and doubted a man's
ability to engage in it without loss of
personal integrity." This may be too
strong a statement, for Channing once
said, " Commerce is a noble calling; '
but it is not far from the truth. His
general view of our civilization was that
it is on a low level; "our whole civ-
ilization," he wrote in 1841 to Sis-
mondi, "is so tainted by selfishness,
mercenariness, and sensuality, that I

sometimes fear that it must be swept
away to prepare for something better. "
"The present selfish, dissocial system, "
he declared, "must give way," -it
"cannot last forever. " He turned long-
ing, believing eyes to a new order,
wherein "new ties " should take "the
place of those which have hitherto con-
nected the human race." He trium-
phantly expected it, saying, "A better
day is coming, the Kingdom of Heaven
is at hand." It is the old Christian
attitude over again, with its disdain of
the world that now is and its joyful
awaiting of a world that is to come.
The ideal in the mind shall at last find
a corresponding reality, or, as an
Oxford scholar, memorable for this sen-
tence, if for no other, put it, "Con-
science and the present constitution of
things are not corresponding terms; it
is conscience and the issue of things
which go together."

One who challenges his age cannot
expect to be altogether popular. Whit-
tier speaks of Channing as having "the
proudest reputation, in letters and the-
ology, of his day." But when he came
out flat-footedly against slavery, after
his visit to the West Indies in 1830,
the love of his people for him began to
wax cold, or, asks Mr. Chad wick, was
the beginning still further back, in the
assaults he had made upon the love of
gain, a Northern as much as a Southern
fault? When he headed the petition
for the Faneuil Hall meeting, which
became famous through Wendell Phil-
lips 's speech, and himself spoke there in
a similar vein, more parishioners and
friends fell away. "His well-bred pa-
rishioners, 'gentlemen of property and
standing, ' often passed him on the
street," says Mr. Chadwick, "without
a sign of recognition or the most indif-
ferent." Theodore Parker did not per-
haps greatly exaggerate when he gave
it as his opinion that at this time a man
with Channing 's liberal opinions and
reformatory spirit, unknown to fame,
"could not find a place for the sole of

The Studies of a Biographer.

135

his foot in Boston, though half a dozen
pulpits were vacant." But had not
Channing spoken of Christianity as " so
at war with the present condition of so-
ciety that it cannot be spoken and acted
out without giving great offense " ? If
one wishes to be popular, he must say
fine things, but not bring them home.
" People bear patiently, " to quote Chan-
ning again, " what it is understood they
will not practice. But if the preach-
er ' come down, ' as it is called, from
these heights, and assail in sober earnest
deep-rooted abuses, respectable vices,
inhuman institutions or arrangements,
and unjust means of gain, which inter-
est, pride, and habit have made dear
and next to universal, the people who
exact from him official holiness are
shocked, offended. l He forgets his
sphere.' It is related of Dr. James
Walker that he kept so close to "per-
sonal religion " that he did not permit
himself to vote !

I have been so interested in making
this slight and no doubt partial por-
trayal of Channing that I have done no
adequate justice to the merits of Mr.
Chadwick's book. In it the reader will

find an ample and all-round portrait.
It is written with Mr. Chadwick's well-
known facility and felicity of phrase.
One sees the poet in many a metaphor ;
I could only wish that he had felt free
to insert his own perfect sonnet sug-
gestedjby Channing 's exclamation, "Al-
ways young for liberty " (after the Paris
Revolution of 1830, which Channing
hailed with delight, as contrasted with
young Harvard's deadness to the event,
and in answer to a young Harvard
friend, who had said, "You seem to be
the only young man I know "). One
is pleased, too, at the personal touches
and reminiscences, which give a de-
lightful air of ease and freedom to the
narrative. Mr. Chadwick does not con-
ceal his own feelings and preferences.
He loves the things one ought to love in
these distracted days ; he, too, is young
for liberty and right and a higher issue
of things than our present "plutocratic
feudalism. " It is good to have the old-
time heroes and authors of our liberties,
such as Parker and Channing, brought
before us by a sympathetic hand like
his. Every man of generous mind will
thank him.

William Mackintire Salter.

THE STUDIES OF A BIOGRAPHER. 1

" WHEN I read the book, the biogra-
phy famous, " remarked Walt Whitman,
"and is this then (said I) what the au-
thor calls a man's life . . . why, even
I myself, I often think, know little or
nothing of my real life ; only a few hints,
a few diffused faint clues and indi-
rections." There are doubtless few med-
itative readers who have not at some
time or other been driven by a smart,
impertinent biography into this agnos-
ticism ; nor are there likely to be many

1 The Studies of a Biographer. By LESLIE
STEPHEN. New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons.
1899-1902. 4 vols.

more who have not some time been led
through reflection upon the shadowy,
inward flow of personality to distrust
even the great biographies. If there is
any short and easy method with the
skeptical majority, it is to commend to
their reading Sir Leslie Stephen's Stud-
ies of a Biographer. With his wonted
modesty, - - a modesty that is one of the
most effective literary weapons of our
time, - - Sir Leslie would surely disclaim
any intention of doing more than to catch
and convey a few hints and indirections.
Nevertheless his native genius for bio-
graphy has been so trained by long delv-

136

The Studies of a Biographer.

ing amid the myriad human records from
which the great Dictionary of National
Biography was composed, that his power
of seizing the significant fact is ac-
companied by a rare gift of almost in-
stinctive generalization, whereby the
convincing, and, as it were, evidential
resurrection of a man is accomplished.

Almost without exception the essays
in these four volumes were written as
review articles upon the appearance of
some important, or otherwise consider-
able, biographic work. It is pretty cer-
tain that the "reviewals " were not uni-
formly gratifying to the writers of the
works under review; for Sir Leslie
Stephen has a way of gracefully assem-
bling their painfully acquired informa-
tion into portraits of their subjects quite
different from theirs. But this faculty
which tends to their exasperation pro-
motes our delight. He knows, none bet-
ter, the trade of the biographical delver,
who, as he says, "is at least laying
bricks, not blowing futile soap-bubbles, "
but his own true work is of the imagi-
nation. He has that deep feeling, to
which the unaided and unimaginative
Skeptical Understanding rarely attains,
that " our ancestors were once as really
alive as we are now. " Hence when he
writes of an author, whether of old time
or of to-day, his aim is to know the man
rather than to "criticise " his work ; in-
deed he willfully holds that the root of
the matter is in "working with a will
and defying the critics and all their
ways."

But at no point is Sir Leslie Stephen
more sharply distinguished from the un-
imaginative delver than in his skill at
selecting and weaving into his narrative
little human ironies from the lives and
worls of unread, often of unreadable
authors. How good it is to know of
John Byrom's forgotten "pastoral " ad-
dressed to Phebe, that "a Mr. Mills,
years afterwards, kissed the book when
he read it ; " how engaging is the image
of Boyse, "whose only clothing was a
blanket with holes in it through which

his hands protruded to manufacture
verses ; " and what is more delightful
and suggestive than to learn that "Ar-
thur Bedford, an orthodox clergyman,
had (in 1719) collected seven thousand
immoral sentiments from British dra-
matists."

Notwithstanding these numerous and
sprightly graces, there is nothing in any
essay to suggest the "Sympathetic In-
terpreter, " whose biographical writing
is the most insidious of corruptions. Sir
Leslie Stephen is always more concerned
with character than with temperament,
with ideas than with moods. He grasps
the notions dominating his subjects
firmly, and he expounds them lucidly,
often with sweetly provoking coolness
and poise. The range of his biographi-
cal comprehension as it is indicated in
these Studies is very noteworthy. View-
ing the gathering as a whole, we find it
curiously divided. There is a group of
men of imagination, spontaneity, and
somewhat wayward impulse, studied
with a certain sympathetic enthusiasm,
and yet with his tongue in his cheek, so
to say : Froude, Donne, Stevenson, Ar-
thur Young, Wordsworth in his youth,
Emerson, Ruskin ; then comes a quar-
tette of queer doctrinaires, dry-work-
ers, vain men, Byrom, Godwin, Trol-
lope, Boswell, all portrayed with nothing
less than affection ; Shakespeare, Scott,
Milton, Gibbon, the heavy - metaled
authors, are studied with a realizing
understanding and a happy absence of
breathlessness ; while Tennyson and
Jowett, hesitant believers, who, as Sir
Leslie thinks, subjugated reason to a
wish, are rather rudely, though subtile-
ly, mocked at. In none of the above
cases is there any lack of intellectu-
al comprehension, but perhaps he is in
most brilliant touch with the kindly,
half -cynical moralists, fervent skeptics,
whimsical and witty reformers, in short,
with men like Holmes, Pascal, and
Bagehot ; and he is all for Johnson. To
complete the catalogue, mention must
be made of some half-dozen more dis-

The Studies of a Biographer.

137

cursive essays on such tempting themes
as National Biography, In Praise of
Walking, or The Evolution of Editors.

It were a pleasant adventure to trav-
erse some or all of these papers, to resay
their good things, perhaps, very mildly
and meekly, to disagree with some of
them ; how fain, for example, would one
fence with him, for a passado or two, as
to The Evolution of Editors. Sir Leslie
Stephen, the reader must he regretfully
informed, is but little impressed by the
Divinity which doth hedge an Editor;
indeed, he scientifically traces his evolu-
tion out of Grub Street, and boldly as-
serts that even in the proud conscious-
ness of your full-blown editor the sense
of genius is not always constant, and in
that profound the vision of Grub Street,
an awful possibility, darkly rises. But,
as must always be the case with any book
that is a book, the author is more inter-
esting than his subjects, or than any of
his pronouncements. It will be better
to leave the adjudication of moot points
to the reader's leisure, and see what re-
sult a humble application of our author's
method to his own writings will yield us.

The most personal and characteristic
trait in all these collected essays is the
continual play of a kind of ironical cas-
uistry. On every page we see a keen
and brilliant intellect seeking to ease
the burden of the mystery, or of sad con-
viction, by the exercise of witty logic.

"A conscience is, " he says, speaking
of Rugby, "no doubt a very useful pos-
session in early years. But when a man
has kept one till middle life, he ought
to have established a certain modus vi-
vendi with it ; it should be absorbed and
become part of himself, not a sepa-
rate faculty for delivering oracular ut-
terances. The amiable weakness of the
Rugby school was a certain hypertrophy
of the conscience." Or take his wicked
fling at Matthew Arnold : " And I have
often wished, I must also confess, that
I too had a little sweetness and light,
that I might be able to say such nasty
things of my enemies."

But perhaps the best example of this
ironical casuistry is in a hypothetical
reply which he frames to certain conten-
tions of Pascal's:

"According to you the slightest be-
lief is a sufficient reason. Then why
try to hold an absolute belief ? After
all, if there be such a God as you sup-
pose, He may choose it is not a very
wild hypothesis - - to damn me for ly-
ing or deliberate self-deception. If, as
we are supposing, He has not supplied
me with evidence of a fact, He may be
angry with me for deliberately manu-
facturing beliefs without evidence,
for believing absolutely what I can only
know to be probable ; He may do so,
if we may venture to attribute to
Him a certain magnanimity, even if
the fact considered be the fact of His
own existence. You contemplate a
Deity who wishes to be believed to all
hazards, even if He has not given rea-
sons for belief, even therefore if the
demand imply the grossest injustice.
What is the chance that God, if there
be a God, acts on this principle, and
not on the opposite principle ? '

Here is a faculty which would have
adorned a Jesuit's chair; but it is to
be noted that Sir Leslie's casuistry is
always, as has been said, ironical, and
but rarely the vehicle of his own con-
victions. He professes himself ironi-
cally perhaps a "Lockist, " yet he
contrives to avoid falling in with any
philosophic sect, and always maintains
an individual point of view, whence,
Montaigne-like, he may poke fun at the
fallacies of all. He assumes the role of
filius terrce, who was anciently appointed
to make sport of persons in high places,
lest they become overweening. Cam-
bridge was his university, and, as he
more than once reminds us, Cambridge
has always been a little distrustful of
Oxford with her "mighty voices," spir-
itual guides, and Platonic dreamers.
Lockist as he is, he is never cold to any
unaffected enthusiasm for an ideal, -
of Emerson as the typical American

138

The Studies of a Biographer.

idealist he is keenly appreciative,
but in the long run his true sympathy
is with the more generous sort of utili-
tarian. A man's deepest predilection
is pretty sure to crop out in his day-
dreaming ; there is in the essay on Gib-
bon a whimsically lyrical passage about
the mid-eighteenth century which is sig-
nificant :

"When I indulge in day-dreams, I
take flight with the help of Gibbon, or
Boswell, or Horace Walpole, to that
delightful period. I take the precau-
tion, of course, to be born the son of a
prime minister, or, at least, within the
charmed circle where sinecure offices
may be the reward of a judicious choice
of parents. There, methinks, would
be enjoyment, more than in this march
of mind, as well as more than in the
state of nature on the islands where one
is mated with a squalid savage. There
I can have philosophy enough to justify
at once my self-complacency in my wis-
dom, and acquiescence in established
abuses. I make the grand tour for a
year or two on the Continent, and find
myself at once recognized as a philoso-
pher and statesman simply because I am
an Englishman. I become an honorary
member of the tacit cosmopolitan asso-
ciation of philosophers, which formed
Parisian salons, or collected around
Voltaire at Ferney. I bring home a
sufficient number of pictures to orna-
ment a comfortable villa on the banks
of the Thames ; and form a good solid
library in which I write books for the
upper circle, without bothering myself
about the Social Question or Bimetal-
lism, or swallowing masses of newspaper
and magazine articles to keep myself up
to date. I belong to a club or two in
London, with Johnson and Charles Fox,
the authors and the men of fashion, in
which I can l fold my legs and have
my talk out, ' and actually hear talk
which is worth writing down. If I do
not aspire to be one of the great trium-
virate of which Gibbon was proud to be
a member, I fancy at least I can allow

my thoughts to ripen and mellow into .
something as neat and rounded as be-
comes a fine gentleman."

If we read with this a more seriously
intended complementary and correcting
passage concerning Arnold's poetic mel-
ancholy, we shall be not far away from
our sturdy essayist's central thought:

"The universe is open to a great
many criticisms ; there is plenty of cause
for tears and for melancholy ; and great
poets in all ages have, because they
were great poets, given utterance to the
sorrows of their race. But I don't feel
disposed to grumble at the abundance
of interesting topics or the advance of
scientific knowledge, because some in-
conveniences result from both. I say
all this simply as explaining why the
vulgar including myself fail to ap-
preciate these musical moans over spilt
milk, which represent rather a particu-
lar eddy in an intellectual revolution
than the deeper and more permanent
emotions of human nature."

For all his ironical casuistry and
mocking wit, it is always these deeper
and more permanent emotions of hu-
man nature which warm and vitalize Sir
Leslie Stephen's writing. His cool,
familiar manner, so express and admi-
rable, tells of turbulence subdued ; and
reveals rather than hides the mellow
soundness of the writer. He is the chief
biographical craftsman of English Lit-
erature, and the Dictionary of National
Biography is a practical achievement
which must have brought its first editor
a fuller joy " than the conquest of Per-
sia to the Macedonian. " But there are
valid standards judged by which these
occasional essays are more memorable
than the Dictionary or than the mag-
num opus on the English Utilitarians.
Though cast in the form of Biographi-
cal Studies, they are really discursive
moral essays in which, through delight-
ful, unaffected discourse, sanity, sincere
truth, right feeling, the things that are
eternally worth while, are seen for what
they are. F. G.

The Contributors' Club.

139

THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.

IT was with something of a shock

Reflec- tna * " rea( l n t long ago in a
tions of a delightful contribution to the
Club that the writer called
himself a "fringer' upon literature.
At a first reading I passed over that
humble phrase with perfect compla-
cency, thinking that of course one who
claimed merely to be a friend .of some
young authors might fairly enough con-
sider himself as a mere hanger-on to
the skirts of My Lady Literature. But
presently I began to grow uneasy. Just
what, after all, could he mean, I won-
dered. Was he not making this very
disclaimer in the pages of the Contrib-
utors' Club? Nay, was he not in that
case a contributor to the Atlantic?
Could it then be that any one who had
ever had anything approved by that
august tribunal might continue to re-
gard himself, save in a very Uriah-like
ecstasy of humility, in the light of a
fringer ? Each of these inquiries sound-
ed in my ears more loud and insistent
than the last, until the closing phrase
was pitched at a desperate and rather
defiant shout. For I very well knew
what they were all leading up to ; they
were leading up to me. What about
me, then ? I was forced to consider the
matter. Am I, then, I wondered re-
luctantly, who myself have had the sat-
isfaction of speaking from this very
rostrum, I, who have fancied because I
had tasted the ineffable joys of a "first
acceptance " in these columns that I was
leading the "literary life," am I then
but a fringer too? It seemed that I
must be, and the assurance was bitter
as hemlock.

I had entirely to reconstruct my the-
ory of myself. For ever since that
golden day which marked my first ac-
ceptance I have walked the earth a new
being. The shining halo of "author' 5
invisible to others, perhaps, but a

burning consciousness to me has
blazed upon my brow. On the highway,
in the street-car, in all the public ways,
I have carried about with me the radi-
ant knowledge that I am a writer for
the magazines. Never did the famous
mayor of that little French village feel
more heavily than I the burden of his
incognito! Do I observe a traveler in
the railway- carriage about to cut his
new copy of the Atlantic, my Atlantic,
I can hardly restrain myself from say-
ing, "Pray, my dear sir, let me com-
mend to you that charming little de-
partment in the back the Contribu-
tors' Club I believe they call it [Oh,
exquisite unconsciousness!] where you
will find an excellently wise and witty
little article which you are sure to en-
joy. I can cordially recommend it, I
ahem wrote it myself." Does a
stranger jostle me, a waiter use me with
rudeness, a porter abstain from brushing
my coat in the face of my obvious quar-
ter, I but hug my dignity the closer
and think to myself, "How differently
would these canaille treat me if they
only knew who I really am." "Ladies
and gentlemen," I inwardly harangue
the audience of which I chance to be
one, " little do you think as you listen so
eagerly to the gentleman yonder upon
the platform, that you have in the very
midst of you the author of that brilliant
little paper which you so enjoyed in last
month's Atlantic." All this, you see,
it means to have had an essay accepted
by the Contributors' Club. And such
are the godlike joys I must give over
now I find I am declined into a fringer.
However, like everything else, being
a fringer has its compensations. I have
been studying them out since I found
I was one, and have discovered three.
Compensation Number One is fame ; a
fame, moreover, not to be belittled by
criticism, for, thanks to the admirable

140

The Contributors' Club.

contrivance of this department, nobody
knows exactly which production is yours.
So your friends go about the world
saying, "You know Smith, of course?
Well, he writes for the Atlantic." Or
better still, because still more vast
and full of possibilities, simply, "He
writes." He writes! People do not
say that, bien entendu, without meaning
likewise "he publishes, " and in this day
of prostrate adoration before the printed
word who could desire a more dazzling
advertisement ?

Compensation Number Two is the
unearned increment. After your friends
have learned that you have had one ef-
fort accepted by the Club, they will nat-
urally look for more, and will credit you
with many excellent things (because
they are "so like you ") which you did
not write, and could not have written
to save your life. There is a slight
drawback, you will perceive, to Com-
pensation Number Two. It is a little
painful to have to explain that the one
you wrote is not yonder brilliant per-
formance they have laid at your door,
but this little scrubby one which they
did not like. Still, when you can get
out of explaining, the unearned incre-
ment is by no means to be despised.

Compensation Number Three is the
education of the emotions. Being a
fringer furnishes at small outlay all the
palpitations of a grande passion, and if
we share the belief of the Latin races
that the unpardonable stupidity is not
to have/e^, then we shall be grateful
for this exercise of the sensibilities.
Most writers have been f ringers first and
authors afterward, but some poor souls
have "commenced author r in very
sooth, and these are to be commiserated.
Two young friends of my own (for, like
that other fringer who, whether he likes
it or not, is responsible for these pre-
sent reflections, I too have "literary
friends ") make it their boast that they
have never had a manuscript refused.
It should be their despair. One avenue
of emotion is as effectually closed to

them as to the poor clods who have never
"written." What! never to have spec-
ulated upon the fate of a manuscript,
never to have said to one's self, "Now
by to-day it will have reached the edi-
tor, by next week he may have read it,
the week after I may begin to scan the
mails." I suppose the only speculation
of this kind which enters their Olympian
minds is, " Well, it must be about time
for my check. " Think of having to re-
gard the postman as a mere messenger-
boy employed to deliver checks, instead
of as a modern, gray incarnation of
Nemesis !

For my part, when I see him coming
I am in as many minds about meeting
him as a girl with her lover. I have
tried all methods of approach, and be-
lieve in the time-honored rule that ap-
plies to the way of a maid with a man :
Never show him how much you care!
To meet him with hungry, outstretched
hand at the door is only too apt to in-
spire him to fill it with that undesired
largesse, the homing manuscript. Bet-
ter not to look out of the window for
him, I find, better not to listen for the
bell, better surely not to descend
breathlessly in the wake of his double
ring to see what may now be awaiting
you on the table. (Too often it will be
a long, narrow, ah! how ominous, fat,
white envelope.) Best of all, probably,
to contrive to be out of the house entirely
at mail times, and try not to think
about it on the way home. Even when
arrived thither, do not rush to scan the
letter-tray, nor ask with a fine assump-
tion of carelessness, "Did I happen to
have any mail ? ' The gods are not de-
ceived, you must go the whole measure.
Sit down in a corner with a book, all
more personal literature forgetting, un-
til some one suddenly remembers to say,
" Oh, by the way, Henry, there is a let-
ter for you." And if you have faith-
fully observed all these rules, that may
be the letter you long to see.

But all these lover-like precautions
and diplomacies are unknown to sue-

The Contributors' Club.

141

cess ; how gray, how gray must be the
literary life!

" 'T is better to have loved and lost "
'T is better, perhaps, to be a f ringer and
have a few emotions. So, the ecstasies
of first love may be made to last a life-
time ; but success resembles the assured
and unillusioned habitudes of marriage.
Does the married lover preserve his
lady's letters? Does the successful
author guard the billets-doux of publish-
ers? Yet I dare swear that every
fringer that ever was has kept each
scrap of writing from his editor, even
those humanely anaesthetic notes which
seek to mitigate rejection. Oh, Ernest
Dowson and his decadent companions,
whom Mr. Arthur Symons has cele-
brated and Mr. Andrew Lang has de-
rided, are welcome to their hashish
dreams; this is my "favorite form of
intoxication. "

MANIFOLD are the songs that cele-
TheDay brate our holidays and an-
After. niversaries, plentiful are the

pages filled with suitable selections and
appropriate refrains commemorating
this great day or that remarkable occa-
sion. Lives there a holiday so humble
that it has not its host of eulogists?
Is there a memorable time that has
escaped due recognition?

Yes, one, and that of such incal-
culable importance that it should stand
preeminent among red-letter days: a
day the value of which none may ig-
nore; the vast significance of which
all must acknowledge ; a day that plays
a vital part in every life and makes or
mars the history of every soul. It is
a petty day of judgment. A day that
tests our passions, and tries our strength
and patience, and teaches us the worth
of all other red-letter days, none of
which may dare rival this one in might
and majesty.

It is a strange omission that the " Day
After, " supreme and epoch-making pe-
riod of time, should have failed to re-
ceive the homage which is its just pre-
rogative.

The Day After the feast, we run
slight risk of overrating its value. The
Day After the ball, we can sit down
to analyze our partners. The Day Af-
ter the wedding begins a new regime,
for better or for worse. The Day Af-
ter the funeral, the bereaved realize that
the beloved one has departed.

That is the day that tests, and tells,
and laughs, and weeps, and registers
its date upon the soul.

The battle surely tries the general's
skill and strength, but the Day After
reveals his character and greatness.

The coronation is a mighty spectacle,
but the Day After we learn the mea-
sure of the king.

Upon a summer day we shout the
wondrous victory of Manila, but the
Day After perchance we may deplore
the burden of the Philippines.

What mean those two great words
and " defeat " save in the

success

light of the Day After?

The angel with the flaming sword
drives Adam and Eve from Paradise,
and then begins the story of the world.

A climax is, much oftener a begin-
ning than an ending. We follow a se-
ries of great events up to that instant
of triumph or despair, and then we end
abruptly; such a conclusion is verily
artistic !

The curtain falls as Phyllis murmurs
"yes," but still the audience wonders
if the glad ending will really prove so,
when tested by the clear prosaic day-
light that is to come.

Ah, vital day of days, we are incapa-
ble of measuring our other days except
by you !

Breathing your calm tranquillity, we
learn regret and thankfulness. In your
judicial presence we recognize success
and failure, which in the rush of swift
events and stirring action we are unable
to distinguish.

And at the end, we speak of u Death "
with lowered tones and dim forebodings,
yet 't is not Death we fear, but the Day
After.

142

The, Contributors' Club.

I HAVE lately been private secretary
A Great and literary adviser to a Great
Certain 5 "" 1 Person. She is a woman
Bores. known all over the world,

loved, admired, and misunderstood by
more kinds of people than drink tea.
The world is so good to her that it is
ungrateful to quarrel with its ways, but
it has given me a hard time. What is
more important, the Great Person has
had a hard time too, and I hope for her
sake that there will be among those who
read this one or two who have been in-
tending to give her trouble, and who will
forthwith learn better.

The worst enemy to the Great Per-
son is the autograph collector. Now,
the collector who buys with good money
autographs that are already on paper,
or who begs from his friends, or who
knows celebrities well enough to ask
them to their faces for their signatures,
may be, and I am sure is, a great nui-
sance. But he is not a foe to society.
The collector who asks a person who has
never heard of him for a letter or for
a signature "on the inclosed card" is
a selfish parasite. My .Great Person
works ten hours a day. Not to speak
of the unknown petitioners who ask
merely for a signature and those more
cunning beggars who ask questions
adroitly inviting her to write more than
a bare autograph, not to speak of
the mob of strangers, if she answered
all the genuine friendly letters and the
meritorious requests for help, she would
not have time left to add anything to
the greatness which causes her to be
pestered now.

What hypocritical apologists these
brazen collectors are! "You will no
doubt be surprised to receive a request
from one who is a perfect stranger to
you." No, not surprised, the morn-
ing's mail contains no surprises, but
wearied, sometimes angry. These are
the emotions of the secretary, not of
the Great Person. She is sweet, easily
taken in by a false plea for help, and
all too honest. She will not even keep

the stamp inclosed for reply. I record
with satisfaction that a wealthy beggar
(she wrote on expensive paper gloriously
embossed with a golden monogram) who
asked for a photograph and inclosed
two stamps got only one back on the
outside of the reply I wrote. The
other stamp is spoil more precious than
its poor two cents' worth; it is the fine
of justice, the prize of the hard-labor-
ing secretary who must reply to these
buzzing parasites.

How politely the secretary writes to
the daily swarm of beggars who ask,
not for bread, not for drink, nor for any
necessary thing, but for a valuable curio,
for one of the idle trumperies of life to
grace a rich man's cabinet,
regrets her inability to comply with the
many requests she receives for auto-
graphs, samples of her dress, books,
pictures, locks of her hair, photographs,
pens she has used, poems, belt-buckles,
and shoe-strings." The secretary signs
this gracious and comprehensive refusal
in dull patience. This is the letter he
writes in his mind :

"If you are young, you still have a
chance to learn that you have no right
to take the time and the strength of one
who is of service to the world, or to an-
noy her much respected and valuable
secretary. You are trying to rob soci-
ety. If you are grown up and hardened
in evil ways, if you are a professional
collector of great men's letters and rel-
ics, you ought to be "

For another kind of bore who has
cost me much labor, and all but soured
my sweet temper, I have some pity.
This kind of bore is born, not made. I
mean the amateur poet, who writes exe-
crable verse to the Great Person. I
have burned a hundred and fifty of these
poems in six months. None of them
was funny enough to print. Most of
them were simply bad. In some there
was unconscious pathos, for through the
crude limping phrases there shone, not
the cold conceit of the amateur writer,
but the sincerity of a great inarticulate

The Contributors' Club.

143

affection. Most of the rest were writ-
ten to win a reply, and in these the
workmanship was usually better than in
the more genuine tributes ; unhappily,
good workmanship too often goes with
conceit and selfishness, whereas he who
would sing an honest hymn to his idol
confounds the grammar of the English
language.

These poor poets, like the autograph
collectors, should be cured, not for the
sake of the great people they annoy, but
for their own sakes. Here, however,
protest is in vain : nothing will cure the
amateur poet.

THIS is intended only for the middle-
aged. Others will not read
A Middle- T .,,, , ,

Aged it. I say middle-aged ad-

visedly, rather than thirty or
forty or fifty years, because there seems
to be a difference of opinion as to the
exact figures. I have a young friend
who puts middle-age at thirty. She af-
firms that sixty is a high average of
mortality, and that thirty is, therefore,
middle-age, and that women would be
a good deal more sensible if they faced
the fact courageously, and lived up to it,
and dressed up to it, and stopped calling
one another girls, which, she declares,
is "perfectly sickening." She will not
hear of placing the beginning of mid-
dle-age a day beyond thirty; and I
suspect that she thinks the woman of
forty is already upon the downward
path of old age. However, as I said
before, she is young, very young, sev-
eral years younger than I am, and her
opinion may change with advancing
years. Opinions have a way of chang-
ing with the years, I notice. Old Age
skips nimbly away as we approach.
Just as our outstretched fingers touch
his garment, a hand is laid upon our
eyes and we fall asleep, not knowing
that we have come upon him unawares.
So, too, middle-age has a way of evad-
ing approach, slipping from thirty to
forty, and from forty to fifty, with
placid disregard of fact and of logic.
Surely thirty is not middle-age, nay,

then, forty ; but some live to be a hun-
dred, - - why not halve it ? It is easy
and natural to think in centuries, and
to figure in round numbers. "Three-
score years and ten ? ' Ay. But that
was long ago, - the average of mortal-
ity is increasing, and fifty is a com-
fortable number. Let us put off the
evil day as long as we may. For some
morning we shall awake to middle-age,
all of us. A few only will escape,
the few chosen of the gods.

And now at last, after this long pre-
amble, I am able to say what I started
out to say, namely, that I am a mid-
dle-aged woman. Pray do not think
hardly of me. I am still respectable.
I enjoy music, and I play golf with my
son. Occasionally I beat him. But I
am middle-aged. How do I know it?
By the same token that you would know
it, were I to have the pleasure of meet-
ing you, by the fact that the hard days
of life are past. The long, level plain
of the upland stretches before me. By
and by I shall descend the hill that lies
beyond. But that is far in the distance.
Now, at last, for a stretch of level road,
for the days of the upper air. It has
been a hard climb. Surely one may
take deep, full breaths and look before
and behind and around. When I first
woke to the consciousness that I was
here at last, I looked about me, and I
saw my neighbors, each in her little
tent of her chosen task. I saw what
was expected of me if I would be as
others are.

My neighbor on the right is a mid-
dle-aged woman, too. She has been a
good mother and a kind neighbor, and
every day till she came to middle-age
was filled to the brim. Now her chil-
dren are all in college or in business.
But do not think that time hangs heavy
on her hands. I never run in for a mo-
ment's chat that I do not find her at
work. Yesterday she was piecing and
turning an old carpet from the attic
for the servant's room. To-day it is
probably an overcoat, and to-morrow it

144

The Contributors' Club.

may be an undershirt. Or I may find
her mounted on a chair, her skirt pinned
carefully about her, looking over the
things that have accumulated on the
top pantry shelf. Things too good to
throw away and too bad to keep, the
chocolate pot with the broken nose and
the plate in two pieces that might be
stuck together with white lead, - no,
it 's not worth it, but it seems almost
too bad to throw it away, it was al-
ways such a pretty plate, it would do
at least for cookies if it were mended
carefully, and the plate goes back to the
top shelf, to wait another day of reck-
oning and indecision. My hostess dusts
her fingers and climbs down from the
chair, a little stiff in the joints, from
middle-age, and greets me with a
joyous smile. It is the smile of right-
eousness. The smile that the attack on
the top shelf never fails to bring to the
face of a worthy and care-driven house-
keeper. The smile that my neighbor
will smile to the end of her days,
happy sister! It is only a little while
since the days were so full that she
could mount to the top shelf but once a
year, perhaps not that. It hung over
her always, the top shelf. And the day
when at last it could be cleaned was
marked with a white stone. Now the
months are sprinkled with shining,
white stones, the graveyard of a life.
But she will never know. I shall not
tell her, though I shout it aloud to the
whole world ; and I cherish a hope that
I may keep it from her to the last.

We have been neighbors many years.
We climbed the hill together. Our
children had the same joys and the same
sorrows and the same diseases. We
went through scarlet fever together
a double quarantine and croup and
diphtheria. What one had, the other
had. There was no escape for them or
for us. My neighbor, as a young wo-
man, was very beautiful, a kind of re-
gal beauty that made one glad at heart
and proud. I thought of it the other
day as she dusted her fingers and

climbed down from her chair by the pan-
try shelf. I have watched the beauty
go and the dreams from her face.
It was the scarlet fever winter that
wrought the worst. It left her a mid-
dle-aged woman, contented if the sink
drain was clean and the cellar well
aired. She has always been a good
housekeeper. Her home is her king-
dom. Her husband and her children
are well cared for. But sometimes
when I lie awake at night, my heart
aches for the regally beautiful creature
that began to climb the hill with me,
the woman whose mind stirred, whose
laugh flashed along the way. And when
I look at her husband, the rotund,
the well-preserved John, and at her
children, wooden and conscientious and
selfish, for the most part, I become a
violent woman' s-righter.

Not many rights do I ask, oh, Pro-
tectors of the Poor, only the right to
one's soul. Not my soul, I, as you
may have suspected long since, am not
a good housekeeper. I have no top pan-
try shelf ; and if I had one, there would
probably be nothing on it. And my
husband hath a lean and hungry look,
and I am very proud of him. As for
my children, they must speak for them-
selves, they usually do. No, it is not
for myself alone that I ask the rights
of a human being; but for that other
soul that started with me on the way.
The rotund John is not an equivalent.
I will have none of him. In the name
of her lost soul, I ask it, and for those
others, whose tents are pitched along
the upper plain, far as the eye can reach.
For all of us, squaws of civilization,
each in her little tent, with our pots and
pans and our bead-work, with church
work and clubs and pantry shelves for
consolation, with the smile of achieve-
ment on our lips and the dust of dead
dreams blown about in our souls, for
all of us, I ask it, oh, ye men born
of woman, the right to a vital and
self-respecting and beautiful middle-
age.

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY:

iftaga?ine of literature^

> ant) $olitic&

VOL. XCIL AUG UST, 1903. No. DL.

DAPHNE.

AN AUTUMN PASTORAL.

" HER Excellency, will she have
the politeness," said Daphne slowly,
reading with some difficulty from a tiny
Italian-English phrase-book, "the po-
liteness to " She stopped helpless.
Old Giacomo gazed at her with ques-
tioning eyes. The girl turned the pages
swiftly and chose another phrase.

"I go," she announced, "I go to
make a walk."

Light flashed into Giacomo' s face.

"/Si, si, Signorina; yes, yes," he
assented with voice and shoulders and
a flourish of the* spoon he was polish-
ing. "Capisco; I understand."

Daphne consulted her dictionary.

"Down there," she said gravely,
pointing toward the top of the great
hill on whose side the villa stood.

"Certainly, " answered Giacomo with
a bow, too much pleased by understand-
ing when there was no reason for it to
be captious in regard to the girl's
speech. "The Signorina non hapaura,
not 'fraid?"

"I 'm not afraid of anything," was
the answer in English. The Italian
version of it was a shaking of the head.
Then both dictionary and phrase-book
were consulted.

"To return," she stated finally, "to
return to eat at six hours." Then she
looked expectantly about.

"Assunta?' she said inquiringly,
with a slight shrug of her shoul-

ders, for other means of expression had
failed.

" Capisco, capisco, " shouted Giacomo,
in his excitement trailing on the mar-
ble floor the chamois skin with which
he had been polishing the silver, and
speaking in what seemed to his listener
one word of a thousand syllables.

"The Signorina goes to
walk upon the hills above
the villa because it is a
most beautiful day. She re-
turns to dine at six and

wishes Assunta to have
dinner prepared . Perhaps the
Signorina would tell what
she would like for her
dinner ? A roast chicken, yes ?

A salad, yes ? '

Daphne looked dubiously at him
though he had stated the case with
entire accuracy, and had suggested
for her solitary meal what she most
liked. There was a slight pucker in
her white forehead, and she vouchsafed
no answer to what she did not under-
stand.

"Addio, addio," she said earnestly.

" A rivederla ! " answered Giacomo,
with a courtly sweep of the chamois
skin.

The girl climbed steadily up the
moist, steep path leading to the deep
shadow of a group of ilex trees on the
hill. At her side a stream of water
trickled past drooping maidenhair fern
and over immemorial moss. Here and

146

Daphne.

there it fell in little cascades, making
a sleepy murmur in the warm air of af-
ternoon. Halfway up the hill Daphne
paused and looked back. Below the yel-
low walls of the Villa Accolanti, stand-
ing in a wide garden with encompassing
poplars and cypresses, stretched great
grassy slopes and gray-green olive or-
chards. The water from the stream,
gathered in a stone basin at the foot
of the hill, flowed in a marble conduit
through the open hall. As she looked
she was aware of two old brown faces
anxiously gazing after her. Giacomo
and Assunta were chattering eagerly in
the doorway, the black of his butler's
dress and the white of his protecting
apron making his wife's purple calico
skirt and red shoulder shawl look more
gay. They caught the last flutter of
the girl's blue linen gown as it disap-
peared among the ilexes.

"E motto bella, very beautiful, the
Signorina, " remarked Assunta. " What
gray eyes she has, and how she walks ! '

" But she knows no speech, " respond-
ed her husband.

" Ma chef " shouted Assunta scorn-
fully, "she talks American. You
couldn't expect them to speak like us
over there. They are not Romans in
America. "

"My brother Giovanni is there," re-
marked Giacomo. " She could have
learned of him."

" She is like the Contessa, " said As-
sunta. " You would know they are sis-
ters, only this one is younger and has
something more sweet."

"This one is grave," objected Gia-
como as he polished. "She does not
smile so much. The Contessa is gay.
She laughs and sings and her cheeks
grow red when she drinks red wine, and
her hair is more yellow."

" She makes it so ! " snapped Assunta.

"I have heard they all do in Rome, "
said Giacomo. "Some day I would like
to go to see."

"To go away, to leave this girl
here alone with us when she had just

arrived! ' interrupted Assunta. "I
have no patience with the Contessa."

"But wasn't his Highness's father
sick? And didn't she have to go?
Else they would n't get his money, and
all would go to the younger brother.
You don't understand these things, you
women." Giacomo's defense of his
lady got into his lingers, and added
much to the brightness of the spoons.
The two talked together now, as fast
as human tongues could go.

Assunta. She could have taken the
Signorina.

Giacomo. She could n't. It 's fever.

Assunta. She could have left her
maid.

Giacomo. Thank the holy father
she didn't!

Assunta. And without a word of
language to make herself understood.

Giacomo. She can learn, can' t she ?

Assunta. And with the cook gone,
too! It's a great task for us.

Giacomo. You 'd better be about it !
. . . Going walking alone on the hills !
And calling me "Excellency." There's
no telling what these Americans will
do.

Assunta. She did n't know any bet-
ter. When she has been here a week
she won't call you "Excellency! ' I
must make macaroni for dinner.

Giacomo. Ma che ! Macaroni ?
Roast chicken and salad.

Assunta. Niente ! Macaroni !

Giacomo. Roast chicken ! You are a
pretty one to take the place of the cook !

Assunta. Roast chicken then ! But
what are you standing here for in the
hall polishing spoons ? If the Contes-
sa could see you!

Assunta dragged her husband by the
hem of his white apron through the great
marble-paved dining room out into the
smoke-browned kitchen in the rear.

"Now where 's Tommaso, and how
am I going to get my chicken ? " she de-
manded. "And why, in the name of all
the saints, should an American signo-
rina's illustrious name be Daphne? '

Daphne.

147

II.

An hour later it was four o'clock.
High, high up among the sloping hills
Daphne sat on a great gray stone.
Below her, out beyond olive orchards
and lines of cypress, beyond the distant
stone pines, stretched the Campagna,
rolling in, like the sea that it used to
be, wave upon wave of color, green
here, but purple in the distance, and
changing every moment with the shift-
ing shadows of the floating clouds.
Dome and tower there, near the line of
shining sea, meant Home.

Full sense of the enchantment of it
all looked out of the girl's face. Won-
der sat on her forehead, and on her
parted lips. It was a face serious,
either with persistent purpose or with
some momentary trouble, yet full of an
exquisite hunger for life and light and
space. Eyes and hair and curving cheek,
all the girl's sensitive being seemed
struggling to accept the gift of beauty
before her, almost too great to grasp.

"After this, " she said half aloud, her
far glance resting on Rome in the hazy
distance, "anything is possible."

"I don't seem real, " she added, touch-
ing her left hand with the forefinger of
her right. "It is Italy, Italy, and that
is Rome. Can all this exist within two
weeks of the rush and jangle of Broad-
way ? "

There was no answer, and she half
closed her eyes, intoxicated with beauty.

A live thing darted across her foot,
and she looked down to catch a glimpse
of something like a slender green flame
licking its way through the grass.

"Lizards crawling over me unre-
buked, " she said smiling. "Perhaps
the millennium has come."

She picked two grass blades and a
single fern.

"They aren't real, you know," she
said, addressing herself. "This is all
too good to be true. It will fold up in
a minute and move away to make ready

for the next act, and that will be full
of tragedy, with an ugly background."

The heights still invited. She rose,
and wandered on and up. Her step had
the quick movement of a dweller in
cities, not the slow pace of those who
linger along country roads, keeping step
with nature. In the cut and fashion of
her gown was evinced sophistication,
and a high seriousness, possibly not her
own.

She watched the deep imprint that
her footsteps made in the soft grass.

"I 'm half afraid to step on the earth
here," she murmured to herself. "It
seems to be quivering with old life."

The sun hung lower in the west. Of
its level golden beams were born a thou-
sand shades of color on the heights and
in the hollows of the hills. Over all
the great Campagna blue, yellow, and
purple blended in an autumn haze.

"Oh! " cried the girl, throwing out
her arms to take in the new sense of
life that came flooding in upon her. "I
cannot take it in. It is too great."

As she climbed, a strength springing
from sheer delight in the wide beauty
before her came into her face.

"It was selfish, and I am going to
take it back. To-night I will write
and say so. I could face anything

now.

This hill, and then the side of that;
one more gate, then Daphne turned for
another look at Rome and the sea.
Rome and the sea were gone. Here
was a great olive orchard, there a pas-
ture touching the sky, but where was
anything belonging to her ? Somewhere
on the hills a lamb was bleating, and
near the crickets chirped. Yes, it was
safe, perfectly safe, yet the blue gown
moved where the heart thumped beneath
it.

A whistle came floating down the
valley to her. It was merry and quick,
but it struck terror to the girl's breast.
That meant a man. She stood and
watched, with terrified gray eyes, and
presently she saw him : he was crashing

148

Daphne.

through a heavy undergrowth of bush
and fern not far away. Daphne gath-
ered her skirts in one hand and fled.
She ran as only an athletic girl can run,
swiftly, gracefully. Her skirt fluttered
behind her ; her soft dark hair fell and
floated on the wind.

The whistle did not cease, though the
man was motionless now. It changed
from its melody of sheer joy to wonder,
amazement, suspense. It took on sooth-
ing tones; it begged, it wheedled. So
a mother would whistle, if mothers whis-
tled, over the cradle of a crying child,
but the girl did not stop. She was run-
ning up a hill, and at the top she stood,
outlined in blue, against a bluer sky. A
moment later she was gone.

Half an hour passed. Cautiously
above the top of the hill appeared a
girl's head. She saw what she was
looking for: the dreaded man was sit-
ting on the stump of a felled birch tree,
gazing down the valley, his cheeks rest-
ing on his hands. Daphne, stealing be-
hind a giant ilex, studied him. He
wore something that looked like a golf
suit of brownish shade; a soft felt hat
drooped over his face. The girl peered
out from her hiding place cautiously,
holding her skirts together to make her-
self slim and small. It was a choice
of evils. On this side of the hill was a
man ; on that, the whole wide world,
pathless. She was hopelessly lost.

"No bad man could whistle like
that," thought Daphne, caressingly
touching with her cheek the tree that
protected her.

Once she ventured from her refuge,
then swiftly retreated. Courage re-
turning, she stepped out on tiptoe and
crept softly toward the intruder. She
was rehearsing the Italian phrases she
meant to use.

"Where is Rome? " she asked plead-
ingly, in the Roman tongue.

The stranger rose, with no sign of
being startled, and removed his hat.
Then Daphne sighed a great sigh of re-
lief, feeling that she was safe.

" Rome, " he answered, in a voice
both strong and sweet, " Rome has per-
ished, and Athens too."

"Oh " - - said the girl. "You speak
English. If you are not a stranger
here, perhaps you can tell me where the
Villa Accolanti is."

"I can," he replied, preparing to
lead the way.

Daphne looked at him now. He was
different from any person she had ever
seen. Face and head belonged to some
antique type of virile beauty ; eyes, hair,
and skin seemed all of one golden brown.
He walked as if his very steps were joy-
ous, and his whole personality seemed
to radiate an atmosphere of firm con-
tent. The girl's face was puzzled as she
studied him. This look of simple hap-
piness was not familiar in New York.

They strode on side by side, over the
slopes where the girl had lost her way.
Every moment added to her sense of
trust.

" I am afraid I startled you, " she
said, "coming up so softly."

"No," he answered smiling. "I
knew that you were behind the ilex."

"You couldn't see! "

"I have ways of knowing."

He helped her courteously over the
one stone wall they had to climb, but,
though she knew that he was watching
her, he made no attempt to talk. At
last they reached the ilex grove above
the villa, and Daphne recognized home.

"I am grateful to you," she said,
wondering at this unwonted sense of
being embarrassed. "Perhaps, if you
will come some day to the villa for my
sister to thank you " The sentence
broke off. "I am Daphne Willis, " she
said abruptly, and waited.

"And I am Apollo, " said the stranger
gravely.

"Apollo what?" asked the girl.
Did they use the old names over here?

" Phoebus Apollo, " he answered, un-
smiling. " Is America so modern that
you do not know the older gods ? '

" Why do you call me an American ? '

Daphne.

149

A smile flickered across Apollo's lips.

"A certain insight goes with being
a god."

Daphne started back and looked at
him, but the puzzled scrutiny did not
deepen the color of his brown cheek.
Suddenly she was aware that the sun-
light had faded, leaving shadow under
the ilexes and about the fountain on the
hill.

" I must say good-night, " she said,
turning to descend.

He stood watching every motion that
she made until she disappeared within
the yellow walls of the villa.

III.

Through the great open windows of
the room night with all her stars was
shining. Daphne sat by a carved table
in the salon, the clear light of a four-
flamed Roman lamp falling on her hair
and hands. She was writing a letter,
and, judging by her expression, letter
writing was a matter of life and death.

"I am afraid that I was brutal, " the
wet ink ran. "Every day on the sea
told me that. I was cowardly, too."

She stopped to listen to the silence,
broken only by the murmur of insects
calling to each other in the dark. Sud-
denly she laughed aloud.

"I ought never to have gone so far
away," she remarked to the night.
"What would Aunt Alice say? Any-
way he is a gentleman, even if he is a
god!"

" For I thought only of myself, " the
pen continued, "and ignored the obli-
gations I had accepted. It is for you
to choose whether you wish the words
of that afternoon unsaid."

The letter signed and sealed, she rose
with a great sigh of relief, and walked
out upon the balcony. Overhead was
the deep blue sky of a Roman night,
broken by the splendor of the stars.
She leaned over the stone railing of the
balcony, feeling beneath her, beyond the

shadow of the cypress trees, the dis-
tance and darkness of the Campagna.
There was a murmur of water from the
fountain in the garden, and from the
cascades on the hill.

"If he were Apollo," she announced
to the listening stars, "it would not be
a bit more wonderful than the rest of
it. This is just a different world, that
is all, and who knows whom I shall
meet next? Maybe, if I haunt the
hills, Diana will come and invite me to
go a-hunting. Perhaps if Anna had
stayed at home this world would seem
nearer. "

She came back into the salon, but be-
fore she knew it, her feet were moving
to a half-remembered measure, and she
found herself dancing about the great
room in the dim light, the cream-col-
ored draperies of her dinner gown mov-
ing rhythmically after her. Suddenly
she stopped short, realizing that her
feet were keeping pace with the whis-
tling of this afternoon, the very notes
that had terrified her while the stranger
was unseen. She turned her attention
to a piece of tapestry on the wall, tra-
cing the faded pattern with slim fingers.
For the twentieth time her eyes wan-
dered to the mosaic floor, to the splen-
did, tarnished mirrors on the walls, to
the carved chairs and table legs, wrought
into cunning patterns of leaf and stem.

"Oh, it is all perfect ! And I 've got
it all to myself! " she exclaimed.

Then she seated herself at the table
again and began another letter.

PADRE MIO, It is an enchanted
country! You never saw such beauty
of sky and grass and trees. These cy-
presses and poplars seem to have been
standing against the blue sky from all
eternity; time is annihilated, and the
gods of Greece and Rome are wander-
ing about the hills.

Anna has gone away. Her father-
in-law is very ill, and naturally Count
Accolanti is gone too. Even the cook
has departed, because of a family crisis

150

Daphne.

of his own. I am here with the butler
and his wife to take care of me, and I
am perfectly safe. Don't be alarmed,
and don't tell Aunt Alice that the elab-
orate new gowns will have no spectators
save two Roman peasants and possibly
a few sheep. Anna wanted to send me
an English maid from Rome, but I
begged with tears, and she let me off.
Assunta is all I need. She and Giacomo
are the real thing, peasants, absolutely
unspoiled. They have never been five
miles away from the estate, and I know
they have all kinds of superstitions and
beliefs that go with the soil. I shall
find them out when I can understand.
At present we converse with eyes and
fingers, for our six weeks' study of Ital-
ian has not brought me knowledge
enough to order my dinner.

Padre carissimo, I 've written to
Eustace to take it all back. I am afraid
you won't like it, for you seemed pleased
when it was broken off, but I was un-
kind and I am sorry, and I want to make
amends. You really ought n't to dis-
approve of a man, you know, just be-
cause he wants altar candles and intones
the service. And I think his single-
minded devotion is beautiful. You do
not know what a refuge it has been to
me through all Aunt Alice's receptions
and teas.

Do leave New York, and come and
live with me near ancient Rome. We
can easily slip back two thousand years.

I am your spoiled daughter,

DAPHNE.

There was a knock at the door.

"Avanti, " called the girl.

Assunta entered, with a saffron-col-
ored nightcap on. In her hand she
held Giacomo 's great brass watch, and
she pointed in silence to the face, which
said twelve o'clock. She put watch and
candle on the table, marched to the
windows, and closed and bolted them
all.

"The candles are lighted in the Si-
gnorina's bedroom," she remarked.

" Thank you, " said Daphne, who did
not understand a word.

" The bed is prepared, arid the night
things are put out."

"Yes? " answered Daphne, smiling.

"The hot water will be at the door
at eight in the morning."

"So many thanks! ' murmured
Daphne, not knowing what favor was
bestowed, but knowing that if it came
from Assunta it was good.

" Good -night, Signorina. "

The girl's face lighted. She under-
stood that.

"Good-night," she answered, in the
Roman tongue.

Assunta muttered to herself as she
lighted her way with her candle down
the long hall.

" Molto intelligente, la Signorina !
Only here three days, and already un-
derstands all."

"You don't need speech here," said
Daphne, pulling aside the curtains of
her tapestried bed a little later. "The
Italians can infer all you mean from a
single smile."

Down the road a peasant was merrily
beating his donkey to the measure of the
tune on his lips. Listening, and turn-
ing over many questions in her mind,
Daphne fell asleep. A flood of sunshine
awakened her in the morning, and she
realized that Assunta was drawing the
window curtains.

"Assunta," asked the girl, sitting
up in bed, and rubbing her eyes, "are
there many Americans here ? '

"Si, " answered Assunta, "very
many."

"And many English?"

"Too many," said Assunta.

"Young ones? " asked the girl.

Assunta shrugged her shoulders.

"Young men? " inquired Daphne.

The peasant woman looked sharply
at her, then smiled.

"I saw one man yesterday," said
Daphne, her forehead puckered pain-
fully in what Assunta mistook for a
look of fear. Her carefully prepared

Daphne.

151

phrases could get no nearer the problem
she wished solved.

" Ma die! agnellina mia, my little
lamb ! " cried the peasant woman, grasp-
ing Daphne's hand in order to kiss her
lingers, "you are safe, safe with us. No
Americans nor English shall dare to look
at the Signorina in the presence of Gia-
como and me."

IV.

It was not a high wall, that is, not
very high. Many a time in the coun-
try Daphne had climbed more formi-
dable ones, and there was no reason why
she should not try this. No one was
in sight except a shepherd, watching a
great flock of sheep. There was a for-
gotten rose garden over in that field:
had Caesar planted it, or Tiberius, cen-
turies ago ? Certainly no one had tended
it for a thousand years or two, and the
late pink roses grew unchecked. Daphne
slowly worked her way to the top of the
wall : this close masonry made the pro-
ceeding more difficult than it usually
was at home. She stood for a moment
on the summit, glorying in the widened
view, then sprang, with the lightness of
a kitten, to the other side. There was
a skurry of frightened sheep, and then
a silence. She knew that she was sit-
ting on the grass, and that her left wrist
pained. Some one was coming toward
her.

"Are you hurt? " asked Apollo anx-
iously.

"Not at all," she answered, contin-
uing to sit on the grass.

"If you were hurt, where would it
be?"

" In my wrist, " said the girl, with
a little groan.

The questioner kneeled beside her,
and Daphne gave a start of surprise
that was touched with fear.

"It isn't you?' she stammered.
"You are n't the shepherd ? '

A sheepskin coat disguised him. The
rough hat was of soft drooping felt, like

that of any shepherd watching on the
hills, and in his hand he held a crook.
An anxious mother-sheep was sniffing
eagerly at his pockets, remembering
gifts of salt.

"Apollo was a shepherd," said
Daphne slowly, with wonder in her face.
" He kept the flocks of King Admetus. "
'You seem to be well read in the
classical dictionary," remarked the
stranger with twinkling eyes. "You
have them in America then ? '

He was examining her wrist with
practiced fingers, touching it firmly here
and there.

"We have everything in America,"
said the girl, eyeing him dubiously.

"But no gods, except money, I have
heard."

" Yes, gods, and impostors too, " she
answered significantly.

" So I have heard, " said Apollo, with
composure.

The maddening thing was that she
could not look away from him: some
radiance of life in his face compelled
her eyes. He had thrown his hat upon
the grass, and the girl could see strength
and sweetness and repose in every line
of forehead, lip, and chin. There was
pride there, too, and with it a slight
leaning forward of the head.

"I presume that comes from listen-
ing to beseeching prayers," she was
thinking to herself.

"Ow! " she remarked suddenly.

" That is the place, is it ? '

He drew from one of the pockets of
the grotesque coat a piece of sheepskin
which he proceeded to cut into two
strips with his knife.

"It seems to be a very slight sprain, "
remarked Apollo. "I must bandage
it. Have you any pins about you? '

"Can the gods lack pins ? " asked the
girl, smiling. She searched, and found
two in her belt, and handed them to
him.

"The gods do not explain them-
selves, " he answered, binding the sheep-
skin tightly about her wrist.

152

Daphne.

"So I observe, " she remarked dryly.

"Is that right? " he asked. "Now,
when you reach home, you must remove
the bandage, and hold your hand and
wrist first in very hot water, then in
cold. Is there some one who can put
the bandage back as I have it? See,
it simply goes about the wrist, and is
rather tight. You must pardon my tak-
ing possession of the case, but no one
else was near. Apollo has always been
something of a physician, you know."

"You apparently used the same clas-
sical dictionary that I did," retorted
Daphne. "I remember the statement
there."

Then she became uncomfortable, and
wished her words unsaid, for awe had
come upon her. After all, nothing could
be more unreal than she was to herself
in these days of wonder. Her mind was
full of dreams as they sat and watched
white clouds drifting over the deep blue
of the sky. Near them the sheep were
cropping grass, and all the rest was
silence.

"You look anxious," said the phy-
sician. "Is it the wrist? '

"No," answered the girl, facing him
bravely, under the momentary inspira-
tion of a wave of common sense, "I
am wondering why you make this ridic-
ulous assumption about yourself. Tell
me who you really are."

If he had defended himself she would
have argued, but he was silent and she
half believed.

"But you look like a mortal," she
protested, answering her own thoughts.
"And you wear conventional clothing.
I don't mean this sheepskin, but the
other day."

" It is a realistic age, " he answered,
smiling. "People no longer believe
what they do not see. We are forced
to adopt modern methods and modern
costume to show that we exist."

"You do not look like the statue of
Apollo," ventured Daphne.

" Did people ever dare tell the truth
about the gods ? Never ! They made

up a notion of what a divine nose should
be, and bestowed it upon all the gods
impartially. So with the forehead, so
with the hair. I assure you, Miss Wil-
lis, we are much more individual than
Greek art would lead you to expect."

"Do you mind just telling me why
you are keeping sheep now ? '

"I will, if you will promise not to
consider a question of mine imperti-
nent."

"What is the question?"

" I only wished to know why an Amer-
ican young lady should bear a Greek
name ? It is a beautiful name, and one
that is a favorite of mine, as you may
know."

" I did n't know, " said Daphne. " It
was given me by my father. He was
born in America, but he had a Greek
soul. He has always longed to live in
Greece, but he has to go on preaching,
preaching, for he is a rector, you know,
in a little church in New York, that
is n't very rich, though it is very old-
All his life he has been hungry for the
beauty and the greatness of the world
over here."

" That accounts for your expression, "
observed Apollo.

"What expression? '

"That is n't the question I promised
to answer. If you will take a few steps
out of your way, I can satisfy you in
regard to the first one you asked."

He rose, and the white shepherd dog
sprang ahead, barking joyously. The
sheep looked up and nibbled in anxious
haste, fearing that any other bit of pas-
ture might be less juicy than this.
Daphne followed the shepherd god to a
little clump of oak trees, where she saw
a small, rough gray tent, perhaps four
feet in height. Under it, on brown
blankets, lay a bearded man, whose eyes
lighted at Apollo's approach. A blue
bowl with a silver spoon in it stood on
the ground near his head, and a small
heap of charred sticks with an overhang-
ing kettle showed that cooking had been
done there.

Daphne.

153

"The shepherd has a touch of fever, "
explained the guide. "Meanwhile,
somebody must take care of the sheep.
I am glad to get back my two occupa-
tions as shepherd and physician at the
same time."

The dog and his master accompanied
her part way down the hill, and the girl
was silent, for her mind was busy, re-
volving many thoughts. At the top of
the last height above the villa she
stopped and looked at her companion.
The sun was setting, and a golden haze
filled the air. It ringed with light the
figure before her, standing there, the
face, with its beauty of color, and its
almost insolent joyousness, rising above
the rough sheepskin coat.

" Who are you ? " she gasped, terri-
fied. "Who are you, really? " The
confused splendor dazzled her eyes, and
she turned and ran swiftly down the hill.

"A man is ill," observed Daphne, in
the Roman tongue.

"What? " demanded Giacomo.

"A man is ill," repeated Daphne
firmly. She had written it out, and
she knew that it was right.

"Her mind wanders, " Giacomo hint-
ed to his wife.

"No, no, no! It's the Signorina
herself, " cried Assunta, whose wits were
quicker than her husband's. "She is
saying that she is ill. What is it, Si-
gnorina mia ? Is it your head, or your
back, or your stomach ? Are you cold ?
Have you fever? '

11 Si, " answered Daphne calmly.
The answer that usually quieted Assunta
failed now. Then she tried the smile.
That also failed.

' Tell me, " pleaded Assunta, speak-
ing twice as fast as usual in order to
move the Signorina's wits to quicker
understanding. "If the Signorina is
ill the Contessa will blame me. It is
measles perhaps; Sor Tessa's children

have it in the village." She felt of the
girl's forehead and pulse, and stood
more puzzled than before.

'The Signorina exaggerates, per-
haps," she remarked in question.

"Thank you ! " said Daphne beseech-
ingly. That was positively her last shot,
and if it missed its aim she knew not
what to do. She saw that the two brown
faces before her were full of apprehen-
sion, and she came back to her original
proposition.

"A man is ill."

The faces were blank. Daphne has-
tily consulted her phrase-book.

"I wish food," she remarked glibly.
"I wish soup, and fish, and red wine
and white, and everything included,
tutto compreso."

The two faces lighted: these were
more familiar terms.

"Now ? " cried Assunta and Giacomo
in one breath, "at ten o'clock in the
morning? '

"$i, " answered Daphne firmly,
"please, thank you." And she disap-
peared.

An hour later they summoned her,
and looked at her in bewilderment when
she entered the dining-room with her
hat on. Giacomo stood ready for ser-
vice, and the Signorina's soup was wait-
ing on the table.

The girl laughed when she saw it.

"Per me? No," she said, touching
her dress with her finger ; " for him, up
there, " and she pointed upward.

Giacomo shook his head and groaned,
for his understanding was exhausted.

"I go to carry food to the man who
is ill, " recited Daphne, her foot tapping
the floor in impatience. She thrust her
phrase-book out toward Giacomo, but
he shook his head again, being one whose
knowledge was superior to the mere ac-
complishment of reading.

Daphne's short skirt and red felt hat
disappeared in the kitchen. Presently
she returned with Assunta and a basket.
The two understood her immediate pur-
pose now, however bewildering the ulti-

154

Daphne.

mate. They packed the basket with a
right good will : red wine in a transpar-
ent flask, yellow soup in a shallow
pitcher, bread, crisp lettuce, and thin
slices of beef. Then Daphne gave the
basket to Giacomo and beckoned him to
come after her.

He climbed behind his lady up the
narrow path by the waterfall, through
damp grass and trickling fern, then up
the great green slope toward the clump
of oak trees. By the low gray tent they
halted, and Giacomo 's expression
changed. He had not understood the
Signorina, he said hastily, and he begged
the Signorina 's pardon. She was good,
she was gracious.

"Speak to him," said Daphne im-
patiently; "go in, give him food."

He lifted the loose covering that
served as the side of a tent and found
the sick man. Giacomo chattered, his
brown fingers moving swiftly by way of
punctuation. The sick man chattered,
too, his fingers moving more slowly in
their weakness. Giacomo seemed ex-
cited by what he heard, and Daphne,
watching from a little distance, won-
dered if fever must not increase under
the influence of tongues that wagged so
fast. She strolled away, picking tiny,
pink-tipped daisies and blue succory
blossoms growing in the moist green
grass. From high on a distant hillside,
among his nibbling sheep, the shepherd
watched.

Giacomo presently stopped talking
and fed the invalid the soup and part of
the wine he had brought. He knew too
much, as a wise Italian, to give a sick
man bread and beef. Then he made
promises of blankets, and of more soup
to-morrow, tucked the invalid up again,
and prepared to go home. On the way
down the hill he was explosive in his
excitement: surely the Signorina must
understand such vehement words.

"The sheep are Count Gianelli's
sheep," he shouted. "I knew the sheep
before, and there isn't a finer flock on
the hills. This man is from Ortalo, a

day's journey. The Signorina under-
stands ? '

She smiled, the reassuring smile that
covers ignorance. Then she came near-
er, and bent her tall head to listen.

"His name is Antoli, " said Giacomo,
speaking more distinctly. " Four days
ago he fell ill with fever and with chills.
He lay on the ground among the sheep,
for he had only his blanket that the
shepherds use at night. The sheep nib-
bled close to him, and touched his face
with their tongues, and bit off hairs
from his head as they cropped the grass,
but they did not care. Sheep never do !
Ah, how a dog cares ! The Signorina
wishes to hear the rest? '

Daphne nodded eagerly, for she had
actually understood several sentences.

"The second day he felt a warm
tongue licking his face, and there were
paws on his breast as he waked from
sleep. It was a white dog. He opened
his eyes, and there before him was a
Signorino, young, beautiful as a god,
in a suit of brown. Since then Antoli
has wanted nothing, food, nor warm
covering, nor medicine, nor kind words.
The Signorino wears his sheepskin coat
and tends his sheep ! '

Giacomo 's voice was triumphant with
delight as he pointed toward the distant
flock with the motionless attendant.
The girl's face shone, half in pleasure,
half in fear. " Beautiful as a god " was
more like the Italian she had read in her
father's study in New York than were
the phrases Giacomo and Assunta em-
ployed for every day. She had compre-
hended all of her companion's excite-
ment, and many of his words, for much
of the story was already hers.

" Giacomo, " she said, speaking slow-
ly, " are the gods here yet ? '

The old peasant looked at her with
cunning eyes, and made with his fingers
the sign of the horn that wards off evil.

" Chi lo sa ? Who knows, Signori-
na? " he said, half whispering. "There
are stories I have heard the Si-
gnorina sees these ilex trees ? Over yon-

Daphne.

155

der was a great one in my father's day,
and the old Count Accolanti would have
it cut. He came to watch it as it fell,
and the tree tumbled the wrong way and
struck him so that he half lost his wits.
There are who say that the tree god was
angry. And I have heard about the
streams too, Signorina: when they are
turned out of their course, they overflow
and do damage, and surely there used
to be river gods. I do not know ; I can-
not tell. The priest says they are all
gone since the coming of our Lord, but I
would n't, not for all the gold in Rome,
I would n't see this stream of the water-
falls turned away from flowing down the
hill and through the house. What there
is in it I do not know, but in some way
it is alive."

"Thank you! " said Daphne. The
look on her face pleased the old man.

" I think I prefer her to the Contessa
after all, " said Giacomo that afternoon
to Assunta as he was beating the salad
dressing for dinner. " She is simpatica !
It is wonderful how she understands,
though she cannot yet talk much. But
her eyes speak."

They served her dinner with special
care that night, for kindness to an un-
fortunate fellow peasant had won what
still needed winning of their hearts.
She sat alone in the great dining-hall,
with Giacomo moving swiftly about her
on the marble floor. On the white linen
and silver, on her face and crimson gown
gleamed the light of many candles,
standing in old-fashioned branching can-
dlesticks. She pushed away her soup:
it seemed an intrusion. Not until she
heard Giacomo 's murmur of disappoint-
ment as she refused salad did she rouse
herself to do justice to the dressing he
had made. Her eyes were the eyes of
one living in a dream. Suddenly she
wakened to the fact that she was hun-
gry, and Giacomo grinned as she asked
him to bring back the roast, and let him
fill again with cool red wine the slender
glass at her right hand. When the time
for dessert came, she lifted a bunch of

purple grapes and put them on her plate,
breaking them off slowly with fingers
that got stained.

" I shall wake up by and by ! " she
said, leaning back in her carved Flor-
entine chair. "Only I hope it may be
soon. Otherwise," she added, nibbling
a bit of ginger, unconscious that her
figures were mixed, " I shall forget my
way back to the world."

VI.

There were two weeks of golden days.
The sun rose clear over the green hills
behind the villa, and dropped at night
into the blue sea the other side of Rome.
Daphne counted off the minutes in pulse
beats that were actual pleasure. Be-
tween box hedges, past the clusters of
roses, chrysanthemums and dahlias in
the villa garden, she walked, wondering
that she had never known before that
the mere crawling of the blood through
the veins could mean joy. She was ut-
terly alone, solitary, speechless; there
were moments when the thought of her
sister's present trouble, and of the let-
ter she was expecting from New York,
would take the color from the sky ; but
no vexatious thought could long resist
the enchantment of this air, and she
forgot to be unhappy. She saw no more
of the shepherd god, but always she was
conscious of a presence in the sunshine
on the hills.

On the eighth morning, as she paced
the garden walks a lizard scampered
from her path, and she chased it as a
five year old child might have done. A
slim cypress tree stood in her way ; she
grasped it in her arms, and held it, lay-
ing her cheek against it as if it were a
friend. Some new sense was dawning
in her of kinship with branch and flower.
She was forgetting how to think : she
was Daphne, the Greek maiden, whose
life was half the life of a tree.

When she took her arms from the
tree she saw that he was there, looking

156

Daphne.

at her from over the hedge, with the
golden brown lights in eyes and hair,
arid the smile that had no touch of
amusement in it, only of happiness.

"Sometimes," he murmured, "you
remind me of Hebe, but, on the whole,
I think you are more like my sister
Diana. "

"Tell me about Diana," begged
Daphne, coming near the hedge, and
putting one hand on the close green
leaves.

" We were great friends as children, "
observed Apollo. "It was I who taught
her how to hunt, and we used to chase
each other in the woods. When I went
faster than she did, she used to get an-
gry and say she would not play. Oh,
those were glorious mornings, when the
light was clear at dawn! '

" Why are you here ? " asked Daphne
abruptly, "and, if you will excuse me,
where did you come from ? '

"Surely you have heard about the
gods being exiled from Greece! We
wander, for the world has cast us out.
Some day they will need us again, and
will pluck the grass from our shrines, and
then we shall come back to teach them. "

"Teach them what ? " asked the girl.
She could make out nothing from the
mystery of that face, and, besides, she
did not dare to look too closely.

"I should teach them joy," he an-
swered simply.

They were so silent, looking at each
other over the dark green hedge, that the
lizards crept baek in the sunshine close
to their feet. Daphne's blue gown and
smooth dark hair were outlined against
the deep green of her cypress tree. A
grape - vine that had grown about the
tree threw the shadow of delicate leaf
and curling tendril on her pale cheek
and scarlet lips. The expression of the
heathen god as he looked at her denoted
entire satisfaction.

" I know what you would teach them, "
she said slowly. " You would show them
how to ignore suffering and pain. You
would turn your back on need. Oh, that

makes me think that I have forgotten
to take your friend Antoli any soup
lately! For three days I took it, and
then, and then I have been worried
about things."

His smile was certainly one of amuse-
ment now.

"You must pardon me for seeming
to change the subject," he said. "Why
should you worry ? There is nothing in
life worth worrying about."

Fine scorn crept into the girl's face.

"No," he continued, answering her
expression. "I don't ignore. I am
glad because I have chosen to be glad,
and because I have won my content.
There is a strenuous peace for those who
can fight their way through to it."

Suddenly, through the beauty of his
color, the girl saw, graven as with a fine
tool upon his face, a story of grief mas-
tered. In the lines of chin and mouth
and forehead it lurked there, half hid-
den by his smile.

"Tell me, " said Daphne impulsively.
Her hand moved nearer on the hedge,
but she did not know it. He shook his
head, and the veil dropped again.

"Why tell?" he asked. "Isn't
there present misery enough before our
eyes always without remembering the
old ? "

She only gazed at him, with a puz-
zled frown on her forehead.

"So you think it is your duty to
worry ? ' he asked, the joyous note
coming back into his voice.

Daphne broke into a smile.

"I suppose I do," she confessed.
"And it 's so hard here. I keep for-
getting."

" Why do you want to remember ? *

"It is so selfish not to."

He nodded, with an air of ancient
wisdom.

"I have lived on this earth more years
than you have, some thousands, you re-
member, and I can assure you that more
people forget their fellows because of
their own troubles than because of their
own joys."

Daphne.

157

The girl pulled at a tendril of the
vine with her fingers, eyeing her com-
panion keenly.

" I presume, " she said, with a tremor
in her voice, " that you are an English-
man, or an American who has studied
Greek thought deeply, being tired of
modern people and modern ways, and
that you are trying to get back to an
older, simpler way of living."

"It has ever been the custom," said
Apollo, gently taking the tendril of the
vine from her fingers, "for nations to
refuse to believe the divinity of the
other's gods."

"Any way, " mused the girl, not quite
conscious that she was speaking aloud,
"whatever you think, you are good to
the shepherd."

He laughed outright.

"I find that most people are better
than their beliefs," he answered.
"Now, Miss Willis, I wonder if I dare
ask you questions about the way of liv-
ing that has brought you to believe in
the divine efficacy of unhappiness."

"My father is a clergyman," an-
swered the girl, with a smile.

"Exactly! " said the heathen god.

"We have lived very quietly, in one
of the streets of older New York. I
won't tell you the number, for of course
it would not mean anything to you."

"Of course not," said Apollo.

"He is rector of a queer little old-
fashioned church that has existed since
the days of Washington. It is quaint
and irregular, and I am very fond of it. "

"It isn't the Little Church of All
the Saints, " demanded her companion.

"It is. How did you know? '

"Divination," he answered.

"Oh," said Daphne. "Why don't
you divine the rest ? '

"I should rather hear you tell it, if
you don't mind."

"I have studied with my father a
great deal,'-' she went on. "And then,
there have been a great many social
things, for I have an aunt who enter-
tains a great deal, and she always needs

me to help her. That has been fun,
too."

"Then it has been religion and din-
ners," he summarized briefly.

"It has."

"With a Puritan ancestry, I sup-
pose ? '

"For a god," murmured Daphne,
"it seems to me you know a great deal
too much about some things, and not
enough about others."

" I have brought you something, " he
said, suddenly changing the subject.

He lifted the sheepskin coat and held
out to her a tiny lamb, whose heavy legs
hung helpless, and whose skin shone
pink through the little curls of wool.
The girl stretched out her arms, and
gathered the little creature in them.

"A warm place to lie, and warm
milk are what it needs, " he said. "It
was born out of its time, and its mother
lies dead on the hills. Spring is for
birth, not autumn."

Daphne watched him as he went back
to his sheep, then turned toward the
house. Giacomo and Assunta saw her
coming in her blue dress between the
beds of flowers with the lambkin in her
arms.

"Like our Lady," said Assunta,
hurrying to the rescue.

The two brown ones asked no ques-
tions, possibly because of the difficulty
of conversing with the Signorina, pos-
sibly from some profounder reason.

" Maybe the others do not see him, "
thought the girl in perplexity. " Maybe
I dream him, but this lamb is real."

She sat in the sun on the marble
steps of the villa, the lamb on her lap.
A yellow bowl of milk stood on the floor,
close to the little white head that dan-
gled from her blue knee. Daphne, act-
ing on Assunta' s directions, curled one
little finger under the milk and offered
the tip of it to the lamb to suck. He
responded eagerly, and so she wheedled
him into forgetfulness of his dead mo-
ther.

An hour later, as she paced the gar-

158

Daphne.

den paths, a faint bleat sounded at the
hem of her skirt, and four unsteady
legs supported a weak little body that
tumbled in pursuit of her.

VII.

Up the long smooth road that lay by
the walls of the villa came toiling a team
of huge grayish oxen, with monstrous
spreading horns tied with blue ribbons.
The cart that they drew was filled with
baskets loaded with grapes, and a whiff
of their fragrance smote Daphne's nos-
trils as she walked on the balcony in the
morning air.

"Assunta, Assunta! " she cried, lean-
ing over the gray, moss-coated railing,
"what is it?"

Assunta was squatting on the ground
in the garden below, digging with a
blunt knife at the roots of a garden
fern. There was a gay red cotton shawl
over her head, and a lilac apron upon
her knees.

"It's the vintage, Signorina, " she
answered, "the wine makes itself."

"Everything does itself in this most
lazy country," remarked Daphne.
" Dresses make themselves, boots repair
themselves, food eats itself. There 's
just one idiom, si fa,"

"What? " asked Assunta.

"Reflections," answered the girl,
smiling down on her. "Assunta, may
I go and help pick grapes ? '

"Ma chef 1 screamed the peasant
woman, losing her balance in her sud-
den emotion and going down on her
knees in the loosened soil. "The Si-
gnorina, the sister of the Contessa, go
to pick grapes in the vineyard ? '

"/Si," answered Daphne amiably.
Her face was alive with laughter.

"But the Contessa would die of
shame ! " asserted Assunta, rising with
bits of dirt clinging to her apron, and
gesticulating with the knife. " It would
be a scandal, and all the pickers would
say, ' Behold the mad Englishwoman ! '

She looked up beseechingly at her
mistress. She and Giacomo never could
tell beforehand which sentences the Si-
gnorina was going to understand.

"Come with me! " coaxed the girl.

" But does the Signorina want to "

"I want everything! " Daphne inter-
rupted. "Grapes and flowers and wine
and air and sunshine. I want to see and
feel and taste and touch and smell every-
thing there is. The days are too short
to take it all in. Hurry ! '

As most of this outburst was in Eng-
lish, Assunta could do nothing but look
up with an air of deepened reproach.
Daphne disappeared from the railing,
and a minute later was at Assunta 's
side.

"Come, come, come! ' she cried,
pulling her by the lilac apron. "Our
time is brief, and we must gather rose-
buds while we may. I am young and
you are old, and neither of us has any
time to lose."

Before she knew it, Assunta was trot-
ting meekly down the road at the young
lady's heels, carrying a great flat basket
for the Signorina' s use in picking
grapes.

They were bound for the lower slopes ;
the grapes ripened earlier there, the
peasant woman explained, and the frosts
came later. The loaded wagons that
they met were going to Arata, a wine
press in the valley beyond this nearest
hill. Perhaps the Signorina would like
to go there to see the new wine foaming
in the vat? Strangers often went to
see this.

Daphne's blood went singing through
her veins, with some new sense of free-
dom and release, for the gospel of this
heathen god was working in her pulses.
Wistfully her eyes wandered over the
lovely slopes with their clothing of olive
and of vine, and up and down the curl-
ing long white roads. At some turning
of the way, or at some hilltop where the
road seemed to touch the blue sky, surely
she would see him coming with that look
of divine content upon his face !

Daphne.

159

Suddenly she realized that they were
inside the vineyard walls, for fragrance
assailed her nostrils, fragrance of ripened
grapes, of grapes crushed under foot as
the swift pickers went, snipping the full
purple bunches with their shears.

"I shall see Bacchus coming next,"
she said to herself, but hoping that it
would not be Bacchus. "He will go
singing down the hill with his Maenads
behind him, with fluttering hair and
draperies."

It was not nearly so picturesque as
she had hoped, she confessed to herself,
as her thoughts came down to their cus-
tomary level. The vineyard of her
dreams, with its long, trailing vines,
was not found in this country; there
were only close-clipped plants, trained
to stakes. But there was a sound of
talking and of laughter, and the pick-
ers, moving among the even lines in
their gay rags, lent motley color to the
picture. There was scarlet of waistcoat
or of petticoat, blue and saffron of jacket
and apron, and a blending of all bright
tints in the kerchiefs above the hair.
The rich dark soil made a background
for it all : the moving figures, the clumps
of pale green vine leaves, the great bas-
kets of piled-up grapes.

Assunta was chattering eagerly with
a young man who smiled, and took off
his hat to the Signorina, and said some-
thing polite, with a show of white teeth.
Daphne did not know what it was, but
she took the pair of scissors that were
given her, and began to cut bunch after
bunch of grapes. If she had realized
that the peasant woman, her heart full
of shame, had confessed to the overseer
her young lady's whim, and had won
permission for her to join the ranks of
the pickers, she might have been less
Tiappy. As it was she noticed nothing,
but diligently cut her grapes, piling
them, misty with bloom, flecked with
gold sunlight, in her basket. Then she
found a flat stone and sat on it, watch-
ing the workers, and slowly eating a
great bunch of grapes. She had woven

green leaves into the cord of her red
felt hat ; the peasants as they passed
smiled back to her in swift recognition
of her beauty and her friendliness.

Her thoughts flamed up within her
with sudden anger at herself. The en-
compassing beauty and this vivid joy
had but one meaning : it was her sense
of the glad presence of this new crea-
ture, man or god, who seemed contin-
ually with her, were he near or far.

"I 'm as foolish as a sixteen-year-old
girl," she murmured, fingering the
grapes in the basket with their setting
of green leaves, "and yet, and yet he
isn't a man, really; he is only a state
of mind ! "

She sat, with the cool air of autumn
on her cheeks, watching the pickers who
went with even motion up the great
slope. Sometimes there was silence on
the hillside : now and then there was a
fragment of song. One gay, tripping
air, started by three women who stood
idle with arms akimbo for a moment on
the hillside, was caught up and echoed
back by invisible singers on the other
side of the hill. And once the red-
cheeked Italian lads who were carrying
loaded baskets down toward the vine-
yard gates burst into* responsive singing
that made her think that she had found,
on the Roman hills, some remnant of
the old Bacchic music, of the alternate
strains that marked the festival of the
god of wine. It was something like
this :
Carlo.

" Of all the gifts of all the gods
I choose the ruddy wine.
The brimming glass shall be my lot "

Giovanni (interrupting).
" Carlotta shall be mine !

Take you the grape, I only ask

The shadow of the vine

To screen Carlotta's golden head "

Carlo (interrupting).
" Give me the ruddy wine."

Together.

G. " Carlotta shall be mine ! ?1
C. " Give me the ruddy wine ! "

160

Daphne.

Assunta was visibly happy when the
Signorina signified her willingness to
go home. The pride of the house ser-
vant was touched by being compelled to
come too closely in contact with the
workers in the fields, and where is there
pride like that of a peasant ? But her
joy was short-lived. Outside the great
iron gates stood a team of beautiful
fawn-colored oxen, with spotless flanks,
and great, blue, patient eyes looking
out from under broad foreheads. They
were starting, with huge muscles quiv-
ering under their white skin, to carry
a load of grapes to the wine press, the
yield of this year being too great for
the usual transportation on donkey back.

"Assunta, I go too," cried Daphne.

Five minutes later, the Signorina,
with her unwilling handmaid at her side,
rode in triumph up the broad highway
with the measured motion of slow oxen
feet. Place had been made for them
among the grape baskets, and they sat
on folded blankets, Assunta' s face wear-
ing the expression of one who was a cap-
tive indeed, the Signorina's shining with
simple happiness, and somewhat stained
by grapes.

The wine press was nothing after all
but a machine, an*d, though a certain
interest attached to the great vats, hol-
lowed out in the tufa rock, into which
the new-made wine trickled, Daphne
soon signified her willingness to depart.
Before she left they brought her a great
glass of rich red grape juice, fresh from
the newly crushed grapes. She touched
her lips to it, then looked about her.
Assunta was talking to the workman who
had given it to her and he was looking
the other way. She feasted her eyes on
the color of the thing she held in her
hand. It was a rough glass whose shal-
low bowl had the old Etruscan curves of
beauty, and the crimson wine caught the
sunlight in a thousand ways. Bending
over, she poured it out slowly on the
green grass.

"A libation to Apollo, " she said, not
without reverence.

VIII.

"I shall call you," said Daphne to
the lamb on the fourth day of his life
with her, "I shall call you Hermes, be-
cause you go so fast."

Very fast indeed he went. By gar-
den path, or on the slopes below the
villa he followed her with swift gallop,
interrupted by many jumps and gam-
bols, and much frisking of his tail. If
he lost himself in his wayward pursuit
of his mistress, a plaintive bleat sum-
moned her to his side. On the marble
stairs of the villa, even in the sacred
precincts of the salon, she heard the
tinkle of his hard little hoofs, and she
had no courage to turn him back. He
bleated so piteously outside the door
when his lady dined that at last he won
the desire of his heart and lapped milk
from a bowl on the floor at her side as
she broke her salad or ate her grapes.

" What scandal ! " muttered Giacomo
every time he brought the bowl. The
Contessa would discharge him if she
knew ! But he always remembered, even
if Daphne forgot, and meekly dried the
milk from his sleek black trousers when-
ever Hermes playfully dashed his hoof,
instead of his nose, into the bowl. As
Giacomo explained to Assunta in the
kitchen, it was for the Signorina, and
the Signorina was very lonely.

She was less lonely with Hermes, for
he spoke her language.

"It is almost time to hear from Eus-
tace, " Daphne told him one day, as she
sat on a stone under an olive tree in the
orchard below the house. Hermes stood
before her, his head down, his tail de-
jectedly drooped.

"Perhaps," she added, dreamily
looking up at the blue sky through its
broken veil of gray -green olive leaves,
"perhaps he does not want me back,
and the letter will tell me so."

Hermes gave an incredible jump high
in the air, lighted on his four feet,
pranced, gamboled, curveted.

Daphne.

161

"It is very hard to know one's duty
or to do it, Hermes," said Daphne,
patting his woolly brow. Hermes in-
timated by means of frisking legs and
tail that he would not try.

"I believe you are bewitched," said
the girl, suddenly taking him up in her
arms. "I believe you are some little
changeling god, sent by your master
Apollo to put his thoughts into my
head."

He squirmed, and she put him down.
Then she gave him a harmless slap on
his fleecy side.

"But you are n't a good interpreter,
Hermes. Some way, I think that his
joyousness lies the other side of pain.
He never ran away from hard things."

This was more than the lambkin
could understand or bear, and he fled,
hiding from her in the tall fern of a
thicket in a corner of the field.

The days were drifting by too fast.
Already the Contessa Accolanti had been
away three weeks, and her letters held
out no hope of an immediate return.
Giacomo and Assunta were very sorry
for their young mistress, not knowing
how little she was sorry for herself, and
they tried to entertain her. They had
none of the hard exclusiveness of Eng-
lish servants, but admitted her gener-
ously to such of their family joys as she
would share. Giacomo introduced her
to the stables and the horses ; Assunta
initiated her into some of the mysteries
of Italian cooking. Tommaso, the scul-
lion, and Pia, the maid, stood by in
grinning delight one day when the Con-
tessa' s sister learned to make macaroni.

"Now I know," said Daphne, after
she had stood for half an hour under the
smoke-browned walls of the kitchen,
watching Assunta 's manipulation of
eggs and flour, the long kneading, the
rolling out of a thin layer of dough, with
the final cutting into thin strips : " to
make Sunday and festal-day macaroni
you take all the eggs there are, and mix
them up with flour, and do all that to
it ; and then you boil it on the stove,

VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 11

and make a sauce for it out of every-
thing there is in the house, bits of to-
mato, and parsley, and onion, and all
kinds of meat. ]B vero ? "

"/St," said Assunta, marveling at
the patois that the Signorina spoke, and
wondering if it contained Indian words.

The very sight of the rows of utensils
on the kitchen walls deepened the re-
bellious mood of this descendant of the
Puritans.

"Even the pots and pans have lovely
shapes, " said Daphne wistfully, for the
slender necks, the winning curves, the
lines of shallow bowl and basin bore tes-
timony to the fact that the meanest
thought of this people was a thought of
beauty. "I wonder why the Lord gave
to them the curve, to us the angle ? '

When the macaroni was finished, As-
sunta invited the Signorina to go with
her to a little house set by itself on the
sloping hill back of the kitchen.

"J57 carin', eh? " demanded Assunta,
as she opened the door.

Fragrance met them at the threshold,
fragrance of fruit and of honey. The
warm sun poured in through the dirty,
cobwebbed window when Assunta lifted
the shade. Ranged on shelves along the
wall stood bottles of yellow oil : partly
buried in the ground were numerous jars
of wine, bottles and jars both keeping
the beautiful Etruscan curves. On shal-
low racks were spread bunches of yellow
and of purple grapes, and golden combs
of honey gleamed from dusky corners.

"Ecco."' said Assunta, pointing to
the wine jar from which she had been
filling the bottle in her hand. "The
holy cross! Does the Signorina see
it?"

"$i, " said Daphne.

"And here also?' asked Assunta,
pointing to another.

The girl nodded doubtfully. Two
irregular scratches could, by imagina-
tive vision, be translated into a cross.

"It 's on every one, Signorina," said
Assunta triumphantly. "And nobody
puts it there. It comes by itself."

162

Daphne.

"Really?" asked the girl.

" Veramente, " replied the peasant
woman. "It has to, and not only here,
but everywhere. You see, years and
years ago, there were heathen spirits in
the wine, and they made trouble when
our Lord came. I have heard that the
jars burst and the wine was wasted be-
cause the god of the wine was angry
that the real God was born. And it
lasted till San Pietro came and exor-
cised the wicked spirit, and he put a
cross on a wine jar to keep him away.
Since then, every wine jar bears some-
where the sign of the cross."

"What became of the poor god? '
asked Daphne.

"He fled, I suppose to hell," an-
swered Assunta piously.

"Poor heathen gods! ' murmured
Daphne.

The sunshine, flooding the little room,
fell full on her face, and made red lights
in her brown hair.

"There was a god of the sun, too,
named Apollo, " she said, warming her
hands in level rays. "Was he banished
too ? "

Assunta shrugged her shoulders.

"Who knows? They dare not show
their faces here since the Holy Father
has blessed the land."

Hermes bleated at the door, and the
trio descended the hill together, Assun-
ta carrying a basket of grapes and a
bottle of yellow oil, Daphne with a slen-
der flask of red wine in her hand.

The next day the heavens opened, and
rain poured down. The cascades above
the villa became spouting waterfalls ;
the narrow path beside them a leaping
brook. The rain had not the steady
and persistent motion of well-conducted
rain : it came in sheets, blown by sudden
gusts against the windows, or driven in
wild spurts among the cypresses. The
world from the villa windows seemed
one blur of watery green, with a thin
gray veil of mist to hide it.

Daphne paced the mosaic floors in
idleness, or spelled out the meaning of

Petrarchan sonnets in an old vellum
copy she had found in the library. Some-
times she sat brooding in one of the
faded gilt and crimson chairs in the sa-
lon, by the diminutive fireplace where
two or three tiny twigs burned out their
lives in an Italian thought of heat.

What did a Greek god do when sun-
shine disappeared? she wondered. Or
had the god of the sun gone away alto-
gether, and was this deluge the result ?
The shepherd Antoli had been taken
home, Giacomo assured her, but he was
exceedingly reticent when asked who
was herding the sheep, only shrugging
his shoulders with a " Chi lo sa ? '

On the second day of the rain Daphne
saw that the flock had come near the
house. From the dining-room window
she could see the sheep, with water soak-
ing into their thick wool. Some one
was guarding them. With little streams
dashing from the drooping felt hat to
the sheepskin clad shoulders, the keeper
stood, motionless in the pelting rain.
The sheep ate greedily the wet, juicy
grass, while the shepherd leaned on his
staff and watched. Undoubtedly it was
Antoli's peasant successor, Daphne
thought, as she stood with her face to
the dripping window pane. Then the
shepherd turned, and she recognized,
under the wet hat brim, the glowing
color and undaunted smile of her mas-
querading god. Whether he saw her
or not she could not tell, but she stood
by the storm -washed window in her scar-
let house gown, and watched, longing
to give him shelter.

IX.

He came to her next through music,
when the rain clouds had broken away.
That divine whistle, mellow, mocking,
irresistible, still was heard when morn-
ing lay on the hills. Often, when af-
ternoon had touched all the air to gold,
when the shadows of chestnut and cy-
press and gnarled olive lay long on the

Daphne.

163

grass, other sounds floated down to
Daphne, music from some instrument
that she did not know. It was no harp,
surely, yet certain clear, ringing notes
seemed to come from the sweeping of
harp strings ; again, it had all the sub-
tle, penetrating melody of the violin.
Whatever instrument gave it forth, it
drew the girl's heart after it to wander
its own way. When it was gay it won
her feet to some dance measure, and all
alone in the great empty rooms she
would move to it with head thrown back
and her whole body swaying in a new
sense of rhythm. When it was sad, it
set her heart to beating in great throbs,
for then it begged and pleaded. There
was need in it, a human cry that surely
was not the voice of a god. It spoke
out of a great yearning that answered
to her own. Whether it was swift or
slow she loved it, and waited for it day
by day, thinking of Apollo and his harp-
ing to the muses nine.

So her old life and her old mood
slipped away like a garment no longer
needed: her days were set to melody,
and her nights to pleasant dreams. The
jangle of street cars and the twinges of
conscience, the noises of her native city,
and her heart searchings in the Little
Church of All the Saints faded to the
remoteness of a faint gray bar of cloud
that makes the sunset brighter in the
west. She went singing among the
olives or past the fountain under the
ilexes on the hill : duties and perplexi-
ties vanished in the clear sunshine and
pleasant shadow of this golden world.

And all this meant that she had for-
gotten about the mails. She had ceased
to long for letters containing good news,
or to fear that one full of bad tidings
would come, and every one knows that
such a state of mind as this is serious.
Now, when Assunta found her one
morning, pacing the long, frescoed hall,
by the side of the running water, and
put a whole sheaf of letters into her
hand, Daphne looked at them cautiously,
and started to open one, then lost her

courage and held them for a while to
get used to them. Finally she went
upstairs and changed her dress, putting
on her short skirt and red felt hat, and
walked out into the highway with
Hermes skipping after her. She walked
rapidly up the even way, under the high
stone walls green with overhanging ivy
and wistaria vines, and the lamb kept
pace with her with his gay gallop, broken
now and then by a sidelong leap of sheer
joy up into the air. Presently she found
a turning that she had not known be-
fore, marked by a little wayside shrine,
and taking it, followed a narrow grass-
grown road that curled about the side
of a hill.

She read her father's letter first,
walking slowly and smiling. If he were
only here to share this wide beauty!
Then she read her sister's, which was
full of woeful exclamations and bad
news. The sick man was slowly dying,
and they could not leave him. Mean-
while she was desolated by thinking of
her little sister. Of course she was safe,
for Giacomo and Assunta were more
trustworthy than the Italian govern-
ment, but it must be very stupid, and
she had meant to give Daphne such a
gay time at the villa. She would write
at once to some English friends at Lake
Scala, ten miles away, to see if they
could not do something to relieve her
sister's solitude.

" To relieve my solitude ! ' gasped
Daphne. "Oh, I am so afraid some-
thing will ! "

There were several other letters, all
from friends at home. One, in a great
square envelope, addressed with an
English scrawl, she dreaded, and she
kept it for the last. When she did tear
it open her face grew quite pale. There
was much in it about duty and consecra-
tion, and much concerning two lives
sacrificed to the same great ideal. It
breathed thoughts of denial and of an-
nihilation of self, and, yes, Eustace
took her at her word and was ready to
welcome again the old relation. If she

164

Daphne.

would permit him, he would send back
the ring.

Hermes hid behind a stone and
dashed out at his mistress to surprise
her, expecting to be chased as usual,
but Daphne could not run. With heavy
feet and downcast eyes she walked the
green roadway, then, when her knees
suddenly became weak, sat down on a
stone and covered her face with her
hands. She had not known until this
moment how she had been hoping that
two and two would not make four ; she
had not really believed that this could
be the result of her letter of atonement.
Her soul had traveled far since she
wrote that letter, and it was hard to
find the way back. Hiding the brown
and purple distances of the Campagna
came pictures of dim, candle-lighted
spaces, of a thin face with a setting of
black and white priestly garments, and
in her ears was the sound of a voice end-
lessly intoning. It made up a vision of
the impossible.

She sat there a long, long time, and
when she wakened to a consciousness
of where she was, it was a whining voice
that roused her.

"Signorina, for the love of heaven,
give me a few soldi, for I am starving."

Daphne looked up and was startled,
and yet old beggar women were common
enough sights here among the hills.
This one had an evil look, with her cun-
ning, half -shut eyes.

The girl shook her head.

" I have no money with me, " she re-
marked.

"But Signorina, so young, so beau-
tiful, surely she has money with her."
A dirty brown hand came all too close
to Daphne's face, and she sprang to
her feet.

"I have spoken," she said severely,
giving a little stamp. "I have none.
Now go away."

The whining continued, unintermit-
tent. The old woman came closer, and
her hand touched the girl's skirt.
Wrenching herself away, Daphne found

herself in the grasp of two skinny arms,
and an actual physical struggle began.
The girl had no time for fear, and sud-
denly help came. A firm hand caught
the woman's shoulder, and the victim
was free.

"Are you hurt? " asked Apollo anx-
iously.

She shook her head, smiling.

"Frightened?"

"No. Don't you always rescue me ? '

" But this is merest accident, my be-
ing here. It really is n't safe for you
alone on these roads."

"I knew you were near."

"And yet, I have just this minute
come round the hill. You could not
possibly have seen me."

"I have ways of knowing," said
Daphne, smiling demurely.

A faint little bleat interrupted them.

"Oh, oh!" cried the girl, "she is
running away with Hermes ! '

Never did Apollo move more swiftly
than he did then; Daphne followed,
with flying feet. He reached the beg-
gar woman, held her, took the lamb
with one hand from her and handed it
to Daphne. There followed a scene
which the girl remembered afterward
with a curious sense of misgiving and
of question. The thief gave one glance
at the beautiful, angry face of the man,
then fell at his feet, groveling and be-
seeching. What she was saying the girl
did not know, but her face and figure
bore a look of more than mortal fear.

"What does she think him? " mur-
mured the girl. Then she turned away
with him, and, with the lamb at their
heels, they walked together back along
the grassy road.

"You look very serious," remarked
her protector. " You are sure it is not
fright ? "

She shook her head, holding up her
bundle of letters.

"Bad news?"

"No, good," she answered, smiling
bravely.

"I hope good news will be infre-

Daphne.

165

quent," he answered. "You look like
Iphigenia going to be sacrificed."

"Well, I'll admit that there is a
problem," said the girl. "There's a
question about my doing something."

"And you know it must be right to
do it because you hate it ? " he asked.

She nodded.

"Don't you think so, too? Now
when you answer, " she added triumph-
antly, " I shall know what kind of god
you are."

They had reached the turning of the
ways, and he stopped, as if intending
to leave her.

"I cannot help you," he said sadly,
"for I do not know the case. Only, I
think it is best not to decide by any
abstruse rule. Life is life's best teach-
er, and out of one's last experience comes
insight for the next. But don't be too
sure that duty and unhappiness are
one."

She left him, standing by the little
wayside shrine with a queer look on his
face. A tortured Christ hung there,
casting the shadow of pain upon the
passers-by. The expression in the
brown eyes of the heathen god haunted
her all the way down the hill, and
throughout the day : they seemed to un-
derstand, and yet be glad.

It was nine o'clock as the Signorina
descended the stairs. Through the open
doorway morning met her, crisp and
cool, with sunshine touching grass and
green branch, still wet with dew. The
very footfalls of the girl on the shallow
marble steps were eager and expectant,
and her face was gayer than those of
the nymphs in the frescoes on the wall.
At the bottom of the stairs, Giacomo
met her, his face wreathed in smiles.

"Bertuccio has returned," he an-
nounced.

11 Si, si, Signorina," came the voice
of Assunta, who was pushing her way

through the dining-room door behind
Giacomo. She had on her magenta
Sunday shawl, and the color of her
wrinkled cheeks almost matched it.

"What is Bertuccio? ' asked the
girl. "A kitten?"

"A kitten! " gasped Assunta.

" Corpo di Bacco ! " swore Giacomo.

Then the two brown ones devoted
mind and body to explanation. Gia-
como gesticulated and waved the napkin
he had in his hand ; Assunta shook her
black silk apron: and they both spoke
at once.

" II mio Bertuccio ! It is my little
son, Signorina, and my only, and the Si-
gnorina has never seen his like. When
he was three years old he wore clothing
for five years, and now he is six inches
taller than his father."

This and much more said Assunta,
and she said it as one word. Giacomo,
keeping pace and giving syllable for
syllable, remarked :

"It is our Bertuccio who has been
working in a tunnel in the Italian Alps,
and has come home for rest. He is en-
gineer, Signorina, and has genius. And
before he became this he was guide here
in the mountains, and he knows every
path, every stone, every tree."

"What? " asked Daphne feebly.

Then, in a multitude of words that
darkened knowledge, they said it all
over again. Bertuccio, the light of their
eyes, the sole hope of their old age, had
come home. He could be the Signo-
rina 's guide among the hills, being very
strong, very trusty, molto forte, molto
fedele.

"Oh, I know! " cried the Signorina,
with a sudden light in her face. "Ber-
tuccio is your son ! '

"Si, si, si, Signorina!' exclaimed
Giacomo and Assunta together, usher-
ing her into the dining-room.

"It is the blessed saints who have
managed it," added Assunta devoutly.
"A wreath of flowers from Rome, all
gauze and spangles, will I lay at the
shrine of our Lady, and there shall be

166 Daphne.

a long red ribbon to say my thanks in Bertuccio usually walked behind ;
letters of gold." Daphne rode on ahead, with the sun
The hope of the house was presented burning her cheeks, and the air, fragrant
to the Signorina after breakfast. He with the odor of late ripening grapes on
was a broad-shouldered, round-headed the upper hillsides, bringing intoxica-
offshoot of Italian soil, with honest tion. She seemed to herself so much a
brown eyes like those of both father and thing of falling rain, rich earth, and
mother. It was a face to be trusted, wakening sunshine, that she would not
Daphne knew, and when, recovering have been surprised to find the purple
from the embarrassment caused by his bloom of those same grapes gathering
parents' pride in him, he blurted out on her cheeks, or her soft wisps of hair
the fact that he had already been to the curling into tendrils, or spreading into
village that morning to find a little don- green vine leaves. They usually came
key for the Signer ina's wider journey- home in the splendor of sunset, tired,
ings, the girl welcomed the plan with happy, the red of Daphne's felt hat, the
delight. Grinning with pride Bertuc- gorgeousness of Bertuccio 's blue trou-
cio disappeared among the stables, and sers and yellow waistcoat lighting the
presently returned, leading an asinetto. gloom of the cool, green-shaded ways.
It was a little, dun-colored thing, wear- Hermes always ran frisking to meet
ing a red-tasseled bridle, and a small them, outstripping by his swiftness the
sheepskin saddle with red girth, but all slow plodding of the little ass. Perhaps
the gay trappings could not soften the the lambkin felt the shadow of a certain
old primeval sadness of the donkey's neglect through these long absences, but
face, under his long, questioning ears, at least he was generous and loved his
So Daphne won palfrey and cavalier. rival. Quitting the kitchen and dining-
In the succeeding days the two jogged room, he chose for his portion the pas-
f or hours together over the mountain ture where the donkey grazed, in silence
roads. Now they followed some grassy and in sadness, and frisked dangerously
path climbing gently upward to the site near his comrade's heels. For all his
of a buried town, where only mound melancholy, the asinetto was not insen-
and gray fragment of stone marked gar- sible to caresses, and at night, when the
den and forum. Here was a bit of wall, lamb cuddled close to him as the two
with a touch of gay painting mouldering lay in the grass in the darkness, would
on an inner surface, Venus, in robe of curl his nose round now and then pro-
red, rising from a daintily suggested sea tectingly to see how this small thing
in lines of green. They gathered frag- fared.

ments of old mosaic floor in their hands, So Daphne kept forgetting, forget-

blue lapis lazuli, yellow bits of giallo ting, and nothing recalled her to her

antico, red porphyry, trodden by gay perplexity, except her donkey. San

feet and sad, unnumbered years ago. Pietro Martire she named him, for on

They found broken pieces of iridescent his face was written the patience and

glass that had fallen, perhaps, from shat- the suffering of the saints. Some un-

tered wine cups of the emperors, and all Italian sense of duty stiffened his hard

these treasures Bertuccio stored away in little legs, gave rigid strength to his

his wide pockets. Again, they climbed back. Willing to trudge on with his

gracious heights and looked down over load, willing to rest, carrying his head

slopes and valleys, where deep grass a little bent, blinking mournfully at the

grew over rich, crumbling earth, deposit world from under the drab hair on his

of dead volcanoes, or saw, circled by soft forehead, San Pietro stood as a type of

green hills, some mountain lake, reflect- the disciplined -and chastened soul. His

ing the perfect blue of Italian sky. very way of cropping the grass had some-

Daphne.

167

thing ascetic in it, reminding his mis-
tress of Eustace at a festive dinner.

"San Pietro, San Pietro, " said
Daphne one day, when Bertuccio was
plodding far in the rear, whistling as he
followed, "San Pietro, must I do it? "

There was a drooping forward of the
ears, a slight bending of the head, as
the little beast put forth more strength
to meet the difficulty of rising ground.

"San Pietro, do you know what you
are advising? Do you at all realize
what it is to be a clergyman's wife? '

The steady straining of the donkey's
muscles seemed to say that, to whatever
station in life it pleased Providence to
call him, he would think only of duty.

Then Daphne alighted and sat on a
stone, with the donkey's face to hers,
taking counsel of those long ears which
were always eloquent, whether pricked
forward in expectation or laid back in
wrath.

"San Pietro, if I should give it up,
and stay here and live, for I never
knew before what living is, if I should
just try to keep this sunshine and these
great spaces of color, what would you
think of me ? '

Eyes, ears, and the tragic corners of
the mouth revealed the thought of this
descendant of the bearers of burdens for
all the earth's thousands of years.

"Little beast, little beast," said
Daphne, burying her face in the brown-
ish fuzz of his neck, and drying her eyes
there, "you are the one thing in this
land of beauty that links me with home.
You are the Pilgrim Fathers and the
Catechism in one ! You are the Puritan
Conscience made visible ! I will do it ;
I promise."

San Pietro Martire looked round with
mild inquiry on his face as to the mean-
ing and the purpose of caresses in a hard
world like this.

XI.

Bertuccio sprawled on. his stomach on
the grassy floor of the presence chamber

in a palace of the Caesars', kicking with
one idle foot a bit of stone that had once
formed the classic nose of a god. San
Pietro Martire was quietly grazing in
the long spaces of the Philosophers'
Hall, nibbling deftly green blades of
grass that grew at the bases of the
broken pillars. Near by lay the old am-
phitheatre, with its roof of blue sky,
and its rows of grassy seats, circling a
level stage and pit, and rising, one above
another, in irregular outlines of green.
Here, in the spot on which the central
royal seat had once been erected, sat
Daphne on her Scotch plaid steamer
blanket: her head was leaning back
against the turf, her lips were slightly
parted, her eyes half closed. She thought
that she was meditating on the life that
had gone on in this imperial villa well-
nigh two thousand years ago : its ban-
quets, its philosophers' disputes, its
tragedies and comedies played here with
tears and laughter. In reality she was
half asleep.

They were only a half mile from
home, measuring by a straight line
through the intervening hill; in time
they were two hours away. San Pietro
had climbed gallantly, with little sil-
very bells tinkling at his ears, to the
summit of the mountain, and had de-
scended, with conviction and with ac-
curacy, planting firm little hard hoofs
in the slippery path where the dark soil
bore a coating of green grass and moss.
For all their hard morning's work they
were still on the confines of the Villa
Gianelli, whose kingdom was partly a
kingdom of air and mountain.

Drowsing there in the old theatre in
the sun, Daphne presently saw, stepping
daintily through one of the entrances at
the side, an audience of white sheep.
They overspread the stage, cropping as
they went. They climbed the green en-
circling seats, leaping up or down, where
a softer tuft of grass invited. They
broke the dreamy silence with the muf-
fled sound of their hoofs, and an occa-
sional bleat.

168

Daphne.

The girl knew them now. She had
seen before the brown-faced twins, both
wearing tiny horns; they always kept
together. She knew the great white
ewe with a blue ribbon on her neck, and
the huge ram with twisted horns that
made her half afraid. Would he mind
Scotch plaid, she wondered, as he raised
his head and eyed her? She sat alert,
ready for swift flight up the slope be-
hind her in case of attack, but he turned
to his pasture in the pit with the air of
one ready to waive trifles, and the girl
leaned back again.

When Apollo, the keeper of sheep,
entered, Daphne received his greeting
with no surprise: even if he had come
without these forerunners she would
have known that he was near. It was
she who broke the silence as he ap-
proached.

"A theatre seems a singularly appro-
priate place for you and your flock,"
she remarked. "You make a capital
actor. "

There was no laughter in his eyes to-
day, and he did not answer. A wistful
look veiled the triumphant gladness of
his face.

"They did n't play pastorals in olden
time, did they ? " asked Daphne.

"No," he answered, "they lived
them. When they had forgotten how
to do that they began to act."

He took a flute from his pocket and
began to play. A cry rang out through
the gladness of the notes, and it brought
tears to the girl's eyes. He stopped,
seeing them there, and put the flute
back into his pocket.

"Did you take my advice the other
day ? " he asked.

"The advice was very general," said
Daphne. "I presume an oracle's al-
ways is. No, I did not follow it."

"Antigone, Antigone," he mur-
mured.

"Why Antigone?' demanded the
girl.

" Because your duty is dearer to you
than life, and love."

"Please go down there," said the
girl imperiously, "and play Antigone
for me. Make me see it and feel it.
I have been sitting here for an hour
wishing that I could realize here a tra-
gedy of long ago."

He bowed submissively.

"Commands from Caesar's seat must
always be obeyed," he observed. "Do
you know Greek, Antigone ? '

She nodded.

" I know part of this play by heart, "
she faltered. "My father taught me
Greek words when I was small enough
to ride his foot."

He stepped down among the sheep to
the grassy stage, laying aside his hat
and letting the sun sparkle on his bright
hair. The odd sheepskin coat lent a
touch of grotesqueness to his beauty as
he began.

" ' Nay, be thou what thou wilt ; but
I will bury him : well for me to die in
doing that. I shall rest, a loved one
with him whom I have loved, sinless in
my crime ; for I owe a longer allegiance
to the dead than to the living: in that
world I shall abide forever.'

Slow, full, and sweet the words came,
beating like music on the girl's heart.
All the sorrow of earth seemed gathered
up in the undertones, all its hunger and
thirst for life and love : in it rang the
voice of a will as strong as death and
strong as love.

The sheep lifted their heads and
looked on anxiously, as if for a moment
even the heart of a beast were touched
by human sorrow. From over the high-
est ridge of this green amphitheatre
San Pietro looked down with the air
of one who had nothing more to learn
of woe. Apollo stood in the centre of
the stage, taking one voice, then an-
other: now the angry tone of the ty-
rant, Creon, now the wail of the chorus,
hurt but undecided, then breaking into
the unspeakable sweetness and firmness
of Antigone's tones. The sheep went
back to their nibbling ; San Pietro trot-
ted away with his jingling bells, but

Daphne.

169

Daphne sat with her face leaning on her
hands, and slow tears trickling over
her fingers.

The despairing lover's cry broke in
on Antigone's sorrow; Haemon, "bitter
for the baffled hope of his marriage,"
pleaded with his father Creon for his
beloved's life. Into his arguments for
mercy and justice crept that cry of the
music on the hills that had sounded
through lonely hours in Daphne's ears.
It was the old call of passion, pleading,
imperious, irresistible, and the girl on
Caesar's seat answered to it as harp
strings answer to the master's hand.
The wail of Antigone seemed to come
from the depths of her own being : -

" Bear me witness, in what sort,
unwept of friends, and by what laws I
pass to the rock-closed prison of my
strange tomb, ah me unhappy ! . . . No
bridal bed, no bridal song hath been
mine, no joy of marriage."

The sun hung low above the encir-
cling hills when the lover's last cry
sounded in the green theatre, drowning
grief in triumph as he chose death with
his beloved before all other good. Then
there was silence, while the round, gold-
en sun seemed resting in a red-gold
haze on the hilltop, and Daphne, sitting
with closed eyes, felt the touch of two
hands upon her own.

" Did you understand ? ' asked a
voice that broke in its tenderness.

She nodded, with eyes still closed,
for she dared not trust them open. He
bent and kissed her hands, where the
tears had fallen on them, then, turning,
called his sheep. Three minutes later
there was no trace of him or of them:
they had vanished as if by magic, leav-
ing silence and shadow. The girl
climbed the hill toward home on San
Pietro's back, shaken, awed, afraid.

XII.

If Bertuccio had but shown any signs
of having seen her companion of yes-

terday, Daphne's bewilderment would
have been less; but to keep meeting
a being who claimed to belong to an-
other world, who came and went, in-
visible, it would seem, when he chose, to
other eyes except her own, might well
rouse strange thoughts in the mind of
a girl cut off from her old life in the
world of commonplace events. To be
sure, the shepherd Antoli had seen him,
but had spoken of him voluntarily as a
mysterious creature, one of the blessed
saints come down to aid the sick. The
beggar woman had seen him, but had
fallen prostrate at his feet as in awe of
supernatural presence. When the wan-
dering god had talked across the hedge
the eyes of Giacomo and Assunta had
apparently been holden ; and now Ber-
tuccio, whose ears were keen, and whose
eyes, in their lazy Italian fashion, saw
more than they ever seemed to, Ber-
tuccio had been all the afternoon within
a stone's throw of the place where the
god had played to her, and Bertuccio
gave no sign of having seen a man.
She eyed him questioningly as they
started out the next morning on their
way to the ruins of some famous baths
on the mountain facing them.

There was keenness in the autumn
air that morning, but the green slopes
far and near bore no trace of flaming
color or of decay, as in fall at home ; it
was rather like a glimpse of some cool,
eternal spring. A stream of water
trickled down under thick grass at the
side of the road, and violets grew there.

"San Pietro!"said Daphne, with
a little tug at the bridle. The long
ears were jerked hastily back to hear
what was to come. "I know you dis-
approve of me, for you saw it all."

The ears kept that position in which
any one who has ever loved a donkey
recognizes scathing criticism. Daphne
fingered one of them with her free hand.

"It is only on your back that I feel
any strength of mind," she added.
"When I am by myself something seems
sweeping me away, as the tides sweep

170

Daphne.

driftwood out to sea; but here, resolu-
tion crawls up through my body. We
must be a new kind of centaur, San
Pietro."

Suddenly her face went down be-
tween his ears.

"But if you and I united do drive
him away, what shall we do, after-
wards ? '

" Signorina ! " called Bertuccio, run-
ning up behind them. "Look! The
olives pick themselves."

At a turn in the road the view had
opened. There, in a great orchard on
the side of the hill, the peasants were
gathering olives before the coming of
the frost. There were scores of pick-
ers wearing great gay-colored aprons
in which they placed the olives as they
gathered them from the trees. Lad-
ders leaned against knotty tree trunks ;
baskets filled with the green fruit stood
on the ground. Ladder and basket
suggested the apple orchards of her na-
tive land, but the motley colors of ker-
chief and apron, yellow, magenta, tur-
quoise, and green, and the gray of the
eternal olive trees with the deep blue
of the sky behind them, recalled her
to the enchanted country where she was
fast losing the landmarks of home.

" Signorina Daphne, " said Bertuccio,
speaking slowly as to a child, "did you
ever hear them tell of the maiden on
the hills up here who was carried away
by a god ? '

Daphne turned swiftly and tried to
read his face. It was no less expres-
sionless than usual.

"No," she answered. "Tell me.
I am fond of stories."

They were climbing the winding road
again, leaving the olive pickers behind.
Bertuccio walked near, holding the don-
key's tail to steady his steps.

"It was long ago, ages and ages.
Her father had the care of an olive
orchard that was old, older than our
Lord," said Bertuccio, devoutly cross-
ing himself. "There was one tree in
it that was enormously big, as large as

this, see the measure of my arms.
It was open and hollow, but growing
as olives will when there is every rea-
son why they should be dead. One night
the family were eating their polenta
has the Signorina tasted our polenta ?
It makes itself from chestnuts, and it
is very good. I must speak to my mo-
ther to offer some to the Signorina.
Well, the door opened without any
knocking, and a stranger stood there:
he was young, and beyond humanity,
beautiful."

Bertuccio paused; the girl felt slow
red climbing to her cheek. She dared
not look behind, yet she would have
given half her possessions to see the ex-
pression of his face. Leaning forward,
she played with the red tassels at San
Pietro 's ears.

"Go on! go on! " she commanded.
"Avantif"

San Pietro thought that the words
were meant for him, and indeed they
were more appropriate here for donkey
than for man.

" He sat with them and shared their
polenta," continued Bertuccio, walking
more rapidly to keep up with San Pie-
tro 's quickened step. "And he made
them all afraid. It was not that he
had any terrible look, or that he did
anything strange, only, each glance,
each motion told that he was more than
merely man. And he looked at the
maiden with eyes of love, and she at
him," said Bertuccio, lacking art to
keep his hearer in suspense. "She too
was beautiful, as beautiful, perhaps, as
the Signorina," continued the story-
teller.

Daphne looked at him sharply: did
he mean any further comparison ? There
were hot waves now on neck and face,
and her heart was beating furiously.

" He came often, and he always met
the maiden by the hollow tree: it was
large enough for them to stand inside.
And her father and mother were trou-
bled, for they knew he was a god, not
one of our faith, Signorina, but one of

Daphne.

171

the older gods who lived here before
the coming of our Lord. One day as
he stood there by the tree and was kiss-
ing the maiden on her mouth, her fa-
ther came, very angry, and scolded her,
and defied the god, telling him to go
away and never show his face there
again. And then, he never knew how
it happened, for the stranger did not
touch him, but he fell stunned to the
ground, with a queer flash of light in
his eyes. When he woke, the stars
were shining over him, and he crawled
home. But the maiden was gone, and
they never saw her any more, Signo-
rina. Whether it was for good or for
ill, she had been carried away by the
god. People think that they disap-
peared inside the tree, for it closed up
that night, .and it never opened again.
Sometimes they thought they heard
voices coming from it, and once or
twice, cries and sobs of a woman.
Maybe she is imprisoned there and can-
not get out : it would be a terrible fate,
would it not, Signorina? Me, I think
it is better to fight shy of the heathen
gods."

Bertuccio 's white teeth showed in a
broad smile, but no scrutiny on Daph-
ne's part could tell her whether he had
told his story for pleasure merely, or for
warning. She rode on in silence, real-
izing, as she had not realized before,
how far this peasant stock reached back
into the elder days of the ancient world.

"Do you think that your story is
true, Bertuccio ? " she asked, as they
came in sight of the grass-grown mounds
of the buried watering-place toward
which their steps were bent.

"Ma chef' answered Bertuccio,
shrugging his shoulders, and snapping
his fingers meaningly. "Much is true
that one does not see, and one cannot
believe all that one does see."

Daphne started. What had he seen ?

"Besides," added Bertuccio, "there
is proof of this. My father's father
saw the olive tree, and it was quite
closed."

XIII.

Over the shallow tufa basin of the
great fountain on the hill Daphne stood
gazing into the water. She had sought
the deep shadow of the ilex trees, for
the afternoon was warm, an almost an-
gry summer heat having followed yes-
terday's coolness. Her yellow gown
gleamed like light against the dull
brown of the stone and the dark moss-
touched trunks of the trees. Whether
she was looking at the tufts of fern and
of grass that grew in the wet basin, or
whether she was studying her own
beauty reflected there, no one could tell,
not even Apollo, who had been watch-
ing her for some time.

Into his eyes as he looked leaped a
light like the flame of the sunshine be-
yond the shadows on the hill; swiftly
he stepped forward and kissed the girl's
shoulder where the thin yellow stuff of
her dress showed the outward curve to
the arm. She turned and faced him,
without a word. There was no need
of speech: anger battled with uncon-
fessed joy in her changing face.

"How dare you? " she said present-
ly, when she had won her lips to curves
of scorn. "The manners of the gods
seem strange to mortals."

"I love you, " he answered simply.

Then there was no sound save that
of the water, dropping over the edge of
the great basin to the soft grass beneath.

"Can't you forgive me? " he asked
humbly. "I am profoundly sorry;
only, my temptation was superhuman."

"I had thought that you were that
too," said the girl in a whisper.

"There is no excuse, I know; there
is only a reason. I love you, little
girl. I love your questioning eyes,
and your firm mouth, and your smooth
brown hair "

" Stop ! " begged Daphne, putting
out her hands. "You must not say
such things to me, for I am not free
to hear them. I must go away, " and

172

Daphne.

she turned toward home. But he
grasped one of the outstretched hands
and drew her to the stone bench near
the fountain, and then seated himself
near her side.

"Now tell me what you mean," he
said quietly.

"I mean," she answered, with her
eyes cast down, "that two years ago I
promised to love some one else. I must
not even hear what you are trying to
say to me."

"I think, Miss Willis, " he said gen-
tly, " that you should have told me this
before."

"How could I?" begged the girl.
"When could I have done it? Why
should I?"

" I do not know, " he answered wea-
rily; "only, perhaps it might have
spared me some shade of human an-
guish."

"Human?' asked Daphne, almost
smiling.

"No, no, no," he interrupted, not
hearing her. " It would not have done
any good, for I have loved you from
the first minute when I saw your blue
drapery flutter in your flight from me.
Some deeper sense than mortals have
told me that every footstep was falling
on my sleeping heart and waking it to
life. You were not running away ; in
some divine sense you were coming to-
ward me. Daphne, Daphne, I cannot
let you go ! '

The look in the girl's startled eyes
was his only answer. By the side of
this sun-browned face, in its beauty
and its power, rose before her a vision
of Eustace Denton, pale, full-lipped,
with an ardor for nothingness in his
remote blue eyes. How could she have
known, in those old days before her
revelation came, that faces like this
were on the earth: how could she have
dreamed that glory of life like this was
possible ?

In the great strain of the moment
they both grew calm and Daphne told
him her story, as much of it as she

thought it wise for him to know. Her
later sense of misgiving, the breaking
of the engagement, the penitence that
had led to a renewal of the bonds, she
concealed from him ; but he learned of
the days of study and of quiet work in
the shaded corners of her father's libra-
ry, and of those gayer days and even-
ings when the figure of the young as-
cetic had seemed to the girl to have a
peculiar saving grace, standing in stern
contrast to the social background of
her life.

He thanked her, when she had fin-
ished, and he watched her, with her
background of misty blue distance, sit-
ting where the shadow of the ilexes
brought out the color of her scarlet lips
and deep gray eyes.

"Daphne," he said presently, "you
have told me much about this man, but
you have not told me that you love
him. You do not speak of him as a
woman speaks of the man who makes
her world for her. You defend him,
you explain him, you plead his cause,
and it must be that you are pleading it
with yourself, for I have brought no
charge, that you must defend him to
me. Do you love him? '

She did not answer.

"Look at me! ' he insisted. Her
troubled eyes turned toward his, but
dared not stay, and the lashes fell again.

"Do not commit the crime of mar-
rying a man you do not love," he
pleaded.

"But," said the girl slowly, "even
if I gave him up I might not care for

you."

"Dear," he said softly, "you do love
me. Is it not so? '

She shook her head, but her face
belied her.

"I have waited, waited for you, "he
pleaded, in that low tone to which her
being vibrated as to masterful music,
"so many lifetimes! I have found
you out at last! '

" How long ? " she asked willfully.

".ZEons, " he answered. "Since the

Daphne.

173

foundation of the world. I have wait-
ed, and now that I have found you I
will not let you go. I will not let you

go!"

She looked at him with wide-opened
eyes : a solemn fear possessed her. Was
it Bertuccio's story of yesterday that
filled her with foreboding? Hardly.
Rather it seemed a pleasant thought
that he- and she should feel the bark of
one of these great trees closing round
them, and should have so beautiful a
screen of brown bark and green moss to
hide their love from all the world. No,
no fear could touch the thought of any
destiny with him : she was afraid only
of herself.

"You are putting a mere nothing
between us, " the voice went on. " You
are pretending that there is an obstacle
when there is none, really."

"Only another man's happiness,"
murmured the girl.

"I doubt if he knows what happiness
is," said Apollo. "Forgive me, but
will he not be as happy with his altar
candles and his chants without you?
Does he not care more for the abstract
cause for which he is working than for
you? Hasn't he missed the simple
meaning of human life, and can any-
thing teach it to him ? '

"How did you know ? " asked Daph-
ne, startled.

"The gods should divine some things
that are not told ! Besides, I know the
man, " he answered, smiling, but Daphne
did not hear. She had leaned back and
closed her eyes. The warm, sweet air,
with its odor oi earth, wooed her; the
little breeze that made so faint a rustle
in the ilex leaves touched her cheek like
quick, fluttering kisses. The rhythmi-
cal drops from the fountain seemed fall-
ing to the music of an old order of things,
some simple, elemental way of loving
that made harmony through all life.
Could love, that had meant only duty,
have anything to do with this great joy
in mere being, which turned the world
to gold ?

"I must, I must win you," came the
voice again, and it was like a cry.
"Loving with more than human love,
I will not be denied! '

She opened her eyes and watched
him: the whole, firmly-knit frame in
the brown golf -suit was quivering.

"It has never turned out well," she
said lightly, " when the sons of the gods
married with the daughters of men."

Perhaps he would have rebuked her
for the jest, but he saw her face.

" I offer you all that man or god can
offer," he said, standing before her.
"I offer you he devotion of a whole
life. Will you take it ?"

"I will not break my promise, " said
the girl, rising. Her eyes were level
with his. She found such power in
them that she cried out against it in
sudden anger.

" Why do you tempt me so ? Why
do you come and trouble my mind and
take away my peace? Who are you?
What are you ? '

"If you want a human name for
me " he answered.

She raised her hand swiftly to stop
him.

"No, don't! " she said. "I do not
want to know. Don't tell me anything,
for the mystery is part of the beauty
of you."

A shaft of golden sunlight pierced
the ilex shade and smote her forehead
as she stood there.

"Apollo, the sun god," she said,
smiling, as she turned and left him
alone.

XIV.

Overhead was a sky of soft, dusky
blue, broken by the clear light of the
stars : all about were the familiar walks
of the villa garden, mysterious now in
the darkness, and seeming to lead into
infinite space. The lines of aloe, fig,
and palm stood like shadows guarding
a world of mystery. Daphne, wander-
ing alone in the garden at midnight,

174

Daphne.

half exultant, half afraid, stepped noise-
lessly along the pebbled walks with a
feeling that that world was about to
open for her. Ahead, through an arch
where the thick foliage of the ilexes had
been cut to leave the way clear for the
passer-by, a single golden planet shone
low in the west, and the garden path
led to it.

Daphne had been unable to sleep, for
sleeplessness had become a habit during
the past week. Whether she was too
happy or too unhappy she could not tell :
she only knew that she was restless and
smothering for air and space. Hastily
dressing, she had stolen on tiptoe down
the broad stairway by the running water
and out into the night, carrying a tiny
Greek lamp with a single flame, clear,
as only the flame of olive oil can be.
She had put the lamp down in the door-
way and it was burning there now, a
beacon to guide her footsteps when she
wanted to return. Meanwhile, the air
was cool on throat and forehead and on
her open palms : she had no wish to go
in.

Here was a fountain whose jets of
water, blown high from the mouths of
merry dolphins, fell in spray in a great
stone basin where mermaids waited for
the shower to touch bare shoulders and
bended heads. The murmur of the
water, mingled with the murmur of un-
seen live things, and the melody of night
touched the girl's discordant thoughts
to music. Of what avail, after all, was
her fierce struggle for duty ? Here were
soft shadows, and great spaces, and
friendly stars.

Of course her lover-god, Apollo, was
gone. She had known the other day
when she left him on the hill that she
would not see him again, for the look
of his face had told her that. Of course,
it was better so. Now, everything would
go on as had been intended. Anna
would come home ; after this visit was
over, there would be New York again,
and Eustace. Yes, she was brave to
share his duty with him, and the years

would not be long. And always these
autumn days would be shining through
the dark hours of her life, these perfect
days of sunshine without shadow. Of
their experiences she need not even tell,
for she was not sure that it had actually
been real. She would keep it as a sa-
cred memory that was half a dream.

She was walking now by the rows of
tall chrysanthemums, and she reached
out her fingers to touch them, for she
could almost feel their deep yellow
through her finger-tips. It was like
taking counsel of them, and they, like
all nature, were wise. Cypress and
acacia and palm stood about like strong
comforters ; help came from the tangled
vines upon the garden wall, from the
matted periwinkle on the ground at her
feet, and the sweet late roses, blossom-
ing in the dark.

Yes, he was gone, and the beauty and
the power of him had vanished. It was
better so, she kept saying to herself, her
thoughts, no matter where they wan-
dered, coming persistently back, as if
the idea, so obviously true, needed prov-
ing after all. The only thing was, she
would have liked to see him just once
more to show him how invincible she
was. He had taken her by surprise that
day upon the hill, and had seen what
she had not meant to tell. Now, if she
could confront him once, absolutely un-
shaken, could tell him her decision, give
him words of dismissal in a voice that
had no tremor in it, as her voice had
had the other day, that would be a sat-
isfactory and triumphant parting for
one who had come badly off. Her
shoulder burned yet where he had kissed
it, and yet she was not angry. He must
have known that day how little she was
vexed. If she could only see him once
again, she said wistfully to herself, to
show him how angry she was, all would
be well.

Daphne had wandered to the great
stone gate that led out upon the highway,
and was leaning her forehead against a
moss-grown post, when she heard a sud-

Daphne.

175

den noise. Then the voice of San Pietro
Martire broke the stillness of the night,
and Daphne, listening, thought she heard
a faint sound of bleating. Hermes was
calling her, and Hermes was in danger.
Up the long avenue she ran toward the
house, and, seizing the tiny lamp at the
doorway, sped up the slope toward the
inclosure where the two animals grazed,
the flame making a trail of light like
that of a firefly moving swiftly in the
darkness. The bray rang out again, but
there was no second sound of bleating.
Inside the pasture gate she found the
donkey anxiously sniffing at something
that lay in the grass. Down on her
knees went Daphne, for there lay Hermes
stretched out on his side, with traces of
blood at his white throat.

The girl put down her lamp and lifted
him in her arms. Some cowardly dog
had done this thing, and had run away on
seeing her, or hearing her unfasten the
gate. She put one finger on the woolly
bosom, but the heart was not beating.
The lamb's awkward legs were stretched
out quite stiffly, and his eyes were be-
ginning to glaze. Two tears dropped
on the fat white side ; then Daphne bent
and kissed him. Looking up, she saw
San Pietro gazing on with the usual grief
of his face intensified. It was as if he
understood that the place at his back
where the lamb had cuddled every night
must go cold henceforward.

"We must bury him, San Pietro,"
said Daphne presently. "Come help
me find a place."

She put the lambkin gently down
upon the ground, and, rising, started,
with one arm over San Pietro 's neck,
to find a burial place for the dead. The
donkey followed willingly, for he per-
mitted himself to love his lady with a
controlled but genuine affection; and
together they searched by the light of
the firefly lamp. At last Daphne halted
by a diminutive cypress, perhaps two
feet high, and announced that she was
content.

The tool-house was not far away. In-

vestigating, she found, as she had hoped,
that the door was not locked. Arming
herself with a hoe she came back, and,
under the light of southern stars, dug
a little grave in the soft, dark earth,
easily loosened in its crumbling richness.
Then she took the lamp and searched in
the deep thick grass for flowers, coming
back with a mass of pink- tipped daisies
gathered in her skirt. The sight of the
brown earth set her to thinking : there
ought to be some kind of shroud. Near
the tool-house grew a laurel tree, she
remembered, and from that she stripped
a handful of green, glossy leaves, to
spread upon the bottom of the grave.
This done, she bore the body of Hermes
to his resting-place, and strewed the
corpse with pink daisies.

" Should he have Christian or heathen
burial?' she asked, smiling. "This
seems to be a place where the two faiths
meet. I think neither. He must just
be given back to Mother Nature."

She heaped the sod over him with her
own hands, and fitted neatly together
some bits of turf. Then she took up her
lamp to go. San Pietro, tired of cere-
mony, was grazing in the little circle of
light.

"To-morrow," said Daphne, as she
went down the hill, "he will be eating
grass from Hermes' grave."

XV.

The shadow of branching palms fell
on the Signorina's hair and hands as she
sat at work near the fountain in the gar-
den weaving a great wreath of wild cy-
clamen and of fern gathered from the
hillside. Assunta was watching her
anxiously, her hands resting on her hips.

"It 's a poor thing to offer the Ma-
donna, " she said at length, "just com-
mon things that grow."

Daphne only smiled at her and went
on weaving white cord about the stems
under green fronds where it could not
be seen.

176 Daphne.

"I was ready to buy a wreath of seen from the window the Signorina
beautiful gauze flowers from Rome, " making a wreath for our Lady, and he
ventured Assunta, "all colors, red and too wants to present her with a thank-
yellow and purple. I have plenty of offering for the miracle she wrought for
silver for it upstairs in a silk bag. Our him. But will the Signorina permit
Lady will think I am not thankful, him to come and tell her?'
though the blessed saints know I was Even while Giacomo was speaking
never so thankful in my life as I was Daphne saw the man slowly approach-
for Bertuccio's coming home when he ing, urged on apparently by encouraging
did. " gestures from Assunta, who was stand-

"The Madonna will know," said ing at the corner of the house. A thrill

Daphne. "She will like this better went through the girl's nerves as she

than anything else. " saw the rough brown head of the peasant

"Are you sure? " asked Assunta du- rising above the sheepskin coat that the

biously. shepherd -god had worn. Unless miracle

"Yes, " asserted the girl, laughing, had made another like it, it was the very

"She told me so! ' same, even to the peculiar jagged edge

The audacity of the remark had an where it met in front,

unexpected effect on the peasant woman. Antoli's expression was foolish and

Assunta crossed herself. ashamed, but at Giacomo's bidding he

" Perhaps she did ! Perhaps she did ! began a recital of his recent experiences.

And do you think she does not mind my The girl strained her ears to listen, but

waiting ? ' hardly a word of this dialect of the Ro-

"No, " answered Daphne gravely, man hills was intelligible to her. The

" She knows that you have been very gesture wherewith the shepherd crossed

busy taking care of me." himself, and his devout pointing to the

Assunta trotted away, apparently con- sky were all she really understood,
tent, to consult Giacomo about dinner. Then Giacomo translated.
The girl went on working with busy fin- " Because he was ill but the Si-
gers, the shadow of her lashes on her gnorina knows the story the blessed
cheek. As she worked her thoughts Saint Sebastian came down to him and
wove for her the one picture that they guarded the sheep, and he went home
made always for her now : Apollo stand- and became well, miraculously well,
ing on the hillside under the ilexes with See how he is recovered from his fever !
the single ray of sunshine touching his It was our Lady who wrought it all.
face. All the rest of her life kept fad- Now he comes back and all his flock is
ing, leaving the minutes of that after- there: not one is missing, but all are
noon alone distinct. And it was ten fat and flourishing. Does not the Si-
days ago! gnorina believe that it was some one

Presently Giacomo came hurrying from another world who helped him ? '

down the path toward her, dangling his "Si," answered Daphne, looking at

white apron by its string as he ran. the sheepskin coat.

"Signorina! " he called breathlessly. "No one has seen the holy saint ex-

" Would the Signorina, when she has cept himself , but the blessed one has ap-

finished that, graciously make another peared again to him. Antoli caine back,

wreath ? ' afraid that the sheep were scattered,

"Certainly. For you? ' afraid of being dismissed. He found

"Not for me," he answered myste- his little tent in order; food was there,

riously, drawing nearer. "Not for me, and better food than shepherds have,

but for Antoli, the shepherd who herds eggs and wine and bread. While he

the flock of Count Gianelli. He has waited the blessed one himself came,

Daphne.

177

with light shining about his hair. He
brought back the coat that he had worn :
see, is it not proof that he was there ? '

"The coat was a new one," inter-
rupted the shepherd.

Giacomo repeated, and went on.

"He smiled and talked most kindly,
and when he went away the Signo-
rina understands ? '

Daphne nodded.

"He gave his hand to Antoli," said
Giacomo breathlessly.

"I will make the wreath," said the
Signorina smiling. "It shall be of
these," and she held up a handful of
pink daisies, mingled with bits of fern
and ivy leaves. " Assunta shall take it
to the church when she takes hers. I
rejoice that you are well, " she added,
turning to Antoli with a polite sentence
from the phrase-book.

As she worked on after they were
gone, Assunta came to her again.

"The Signorina heard? " she asked.

"Si. Is the story true?' asked
Daphne.

Assunta 's eyes were full of hidden
meaning.

"The Signorina ought to know."

"Why?'

"Has not the Signorina seen the
blessed one herself ? " she asked.

"I? " said Daphne, starting.

"The night the lambkin was hurt,
did not the Signorina go out in great
distress, and did not the blessed one
come to her aid ? '

" Ma che ! " exclaimed Daphne faint-
ly, falling back upon Assunta 's vocabu-
lary in her astonishment.

"I have told no one, not even Gia-
como, " said Assunta, "but I saw it all.
The noise had wakened me, and I fol-
lowed, but I stopped when I saw that the
divine one was there. Only I watched
from the clump of cypress trees."

" Where was he ? ' asked Daphne
with unsteady voice.

" Beyond the laurel trees, " said As-
sunta. "Did not the Signorina see? '

The girl shook her head.

VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 12

"How did you know that he was one
of the divine? " she asked.

"Can I not tell the difference be-
tween mortal man and one of them ? "
cried the peasant woman scornfully.
" It was the shining of his face, and the
light about his hair, Signorina. Every
look and every motion showed that he
was not of this world. Besides, how
could I see him in the dark if he were
not the blessed Saint Sebastian? And
who sent the dog away if it was not
he ? " she added triumphantly.

" But why should he appear to me ? '
asked Daphne. "I have no claim upon
the help of the saints."

"Perhaps because the Signorina is a
heretic," answered Assunta tenderly.
"Our Lady must have special care for
her if she sends out the holy ones to
bring her to the fold."

The woman's face was alight with
reverence and pride, and Daphne turned
back to her flowers, shamed by these
peasant folk for their belief in the im-
manence of the divine.

Half an hour later Assunta re-
appeared, clad in Sunday garments,
wearing her best coral earrings and her
little black silk shoulder shawl covered
with gay embroidered flowers. She held
out a letter to the girl.

"I go to take the wreaths to our
Lady," she announced, "and to confess
and pray. The Signorina has made them
pretty, if they are but common things."

Daphne was reading her letter ; even
the peasant woman could see that it bore
glad tidings, for the light that broke in
the girl's face was like the coming of
dawn over the hills.

"Wait, Assunta," she said quietly,
when she had finished, and she disap-
peared among the trees. In a minute
she came back with three crimson roses,
single, and yellow at the heart.

"Will you take them with your
wreaths for me to the Madonna ? " she
said, putting them into Assunta 's hand.
"I am more thankful than either one of

you."

178

Daphne.

XVI.

Assunta had carried a small tray out
to the arbor in the garden, and Daphne
was having her afternoon tea there alone.
About her, on the frescoed walls of this
little open-air pavilion, were grouped pink
shepherds and shepherdesses, disporting
themselves in airy garments of blue and
green in a meadow that ended abruptly
to make room for long windows. The
girl leaned back and sipped her tea luxu-
riously. She was clad in a gown that
any shepherdess among them might have
envied, a pale yellow crepy thing shot
through with gleams of gold. Before
her the Countess Accolanti's silver ser-
vice was set out on an inlaid Floren-
tine table, partially protected by an open
work oriental scarf. Upon it lay the
letter that had come an hour before, and
the Signorina now and then feasted her
eyes upon it. Just outside the door was
a bust of Masaccio, set on a tall pedestal,
grass growing on the rough hair and
heavy eyelids. Pavilion and tea-table
seemed an odd bit of convention, set down
in the neglected wildness of this old gar-
den, and Daphne watched it all with en-
tire satisfaction over her Sevres teacup.

Presently she was startled by seeing
Assunta come hurrying back with a tea-
cup and saucer in one hand, a hot water
jug in the other. The rapid Italian of
excited moments Daphne never pretended
to understand, consequently she gathered
from Assunta's incoherent words neither
names nor impressions, only the bare fact
that a caller for the Countess Accolanti
had rung the bell.

" He inquired, too, for the Signorina,"
remarked the peasant woman finally,
when her breath had nearly given out.

u Do you know him ? " asked Daphne.
" Have you seen him before ? "

"But yes, thousands of times/' said
Assunta in a stage whisper. " See, he
comes. I thought it best to say that he
would find the Signorina in the garden.

And the Signorina must pardon me for
the card : I dropped it into the tea-kettle
and it is wet, quite wet."

Assunta had time to note with aston-
ishment before she left that hostess and
caller met as old friends, for the Signo-
rina held out her hand in greeting before
a word of introduction had been said.

" I am told that your shepherd life is
ended," remarked Daphne, as she filled
the cup just brought. Neither her sur-
prise nor her joy in his coming showed
in her face.

" For the present, yes."

" You have won great devotion," said
Daphne, smiling. " Only, they all mis-
take you for a Christian saint."

" What does it matter ? " said Apollo.
" The feeling is the same."

" Assunta knew you at once as one of
those in her calendar," the girl went on,
" but she seems to recognize your super-
natural qualities only by candlelight. I
am a little bit proud that I can detect
them by day as well."

Her gayety met no response from him,
and there was a long pause. To the girl
it seemed that the enveloping sunshine of
the garden was only a visible symbol of
her new divine content. If she had looked
closely, which she dared not do, she would
have seen that the lurking sadness in the
man's face had leaped to the surface,
touching the brown eyes with a look of
eternal grief.

" I ventured to stop," he said present-
ly, " because I was not sure that happy
chance would throw us together again. I
have come to say good-by."

" You are going away ? '

"I am going away," he answered
slowly.

" So shall I, some day," said Daphne,
" and the moss will grow green on my
seat by the fountain, and San Pietro will
be sold to some peddler who will beat him.
Of course it had to end ! Sometimes,
when you tread the blue heights of Olym-
pus, will you think of me walking on the
hard pavements of New York ? >:

Daphne.

179

" I shall think of you, yes," he said,
failing to catch her merriment.

"And if you ever want a message
from me," she continued, " you must look
for it on your sacred laurel there on the
hill by Hermes' grave. It is just possi-
ble, you know, that I shall be inside, and
if I am, I shall speak to you through my
leaves, when you wander that way."

Something in the man's face warned
her, and her voice became grave.

" Why do you go ? " she asked.

" It is the only thing to do," he an-
swered. " Life has thrown me back
into the old position, and I must face the
same foes again. I always rush too ea-
gerly to snatch my good ; I always hit
my head against some impassable wall. I
thought I had won my battles and was
safe, and then you came."

The life had gone out of his voice, the
light from his face. Looking at him
Daphne saw above his temples a touch
of gray in the golden brown of his hair.

" And then ? " she asked softly.

" Then my hard won control vanished,
and I felt that I could stake my hopes
of heaven and my fears of hell to win

you."

"A Greek god, with thoughts of hell ? "
murmured Daphne.

" Hell," he answered, " is a feeling,
not a place, as has often been observed.
I happen to be in it now, but it does not
matter. Yes, I am going away, Daphne,
Daphne. You say that there are claims
upon you that you cannot thrust aside.
I shall go, but in some life, some time, I
shall find you again."

Daphne looked at him with soft tri-
umph in her eyes. Secure in the posses-
sion of that letter on the table, she would
not tell him yet ! This note of struggle
gave deeper melody to the joyous music
of the shepherd on the hills.

" I asked you once about your life and
all that had happened to you : do you re-
member ? " he inquired. " I have never
told you of my own. Will you let me
tell you now ? '

" If you do not tell too much and ex-
plain yourself away," she answered.

" It is a story of tragedy, and of folly,
recognized too late. I have never told
it to any human being, but I should like
you to understand. It has been an easy
life, so far as outer circumstances go.
Until I was eighteen I was lord and dic-
tator in a household of women, spoiled
by mother and sisters alike. Then came
the grief of my life. Oh, I cannot tell
it, even to you ! '

The veins stood out on his forehead,
and his face was indeed like the face of
a tortured Saint Sebastian. The girl's
eyes were sweet with sympathy, and
with something else that he did not look
to see.

" There was a plan made for a journey.
I opposed it for some selfish whim, for I
had a scheme of my own. They yielded
to me as they always did, and took my
way. That day there was a terrible ac-
cident, and all who were dear to me were
killed, while I, the murderer, was cursed
with life. So, when I was eighteen, my
world was made up of four graves in the
cemetery at Rome, and of that memory.
Whatever the world may say, I was as
guilty of those deaths as if I had caused
them by my own hand."

He had covered his face with his
palms, and his head was bent. The girl
reached out as if to touch the rumpled
brown hair with consoling fingers, then
drew her hand back. In a moment, when
her courage came, he should know what
share of comfort she was ready to give
him. Meanwhile, she hungered to make
the farthest reach of his suffering her
own.

" Since then ? ' she asked softly.

"Since then I have been trying to
build my life up out of its ruins. I have
tried to win content and even gladness,
for I hold that man should be master of
himself, even of remorse for his old sins.
You see, I 've been busy trying to find
out people who had the same kind of
misery, or some other kind, to face."

180

Daphne.

" Shepherd of the wretched," said the
girl dreamily.

" Something like that," he answered.

The girl's face was all a-quiver for
pity of the tale ; in listening to the story
of his life she had completely forgotten
her own. Then, before she knew what
was happening, he rose abruptly and held
out his hand.

" Every minute that I stay makes mat-
ters harder," he said. " I 've got to go
to see if I cannot win gladness even out
of this, for still my gospel is the gospel
of joy. Good-by."

Suddenly Daphne realized that he was
gone ! She could hear his footsteps on
the pebble-stones of the walk as he swung
on with his long stride. She started to
run after him, then stopped. After all,
how could she find words for what she had
to say ? Walking to the great gate by
the highway she looked wistfully between
its iron rods, for one last glimpse of him.
A sudden realization came to her that
she knew nothing about him, not even
an address, " except Delphi," she said
whimsically to herself. Only a minute
ago he was there ; and now she had wan-
tonly let him go out of her life forever.

" I wonder if the Madonna threw my
roses away," she thought, coming back
with slow feet to the arbor, and realizing
for the first time since she had reached
the Villa Accolanti that she was alone,
and very far away from home.

XVII.

San Pietro and Bertuccio were waiting
at the doorway, both blinking sleepily in
the morning air. At San Pietro's right
side hung a tiny pannier, covered by a
fringed white napkin, above which lay a
small flask decorated with corn husk and
gay yarn, where red wine sparkled like
a ruby in the sunshine. The varying
degrees of the donkey's resignation were
registered exactly in the changing angles
at which his right ear was cocked.

" Pronto, ! ' called Assunta, who was
putting the finishing touches on saddle
and luncheon basket. " If the Signorina
means to climb the Monte Altiera she
must start before the sun is high."

On the hillside above Daphne heard,
but her feet strayed only more slowly.
She was wandering, with a face like that
of a sky across which thin clouds scud, in
the grass about Hermes' grave. In her
hand was the letter of yesterday, and in
her eyes the memory of the days before.

" It is all too late," said Daphne, who
had learned to talk aloud in this world
where no one understood. " The Greeks
were right in thinking that our lives are
ruled by mocking fate. I wonder what
angry goddess cast forgetfulness upon
my mind, so that I forgot to tell Apollo
what this letter says."

Daphne looked to the open sky, but it
gave no answer, and she paused by the
laurel tree with head bent down. Then,
with a sudden, wistful little laugh, she
held out the letter and fastened it to the
laurel, tearing a hole in one corner to let
a small bare twig go' through. With a
blunt pencil she scribbled on it in large
letters : " Let Apollo read, if he ever
wanders this way."

" He will never find it," said the girl,
" and the rain will come and soak it, and
it will bleach in the sun. But nobody
knows enough to read it, and I shall
leave it there on his sacred tree, as my
last offering. I suppose there is some
saving grace even in the sacrifices that
go astray."

Then she descended the hill, climbed
upon San Piefcro's back, and rode through
the gateway.

An hour later, Assunta, going to find
a spade in the tool-house, for she was
transplanting roses, came upon the
Signorina's caller of yesterday standing
near the tool-house with something in
his hand. The peasant woman's face
showed neither awe nor fear ; only lively
curiosity gleamed in the blinking brown
eyes.

Daphne.

181

" Buon* giorno," said Apollo, exactly
as mortals do.

" Buon* giorno, Altezza," returned
Assunta.

" Is the Signorina at home ? " asked
the intruder.

" But no ! ' cried Assunta. " She
has started to climb the very sky to-day,
Monte Altiera, and for what I can't
make out. It only wears out Bertuccio's
shoes and the asinetto's legs."

" Grazia," said Apollo, moving away.

" Does his Highness think that the
Signorina resembles her sister, the Con-
tessa?' asked the peasant woman for
the sake of a detaining word.

" Not at all," answered the visitor,
and he passed into the open road.

Then he turned over in his hand the
letter which he had taken from the lau-
rel. Though he had read it three times
he hardly understood as yet, and his face
was the face of one who sees that the
incredible has come to pass. The letter
was made up of fifteen closely written
pages, and it told the story of a young
clergyman, who, convinced at last that
celibacy and the shelter of the Roman
priesthood were his true vocation, had,
after long prayer and much meditation,
decided to flee the snares of the world
and to renounce its joys for the sake of
bliss the other side of life.

" When you receive this letter, my
dear Daphne," wrote Eustace Denton,
" I shall have been taken into the brother-
hood of Saint Ambrose, for I wish to place
myself in a position where there will be
no retracing my steps."

The face of the reader on the Roman
hills, as it was lifted from the page again
to the sunshine, was full of the needless
pity of an alien faith.

Along the white road that led up the
mountain, and over the grass-grown path
that climbed the higher slopes, trod a
solitary traveler. Now his step was
swift, as if some invisible spirit of the
wind were wafting him on ; and again
the pace was slow and his head bent, as

if some deep thought stayed his speed.
There were green slopes above, green
slopes below, and the world opened out
as he climbed on and up. Out and out
stretched the great Campagna, growing
wider at each step, with the gray, un-
broken lines of aqueduct leading toward
Rome and the shining sea beyond.
......

On a great flat stone far up on the
heights sat two motionless figures : below
them, partly veiling the lower world,
floated a thin mist of cloud.

" This must be Olympus," said
Daphne.

" Any mountain is Olympus that
touches the sky," answered Apollo.

" Where are the others ? " demanded
the girl. " Am I not to know your
divine friends ? '

" Don't you see them ? " he asked as in
surprise, " Aphrodite just yonder in
violet robe, and Juno, and Hermes with
winged feet "

" I am afraid I am a wee bit blind,
being but mortal," answered Daphne.
" I can see nothing but you."

Beside them on the rock, spread out
on oak leaves, lay clusters of purple
grapes, six black ripe olives, and a little
pile of biscotti Inglesi. The girl bent and
poured from the curving flask red wine
that bubbled in the glass, then gave it to
her companion, saying : " Quick, before
Hebe gets here," and the sound of their
merriment rung down the hillside.

" Hark ! " whispered Daphne. " I hear
an echo of the unquenchable laughter of
the gods ! They cannot be far away."

From another stone near at hand Ber-
tuccio watched them with eyes that
feigned not to see. Bertuccio did not
understand English, but he understood
everything else. Goodly shares of the
nectar and ambrosia of this feast had
fallen to his lot, and Bertuccio was al-
most as happy as the lovers in his own
way. In the soft grass near San Pietro
Martire nibbled peacefully, now and then
lifting his eyes to see what was going on.

182

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

Once he brayed. He alone, of all nature,
seemed impervious to the joy that had
descended upon earth.

It was only an hour since Daphne had
been overtaken. Few words had suf-
ficed for understanding, and Bertuccio
had looked away.

" My only fear was that I should find
you turned into a laurel tree," said
Apollo. " I shall always be afraid of
that."

" Apollo," said Daphne irrelevantly,
holding out to him a bunch of purple
grapes in the palm of her hand, " there
is a practical side to all this. People will
have to know, I am afraid. I must
write to my sister."

"I have reason to think that the Count-
ess Accolanti will not be displeased," he
answered. There was a queer little look
about his mouth, but Daphne asked for
no explanation.

" There is your father," he suggested.

" Oh ! " said Daphne. " He will love
you at once. His tastes and mine are
very much alike."

The lover-god smiled, quite satisfied.

" You chose the steepest road of all
to-day, little girl," he said. " But it is

not half so long nor so hard as the one I
expected to climb to find you."

" You are tired ! ' said Daphne anx-
iously. " Rest."

Bertuccio was sleeping on his flat rock ;
San Pietro lay down for a brief, ascetic
slumber. The lovers sat side by side,
with the mystery of beauty about them :
the purple and gold of nearness and dis-
tance ; bright color of green grass near,
sombre tint of cypress and stone pine
afar.

" I shall never really know whether
you are a god or not," said Daphne
dreamily.

" A very proper attitude for a woman to
have toward her husband," he answered
with a smile. " I must try hard to live
up to the character. You will want to
live on Olympus, and you really ought,
if you are going to wear gowns woven of
my sunbeams like the one you had on
yesterday. How shall I convince you
that Rome must do part of the time?
You will want me to make you immortal :
that always happens when a maiden
marries a god."

" I think you have done that already,"
said Daphne.

Margaret Sherwood.

THE CONCENTRATION OF BANKING INTERESTS IN THE

UNITED STATES.

EVER since Andrew Jackson over-
threw the Second Bank of the United
States, the American banking system
has consisted of a large number of small
institutions possessing little desire or
power of helpful cooperation. Large
banks with numerous branches, such as
exist in Canada and Scotland, have been
unknown in the United States, save for
a few transient enterprises of ante-bel-
lum days. A central institution, en-

joying federal patronage and serving
to unify banking interests, has been a
political impossibility since Nicholas
Biddle rashly ventured upon a trial of
strength with the masterful statesman
from Tennessee. National banks, state
banks, private banks, trust companies,
competing vigorously for public favor,
have met tolerably well the needs of the
country in fair weather; but in times
of stress and storm these separate insti-
tutions have been unable to oppose a
united front to the forces of financial

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

183

disorder. Yet, upon the whole, this
decentralization of banking interests has
been generally approved as democratic
in its tendencies and well adapted to
the diverse needs of our vast territory.

At the head of the system stand the
national banks, which possess the exclu-
sive power to issue circulating notes.
For twenty years following the civil
war this privilege remained sufficiently
remunerative to gain for these institu-
tions a decided predominance over the
banks of deposit and discount incorpo-
rated by the several states; but since
the early eighties causes which are well
understood have reduced the profit de-
rived from the issue of notes, and have
decreased the attractiveness of a federal
charter. In 1884 there were 2550
national banks and but 1022 state as-
sociations, while in 1902 there existed
5397 state banks and 4601 national.
In point of resources and banking power
the national associations still retain
their preeminence, having nearly three
times the capital and over twice the de-
posits shown by the state institutions;
yet banks of the latter class are increas-
ing more rapidly than those of the
former, despite the temporary influence
of recent changes in the national bank-
ing laws.

The state banks of deposit and dis-
count have multiplied rapidly in the
Mississippi Valley, and especially in
the South and West. In general, the
laws under which they are formed are
more liberal in their provisions concern-
ing loans upon real estate, and permit
the establishment of banks with smaller
capitals than are required under the fed-
eral statutes. This last circumstance
accounts for the rapid growth of state
associations in communities where a cap-
ital of $25, 000, the minimum fixed for
national banks, is too large to be em-
ployed with the greatest profit. In some
cases the state laws may verge perilously
toward the point of laxity, but in gen-
eral these banks are safely conducted
and enjoy excellent credit in their own

communities. In New England and the
Middle Atlantic States a decided pre-
ference is shown for national banks ; but
New York has nearly two hundred state
associations, some of which, in New
York city, make large advances to oper-
ators on the exchanges.

Private bankers are very numerous in
most parts of the United States, and
are usually allowed to conduct their
business without public supervision. In
1902 no less than 4188 such individu-
als or firms paid the internal revenue
tax then levied upon their capital and
surplus. In most sections their resources
are small, and their average capital in
many states does not exceed ten or fif-
teen thousand dollars. In agricultural
districts such agencies are useful in sup-
plying credit facilities, but in recent
years the state bank with small capital
has secured an increasing share of such
business. Our large cities, however,
have many private bankers who are con-
ducting enterprises of the largest size.
Besides receiving deposits and making
discounts, these firms frequently do a
brokerage business or deal in foreign
exchange. Many of them have gained
their greatest reputation and profits
from promoting, consolidating, or re-
organizing large corporations. In New
York city there are private bankers
whose capital is counted by the millions,
and whose names have become household
words.

In recent years a new class of institu-
tions has forced its way into the field of
American banking. Trust companies
have existed in the United States for
three quarters of a century, but up to
fifteen or twenty years ago their num-
ber was small and the scope of their
operations was restricted. Originally
they were formed to act as trustees of
estates and to execute other trusts, while
they often conducted a safe-deposit busi-
ness. With the growth of corporations,
trust companies began to act as transfer
agents, or as trustees under mortgage
deeds executed to secure corporation

184

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

bonds. Such functions were of great
financial importance, but did not carry
the earlier companies into the territory
occupied by banks of deposit and dis-
count. Indeed, it not seldom happened
that their charters or the general laws
of the state prohibited them from re-
ceiving ordinary deposits or doing a dis-
count business. Gradually, however, a
change was effected in the law or in the
practice of these associations, and trust
companies began to engage in the work
of commercial banks. To-day, besides
receiving time deposits, they accept de-
posits that are subject to instant with-
drawal by check; and they make ex-
tensive loans, generally upon collateral
security. To their original business,
therefore, they have added the ordinary
banking functions ; and these are exer-
cised without the restrictions which the
law imposes upon banking institutions.
The result has been that trust compa-
nies have multiplied rapidly, especially
in the financial centres, and that their
competition has been felt severely by
the banks. In 1902 there were 727 of
these institutions in the United States,
and their aggregate deposits exceeded
$1,500,000,000.

At the present moment, therefore,
there are no less than 14,913 associa-
tions in the United States that are en-
gaged in commercial banking. In the
ordinary discount and deposit business,
the national banks still predominate,
but their supremacy is challenged by the
competition of other institutions. State
banks appeal to the needs of certain sec-
tions of the country; private bankers
maintain an important position, espe-
cially in financing corporate enterprises ;
and trust companies have constantly in-
creased the scope of their operations.
But with all these developments, our
banking system remained decentralized,
and better adapted for fair weather than
for foul. In times of actual panic the
banks in the largest cities had sometimes
utilized the clearing houses for the pur-
pose of adopting common measures of

defense. By the issue of clearing-house
certificates they were able to tide the
weaker institutions over the period of
greatest stress; but this was merely a
temporary expedient, and did not change
the essential feature of the system.
Prior to 1898 it would have been diffi-
cult to discover any appreciable tenden-
cy toward the concentration of the bank*
ing interests of the United States.

II.

In this respect, however, the situa-
tion has been radically altered during
the last five years. In the first place,
the organization of trusts in various
branches of manufactures has brought
to the great financial centres a large
amount of business which formerly fell
to the banks of the localities where the
separate factories were situated. Many
loans which independent manufacturers
would have secured from local bankers
are now negotiated in the larger cities
where the combinations have established
their headquarters. While the aggre-
gate sums borrowed may not have been
increased by this process, it is evident
that corporation loans have been cen-
tralized to a very marked degree ; and
it is well known that New York city has
been the principal beneficiary of the
change.

A similar tendency is disclosed by an
examination of the movement of bank
reserves. The national banking laws
permit the country banks to deposit a
certain proportion of their reserves with
institutions located in various cities, and
recent years have witnessed a rapid flow
of such moneys toward New York. This
is due, in part, to the drift of corpora-
tion business to that city ; since country
bankers have deposited there, at inter-
est, some of the funds formerly loaned
to concerns that have been absorbed by
the trusts. Then, too, some of the
metropolitan banks have been making
very vigorous efforts to secure such de-
posits; so that in April of the present

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

185

year eight of the principal institutions
held no less than $160,000,000 of
funds deposited by other national banks.
The reserves of state banks and trust
companies are handled in the same man-
ner; and on September 15, 1902, the
national banks of New York city had
$414, 000, 000 of deposits that belonged
to other institutions. This means, of
course, that the bank reserves of the
United States are concentrated more
and more in a single city, just as, in
France or England, the reserves are
stored in a great central bank.

The marvelous development of Amer-
ican industry in recent years has in-
creased very decidedly the demands
made upon our banking system at the
very time when such business has been
drifting toward the city of New York.
Between 1897 and 1902 the total bank
clearings of the country increased from
fifty-four to one hundred and sixteen
billions of dollars, while the proportion
falling to the New York Clearing House
rose from fifty-seven to sixty-four per
cent of the entire volume of these trans-
actions. This has caused an unprece-
dented increase of the capital employed ;
so that within five years the banking in-
stitutions of New York have enlarged
their capital, surplus, and undivided
profits from $232,000,000 to $451,-
000,000. And if, to these figures, we
add the increased deposits secured from
outside banks, we can form some ade-
quate estimate of the strength of the
forces that have been concentrating our
banking interests in a single city.

To no small extent this demand for
additional capital has been met by the
establishment of new institutions, par-
ticularly by the formation of trust com-
panies; but in a much larger measure
it has occasioned an increase of the re-
sources of existing banks. Prior to 1898
the banks of New York had been of very

1 It should be observed that our largest bank,
the National City, with its capital of $25,000,-
000, is smaller than the great banks of other
countries. The capital of the Bank of England

moderate size. Only two had a capital
of $5,000,000, and the average for the
clearing house institutions was less than
$1,000,000; to-day the average capi-
tal is nearly twice as great, while three
banks have as much as $10, 000, 000 and
one has $25,000,000. In 1895 the
capital, surplus, and undivided profits
of the fifty national banks amounted to
$110,000,000, and their deposits stood
at $507, 000, 000 ; in 1902 the number
of these institutions had fallen to forty-
five, while their capital, surplus, and
profits had risen to $191,000,000, and
their deposits to $1,057,000,000. It
is evident, therefore, that the rapid ex-
pansion of the business conducted in New
York city has stimulated the growth of
larger institutions than the country has
known since the days of the Second Bank
of the United States, which, it will be
remembered, employed a capital of
$35,000,000. 1

The increased capital of the larger
banks has been secured in many in-
stances by subscriptions from the exist-
ing stockholders, but in other cases it
has come from the consolidation of two
or more institutions. The national
banking laws do not authorize explicitly
the combination of banking associations,
yet one section relating to voluntary
liquidation seems to contemplate such
an occurrence. Mergers are sometimes
effected through the purchase of the
assets and the assumption of the liabil-
ities of the institution that is to be ab-
sorbed. In other cases one bank in-
creases its capital and sells the new
shares to the stockholders of the liqui-
dated association for the cash that they
receive in payment for their original
holdings. Occasionally both banks are
placed in liquidation, and their assets
are bought by a new institution which
also assumes their liabilities. In his
last report, the Comptroller of the Cur-
is $72,000,000; that of the Bank of France
amounts to $36,000,000 ; while the Bank of the
Empire of Germany has a capital of $30,000,-
000.

186

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

rency recommended that the law should
be amended in such a manner as to sim-
plify the process of consolidation.

In New York city these bank mer-
gers have attracted great attention, and
the First National Bank, the National
City, the Bank of Commerce, the Han-
over National, and many others have
figured in such transactions. But in
Boston, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Bal-
timore, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Detroit,
Chicago, St. Louis, and Omaha the pro-
cess has been repeated ; so that reports
of bank consolidations have become quite
the order of the day. In 1901 twenty-
one national banks were absorbed by
other national associations, while six
were merged with state banks or trust
companies ; in 1902 there were forty-
six consolidations of the former class,
and eleven of the latter. Apparently
we are now witnessing a movement
which resembles, at least superficially,
that which has proceeded so rapidly in
the field of transportation and manu-
factures.

But actual consolidation is not the
only method by which our banking capi-
tal is being aggregated in larger masses ;
for in many cases a common owner-
ship has been established in institutions
which retain a formal independence.
The national banking laws prohibit one
association from holding stock in an-
other, but there is nothing to prevent a
group of men from buying a controlling
interest in any number of banks. This
method is exemplified by the groups of
institutions which Mr. Charles W.
Morse has brought together in several
cities. It has been followed, also, by
the capitalists who control the great Na-
tional City Bank, and by others. Some-
times a great deal of diplomacy is re-
quired to effect such an arrangement,
since prosperous banks of long standing
are jealous of their independence and
their stock is held at very high prices.
An illustration of this is seen in the re
lations of the First National Bank of
New York with the Chase National. In

this case some degree of union was se-
cured through an exchange of holdings
and of directors, so that the resources
of the two banks are now under a joint
control. In many cases it is supposed
that stockholders of one bank have pur-
chased an interest in other institutions
with money that has been borrowed by
pledging as collateral security the shares
thus acquired. Such a practice makes
it possible to secure an extensive control
with a small amount of capital, and may
yet prove to be a source of danger. Ob-
viously, if a number of banks that are
involved in the same set of enterprises
make numerous loans upon each other's
shares, an impairment of capital might
result from the failure of the undertak-
ings in which such loans were used.

Finally, in addition to all the cen-
tralizing tendencies which have been de-
scribed, every effort has been made to
secure cooperation on the widest possi-
ble scale, through arrangements designed
to unify the world of finance . The larger
life insurance companies have become
interested in various banks or trust com-
panies; and their officers, in a purely
private capacity, are influential in many
other institutions. Private banking
houses are represented among the own-
ers and managers of national and state
associations, while the good offices of in-
fluential capitalists have been enlisted
as far as practicable. As a prominent
banker has stated : " We now have skill
and resources combined, with a strength
never before seen in the United States
and perhaps never in the markets of Eu-
rope. " In the present day of unbounded
prosperity the structure erected upon
the principle of community of interest
presents an imposing, even awe-inspir-
ing, appearance; its solidity, however,
will not be subjected to the decisive test
until we reach a season of adversity.

It is difficult to trace with entire ac-
curacy the complex relationships which

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

187

now unite so many of the financial in-
stitutions of the city of New York. In
broadest outlines, however, the situa-
tion can be described by saying that two
major and two minor spheres of influ-
ence can be clearly recognized. A brief
description of these will serve to give
greater definiteness to our statement of
existing conditions and tendencies.

Of the major spheres of influence the
first is dominated, although not abso-
lutely controlled at all points, by what
are known as the Standard Oil interests.
Ten or twelve years ago the magnates
of the oil combination secured control
of the National City Bank, which, with-
in a decade, has increased its capital,
surplus, and undivided profits from three
to forty-one millions ; and its deposits,
from twelve to one hundred and thirty
millions. This corporation is believed
to be connected more or less closely with
some fifty other institutions located in
various parts of the country. In New
York it stands at the head of a chain of
eleven or twelve banks and trust com-
panies. Some of these, as the Second
National Bank, are wholly controlled by
the interests which the City Bank rep-
resents, and are operated virtually as
branches of the larger institution ; oth-
ers, as the United States Trust Com-
pany, possess greater independence, but
work in harmony with the general pol-
icy of the group. The entire chain of
institutions employs a capital and sur-
plus of $92,000,000, holds deposits
amounting to $377,000,000, and car-
ries loans that aggregate $266,000,-
000. With the National City interests,
also, there are identified some of the
leading officials of the New York Life
Insurance Company and the banking
house of Kuhn, Loeb & Company. 1

The same interests control, also, a
second chain of institutions. This is
headed by the Hanover National Bank,
and includes two smaller banks and

1 Many of the facts here presented nfay be
found in the Wall Street Journal for February
11, 1903.

the Trust Company of America. The
total capital of the four institutions is
$16,000,000; their deposits amount to
$97,000,000, and their loans stand at
$57,000,000. With the Hanover Bank,
moreover, the Union Trust Company,
controlling $52, 000, 000 of deposits and
$44, 000, 000 of loans, is known to have
intimate relations. If now we combine
the figures for the two chains of insti-
tutions associated with the City and the
Hanover Banks, it appears that within
our first sphere of influence there have
been aggregated $108, 000, 000 of bank-
ing capital, $474,000,000 of deposits,
and $323, 000, 000 of loans. And these
data, it should be remembered, take no
account of the control exercised over
banks located outside of New York.

The other major sphere of influence
is controlled from the banking house
of J. P. Morgan & Company and from
the offices of two of the large insurance
companies. Perhaps little violence will
be done to the facts if, henceforth, we
call this the Morgan sphere ; for it seems
certain that the dominating influence
emanates from 23 Wall Street. Three
chains of banking institutions are the
repositories of the power here repre-
sented. One of them is headed by the
First National Bank, which, within ten
years, has increased its total resources
from thirty-one to one hundred and ten
millions, and now has a capital, surplus,
and undivided profits amounting to over
twenty-three millions. In this institu-
tion Mr. Morgan's control is almost un-
disputed ; and with it are associated the
powerful Chase National Bank, the Lib-
erty and Astor Banks, and the Manhat-
tan Trust Company. This group of in-
stitutions possesses an aggregate bank-
ing capital of $33,000,000, while its
deposits and loans stand respectively at
$149,000,000 and $72,000,000.

A second chain of banks is led by the
National Bank of Commerce, in which
the Mutual Life Insurance Company is
one of the principal stockholders. With
it are grouped four other institutions,

188 The Concentration of Banking Interests.

of which the largest is the Morton Trust do not exceed $76, 000, 000 ; ownership
Company. At the head of a third chain and management rest with the Astor,
stands the Western National Bank, which Vanderbilt, and Belmont interests,
is associated with the Mercantile and Outside of these various spheres of
the Equitable Trust Companies. 1 The influence, there are many strong and in-
Equitable Life Assurance Society holds dependent banks, some of which a decade
large blocks of the stock of the first ago occupied the leading positions,
two of these institutions, and the Gould Then, too, many new institutions, gen-
interests are represented in the owner- erally employing a small capital, have
ship and management of the Mercantile been established during the recent period
Trust Company. If both of these chains of business expansion. Yet the Morgan
are combined with the one controlled and the Standard Oil alliances control
through the First National Bank, we not less than $205,000,000 of the
find in the Morgan sphere of influence a $451,000,000 of banking capital in-
banking capital of $97,000,000, de- vested in the city of New York; and,
posits amounting to $472,000, 000, and in all probability, secure a similar pro-
loans which aggregate $299,000,000. portion of the business transacted. Time
In addition to this, the two life insur- alone can tell whether these mighty ag-
ance companies just mentioned have gregations can be held together ; but for
outstanding loans of $28,000,000 upon the present, at any rate, a signal vic-
collateral security. 1 tory has been gained for the principle

Compared with the Standard Oil and of community of interest,
the Morgan interests, the chain of in- The relations between the magnates
stitutions known as the " Morse " group who control the two great alliances have
is of decidedly minor importance. But not always been harmonious, as was seen
this includes twelve banks and two trust in the Northern Pacific corner of 1901 ;
companies, with an aggregate capital of and at times there have been lively ex-
$23,000,000, and loans amounting to changes of blows and of epithets. Con-
over $100,000,000. Mr. Morse and siderable divergence of interest is likely
his associates have purchased the control to continue both within and without the
of these institutions, perhaps, with the purlieus of Wall Street ; but it is inter-
aid of loans secured in the manner de- esting to observe that certain affiliations
scribed in an earlier paragraph. At exist between the two groups of capi-
present the group is supposed to be oper- talists. One of the directors of the Na-
ated upon an independent basis, but tional City Bank is a partner in the
there is no little speculation concerning banking house of J. P. Morgan & Com-
the possibility of its being merged with pany, while another is a director of the
one of the larger banking combinations. First National. Both of these gentle-

And, finally, we come to the National men are officials of the New York Life
Park Bank, with its group of affiliated Insurance Company, which appears to
institutions. Four of these are small have cultivated friendly relations with-
state banks in different parts of New in both spheres of influence. An exam-
York, which are operated virtually as ination of the directorates of banks and
branches of the larger corporation ; the trust companies discloses a few other
fifth is the Colonial Trust Company, cases in which similar connections have
The banking capital of the six associa- been established; but there is no indi-
tions is $13,000,000, and their loans cation that closer union is desired.

1 As this article goes to print, it is reported the committee which will supervise the transac-

that the National Bank of Commerce and the tion,the First National Bank and the Morton

Western National are to be merged in a new Trust Company are represented,
institution with a capital of $25,000,000. Upon

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

189

IV.

In explanation of the present ten-
dency toward the consolidation of bank-
ing power, emphasis is usually laid
upon the undoubted fact that the growth
of gigantic industrial corporations has
created a demand for accommodations
which smaller banks would be unable to
supply. Only a large institution, or a
group of powerful banks and trust com-
panies, can effect a $5,000,000 loan at
an hour's notice, or undertake the vast
enterprises that are characteristic of the
times. Frequently such movements
must be conducted with secrecy, at least
in their early stages ; and this condition
is difficult to secure when the coopera-
tion of a large number of bankers must
be invited. Then, too, the national
banking laws limit the size of a loan
negotiated by a single borrower to one
tenth of the capital of the bank. This
restriction is so poorly enforced that its
importance is rather sentimental than
practical, but it has been one of the rea-
sons for increasing the capital of some
institutions.

Again, it seems certain that concen-
tration results in considerable economies
in operation, since the outlay for cleri-
cal assistance and for some other pur-
poses does not increase as rapidly as the
volume of business transacted. A re-
cent investigation by the Comptroller
of the Currency shows that, with banks
having a capital of a million or more
dollars, the operating expenses are but
1. 33 per cent of the aggregate loans and
discounts; while in the case of banks
with a capital of $100, 000, the propor-
tion rises to 2.34 per cent. Moreover,
it is possible for a large institution to
employ, at high salaries, men of special
ability in each department of work.
Within the limits in which these consid-
erations apply, it would seem that con-
centration heightens the efficiency of
our banking capital.

But the further claim is made that
our larger banking institutions will con-

tribute to the stability of financial con-
ditions, and it is said that a plan of har-
monious cooperation has been developed
which will materially diminish the in-
jury produced by the next industrial
crisis. In this direction our indepen-
dent banks, each compelled to seek its
own safety in times of impending dan-
ger, have not possessed the strength
which a unified banking system would
exhibit. Of this fact we have had so
many demonstrations that serious argu-
ment upon the subject is hardly neces-
sary ; but it does not follow forthwith
that any and all movements toward con-
solidation will result in increased sta-
bility; much will depend, inevitably,
upon the wisdom and conservatism which
the great institutions display.

In this connection it must be observed
that the largest banks in New York are,
for all practical purposes, corporation
banks. Some of them frankly state that
they do not care for small customers,
by which is meant depositors whose ac-
counts average from one to twenty thou-
sand dollars ; and all of them cultivate
principally the business of the larger
corporations and of out-of-town banks.
These features of their policy entail cer-
tain important results. It is a well-
known fact that deposits of a small or
moderate size are more stable than "mil-
lionaire " accounts, which are likely to
be drawn down very rapidly when money
is high. Only a short time ago one of
the big banks was notified, an hour be-
fore closing for the day, that a check
for $5, 000, 000 had been drawn against
a large account. With "a little skir-
mishing, " so a reliable financial paper
states, " the situation was met in a few
minutes ; " but the incident illustrates
the conditions under which the opera-
tions of such institutions must be con-
ducted. The same tendencies exist also
in the case of the deposits by country
banks. At the approach of anything re-
sembling a panic these are withdrawn
with great rapidity ; so that they have
been justly called the "explosive ele-

190 The Concentration of Banking Interests.

ment " of our banking system. It is sideration. Unlike the central banks
evident, therefore, that more than ordi- of other countries, our largest institu-
nary conservatism will be required if the tions are closely connected with various
largest banks are to exercise a steadying industrial interests, so that they do not
influence in times of actual or impend- occupy an independent position. Their
ing danger. policy is not controlled with sole regard
This point can be made somewhat for the general welfare of our banking
clearer by a brief reference to the con- system ; but they have been drawn into
ditions that prevail in other lands. In vast enterprises, into promotions or re-
France or in England, for example, the organizations, often of a speculative
specie reserves of the whole country are character, and have displayed less, not
concentrated very largely in the vaults more, than ordinary conservatism. The
of a central bank. The Bank of France National City Bank stood as sponsor for
and the Bank of England occupy an in- the Amalgamated Copper Company, and
dependent position, and are dominated the First National has lent its aid to
by no outside interests that can involve various undertakings with which Mr.
them in the fortunes of special enter- Morgan has been identified. This is
prises. Sobered and steadied at all not to say, even by remotest implica-
times by an appreciation of the enor- tion, that the safety of the banks has
mous moral responsibility that rests been endangered by such transactions;
upon them, the managers of these insti- but it is mentioned in order to illustrate
tutions adhere to their ultra-conserva- the fact that these institutions are not
tive policy even when the spirit of spec- free to husband their resources in order
ulation is rampant in other financial cir- to insure the stability of the money
cles. Against its enormous deposits the market, and are not, at present, quali-
Bank of England maintains a cash re- fied to assume the r6les of the Bank of
serve of over fifty per cent, while the England and the Bank of France. It is
position of the Bank of France is even to be feared that our financiers have not
stronger ; when, therefore, other banks yet learned the difference between bank-
experience a demand for ready money, ing and the promotion of companies;
relief can be quickly afforded by these but until this distinction is better under-
central institutions. And it is only stood, New York city will not rival
through such conservatism as these banks London as an international financial
display in periods of prosperity that centre.

they can contribute to stability in times One thing, however, may be conceded
of stress and storm. When it is re- to the claim that the union of banking
membered that the reserves of the New interests already effected may do some-
York banks seldom exceed very greatly thing to mitigate the severity of future
the twenty-five per cent limit which has panics. A mere increase of capital will
been established by law and by custom, accomplish nothing in this direction, if
the contrast between American and banks in the day of prosperity use their
French or English conditions becomes credit "up to the hilt " in their ordinary
at once apparent. For an independent enterprises. But the common control
bank, which is free to seek its own safe- of large groups of institutions may de-
ty at the approach of danger, a reserve velop the habit and power of more ef-
of twenty-five per cent should ordinarily f ective cooperation. This will not, it
prove to be ample ; but for institutions is true, avert the inevitable consequences
that aspire to the rank of central banks of over-speculation ; it will not prevent
such a safeguard must be wholly inade- a certain depletion of bank reserves
quate. under the demands made by depositors
This leads us to another weighty con- whose affairs have become involved ; but

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

191

it may allay that senseless feeling of
panic which is always responsible for
some of the worst features of a crisis.
In a situation where purely psychologi-
cal forces play so large a part, even the
expedients of the faith-curist are not to
be despised.

The concentration of banking power
has now proceeded so far that discussion
has inevitably arisen concerning the
length to which it will be carried and
the possible dangers of the movement.
In the counting room and upon the
street, New Yorkers are pondering upon
these questions, and not infrequently
pointed remarks are made about the
"Money Trust." If this expression
were heard only in the region of the
hundredth meridian, its interpretation
would be obvious ; but within the sacred
precincts of Wall Street, such words
cannot fail to produce a certain impres-
sion. At least they serve to suggest
some concluding remarks.

It is sometimes said that the weekly
statement of the condition of the New
York banks is being manipulated for
speculative purposes, and that it "can
be made favorable or unfavorable, ac-
cording to the market position of the
larger interests in finance." If, for ex-
ample, it is desired to depress the prices
of stocks, it is thought that large sums
are withdrawn from the Clearing House
banks, in order to reduce the surplus
reserves which are commonly accepted
as the index of the condition of the
money market. This charge is, from
the very nature of the case, extremely
difficult to prove or to disprove. Such
transfers of money might certainly be
made; but in the absence of positive
proof, one cannot assert that they are
of frequent occurrence.

Other disagreeable rumors concern
discrimination in extending or with-
drawing loans, by which, it is said, cer-
tain concerns that have attempted to
compete with some of the Trusts have

been forced to inevitable ruin. Here,
again, decisive proofs are hard to obtain.
The withdrawal of bank accommoda-
tions has always been a possible means
of commercial reprisal, but it is usually
conceivable that some other reason ex-
ists for the action of the banker.
Doubtless the concentration of great
power in a few hands increases the
dangers that may be apprehended from
this practice ; but up to the present time
the evil is probably more potential than
actual.

The question of greatest interest,
however, is : How far is the process of
concentration to go ? If two groups of
magnates control to-day nearly one half
of the banking capital of New York,
what is to prevent them from establish-
ing a practical monopoly of the busi-
ness ? There can be no doubt that money
is now held much more tightly than
formerly, and it is not strange that the
situation has caused some apprehension.

In considering the matter it is possi-
ble to steady one's judgment by recall-
ing the fact that, of all forms of capi-
tal, banking capital is absolutely the
freest. It is unnecessary for the banker
to erect an expensive plant which will
be rendered worthless if his competitors
are able to drive him out of business.
Provided that care is exercised in mak-
ing loans, it is possible for any concern
to enter or to retire from the field with-
out losing any appreciable portion of its
investment. The trouble and expense
of incorporating a banking association
need not be incurred by any individual
or firm that may desire to lend money
upon personal or collateral security.
No crude materials have to be trans-
ported through pipe lines or upon rail-
roads that refuse equal opportunities to
all shippers. The post office does not
attempt to discriminate between its pa-
trons, and express companies would
hardly be so foolish as to hasten the es-
tablishment of a parcels post by adopt-
ing such a short-sighted policy. More-
over, the average small customer, like

192

The Concentration of Banking Interests.

the average large depositor or borrower,
prefers to have personal relations with
his banker ; and this becomes increas-
ingly difficult as the size of an institu-
tion increases. Under such circum-
stances, the establishment of anything
resembling a complete monopoly is quite
inconceivable. Even when a govern-
ment grants special privileges to a
central bank, as has been the case in
Europe, a vigorous competition still per-
sists. By the side of the Bank of Eng-
land there has grown up a vast system
of private and incorporated banks, and
the Bank of France is confronted by
such rivals as the Credit Lyonnais.

But even if complete monopoly is im-
possible, it does not follow that the pros-
pect is free from all unpleasant features.
So large a part of the resources of the
New York banks is now controlled by
the great alliances that it would be diffi-
cult to finance a corporate enterprise of
the largest size without the consent of
the Morgan or the Rockefeller interests.
For such a purpose outside capital might
possibly be enlisted, but this would
probably entail considerable risk and
effort; so that, for the present, a few
magnates have the situation pretty well
in hand. Then, again, it is unfortunate
to have the largest banks and their affil-
iated institutions so closely identified
with particular corporate interests.
This gives to the great captains of in-
dustry almost unlimited control over
other people's capital, and enables them
to tie up in their own enterprises bank-
ing resources that should be available
for the use of the community at large.
Especially undesirable is it to have life
insurance and trust companies drawn so
largely into the domain of speculative
finance. The general tendency of the
times seems to be to confuse the distinc-
tion between enterprises that are safe
investments for funds held in a fiduciary

capacity and ventures that should be un-
dertaken only with capital that is other-
wise provided. Underwriting projects
in which a profit of two hundred per
cent is considered none too large a com-
pensation for the risks assumed, do not
furnish a good field for the conservative
employment of trust funds. It is in
these directions, rather than in the men-
ace of a monopoly, that the present dan-
gers of the concentration movement are
to be found.

The systematization and, within con-
servative limits, the unification of our
banking system offer large opportuni-
ties for legitimate enterprise, and con-
tain the possibility of great advantages
for the entire country. The analogies
furnished by the experience of other na-
tions suggest, at any rate, that such de-
velopments are likely to occur during
the next decade. The joint control of
numerous banks will probably lead to
what will amount virtually to the growth
of branch banking, which has proved so
successful wherever it has been tried.
Monopoly will not be the result of such
a process, if the example of other lands
may serve as a guide for our conclu-
sions ; rather will it increase the effec-
tiveness with which capital competes
with capital in all parts of the United
States. But the movement must be
guided with great circumspection if po-
litical antagonism of the most violent
character is not to be aroused ; and it
must not be directed with a view to the
advantage of ulterior industrial inter-
ests. At the centre of any stable sys-
tem there must stand large banks of
which the independence and the conser-
vatism must be as unquestioned as the
power. Without these qualities, mere
bigness will be of no avail ; and this is
the fact that must receive chief empha-
sis in the consideration of present con-
ditions and tendencies.

Charles J. Bullock.

The Sea Wind. JiJmile Zola.

193

THE SEA WIND.

WINNOW me through with thy keen clean breath,

Wind with the tang of the sea!
Speed through the closing gates of the day,
Find me and fold me ; have thy way

And take thy will of me !

Use my soul as you used the sky

Gray sky of this sullen day !
Clear its doubt as you sped its wrack
Of storm cloud bringing its splendor back,

Giving it gold for gray !

Bring me word of the moving ships,

Halyards and straining spars ;
Come to me clean from the sea's wide breast
While the last lights die in the yellow west

Under the first white stars !

Batter the closed doors of my heart

And set my spirit free !
For I stifle here in this crowded place,
Sick for the tenantless fields of space,

Wind with the tang of the sea !

Arthur Ketchum.

EMILE ZOLA.

IF it be true that the critical spirit
to-day, in presence of the rising tide
of prose fiction, a watery waste out of
which old standards and landmarks are
seen barely to emerge, like chimneys
and the tops of trees in a flooded land,
if it be true that the anxious observer,
with the water up to his chin, finds him-
self asking for the reason of the strange
phenomenon, for its warrant and title,
so we likewise make out that these cre-
dentials rather fail to float on the sur-
face. We live in a world of wanton and
importunate fable, we breathe its air
and consume its fruits; yet who shall
say that we are able, when invited, to

VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 13

account for our preferring it so largely
to the world of fact? To do so would
be to make some adequate statement of
the good the product in question does
us. What does it do for our life, our
mind, our manners, our morals, what
does it do that history, poetry, philoso-
phy, may not do, as well or better, to
warn, to comfort and command the
countless thousands for whom and by
whom it comes into being? We seem
too often left with our riddle on our
hands. The lame conclusion on which
we retreat is that "stories " are multi-
plied, circulated, paid for, on the scale
of the present hour, simply because peo-

194

JZmile Zola.

pie "like" them. As to why people
should like anything so loose and cheap
as the preponderant mass of the "out-
put," so little indebted for the magic
of its action to any mystery in the
making, is more than the actual state
of our perceptions enables us to say.

This bewilderment might be our last
word if it were not for the occasional
occurrence of accidents especially ap-
pointed to straighten out, a little, our
tangle. We are reminded that if the
unnatural prosperity of the wanton fable
cannot be adequately explained, it can
at least be illustrated with a sharpness
that is practically an argument. An
abstract solution failing, we encounter
it in the concrete. We catch, in short,
a new impression or, to speak more
truly, we recover an old one. It was
always there to be had, but we throw
off, ourselves, an oblivion, an indiffer-
ence, for which there are plenty of ex-
cuses. We become conscious, for our
profit, of a case, and we see that our
mystification was in the way cases had
appeared, for so long, to fail us. None
of the shapeless forms about us, for the
time, had attained to the dignity of one.
The one I am now conceiving as sud-
denly effective for which I fear I
must have looked on it as somewhat in
eclipse is that of Emile Zola, whom,
as a manifestation of the sort we are
considering, three or four striking facts
have lately combined to render more ob-
jective, and, so to speak, more massive.
His close connection with the most re-
sounding of recent public quarrels ; his
premature and disastrous death ; above
all, at the moment I write, the appear-
ance of his last-finished novel, be-
queathed to his huge public from beyond
the grave these rapid events have
made him more evident, made him loom
abruptly larger ; much as if our pedes-
trian critic, treading the dusty highway,
had turned a sharp corner.

It is not, assuredly, that Zola has
ever been veiled or unapparent ; he had,
on the contrary, been digging his field,

for thirty years and for all passers to
see, with an industry that kept him, after
the fashion of one of the grand, grim
sowers or reapers of his brother of the
brush, or at least of the canvas, Jean-
Franois Millet, duskily outlined against
the sky. He was there, in the land-
scape of labor he had always been ;
but he was there as a big natural or
pictorial feature, a spreading tree, a
battered tower, a lumpish, round-shoul-
dered, useful hayrick, confounded with
the air and the weather, the rain and
the shine, the day and the dusk, merged
more or less, as it were, in the play of
the elements themselves. We had got
used to him, and, thanks in a measure to
this stoutness, precisely, of his presence,
to the long regularity of his perform-
ance, had come to notice him hardly
more than the dwellers in the market
place notice the quarters struck by the
town-clock. On top of all, according-
ly, for our skeptical mood, the sense of
his work, a sense determined afresh
by the strange climax of his personal
history, rings out almost with vio-
lence as a reply to our wonder. It is as
if an earthquake, or some other rude in-
terference, had shaken from the town-
clock a note of such unusual depth as to
compel attention. We therefore once
more give heed, and the result of this
is that we feel ourselves, after a little,
probably as much answered as we can
hope ever to be. We have worked
round to the so marked and impressive
anomaly of the adoption of the "cheap "
art by one of the stoutest minds and
stoutest characters of our time. This
extraordinarily robust worker has found
it good enough for him, and if the fact
is, as I say, anomalous, we are doubt-
less helped to conclude that by its anom-
alies, in future, the bankrupt business,
as we are so often moved to pronounce
it, will most recover credit.

What is at all events striking for us,
critically speaking, is that, in the midst
of the dishonor it has gradually har-
vested by triumphant vulgarity of prac-

Zola. 195

tice, its pliancy and applicability can force, in the stowage ; nothing in this

still plead for themselves. The curious case will sink it. And it is the only

contradiction stands forth for our relief, form for which such a claim can be

the circumstance that, thirty years made. All others have to confess to a

ago, a young man of extraordinary brain smaller scope to selection, to exclu-

and indomitable purpose, wishing to sion, to the danger of distortion, explo-

give the measure of these endowments sion, combustion. The novel has no-

in a piece of work supremely solid, con- thing to fear but sailing too light. It

ceived and sat down to Les Rougon- will take all we bring, in good faith, to

Macquart rather than to an equal task the wharf.

in physics, mathematics, politics, eco- An intense vision of this truth must
nomics. He saw his undertaking, thanks have been Zola's comfort from the ear-
to his patience and courage, practically liest time, the years, immediately f ol-
to a close ; so that, precisely, it is nei- lowing the crash of the Empire, during
ther of the so-called constructive sci- which he settled himself to the tremen-
ences that happens to have had the bene- dous task he had mapped out. No finer
fit, intellectually speaking, of one of act of courage and confidence, I think,
the few most constructive achievements is recorded in the history of letters,
of our time. There then, provisionally The critic in sympathy with him returns
at least, we touch bottom; we get a again and again to the great wonder
glimpse of the pliancy and variety of it, in which something so strange is
the ideal of vividness on behalf of mixed with something so august. En-
which our equivocal form may appeal tertained and carried out almost from
to a strong head. In the name of what the threshold of manhood, the high pro-
ideal, on its own side, however, does ject, the work of a lifetime, announces
the strong head yield to the appeal ? beforehand its inevitable weakness, and
What is the logic of its so deeply com- yet speaks in the same voice for its
mitting itself? Zola's case seems to admirable, its almost unimaginable,
tell us, as it tells us other things. The strength. The strength was in the
logic is in its huge freedom of adjust- young man's very person in his char-
merit to the temperament of the worker, acter, his will, his passion, his fighting
which it carries, so to say, as no other temper, his aggressive lips, his squared
vehicle can do. It expresses fully and shoulders (when he "sat up ") and over-
directly the whole man, and, big as he weening confidence ; his weakness was
may be, it can still be big enough for in that inexperience of life from which
him without becoming false to its type, he proposed not to suffer, from which
We see this truth made strong, from he in fact suffered, on the surface, re-
beginning to end, in Zola's work; we markably little, and from which he was
see the temperament, we see the whole never to suspect, I judge, that he had
man, with his size and all his marks, suffered at all. I may mention, for the
stored and packed away in the huge hold interest of it, that, meeting him during
of Les Rougon-Macquart as a cargo is his first short visit to London made
packed away on a ship. His personal- several years before his stay in England
ify is the thing that finally pervades and during the Dreyfus trial I received
prevails, just as, so often, on a vessel, a direct impression of him that was
the presence of the cargo makes itself more informing than any previous study,
felt for the assaulted senses. What has I had seen him a little, in Paris, years
most come home to me in reading him before that, when this impression was
over is that a scheme of fiction so con- a perceptible promise, and was now
ducted is in fact a capacious vessel. It ' to perceive how time had made it good,
can carry anything with art, with It consisted, simply stated, in his fairly

196

mile Zola.

bristling with the betrayal that nothing
whatever had happened to him in life
but to write Les Rougon-Macquart. It
was even, for that matter, almost more
as if Les Rougon-Macquart had written
Aim, written him as he stood and sat,
as he looked and spoke, as the long,
concentrated, merciless effort had made
and stamped and left him. Something
very fundamental was to happen to him,
in due course, it is true, shaking him
to his base; fate was not wholly to
cheat him of an independent evolution.
Recalling him from this London hour
one strongly felt, during the famous
"Affair," that his outbreak in connec-
tion with it was the act of a man with
arrears of personal history to make up,
the act of a spirit for which life, or for
which at any rate freedom, had been
too much postponed, treating itself at
last to a luxury of experience.

I welcomed the general impression,
at all events I intimately entertained
it; it represented so many things, it
suggested, just as it was, such a lesson.
You could neither have everything nor
be everything you had to choose ; you
could not at once sit firm at your job
and wander through space inviting ini-
tiations. The author of Les Rougon-
Macquart had had all those, certainly,
that this wonderful company could bring
him; but I can scarce express how it
was implied in him that his time had
been fruitfully passed with them alone.
His artistic evolution struck one thus
as, in spite of its magnitude, singularly
simple, and evidence of the simplicity
seems further offered by his last produc-
tion, of which we have just come into
possession. Ve'rit^ truly does give the
measure, makes the author's high ma-
turity join hands with his youth, marks
the rigid straightness of his course from
point to point. He had seen his hori-
zon and his fixed goal from the first,
and no cross-scent, no new distance, no
blue gap in the hills to right or to left
ever tempted him to stray. Ve'rite', of
which I shall have more to say, is in

fact, as a moral finality and the crown
of an edifice, one of the strangest pos-
sible performances. Machine-minted
and solidified by an immense expert-
ness, it yet makes us ask how, for dis-
interested observation and perception,
the writer had used so much time and
so much acquisition, and how he can,
all along, have handled so much mate-
rial without some larger subjective con-
sequence. We really rub our eyes, in
other words, to see so great an intellec- l
tual adventure as Les Rougon-Macquart
terminate in unmistakable desert sand.
Difficult truly to read, because showing
him at last almost completely a prey to
the danger that had, for a long time,
more and more dogged his steps, the
danger of the mechanical, all confident
and triumphant, the book is nevertheless
full of interest for a reader desirous to
penetrate. It speaks with more dis-
tinctness of the author's temperament,
tone, and manner than if, like several of
his volumes, it had a really successful
life of its own. Its heavy completeness,
with all this, as of some prodigiously
neat, strong, and complicated scaffold-
ing constructed by a firm of builders for
the erection of a house whose founda-
tions refuse to bear it and that is unable
therefore to rise its very betrayal of
a method and a habit more than ade-
quate, on past occasions, to similar ends,
carries us back to the original rare phe-
nomenon, the grand assurance and grand
patience with which the system was
launched.

If it topples over, the system, by its
own weight, in these last applications
of it, that only makes the history of its
prolonged success the more curious and,
speaking for myself, the spectacle of its
origin more attaching. Readers of my
generation remember well the publica-
tion of La Conquete de Plassans and the
portent, indefinable but irresistible, af-
ter perusal of the volume, conveyed in
the general rubric under which it was
a first installment, Natural and Social
History of a Family under the Second

mile Zola.

197

Empire. It loomed large, the announce-
ment, from the first, and we were to learn
promptly enough what a fund of life it
masked. It was like the mouth of a
cave with a signboard hung above, or
better still perhaps like the big booth at
a fair with the name of the show across
the flapping canvas. One strange ani-
mal after another stepped forth into the
light, each in its way a monster bris-
tling and spotted, each a curiosity of that
"natural history " in the name of which
we were addressed, though it was doubt-
less not till the appearance of L'As-
sommoir that the true type of the mon-
strous seemed to be reached. The en-
terprise, for those who had attention,
was even at a distance impressive, and
the nearer the critic gets to it retrospec-
tively, the more so it becomes. The
pyramid had been planned and the site
staked out, but the young builder stood
there, in his sturdy strength, with no
equipment save his two hands and, as
we may say, his wheelbarrow and his
trowel . His pile of material of stone,
brick, and rubble, or whatever was of
the smallest, but that he apparently felt
as the least of his difficulties. Poor,
uninstructed, unacquainted, unintro-
duced, he set up his subject wholly from
the outside, proposing to himself, won-
derfully, to get into it, into its depths,
as he went.

If we imagine him asking himself
what he knew of the "social ' life of
the second Empire to start with, we
imagine him also answering in all hon-
esty: "I have my eyes and my ears
I have all my senses : I have what
I 've seen and heard, what I 've smelled
and tasted and touched. And then I 've
my curiosity and my pertinacity ; I 've
libraries, books, newspapers, witnesses,
the material, from step to step, of an
enquete. And then I 've my genius
that is, my imagination, my sensibility
to life. Lastly, I 've my method, and
that will be half the battle. Best of
all, perhaps even, I 've an incomparable
absence of doubts." Of the paucity of

his doubts indeed, of his inability, once
his direction taken, to entertain so much
as the shadow of one, Ve'rite' is a posi-
tive monument which again repre-
sents in this way the unity of his tone
and the meeting of his extremes. If
we remember that his design was no-
thing if not architectural, that a "ma-
jestic whole, " a great balanced facade,
with all its orders and parts, that a
unity of effect, in fine, was before him
from the first, his notion of picking up
his bricks as he proceeded becomes, in
operation, heroic. It is not in the least
as a record of failure for him that I note
this particular fact of the growth of the
long series as the liveliest interest, on
the whole, it has to offer. "I don't
know my subject, but I must live into
it; I don't know life, but I must learn
it as I work " that attitude and pro-
gramme represent, to my sense, a drama
more intense on the worker's own part
than any of the dramas he was to invent
and put before us.

It was the fortune, it was in a man-
ner the doom, of Les Rougon-Macquart
to deal with things almost always in
gregarious form, to be a picture of
numbers, of classes, crowds, confusions,
movements, industries and this for a
reason of which it will be interesting to
attempt some account. The individual
life is, if not wholly absent, reflected
in coarse and common, in generalized
terms ; whereby we arrive precisely at
the oddity just named, the circumstance
that, looking out somewhere, and often
woefully athirst, for the taste of fine-
ness, we find it not in the fruits of our
author's fancy, but in a different mat-
ter altogether. We get it in the very
history of his effort, the image itself of
his lifelong process, comparatively so
personal, so spiritual even, and, through
all its patience and pain, of a quality
so much more distinguished than the
qualities he succeeds in attributing to
his figures even when he most aims at
distinction. There can be no question,
in these narrow limits, of my taking

198

tlmile Zola.

the successive volumes one by one all
the more that our sense of the exhibi-
tion is as little as possible an impres-
sion of parts and books, of particular
"plots " and persons. It produces the
effect of a mass of imagery in which
shades are sacrificed, the effect of char-
acter and passion in the lump or by the
ton. The fullest, the most characteris-
tic episodes affect us like a sounding
chorus or procession, as with a hubbub
of voices and a multitudinous tread of
feet. The setter of the mass into mo-
tion, he himself, in the crowd, figures
best, with whatever queer idiosyncrasies,
excrescences, and gaps, as a being of a
substance akin to our own. Taking him
as we must, I repeat, for quite heroic,
the interest of detail in him is the in-
terest of his struggle, at every point,
with his problem.

The sense for crowds and processions,
for the gross and the general, was large-
ly the result of this predicament, of the
disproportion between his scheme and
his material though it was certainly
also in part an effect of his particular
turn of mind. What the reader easily
discerns in him is the sturdy resolution
with which breadth and energy supply
the place of penetration. He rests to
his utmost on his documents, devours
and assimilates them, makes them yield
him extraordinary appearances of life;
but in his way he too improvises in the
.grand manner, the manner of Walter
Scott and of Dumas the elder. We feel
that he has to improvise for his moral
and social world, the world as to which
vision and opportunity must come, if
they are to come at all, unhurried and
unhustled must take their own time,
helped, doubtless, more or less, by blue-
books, reports, and interviews, by in-
quiries, " on the spot, " but never wholly
replaced by such substitutes without a
general disfigurement. Vision and op-
portunity reside in a personal sense and
a personal history, and no short cut to
them in the interest of plausible fiction
has ever been discovered. The short

cut, it is not too much to say, was with
Zola the subject of constant ingenious
experiment, and it is largely to this
source, I surmise, that we owe the cel-
ebrated element of his grossness. He ,
was obliged to be gross, on his system,
or neglect, to his cost, an invaluable
aid to representation, as well as one that
apparently struck him as lying close at
hand ; and I cannot withhold my frank
admiration from the courage and con-
sistency with which he faced his need.
His general subject, in the last analy-
sis, was the nature of man; in dealing
with which he took up, obviously, the
harp of most numerous strings. His
business was to make these strings sound
true, and there were none that he did
n't, so far as his general economy per-
mitted, persistently try. What hap-
pened then was that many say about
half, and these, as I have noted, the
most silvered, the most golden re-
fused to give out their music. They
would only sound false, since (as with
all his earnestness he must have felt) he
could command them, through want of
skill, of practice, of ear, to none of the
right felicity. What therefore was more
natural than that, still splendidly bent
on producing his illusion, he should throw
himself on the strings he could thump
with effect, and should work them, as
our phrase is, for all they were worth?
The nature of man, he had plentiful
warrant for holding, is an extraordina-
ry mixture, but the great thing was to ?
represent a sufficient part of it to show
that it was, solidly, palpably, common-
ly, the nature. With this preoccupation
he doubtless fell into extravagance
there was so much, obviously, to en-
courage him. The coarser side of his
subject, based on the community of all
the instincts, was, for instance, the more
practicable side, a sphere the vision of
which required but the general human,
scarcely more than the plain physical,
initiation, and dispensed thereby, con-
veniently enough, with special introduc-
tions or revelations. A free entry into

jmile Zola.

199

this sphere was undoubtedly compatible
with a youthful career as hampered,
right and left, even as Zola's own.

He was in prompt possession, thus,
of the range of sympathy that he could
cultivate, though it must be added that
the complete exercise of that sympathy
might have encountered an obstacle that
would somewhat undermine his advan-
tage. Our friend might have found
himself able, in other words, to pay to
the instinctive, as I have called it, only
such tribute as protesting taste (his own
dose of it) permitted. Yet there it was
again that fortune and his temperament
served him. Taste as he knew it, taste
as his own constitution supplied it,
proved to have nothing to say to the
matter. His own dose of the precious
elixir had no perceptible regulating
power. Paradoxical as the remark may
sound, this accident was positively to
operate as one of his greatest felicities.
There are parts of his work, those deal-
ing with romantic or poetic elements,
in which the inactivity of the principle
in question is sufficiently hurtful ; but it
surely should not be described as hurt-
ful to such pictures as Le Ventre de
Paris, as L'Assommoir, as Germinal.
The idea on which each of these produc-
tions rests is that of a world with which
taste has nothing to do, and though the
act of representation may be justly held,
as an artistic act, to involve its pre-
sence, the discrimination would probably
have been in fact, given the particular
illusion sought, more detrimental than
the deficiency. There was a great out-
cry, as we all remember, over the rank
materialism of L'Assommoir, but who
cannot see, to-day, how much a milder
infusion of it would have weakened the
whole strong treatment of the subject ?
L'Assommoir is the nature of man, but
it is not his finer, nobler, cleaner, or
more cultivated nature ; it is the image
of his free instincts, the better and the
worse, the better struggling as they can,
gasping for light and air, the worse
making themselves at home in darkness,

ignorance, and poverty. The whole
handling makes for emphasis and scale,
and it is not to be measured how, as a
picture of conditions, the thing would
have suffered from timidity. The qual-
ification of the painter was precisely his
strength of stomach, and we scarce ex-
ceed in saying that to have captured
less of the air would, with such a re-
source, have meant the waste of a fac-
ulty.

I may add, in this connection, more-
over, that refinement of intention did,
on occasion, and after a fashion of its
own, unmistakably preside at these ex-
periments ; making the remark in order
to have done, once for all, with a fea-
ture of Zola's literary physiognomy that
appears to have attached the gaze of
many persons to the exclusion of every
other. There are judges, in these mat-
ters, so perversely preoccupied that for
them to see anywhere the " improper "
is for them straightway to cease to see
anything else. The said improper,
looming supremely large and casting all
the varieties of the proper quite into the
shade, suffers thus in their conscious-
ness a much greater extension than it
ever claimed, and this consciousness be-
comes, for the edification of many and
the information of a few, a colossal re-
flector and record of it. Much may be
said, in relation to some of the possi-
bilities of the nature of man, of the na-
ture in especial of the "people," on the
defect of our author's sense of propor-
tion. But the sense of proportion of
many of those he has scandalized would
take us further yet. I recall, at all
events, as relevant for it comes un-
der a very attaching general head
two occasions, of long ago, two Sunday
afternoons in Paris, on which I found
the question of intention very curiously
lighted. Several men of letters of a
group in which almost every member
either had arrived at renown or was well
on his way to it, were assembled under
the roof of the most distinguished of
their number, where they exchanged free

200

ile Zola.

confidences, on current work, on plans
and ambitions, in a manner full of in-
terest for one never previously privi-
leged to see artistic conviction, artistic
passion (at least on the literary ground)
so systematic and so articulate. " Well,
I on my side, " I remember Zola's say-
ing, "am engaged on a book, a study
of the mosurs of the people, for which
I am making a collection of all the
' bad words, ' the gros mots, words of
the language, those with which the vo-
cabulary of the people, those with which
their familiar talk, bristles." I was
struck with the tone in which he made
the announcement without bravado
and without apology, as an interesting
idea that had come to him and that he
was working, really to arrive at char-
acter, with all his conscience; just as
I was struck with the unqualified inter-
est that his plan excited. It was on a
plan that he was working formidably,
almost grimly, as his fatigued face
showed ; and the whole consideration of
this interesting feature of it partook of
the general seriousness.

But there comes back to me also, as
a companion-piece to this, another day,
after some interval, on which the inter-
est was excited by the fact that the work
on behalf of which the brave license had
been taken was actually under the ban
of the daily newspaper that had engaged
to " serialize * it. Publication had
definitively ceased. The thing had run
a part of its course, but it had outrun
the courage of editors and the curiosity
of subscribers that stout curiosity to
which it had, evidently in such good
faith, been addressed. The chorus of
contempt for the ways of such people,
their pusillanimity, their superficiality,
vulgarity, intellectual platitude, was the
striking note on this occasion ; for the
journal in question had declined to pro-
ceed, and the serial, broken off, been
obliged, if I am not mistaken, to seek
the hospitality of other columns, secured
indeed with no great difficulty. The
composition so qualified for future fame

was none other, as I was later to learn,
than L'Assommoir; and my reminis-
cence has perhaps no greater point than
in connecting itself with a matter al-
ways dear to the critical spirit, espe-
cially when the latter has not too com-
pletely elbowed out the romantic the
matter of the "origins, " the early con-
sciousness, early steps, early tribula-
tions, early obscurity, as so often hap-
pens, of productions finally crowned by
time.

Their greatness is for the most part
a thing that has originally begun so
small; and this impression is particu-
larly strong when we have been in any
degree present, so to speak, at the
birth. The history is apt to tend pre-
ponderantly in that case to enrich our
stores of irony. In the eventual con-
quest of consideration by an abused book
we recognize, in other terms, a drama
of romantic interest, a drama often with
large comic no less than with fine pa-
thetic inter weavings. It may of course
be said in this particular connection that
L'Assommoir had not been one of the
literary things that creep humbly into
the world. Its "success " may be cited
as almost insolently prompt, and the
fact remains true if the idea of success
be restricted, after the inveterate fash-
ion, to the idea of circulation. What
remains truer still, however, is that for
the critical spirit circulation mostly
matters not the least little bit, and it is
of the success with which the history of
Gervaise and Coupeau nestles in that
capacious bosom, even as the just man
sleeps in Abraham's, that I am speak-
ing. But it is a point on which I can
speak better a moment hence.

Though a summary study of Zola need
not too anxiously concern itself with
book after book always with a par-
tial exception from this remark for
L'Assommoir groups and varieties
none the less exist in the huge series,
aids to discrimination without which no
measure of the presiding genius is pos-
sible. These divisions seem to me,

Emile Zola.

201

roughly speaking, however, scarce more
than three in number that is, if the
ten volumes of the CEuvres Critiques
and the Theatre be left out of account.
The critical volumes in especial abound
in the characteristic, as they were also
a wondrous addition to his sum of
achievement during his most strenuous
years. But I am forced to neglect
them. The two groups constituted after
the close of Les Rougon-Macquart
Les Trois Villes and the incomplete
Quatre Evangiles distribute them-
selves easily among the three types, or,
to speak more exactly, stand together
under one of the three. This one, so
comprehensive as to be the author's
main achievement, includes, to my
sense, all his best volumes to the
point in fact of producing an effect of
distinct inferiority for those outside of
it, which are, luckily for his general
credit, the less numerous. It is so in-
veterately pointed out in any allusion
to him that one shrinks, in repeating
it, from sounding flat; but as he was
admirably equipped, from the start, for
the evocation of number and quantity,
so those of his social pictures that most
easily surpass the others are those in
which appearances, the appearances fa-
miliar to him, are at once most magni-
fied and most multiplied.

To make his characters swarm, and
to make the great central thing they
swarm about "as large as life," porten-
tously, heroically big, that was the task
he set himself very nearly from the first,
that was the secret he triumphantly
mastered. Add that the big central
thing was always some highly represen-
tative institution or industry of the
France of his time, some seated Moloch
of custom, of commerce, of faith, lend-
ing itself to portrayal through its abuses
and excesses, its idol-face and great de-
vouring mouth, and we embrace the
main lines of his attack. In Le Ventre
de Paris he had dealt with the life of
the huge Halles, the general markets
and their supply, the personal forces,

personal situations, passions, involved
in (strangest of all subjects) the nutri-
tion of the monstrous city, the city
whose victualing occupies so inordinate-
ly much of its consciousness. Paris
richly gorged, Paris sublime and indif-
ferent in her assurance (so all unlike
poor Oliver's) of "more," figures here
the theme itself, lies across the scene
like some vast ruminant creature breath-
ing in a cloud of parasites. The book
was the first of the long series to show
the full freedom of the author's hand,
though La Cure'e had already been symp-
tomatic. This freedom, after an inter-
val, broke out on a much bigger scale
in L'Assommoir, in Au Bonheur des
Dames, in Germinal, in La Bete Hu-
maine, in L' Argent, in La Debacle, and
then again, though more mechanically,
and with much of the glory gone, in the
more or less wasted energy of Lourdes,
Rome, Paris, of Fe'condite', Travail, and
Ve'rite'.

Au Bonheur des Dames handles the
colossal modern shop, traces the growth
of such an organization as the Bon-
March^ or the Magasin-du-Louvre,
sounds the abysses of its inner life,
marshals its population, its hierarchy
of clerks, counters, departments, divi-
sions and subdivisions, plunges into the
labyrinth of the mutual relations of its
personnel, and above all traces its rav-
age amid the smaller fry of the trade,
of all the trades, pictures these latter
gasping for breath in an air pumped
clean by its mighty lungs. Germinal
revolves about the coal-mines of Flem-
ish France, with the subterranean world
of the pits for its central presence, just
as La Bete Humaine has for its pro-
tagonist a great railway, and L' Argent
makes supremely personal and "inti-
mate " the fury of the Bourse and the
money-market. La Debacle takes up,
magnificently, the first act of the Fran-
co-Prussian war, the collapse at Sedan,
and the titles of the six volumes of The
Three Cities and The Four Gospels suf-
ficiently explain them. I may mention,

202

Zola.

however, for the last lucidity, that,
among these, Fe'condite' manipulates,
with an amazing misapprehension of
means to ends, of remedies to ills, no less
populous a subject than that of the de-
cline in the French birth rate, and that
Ve'rite' presents a fictive equivalent of
the Dreyfus case, with a vast and elab-
orate picture of the battle, in France,
between lay and clerical instruction. I
may even further mention, to clear the
ground, that'with the close of Les Rou-
gon-Macquart the diminution of fresh-
ness in the author's energy, the dimi-
nution of intensity and, in short, of
quality, becomes such as to render sadly
difficult a happy life with some of the
later volumes. Happiness of the purest
strain never indeed, in old absorptions
of Zola, quite sat at the feast ; but there
was mostly a measure of coercion, a
spell without a charm. From these
last-named productions of the climax
everything strikes me as absent but
quantity (Ve'rite', for instance, is, with
the possible exception of Nana, the
longest of the list) ; though indeed there
is something impressive in the way his
quantity represents his patience.

There are efforts here, at stout peru-
sal, that, frankly, I have been unable
to make, and I should like in fact, in
connection with the vanity of these, to
dispose on the spot of the sufficiently
strange phenomenon constituted by
what I have called the climax. It em-
bodies, truly, an immense anomaly; it
casts back over Zola's prime and his
middle years the queerest gray light of
eclipse. Nothing, moreover, nothing
" literary, " was ever so odd as, in
this matter, the whole history, the con-
summation so logical yet so unexpected.
Writers have grown old and withered
and failed ; they have grown weak and
sad ; they have lost heart, lost ability,
yielded in one way or another the
possible ways being so numerous to
the cruelty of time. But the singular
doom of this genius and which began,
for that matter, to threaten ten years

before his death was to find, with
life, at fifty, still rich in him, strength
only to undermine all the " authority *
he had gathered. He had not grown
old and he had not grown feeble; he
had only grown mortally insistent, set
himself to wreck, poetically, his so mas-
sive identity to wreck it in the very
waters in which he had formerly arrayed
his victorious fleet. (I say "poetical-
ly ' on purpose, to give him the just
benefit of all the beauty of his power.)
The process of the disaster, so full of
the effect, though so without the inten-
tion, of perversity, is difficult to trace
in a few words; it may best be indi-
cated by an example or two of its ac-
tion.

The example that perhaps most comes
home to me is again connected with a
personal reminiscence. In the course
of some talk that I had with him dur-
ing his first visit to England I happened
to ask him what opportunity to travel
(if any) his immense application had
ever left him, and whether in particular
he had been able to see Italy, a country
from which I had either just returned,
or which I was, luckily, not having
the Natural History of a Family to
count with, about to revisit. "All
I 've done, alas," he replied, "was, the
other year, in the course of a little jour-
ney to the south, to my own pays all
that has been possible was then to make
a little dash as far as Genoa, a matter
of only a few days." Le Docteur Pas-
cal, the conclusion of Les Rougon-Mac-
quart, had appeared shortly before, and
it further befell that I asked him what
plans he had for the future, now that,
still dans la force de Vage, he had so
cleared the ground. I shall never for-
get the fine promptitude of his answer
" Oh, I shall begin at once Les Trois
Villes." "And which cities are they
to be ? ' The reply was finer still
"Lourdes, Paris, Rome."

It was splendid for confidence and
cheer, but it left me, I fear, more or
less gaping, and it was to give me after-

Smile Zola.

203

wards the key, critically speaking, to
many a mystery. It struck me as
breathing to an almost tragic degree the
fatuity of those whom the gods ruin
through their blindness. He was an
honest man he had always bristled
with it at every pore ; but no artistic
reverse was inconceivable for an adven-
turer who, stating in one breath that
his knowledge of Italy consisted of a
few days spent at Genoa, was ready to
declare in the next that he had planned,
on a scale, a picture of Rome. It
flooded his career, to my sense, with
light ; it showed how he had marched
from subject to subject, and how he had
" got up " each in turn showing also
how consummately he had reduced such
getting-up to a science. He had suc-
cess, he had a rare impunity, behind
him ; but nothing would now be so in-
teresting as to see if he could again play
the trick. One would leave him, and
welcome, Lourdes and Paris he had
already dealt, on a scale, with his own
country and people. But was the adored
Rome also to be his on such terms, the
Rome he was already giving away be-
fore having acquired an inch of it ? One
thought of one's own frequentations,
saturations a history of long years,
and of how the effect of them had some-
how been but to make the subject too
august. Was he to find it easy through
a visit of a month or two with "intro-
ductions " and a Baedeker ?

It was not indeed that the Baedeker
and the introductions didn't show, to
my sense, at that hour, as extremely
suggestive ; they were positively a part
of the light struck out by his announce-
ment. They defined the system on
which he had brought Les Rougon-
Macquart safely into port. He had had
his Baedeker and his introductions for
Germinal, for L'Assommoir, for L' Ar-
gent, for La Debacle, for Au Bonheur
des Dames; which advantages, which
researches, had been, clearly, all the
more in character for being documenta-
ry, bibliographic, a matter of renseigne-

ments, published or private, even when
most mixed with personal impressions
snatched, with enquetes sur les lieux,
with facts obtained from the best au-
thorities, proud and happy, in so famous
a connection, to cob'perate. That was,
as we say, all right, all the more that
the process, to my imagination, became
vivid, was wonderfully reflected back
from its fruits. There were the fruits
so it had n't been presumptuous.
Presumption, however, was now to be-
gin, and what omen might n't there be
in its beginning with such serenity?
Well, time would show as time, in
due course, effectually did show. Rome,
as the second volume of The Three Cit-
ies, appeared, with high punctuality, a
year or two later; and the interesting
question, an occasion really for the mor-
alist, was by that time not to recognize
in it the mere triumph of a mechanical
art, a "receipt " applied with the skill
of long practice, but to do much more
than this really to give a name, that
is, to the particular shade of blindness
that could constitute a trap for so great
an artistic intelligence. The presump-
tuous volume, without sweetness, with-
out antecedents, superficial and violent,
has the minimum instead of the maxi-
mum of value; so that it betrayed or
"gave away," just in this degree, the
state of mind, on the author's part, re-
sponsible for it. To put one's finger
on the state of mind was to find out,
accordingly, what was, as we say, the
matter with him.

It seemed to me, I remember, that
I found out as never before when, in its
turn, Fe'condite' began the work of
crowning the edifice. Fe'condite' is phy-
siological, whereas Rome is not, where-
as Verite' likewise is not; yet these
three productions joined hands, at a
given moment, to fit into the lock of
the mystery the key of my meditation.
They came to the same thing, to the ex-
tent of permitting me to read into them
together the most precious of lessons.
This lesson may not, barely stated,

204 jSmile Zola.

sound remarkable ; yet without being energetic mistake of sense probably ever

in possession of it I should have ven- committed. Where was the judgment

tured on none of these remarks. "The of which experience is supposed to be

matter with " Zola, then, so far as it the guarantee when the perpetrator

goes, is that, as the imagination of the could persuade himself that the lesson

artist is, in the best cases, not only he wished in these pages to convey could

clarified but intensified by his equal be made immediate and direct, chalked,

(possession of Taste (deserving here, if with loud taps and a still louder corn-
ever, the old-fashioned honor of a cap- mentary, the sexes and generations all
ital), so, when he has, lucklessly, never convoked, on the blackboard of the
inherited that auxiliary blessing, the "family sentiment? '
imagination itself inevitably breaks I have mentioned, however, all this
down as a consequence. There is sim- time, but one of his categories. The
ply no limit, in fine, to the misfortune second consists of such things as La For-
of being tasteless; it doesn't simply tune des Rougon and La Cur^e, as Eu-
disfigure the surface and the fringe of gene Rougon and even Nana, as Pot-
your performance it eats back into Bouille, as L'QEuvre and La Joie de
the very heart and enfeebles the sources Vivre. These volumes may rank as
of life. When you have no taste you social pictures in the narrower sense,
have no discretion, which is the con- studies, comprehensively speaking, of
science of taste, and when you have no the manners, the morals, the miseries
discretion you perpetrate books like for it mainly comes to that of a
Rome, which are without intellectual grossly materialized bourgeoisie. They
modesty, books like Fe'condite', which deal with the life of individuals, of the
are without a sense of the ridiculous, liberal professions, of political and so-
books like Ve'rite', which are without the cial adventurers, and offer the personal
finer vision of human experience. character and career, more or less de-
It is marked that in each of these tached, as the centre of interest. La
examples the deficiency has been di- Cure'e is an evocation, violent and "ro-
rectly fatal. No stranger doom was mantic, " of the extravagant appetites,
ever appointed for a man so plainly de- the fever of the senses, supposedly fos-
siring only to be just than the absurd- tered, for its ruin, by the hapless Sec-
ity of not resting till he had buried the ond Empire, upon which general ills,
felicity of his past, such as it was, un- turpitudes at large, were at one time
der a great flat leaden slab. Ve'rite' is so freely and conveniently fathered,
a plea for science, as science, to Zola, Eugene Rougon carries out this view in
is all truth, the mention of any other the high color of a political portrait,
kind being mere imbecility; and the not other than scandalous, for which
simplification of the human picture to one of the ministerial times damnees of
which his negations, his exasperations, Napoleon III., M. Rouher, is reputed,
have here conducted him was not, even I know not how justly, to have sat.
when all had been said, credible in ad- Nana, attaching itself by a hundred
vance. The result is amazing when we strings to a prearranged table of kin-
consider that the finer observation is the ships, aeredities, transmissions, in the
supposed basis of all such work. It is large, crowded epos of the daughter of
not that even here the author has not a the people, filled with poisoned blood
queer idealism of his own ; this ideal- and sacrificed, as well as sacrificing, on
ism is on the contrary so present as to the altar of luxury and lust ; the pano-
show, positively, for the falsest of his rama of such a "progress " as Hogarth
simplifications. In Fe'condite' it becomes would more definitely have named -
grotesque, makes of the book the most the progress across the high plateau of

Emile Zola.

205

"pleasure " and down the facile descent
on the other side. Nana is truly a
monument to Zola's patience; the sub-
ject being so ungrateful, so formidably
special, that the multiplication of illus-
trative detail, the plunge into pestilent
depths, represents a kind of technical
heroism.

There are other plunges, into differ-
ent sorts of darkness ; of which the
aesthetic, even the scientific, even the
ironic, motive fairly escapes us ex-
plorations of stagnant pools like that of
La Joie de Vivre, as to which, grant-
ing the nature of the curiosity and the
substance worked in, the patience is
again prodigious, but which make us
wonder what pearl of philosophy, of
suggestion, or just of homely recogni-
tion, the general picture, as of rats dy-
ing in a hole, has to offer. Our vari-
ous senses, sight, smell, sound, touch,
are, as with Zola always, more or less
convinced ; but when the particular ef-
fect upon each of these is added to the
effect upon the others the mind still re-
mains bewilderedly unconscious of any
use for the total. I am not sure indeed
that the case in this respect is better
with the productions of the third order
-La Faute de TAbbd Mouret, Une
Page d' Amour, Le Reve, Le Docteur
Pascal in which the appeal is more
directly, is in fact quite earnestly, to
the mind; so much, on such ground,
was to depend precisely on those dis-
criminations in which the writer is least
at home. The volumes whose names I
have just quoted are his express trib-
ute to the " ideal, " to the romantic and
the charming fair fruits of invention
intended to remove from the mouth,
so far as possible, the bitterness of the
ugly things in which so much of the rest
of his work had been condemned to con-
sist. The subjects in question then are
"idyllic" and the treatment poetic
concerned essentially to please, on the
largest lines, and involving at every
turn that salutary need. They are mat-
ters of conscious delicacy, and nothing

might interest us more than to see what,
in the shock of the potent forces enlisted,
becomes of this shy element. Nothing
might interest us more, literally, and
might positively affect us more, even
very nearly to tears, though indeed
sometimes also to smiles, than to see
the constructor of Les Rougon-Mac-
quart trying, "for all he is worth," to
be delicate, trying to be finely tender,
trying to be, as it is called, distin-
guished, in the face of constitutional
hindrance.

The effort is admirably honest, the
tug at his subject splendidly strong;
but the consequences remain of the
strangest, and we get the impression
that as representing discriminations
unattainable they are somehow the
price he paid. Le Docteur Pascal, for
instance, which winds up the long chron-
icle on the romantic note, on the note
of invoked beauty, in order to sweeten,
as it were, the total draught Le
Docteur Pascal, treating of the erotic
ardor entertained for each other by an
uncle and his niece, leaves us amazed at
such a conception of beauty, such an
application of romance, such an esti-
mate of sweetness, so eccentric a sacri-
fice, in short, to poetry and passion.
Of course, we definitely remind our-"A
selves, the whole long chronicle is
explicitly a scheme, solidly set up and
intricately worked out, lighted, accord-
ing to the author's pretension, by "sci-
ence, " high, dry, and clear, and with
each part involved and necessitated in
all the other parts, each block of the
edifice, each " morceau de vie " physio-
logically determined by previous combi-
nations. "How can I help it, we hear
the builder of the pyramid ask, if ex-
perience (by which alone I proceed)
shows me certain plain results if,
holding up the torch of my famous * ex-
perimental method, ' I find it stare me
in the face that the union of certain
types, the conflux of certain strains of
blood, the intermarriage, in a word, of
certain families, produces nervous con-

206

le Zola.

ditions, conditions temperamental, psy-
chical, and pathological, in which nieces
have to fall in love with uncles and un-
cles with nieces ? Observation and im-
agination, for any picture of life, " he
as audibly adds, "know no light but
science, and are false to all intellectual
decency, false to their own honor, when
they fear it, dodge it, darken it. To
pretend to any other guide or law is
mere base humbug."

That is very well, and the value, in
a hundred ways, of a mass of produc-
tion conceived in such a spirit can never
(when robust execution has followed)
be small. But the formula really sees
us no further. It offers a definition
which is no definition. "Science" is
soon said; the whole thing depends on
what is meant by it. Science accepts,
surely, all our consciousness of life;
even, rather, the latter closes maternally
round it so that, becoming thus a force
within us, not a force outside, it exists,
it illuminates, only as we apply it. We
do emphatically, in art, apply it. But
Zola would apparently hold that it much
more applies us. On the showing of
many of his volumes, then, it makes a
dim use of us, and this we should still
consider the case even were we sure
that the article offered us in the majes-
tic name is absolutely at one with its own
pretension. This confidence we can, on
too many grounds, never have. The
thing is a matter of appreciation, and
when an artist answers for science who
answers for the artist who, at the
least, answers for art ? Thus it is with
the mistakes that affect us, I say, as
Zola's penalties. We are reminded by
them that the game of art has, as the
phrase is, to be played. It cannot,
with any sure felicity for the result, be
both taken and left. If you insist on
the common you must submit to the
common; if you discriminate, on the
contrary, you must, however invidious
your discriminations may be called,
trust to them to see you through.

To the common, then, Zola, often

with splendid results, inordinately sac*
rifices, and this fact of its overwhelm-
ing him is what I have called his pay-
ing for it. In L'Assommoir, in Ger-
minal, in La Debacle, productions in
which he must most survive, the sacri-
fice is ordered and fruitful, for the sub-
ject and the treatment harmonize and
work together. He describes what he
best feels, and feels it, more and more,
as it naturally comes to him quite,
if I may allow myself the image, as we
zoologically see some mighty animal, a
beast of a corrugated hide and a por-
tentous snout, soaking with joy in the
warm ooze of an African riverside. In
these cases everything matches, and
"science," we may be permitted to be-
lieve, has little hand in the business.
The author's perceptions go straight,
and the subject, grateful and responsive,
gives itself wholly up. It is no longer
a case of an uncertain smoky torch, but
of a personal vision, the vision of gen-
ius, springing from an inward source.
Of this genius L'Assommoir is, to my
sense, the most extraordinary record.
It contains, with the two companions I
have given it, all the best of Zola, and
the three books together are solid ground
or would be could I now so take
them for a study of the particulars
of his power. His strongest marks and
features abound in them ; L'Assommoir,
above all, is (not least in respect to its
bold, free linguistic reach, already
glanced at) completely genial, while his
misadventures, his unequipped and de-1
lusive pursuit of the intimate and fine,
are almost completely absent.

It is a singular sight enough, that of
a producer of illusions whose interest,
for us, is so independent of our pleasure,
or at least of our complacency who
touches us, deeply, even while he most
"puts us off," who makes us care for
his ugliness and yet himself pitilessly
(pitilessly, that is, for us) plays with it,
who fills us with a sense of the rich
which is, none the less, never the rare.
Gervaise, the most immediately " felt, "

Emile Zola. 207

I cannot but think, of all his charac- aid. Let it not be said, either, that

ters, is a lame washerwoman, loose and the equal doing of parts makes for reple-

gluttonous, without will, without any tion or excess; the air circulates and

principle of cohesion, the sport of every the subject blooms ; deadness comes

wind that assaults her exposed life, and only, in these matters, when the right

who, rolling from one gross mistake to parts are absent and there is vain beat-

another, finds her end in misery, drink, ing of the air in their place the re-

and despair. But her career, as pre- fuge of the fumbler incapable of "do-

sented, has fairly the largeness that, ing " at all.

throughout the chronicle, we feel as The mystery I speak of, for the
epic, arid the intensity of her creator's reader capable of observation, is the
vision of it and of the dense sordid life wonder of the scale and energy of Zola's
hanging about it is to my sense one of assimilations. This wonder besets us
the great things the modern novel has above all throughout the three books I
been able to do. It has done nothing have placed first. How, all sedentary
more completely constitutive and of a and " scientific, " did he get so near ?
tone so rich and full and sustained. By what art, inscrutable, immeasurable,
The tone of L'Assommoir is, for mere indefatigable, did he arrange to make
"keeping up," unsurpassable, a vast, of his documents, in these connections,
deep, steady tide on which every object a use so vivified? Say he was "near "
represented is triumphantly borne. It the subject of L'Assommoir in imagi-
never shrinks nor flows thin, and nothing nation, in more or less familiar impres-
f or an instant drops, dips, or catches ; sion, in temperament and humor, he
the high-water mark of sincerity, of the could not after all have been near it in
genial, as I have called it, is unfailingly personal experience, and the copious
kept. personalism of the picture yet remains
For the artist in the same general its note and its strength. When the
" line " such a production has an inter- note had been struck in a thousand
est almost inexpressible, a mystery, forms we had, by multiplication, as a
as to origin and growth, over which he kind of cumulative consequence, the
fondly but rather vainly bends. How, finished and rounded book ; just as we
after all, does it so get itself done had the same result, by the same pro-
the "done" being, admirably, the sign cess, in Germinal. It is not of course
and crown of it ? The light of the richer that multiplication and accumulation,
mind has been, elsewhere, as I have the extraordinary pair of legs on which
sufficiently hinted, frequent enough, but he walks, are easily or directly con-
nothing truly, in all fiction, was ever sistent with his projecting himself mor-
built so strong or made so solid. Need- ally ; this immense diffusion, with its
less to say there are a thousand things appropriation of everything it meets,
with more charm in their truth, with affects us, on the contrary, as perpetu-
more beguilement of every sort, more ally delaying access to what we may
prettiness of pathos, more innocence of call the private world, the world of the
drollery, for the spectator's sense of individual. Yet as the individual for
truth. ' But I doubt if there has ever it so happens is simple and shallow,
been a more totally represented world, our author's dealings with him, as
anything more founded and established, frankly met, maintain their resemblance
more provided for all round, more or- to those of the lusty bee who succeeds
ganized and carried on. It is a world in plumping for an instant, of a sum-
practically workable, with every part mer morning, into every flower-cup of
as much done as every other, and with the garden,
the parts all chosen for direct mutual Grant and the generalization may

208

Emile Zola.

be emphatic that the shallow and the
simple are all the population of his rich-
est and most crowded pictures, and that
his "psychology," in a psychologic age,
remains thereby comparatively coarse
grant this and we get but another
view of the miracle. We see enough of
the superficial among the novelists at
large, assuredly, without deriving from
it, as we derive from Zola at his best,
the concomitant impression of the solid.
It is in general I mean among the
novelists at large the impression of
the cheap, which the author of Les
Kougon-Macquart, honest man, full,
after all, of his own delicacies, manages
to spare us even in the prolonged sand-
storm of Ve'rite'. The Common is an-
other matter ; it is one of the forms of
the superficial pervading and conse-
crating all things in such a book as Ger-
minal and it only adds to the number
of our critical questions. How in the
world is it made, this deplorable, dem-
ocratic, malodorous Common, so strange
and so interesting? How is it taught
to receive into its loins the stuff of the
epic and still, in spite of this associa-
tion with poetry, never depart from its
nature? It is in the great lusty game
he plays with the shallow and the sim-
ple that Zola's mastery resides, and we
see of course that when values are small
it takes innumerable items and combi-
nations to make up the sum. In L'As-
sommoir and in Germinal, to some ex-
tent even in La Debacle, the values are
all, morally, personally, of the lowest
(the highest is poor Gervaise herself,
richly human in her generosities and
follies), yet each is as distinct as a
brass-headed nail.

What we come back to, accordingly,
is the rare phenomenon of the combina-
tion of the writer's parts. Painters,
of great schools, often of great talent,
have responded, liberally, on canvas, to
the appeal of ugly things, of Spanish
beggars, squalid and dusty-footed, of
martyred saints, or other convulsed suf-
ferers, tortured and bleeding, of boors

and louts soaking a Dutch proboscis in
perpetual beer ; but we had never before
had to reckon with so literary a treat-
ment of the vulgar. When we others
of the Anglo-Saxon race are vulgar we
are, handsomely, and with the best con-
science in the world, vulgar all through,
too vulgar to be in any degree literary,
and too much so therefore to be reck-
oned with, critically, at all. The
French are different they separate
their sympathies, remain more or less
outside of their worst disasters. They
mostly contrive to get the idea, in how-
ever dead a faint, down into the life-
boat. They may lose sight of the stars,
but they save in some such fashion as
that their intellectual souls. Zola's own
reply to all puzzlements would have
been, at any rate, I take it, a simple
summary of his inveterate professional
habits. "It is all very simple I pro-
duce, roughly speaking, a volume a
year, and of this time some five months
go to preparation, to special study. In
the other months, with all my cadres
established, I write the book. And I
can hardly say which part of the job is
the hardest."

The story was not more wonderful
for him than that, nor the job more
complex ; which is why we must say of
his whole process and its results that
they constitute together perhaps the
most extraordinary imitation of expe-
rience that we possess. Balzac appealed
to " science " and proceeded by her aid ;
Balzac had cadres enough and a tabu-
lated world, rubrics, relationships and
genealogies; but Balzac affects us, in
spite of everything, as personally over-
taken by life, as fairly hunted and run
to earth by it. He strikes us as strug-
gling and all but submerged, as beat-
ing, over the scene, such a pair of wings
as were not soon again to be wielded by
any visitor of his general air and as had
not, at all events, attached themselves
to Zola's rounded shoulders. His be-
quest is, in consequence, immeasurably
more interesting ; yet who shall declare

Emile Zola.

209

that his adventure was, in its greatness,
more successful? Zola "pulled it off,"
as we say, supremely, in that he never
but once found himself obliged to quit,
to our vision, his magnificent treadmill
of the pigeonholed and documented -
the region that I qualify as that of ex-
perience by imitation. His splendid
economy saw him through ; he labored,
to the end, within sight of his notes and
his charts.

The extraordinary thing, however,
is that on the single occasion when, pub-
licly, as his whole manifestation was
public, life did swoop down on him,
the effect of the visitation was quite
perversely other than might have been
looked for. His courage in the Drey-
fus matter testified admirably to his
ability to live for himself and out of the
order of his volumes little indeed as
living at all might have seemed a ques-
tion for one exposed, when his crisis was
at its height and he was found guilty of
" insulting " the powers that were, to
be literally torn to pieces in the pre-
cincts of the Palace of Justice. Our
point is that nothing was ever so odd
as that these great moments should ap-
pear to have been wasted, after all, for
his creative intelligence. Ve'rite', as I
have intimated, the production in which
they might most have been reflected, is
a production unrenewed and unref reshed
by them, spreads before us as somehow
flatter and grayer, not richer and more
relieved, by reason of them. They ar-
rived, really, I surmise, too late in the
day; the imagination they might have
vivified was already fatigued and spent.

I must not moreover appear to say
that the power to evoke and present has
not even on the dead level of Ve'rite' its
occasional minor revenges. There are
passages, whole pages, of the old full-
bodied sort, pictures that elsewhere in
the series would, in all likelihood, have
seemed abundantly convincing. Their
misfortune is to have been discounted
by our intensified, our finally fatal sense
of the procede. Quarreling with all

VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 14

conventions, defiant of them in general,
Zola was yet inevitably to set up his
own group of them as, for that mat-
ter, without a sufficient collection, with-
out their aid in simplifying and making
possible, how could he ever have seen
his big ship into port? Art welcomes
them, feeds upon them, always ; no sort
of form, at least, is practicable without
them. It is only a question of what
particular ones we use to wage war
on certain others. The convention of
the blameless being, the thoroughly
"scientific* creature, possessed, im-
peccably, of all truth and serving as the
mouthpiece of it and of the author's
highest complacencies this character
is for instance a convention inveterate
and indispensable, without whom the
"sympathetic " side of the work could
never have been achieved. Marc in
Ve'rite', Pierre Froment in LoUrdes and
in Rome, the wondrous representatives
of the principle of reproduction in Fe*-
condite', the exemplary painter of
L'GEuvre, sublime in his modernity and
paternity, the patient Jean Macquart
of La Debacle, whose patience is as
guaranteed as the exactitude of a well-
made watch, the supremely enlightened
Docteur Pascal even, as I recall him,
all amorous nepotism, but all virtue too
and all beauty of life, such figures
show us the reasonable and the good not
merely in the white light of the old
George Sand novel and its improved
moralities, but almost in that of our
childhood's nursery and schoolroom,
that of the moral tale of Miss Edge-
worth and Mr. Thomas Day.

Yet let not these restrictions be my
last word. I had intended, under the
effect of a reperusal of La Debacle,
Germinal, and L'Assommoir, to make
no discriminations that should not be in
our friend's favor. The prolonged in-
cident of the marriage of Gervaise and
Cadet-Cassis, and that of the Homeric
birthday feast later on, in the laun-
dress's workshop, each treated from be-
ginning to end and in every item of their

210

Smile Zola.

coarse comedy and humanity, still show
the unprecedented breadth by which
they originally made us stare, still
abound in the particular kind and de-
gree of vividness that helped them, when
they appeared, to mark a date in the
portrayal of manners. Nothing had
then been so sustained and, at every
moment of its grotesque and pitiful ex-
istence, lived into as the nuptial day of
the Coupeau pair in especial, their fan-
tastic processional pilgrimage through
the streets of Paris in the rain, their
bedraggled exploration of the halls of
the Louvre Museum, lost as in the laby-
rinth of Crete, and their arrival at last,
ravenous and exasperated, at the guin-
guette where they sup at so much a head,
each paying, and where we sit down
with them, in the grease and the per-
spiration, and succumb, half in sympa-
thy half in shame, to their monstrous
pleasantries, acerbities, and miseries.
I have said enough of the mechanical in
Zola; here in truth is, given the ele-
ments, almost insupportably the sense
of life. It is equally in the historic
chapter of the miners' strike in Germi-
nal, another of those illustrative epi-
sodes, viewed as great passages to be
" rendered, " as to which our author es-
tablished altogether a new measure and
standard of handling, a new energy and
veracity: something, absolutely, since
which the old trivialities and poverties
of treatment of such occasions have be-
come incompatible, for the novelist,
with either rudimentary intelligence or
rndimentary self-respect.

As for La Debacle, finally, it takes
its place with Tolstoi's very much more
universal, but very much less composed
and condensed epic as an incomparably
human picture of war. I have been re-
reading it, but with, I confess, a cer-
tain timidity the dread of perhaps

impairing the deep impression received
from it at the time of its appearance.
I recall the effect it then produced on
me as a really luxurious act of submis-
sion. It was early in the summer; I
was in an old Italian town ; the heat
was oppressive, and one could but re-
cline, in the lightest garments, in a
great dim room and give one's self up.
I like to think of the conditions and the
emotion, which melt for me together
into the memory I fear to imperil. I
remember that, in the glow of my ad-
miration, there was not a reserve I had
ever made that I was not ready to take
back. As an application of the author's
system and of his supreme faculty, as
a triumph of what these things could do
for him, how could such a performance
be surpassed ? The long, complex, hor-
rific, pathetic battle, captured, mas-
tered, with every crash of its squadrons,
every pulse of its thunder and blood re-
solved for us, by reflection, by commu-
nication from two of the humblest and
obscurest of the military units, into im-
mediate vision and contact, into deep
human thrills of terror and pity this
bristling centre of the book was " done "
(to come back to our word) in a way to
shut our mouths. That doubtless is why
a generous critic, nursing the sensation,
may desire to drop, for a farewell, no
word into the other scale. That our
author was clearly great at congruous
subjects this may well be our last.
If the others, subjects of the private
and intimate order, gave him more or
less inevitably "away," they yet left
him the great distinction that the more
he could be promiscuous and collective,
the more even he could be to repeat
my imputation common, the more he
could strike us as penetrating and true.
It was a distinction not easy to win and
that his name is not likely soon to lose.

Henry James.

Lawn Tennis.

211

LAWN TENNIS.

THERE will probably be no quarrel
with the statement that the value of any
outdoor game is measured not so much
by the physical exercise it necessitates,
as by the satisfaction and outlet it gives
to the spirit of combat that troubles
us. Those in search of exercise for its
own sake, desirous of enlarging their
muscles, expanding their chests, and
improving their state of health, will be
better rewarded by devoting themselves
to calisthenics and gymnastics, to swim-
ming or riding, than by the enthusiastic
pursuit of any game. The symmetrical
development of the body is not the usual
result of games, any more than it is
their primary object; and it need not
disparage their value to make this ad-
mission at the outset. It is, however,
an admirable quality which they all pos-
sess that they call for muscular activity
in some form or other, and that they
cause it to be exercised with zest and
enjoyment instead of as an irksome duty
that one owes to one's person. And
therefore, in estimating the value of a
game, we cannot quite leave out of ac-
count the possibilities it affords for ex-
ercise ; supposing that in other respects
there were equality, that game would
be the best which called into play the
freest use of the body.

As a matter of fact, there is no equal-
ity among games ; they do not all have
the same effect on the character, they
do not satisfy quite the same emotions
or suit equally all temperaments, as is
evident when one considers that differ-
ent games appeal to different men. Yet
in them all, modulated to various de-
grees of youth or age, strength or weak-
ness, it is the element of contest that
supplies the interest and performs the
greatest service to the players. And
that game which on the whole best sat-
isfies the contentious spirit may be said
to fulfill most completely its purpose.

I start with the proposition that this
game is lawn tennis. I am not indif-
ferent to the merits of golf, baseball,
football, or any other outdoor game,
but which of these demands of its every
participant the direct, constant, and ac-
tive opposition of tennis ? " Football, "
you say at once ; well, perhaps. Shall
I seem to evade the issue if I submit the
point that football in its most important
manifestations is now a spectacle rather
than a game, that except among school-
boys it is played not so much for fun as
for a certain glory, that it is for us, as-
the gladiatorial combats were for the
Romans, as the bullfight is for the peo-
ple of Spain and Mexico, an amusement
for the spectators rather than a recrea-
tion for the participants ? I have often
been struck by the satisfaction of col-
lege players when the season closes and
by their readiness after they leave col-
lege to drop football entirely. The
game which so many are glad to have
done with and which requires sacrifices
that men beyond a certain age are un-
willing to make does not serve most
completely the purpose of a game.

In baseball the nine players on each
team are not all simultaneously and con-
stantly in action. If it is a "pitchers'
battle, " the three outfielders have a dull
time of it, and the team at bat have
long idle periods. It is a good game,
it is the national game, yet one would
hesitate to say that it meets more fully
than any other the requirements.

In golf you can do nothing to harass
your antagonist, outmano3uvre him,
check him when he is winning, or lure
him into pitfalls ; you can strive to im-
prove your own play, you cannot hamper
his. There is no need of quick decision,
there is no opportunity for strategy, the
element of direct, aggressive opposition
is lacking ; therefore golf does not bes,t
fulfill the purpose of a game.

212

Lawn Tennis.

Of cricket in this country there is not
much need to speak ; we are pretty gen-
erally agreed that it falls far short of
the essentials. The saying attributed to
the Duke of Wellington that the battle
of Waterloo was won upon the cricket
fields of Eton and Rugby is doubtless
apocryphal. If he actually made the
remark, it must have been with the sub-
tle intimation that their favorite sport
had taken none of the fight out of the
young Englishmen, and that they had
therefore plenty to spare.

Hockey is a game deserving wider
and more enthusiastic recognition than
it has yet won. In its swift, unceasing
action and its constant conflict it comes
near being an ideal game. But it is
hardly universal enough; on each side
there is one player condemned to a post
of responsible idleness which is only now
and then enlivened by brief flurries.
While the others are whirling back and
forth on the ice, the goal keeper stands
alone, freezing his toes. And because
of this melancholy adjunct, because it
does not permit to all its players an
equal degree of activity and opposition,
one must regretfully deny to hockey the
palm. Yet there need never be any
rivalry between tennis and hockey ; the
conditions that make possible the one
forbid the other.

Now let us examine the case for ten-
nis. That it is entitled to the place of
supremacy among games seems to me no
unreasonable claim.

First of all and most important;
when you are playing tennis, whether in
singles or doubles, it is always you and
your opponent. You are not looking
on, except for the briefest moment;
you are not getting any more rest than
you wish, you are more often not hav-
ing as much as you would like. From
the first stroke of the game to the last
you are in constant yet always changing
opposition to another player. Even in
doubles on the strokes that are your
partner's you are not a mere spectator;
you are running backward, forward.

keeping pace with him, seeking the po-
sition in which the next ball may be
most advantageously received. Your
decision must be instant; in the frac-
tion of a second you determine whether
you shall drive the ball or toss it into
the air, place it on the left or on the
right, rush to the net or run back ; you
must have an instinctive knowledge of
what your opponent expects you to do
and then, if possible, do something else.
Once you have succeeded in outwitting
him, the triumph is all yours; you di-
vide the honors with no one. Tennis
more than any other game has the quali-
ties that gave the duel its fascination ; it
is all eager and alive, two men at close
quarters, feinting, parrying, thrusting,
both alert for an opening to give the
final coup de grace.

Call to mind some long rally that you
have had ; remember how on one occa-
sion when your opponent was playing
deep in the court you drew him to the
net by a ball chopped skillfully just over
it ; how he returned the stroke, and how
you next shot the ball down the side
line, thinking to pass him. But he had
anticipated the attempt and volleyed
cleverly; then, instead of trying the
cross court shot that he was waiting for,
you tossed the ball high over his head,
and while he spun round and raced for
it you trotted to the net, prepared to
"kill " the lob that he should send in
return. And, just as you had hoped,
it was a short lob ; but instead of kill-
ing it, you decided it would be more
fun to keep him running, and you turned
the ball over into the farther corner of
his court. He went after it at full speed
and lobbed again it was all he could
do, poor fellow and again the ball
fell short, again you had him at your
mercy. Nor did you smash the ball this
time ; instead, you turned it off slowly
into the other corner. He sprinted hard
and reached it, only to pop it up easily
once more. And now you gathered
yourself; you saw out of the tail of
your eye that he had turned and had

Lawn Tennis.

213

already started back desperately toward
the farther corner; and you landed on
that ball with all your might, beat it to
the earth, and sent it bounding straight
at the place he was leaving. He made
a miserable, futile effort to right him-
self and shift his racket ; then you saw
him walk slowly after the ball, with his
head drooping and his shoulders heaving
up about his ears, and you chuckled to
yourself with huge approval of your own
astute play "That got his wind, I
guess."

There is a human amusement in mak-
ing your antagonist run back and forth
thus earnestly and desperately ; but one
has a more exalted satisfaction in pla-
cing a shot so sudden, swift, and accu-
rate that the opposing player has not
time to move. Teasing your man, you
feel your power over a particular indi-
vidual ; paralyzing him by a stroke, you
experience a moment of omnipotence.
" There, " you say, " there I sent a ball
that nobody could touch. " In your sub-
limity you may even spare a moment's
compassion for the poor wretch who
stands rooted in astonishment, dazed by
the bolt before which champions had
been powerless. You say to him con-
descendingly, "I caught that just
right; " you may even intimate, if you
are magnanimous, that you do not ex-
pect to do the thing every time. But
in your heart you are boastfully hopeful,
you feel that at last you have found your
game, and you believe that you have the
man cowed.

And how is it when instead of driv-
ing your opponent before you and exhib-
iting a cleverness that seems really out-
side yourself, a supernatural precision
of eye and arm, you are going down to
defeat? Is there any delight in that?
From a wide range of personal expe-
rience I would modestly assert that there
is. Although you realize that the doom
is drawing nearer, although to avert it
you put forth your mightiest efforts and
only lose in strength and breath while
your adversary seems to be renewing his

inhuman power, you fight on, hoping
even to the last that you may turn the
tide and pull out a glorious victory.
You make a stroke that spurs you on,
you follow it with three that provoke
your bitterest self-contempt, and you
plant yourself with melodramatic deter-
mination in your soul and, doubtless,
upon your face. "The Old Guard dies,
but never surrenders ; " was there no joy
for them in their supreme, superb anni-
hilation ? It makes after all little dif-
ference to you emotionally whether your
fight against odds is a winning or a los-
ing one, so long as it is the best fight
that you can put forward. To be in the
thick of it, battering away undaunted,
is the fun. Even if your opponent so
far overmatches you that the outcome
is hardly in question, you may have as
good a time as if you stood to win ; for
you go in resolved to break down his
cool assurance, to make him show his
best efforts, to unmask and damage his
strategy and gain his respect ; and while
you are striving with all your pigmy
fury to achieve this, you now and then
must pause to admire the overwhelming
strokes of his resourceful master hand.
It seems fitting here to consider the
theory, often advanced and seldom dis-
puted, that a sport is the better for an
element of danger. If this is true, the
advocates of tennis must be dumb. No-
thing worse than a sprained ankle or a
wrenched knee can befall a man on a
tennis court ; and these, however pain-
ful, are not heroic injuries. I once heard
an eloquent and distinguished man in
the course of a brilliant address declare
that the occasional deaths occurring in
polo, in football, on the hunting field,
are the price the Anglo-Saxon race pays
for its position of headship and com-
mand. It was an impressive and in-
spiring oration ; and this sentiment was
echoed with a great outburst of applause.
Yet it does not bear cool scrutiny. The
football player will tell you that, once in
the game, the possibility of injury does
not occur to him ; the polo player will

214

Lawn Tennis.

say the same ; after you have taken the
first jump, danger in the hunting field
does not beset you. Where there is no
consciousness of danger, there is no
bravery. In the heat of battle no man
is a poltroon. Yes, but to take the first
jump, to go into the game, it is urged;
does not that compel and develop a
man's courage? Only if he is physi-
cally unfit or dangerously ignorant ; un-
der other circumstances to enter a sport
in which there is an element of peril is
as natural for the boy or the man, and
as little an indication of character, as
to go to bed when one is sleepy or to eat
when one is hungry. The boy who is
heavy and strong and whose friends are
playing football will take up the game ;
the man who rides well and whose
friends are playing polo will try his
hand at it ; and in neither case is there
on account of the physical risk any ac-
cess of courage to the novice. The foot-
ball player is no more to the front when
there is a runaway horse to be stopped
or a woman to be saved from drowning
than any other chivalrous and hardy
man. It is not the element of danger
in a game which trains one to fortitude
and courage ; it is the element of opposi-
tion, purely. He is the courageous man
who in the crisis of the contest responds
the more daringly and steadfastly the
more he is tried ; and that he may be
at the moment in some remote peril
of life or limb adds nothing to his sta-
ture, increases not at all the importance
of the test. The injuries and deaths
that sometimes take place in our rougher
sports should not be viewed as glorify-
ing these forms of contest ; they are de-
plorable calamities, with no mitigation.
It seems to me beyond debate that the
game which is entirely harmless in its
play, which does not imperil the man,
and which has none the less qualities that
make for manliness, is the best of all
games.

Certainly of them all tennis is the
most universal; small boys, girls, wo-
men, men of three generations play it,

and the crack has not very much more
enjoyment out of it than the duffer. So
long as a player feels within him possi-
bilities of growth he enjoys the game ;
and even when these fail, even when he
realizes that he is slipping backward,
he clings on, light-heartedly contesting
every inch of the decline with some one
of his contemporaries. "If I cannot
keep pace with the advancing battalion,
I shall not head those who are in re-
treat, " cries your optimist ; and so
because tennis players are generally op-
timists you will see on any warm
summer day veterans urging their old
limbs upon the grassy courts, crouching
in their play with racket held stiffly,
trotting with little, timorous steps, pok-
ing at the ball with the gesture of un-
certain vision; and you watch them
awhile and think perhaps in the pride
of your youth, u There can't be much
fun in that. " And then, while you are
looking on, they begin to wrangle about
some point; they are suspicious as to
whether or not that ball actually did
strike the line ; and such verbal vitality
as those four old men will then display,
congregating at the net, wagging their
heads, and finally examining the ball it-
self for traces of whitewash! You do
not doubt any longer that their tennis is
something of extreme moment to them ;
and you wonder if with your own occa-
sional slipshod indifference to your
rights on doubtful points you do not
show an unworthy slight regard for a
noble game.

In fact, I think that a match between
old men deeply in earnest is a spectacle
more inspiring to one's humanity than
a tournament of champions. I do not
mean that I would rather watch it ; I
do not deny that for a spectator in or-
dinary mood it is a slumberous proceed-
ing. Yet if one is in an idle, reflective,
kindly frame of mind, there is nothing
so cheering to one's faith, so soothing
to one's soul, so hopeful and sane and
healthy as the sight of these graybeards,
venerable enough when you meet

Lavm Tennis.

215

them on the street, and now scampering
after a ball with the single-minded pas-
sion of a dog or a child. Their squab-
bles and their laughter are alike plea-
sant to the ear; and when they stop
between sets to rest and draw their
asthmatic breath, you look at them
admiringly and hope that when you
grow old you too may be this kind of
fine old boy.

There is charm also, though of a dif-
ferent nature, in observing the young
duffer. I know not why it should be
so, but the strong young duffer in tennis
is a more ungainly and grotesque crea-
ture than any that is furnished forth in
other sports. The golfer who swings
without hitting the ball is an object of
mild derision; his crestfallen appear-
ance after so tremendous an output of
power delights our hard American hu-
mor. In the same way the spectacle of
an unskillful baseball player awkwardly
muffing a "fly " has always a ludicrous
aspect for the "bleachers. " If we do not
sit upon the bleachers, we withhold the
ridiculing outcry, but our amusement is
no less keen for being suppressed. The
gingerly clumsiness with which a well-
grown man will hold up a tennis racket,
seeming appalled by the harmless instru-
ment, prepares us to watch for his next
entertaining capers. He poses himself
with great care, gives a fine preliminary
flourish of his weapon, and then taps the
ball with a lady-like movement and la-
borious intentness of aim. It goes wild,
and he screws his body to one side with
a frantic instinct to correct the disap-
pointing flight. I would not seem un-
sympathetic with the duffer; how should
I hope for mercy, showing none !

Given, as he usually is, to expletive
and malediction, the beginner is never
so rampant as he who has progressed a
stage and is trying strokes. Genus ir-
ritabile ! The duffer is determined to
master the drive that long low stroke
that skims the net and then drops sharp-
ly, the stroke that is invaluable to one
playing in the back of the court. Hold-

ing his racket conscientiously in the
manner prescribed, he advances upon an
easy bound, swings, leaping from the
earth with both feet, and sends the ball
flying over the club-house. Then what
vociferation ! He has not the contained
solemnity of the veterans playing near
by, or the absorbed anxiety of mien of
the utter duffer ; his interest in the game
itself seems not so profound and there-
fore is not so touching as theirs ; he is
animated too keenly by an egotistical
desire for self -improvement.

When the duffer has at last attained
a "stroke," it is too often only to be-
come its slave. There is so much phy-
sical satisfaction in making a clean,
swift, forehand drive across court or
down the side line, that a player who
has a moderate proficiency in this will
try it under the most rash and ill-fa-
vored conditions. Running at full speed
and just reaching the ball that he should
lob, he will swipe desperately, and the
occasional lucky shot that he achieves
compensates him for the half-dozen that
he has sent wild. But in the score his
errors are not forgotten; and at the
end 01 the game he will perhaps wonder
why so brilliant a player as himself does
not more often win. Generally speak-
ing, the player who cultivates a stroke
lays himself open to attack at every
other point ; his backhand is liable to be
weak, his game at the net is neglect-
ed, he becomes obsessed with the no-
tion that if he can only get that stroke
going hard and accurately, it will carry
him through unaided. And that is why
many a showy player goes down before
one whose game is more slow and dull
to watch. For any high degree of pro-
ficiency, speed is of course an essential ;
but extreme speed is more often exhib-
ited by players of the second or third
class than by the most successful cracks.
The supreme skill lies in the ability to
hit a ball as well from one position as
from another, backhand, forehand,
volley, or half -volley, and next to that
in adjusting the balance between speed

216

Lawn Tennis.

and accuracy ; even by long practice you
may never learn to gauge the pace above
which or below which you may not go
without sacrificing precision or direc-
tion. This requires a genius for tennis,
a native instinct, and an unusual power
of coordination.

I have never seen a match between
players of the first rank without having
a slightly disappointe'd sense that their
performance seemed less wonderful than
it actually was. I fancy that to any
one who has played tennis a little such
an exhibition falls in just this way short
of anticipation. The game is not a se-
quence of magnificent bursts of speed,
sensational smashes, extraordinary ral-
lies, although at moments these do flash
and electrify ; it proceeds with an out-
ward smoothness, ease and rhythm of
movement that by no means intimates
the tension of the contest. The spec-
tator is tempted to the remark, "It
seems so simple; why shouldn't any-
body play that way ? ' Every swing of
the rackets is free, absolutely unstudied,
propelled with the least muscular ef-
fort ; you feel that if you were to pick
up a racket for the first time that would
be exactly the way you would naturally
swing it. And the players seem not to
be running about so very violently ; on
the whole, not so violently as you your-
self run when you play ; you watch them
and do not understand how they manage
this. One places the ball, you would
say, definitely, yet without much appar-
ent exertion the other is there and has
returned it. The explanation is that
these players by instinct and long expe-
rience know how to cover their court
and economize their strength; antici-
pating every stroke, they are quick at
starting; every movement counts, and
they go through no unnecessary floun-
dering; immediate perception does for
them what sheer strength and speed can
never do for the less gifted. In tennis,
as in other matters, the highest achieve-
ments often seem spontaneous and
casual.

Unquestionably the most distin-
guished exponents of the game that is
both leisurely yet cat-like in quickness
are the English gentlemen who chal-
lenged for the International Cup last
year. In contrast to their method of
covering the court, even our best Amer-
ican players seemed to rush and scram-
ble. The Englishmen moved with an
unassuming stealth and were not over-
anxious to receive the ball at the most
favorable point of the bound. Our play-
ers obviously took greater pains to get
into position. The English game was
on the whole the more finished and per-
fect ; the American game in singles
only the more aggressive and compul-
sive. The Englishmen, playing at top
notch and with all desperation, gave the
impression of still having something in
reserve; it was always clear when the
Americans were straining every re-
source. In the American game there
was more personality ; in the English
game there was more form. The quali-
ties came out curiously in many ways
even in the matter of dress. In
this respect the visitors were as precise
as in their play, appearing always in
the freshest white clothes, white even
to their shoes, wearing their long sleeves
flapping modestly about their wrists;
the Americans, with their various drab
flannels, their black spiked shoes, and
their rolled-up sleeves, presented a more
dangerous and less attractive appear-
ance. The dilettante aspect of the
English champions made their efficient
performance the more astonishing to
our eyes. They moved softly upon the
grass with their rubber-soled shoes in-
stead of tearing it with spikes accord-
ing to our barbarous practice ; they pre-
served unruffled through five hard sets
the garden party look with which they
first appeared; they almost made us
feel that to perspire when playing ten-
nis, if not actually vulgar, is at least
undisciplined. With such refinement
of appearance, the most scrupulous cour-
tesy and sportsmanship were to be ex-

Lawn Tennis.

217

pected; and indeed one of the visitors
performed the prettiest act of the tour-
nament. When on a close decision the
umpire awarded him a point that he felt
was not rightfully his, he carefully
drove the next ball out of court, restor-
ing the advantage to his opponent.

The gracefulness of the act was un-
usual, but the spirit that prompted it
prevails widely in tennis, and it is this
that gives the game so pleasant an at-
mosphere. Except occasionally for a
hurried, excited "How's that? " when
the player is uncertain whether a ball
is in or out, there is never a word said
to the umpire ; and the times when one
may see disgust, resentment, even a
passing surprise expressed on a player's
face at a flagrantly mistaken decision
are so rare as to be memorable. I re-
call at least two matches of an agoniz-
ing closeness that turned on faulty de-
cisions, yet on neither occasion did the
sufferer betray by glance at umpire or
spectators any sense of injury. In no
other game, I think, are self-control
and a readiness to put the best face on
misfortune so generally the rule.

And this is of course a part of not
taking one's game too seriously. It is
no uncommon thing, according to re-
ports, for the defeated contestants in a
decisive rowing race or football match
to burst into tears. I have never heard
of a deposed tennis champion making
such a demonstration. What is the dif-
ference ? Is it that the tension is really
so much greater in one form of sport
than in another ? Partly this, perhaps ;
but I am inclined to think the deeper
cause lies in the fact that in lennis you
go down to defeat alone or at most with
only one other; while in football and
rowing your grief is reduplicated for all
the comrades with whom you have met
disaster, who undertook with you
some responsibility that at the time
looms disproportionately great. Now
it is a fine thing to experience sorrow
in this way, even though to us on the
outside the cause appears trifling ; such

suffering promotes one's sympathy and
opens one's heart, and when we consider
the humanizing influence of a defeat at
rowing or football, we do not weigh too
heavily the foolishness of the occasional
hysterical outburst. And tennis has no
such moments of dramatic awakening.
Its after effects are comparatively mild.
Even in the case of doubles, where you
have another to be sorry for, defeat
brings out a mutual spirit of good humor
and acquiescence ; you reproach yourself
and your partner reproaches himself,
but neither of you sits in gloom ; there is
a light touch in your mutual apology.
And the game that is permeated with
so tolerant and gay a spirit seems to me
better than the one that probes the deeps
in men's souls. We must not suffer too
much in our sports ; shall we have no joy
in life?

I am trespassing on my purpose in
entering again for even a moment the
field of controversy, but before emer-
ging and because it bears some relation
to this subject of not taking one's game
too seriously, I would point out that as
yet there have been in tennis no squab-
bles about "eligibility " and "amateur
standing, " no noisy coaching from the
side-lines, and no professional teachers.
A game which thrives yet which offers
no inducement to the "professional " is
one that is played in a sufficiently light-
hearted spirit.

This does not qualify the importance
of the actual contest. Those who can-
not throw themselves into it as if for
the time being it were the most mo-
mentous thing in life will never appre-
ciate its delights. The overmastering,
avaricious desire to win is always to be
deprecated, but to be keen to play one's
best and bear one's self steadily and
valorously in the crisis should be the es-
sential spirit of the game. To be sure,
that is the spirit in which all games
should be played; but tennis least of
all permits any shirking of the issue.
When the crisis comes, there is no chance
for the weak-hearted to thank his stars

218

Lawn Tennis.

that some one else than himself is called
upon ; and if he has the spark of man-
hood he will not look too complacently
upon defeat. Excitement and exhaus-
tion may wear the player down, but he
must set himself only the more reso-
lutely to the task of playing better than
he has ever yet done. The time comes
when his heart pounds and his lungs are
pumping for air ; when he walks droop-
ing and reeking under the blazing sun ;
but he must not allow his misery to en-
gage his mind, he must not debate the
question how much longer he can en-
dure ; he must bend all his intentness
of purpose, all the remnant of his
strength, upon repelling the final assault
of the foe. Of such importance is the
actual contest, and its importance
ceases utterly when the last point has
been played.

I am drawing for illustration upon an
extreme case; in our ordinary matches
we stop short of the point where suffer-
ing begins. We are leisurely, and we
do not prolong our game until we are
threatened with collapse on the court.
But however leisurely our methods,
however mild our strokes, tennis makes
an exacting demand upon our faculties ;
the temper of the game is ardent, not
phlegmatic. One of the best players
this country has ever produced will come
into the club-house between sets of an
insignificant match, panting more with
nervousness than with fatigue, trembling
so that he cannot hold his racket steadv,

*< '

looking harassed, frightened, and des-
perate. He calls on his friends to fan
him with towels, he tells them how
scared he is, he holds the glass of water
brought him in a shaking hand. Yet
after the interval he will return to the
court, make unerring shots along the
lines, and show the most thorough com-
mand of nerves and muscles, even though
between plays he is twitching with ex-
citement. And after he has won, as is
his usual custom, the game is of hard-
ly enough interest to him to serve as
the briefest topic of conversation; he

jumps under the shower, and then while
he dresses he discusses with you where
he had better dine and how he shall
pass the evening; he may even insist
on reading to you from some precious
little book of poems that he keeps in
his locker; although it is more likely
that he will be throwing towels and ac-
cusing some one of having stolen his
shoes.

The manners of tournament players
in the presence of spectators are an in-
teresting if trivial study. Some of
them make it a point never to glance at
the audience ; in idle moments they keep
their eyes on the ground or perhaps toss
them skyward as they walk to their
places. Others favor the crowd with
an occasional stolid, inexpressive stare.
A few have adopted an ingenuous, cheer-
ful, confiding smile which they flash at
certain junctures as when they make
a particularly bad shot. When they do
something brilliant and there is ap-
plause, they look stern, even annoyed.
Mannerisms wear off in some degree as
the player becomes involved in the ex-
citement of the game ; but the grand
stand player never quite forgets himself.
There will be the mute appeal to the
heavens when his shot goes extravagant-
ly wild, or the staggering display of ex-
haustion when he has crowned a long
rally with a brilliant stroke.

But these are superficial trifles on
which to dwell, and we shall err if we
regard them too narrowly. Your grand
stand player is often as worthy a person
as the man whom you would more read-
ily define as of " sterling " character;
pass by the weakness of a little vanity,
and he is perhaps as alert to opportuni-
ties, as keen in the game, as plucky a
fighter as his more steady-going oppo-
nent. Indeed, we are in danger of
trusting our games too implicitly as tests
of character. With all our enthusiasm
for our own particular sports, we shall
do well to pause and consider whether
on the whole the men of high attain-
ments in these go farther than other

Lawn Tennis.

219

men. The great football hero of fifteen
years ago is still remembered ; but since
running the length of the field for a
touchdown, has he done anything that
is worthy of note ? We Americans are
inclined to set too high a value on ath-
letic prowess of any kind ; our newspa-
pers thrust fame on heads too young to
wear it, and there is sometimes a mel-
ancholy petty tragedy in the case of the
man who is more widely celebrated at
the age of twenty-one than he will ever
be again. Very likely he is a person
of good average abilities and persever-
ing character, who will fill a worthy
quiet corner and look back with pleasure
on his shining and triumphant youth ;
then there is no great harm done. But
now and then one sees a man who played
a game too conspicuously well and, doing
so, fulfilled his destiny.

Tournaments and match play are by
no means the only feature of tennis that
should be considered ; indeed they are
perhaps the least important. There are
a hundred people getting enjoyment out
of the game for every one who enters a
tournament. It does not trouble the
boy that his court is not good or that
his racket is ill-balanced and poorly
strung ; he marks out the lines with his
own hands, pulls his own roller, and
then plays the game, blithely indiffer-
ent to all imperfections. Many a sub-
urbanite now has his cramped, some-
times his undersized court, where he
engages in conflict with the neighbor on
a Saturday afternoon ; cities are find-
ing it necessary to provide facilities for
tennis in the public playgrounds; and
young people gather there, bringing
half-worn balls and old rackets, and
await patiently their turn.

There is, however, no advantage to
be gained from playing under difficul-
ties; the better the court, the better
the fun. As your game improves, it
ceases to be a laughable phenomenon if
the ball repeatedly strikes some irregu-
larity of surface and bounds off at right
angles to its proper course. After a

time you appreciate with exasperation
what it means to have only three feet
of space behind the base-line ; you are
sure that with a fair chance you could
return those deep-driven balls, and you
long for an opportunity to try. So you
abandon your private court to the chil-
dren and join a club. It is a wise move ;
not only are the courts maintained in
better condition, but you also have the
advantage of testing your game against
a variety of opponents instead of in re-
peated meetings with the same one or
two. Your play improves rapidly
up to the point where improvement
ceases.

It is no more than reasonable that
lawn tennis should be at its best on
grass. In this country, however, it is
usually played on a surface of dirt or
ashes ; and certainly for the enthusiast
who is impatient for the end of winter
and does not put away his racket until
after the snow flies in the late autumn,
the dirt court is a necessity. It pro-
longs the tennis season by more than two
months. When rain and mist and dew
dampen the turf and make lawn tennis
impossible, the dirt court is still hard
and dry. It is very wearing on shoes
and balls and rackets, it soils the
clothes, it blisters the feet, it sends jar-
ring vibrations through the system ; but
it enables us to play in April and Oc-
tober. We slip and slide if we try to
turn sharply, we find the aggressive
game at the net hardly practicable ; yet
with all its infirmities the dirt court is
a most excellent makeshift. A good
dirt court is preferable to a mediocre
grass court ; a poor dirt court is better
than none at all. He who has played on
championship grounds and therefore de-
clines a contest on his friend's home-
made court is a tennis snob ; happily,
the type is rare.

The good grass court is a luxury and
a delight. To throw off one's clothes
on a hot summer day, put on the coolest
and lightest of garments, and run out
across the sunny lawn, where the after-

220

Lawn Tennis.

noon shadows lay their quiet fingers ; to
prance there and rush about and breast
the net, from which your adversary tries
hotly to dislodge you; to hit out with
the exhilarating sweep of arm and body,
to feel the racket responsive in your
hand, to see the ball fly swiftly where
you would have it go ; and through all
the stress and sweat to be conscious of
the kind sun and the quick turf and the
green maples and elms that fringe the
field is not this one of life's priceless
pleasures ? He is happy who learns to
know it in his youth; he is happy who
finds that it does not fail him in his
age. It is true that when we play ten-
nis we may not observe closely the trees
or listen for the songs of birds or have
leisure to admire the shapes and hues of
floating clouds ; no, tennis does not bring
us into any definite relation with nature,
but that is the inevitable defect of an
engrossing game. Nor is it the most
social of our sports. Golf is a conver-
sational opportunity; in baseball, to
coach from the side-lines must satisfy
the most talkative. But tennis is all
strife, with no time for comment. In
doubles you now and then exchange with
your partner a word of advice, approval,
or encouragement ; in singles you ejac-
ulate to your opponent, "Good shot! '
or "Hard luck! ' Beyond this, inter-
course does not go. It is, even in criti-
cal matches, a noiseless battle ; the dron-
ing iteration of the score from the ref-
eree sitting on his high seat by the net,
the soft thud of the ball upon the racket,
the swift catlike steps of the players,
convey no adequate intimation of the
struggle. It is far different in atmos-
phere from a rowing race with the cox-
swains of the crews yelling madly
through their megaphones, from a base-
ball game with its shrill chatter, from
a football game with the quarterback
shouting raucous signals in the arena
and the inclosing myriads roaring out
their cheers. Although it is so nervous
and active, it is of all games the most
silent and self-contained

It is not, however, utterly unsocial.
There is talk enough afterwards in the
club-house ; and even on the court play-
ers become in an acute and sympathetic
though unspeaking way aware of one an-
other. In the end tennis brings its fol-
lowers into a more intimate relation with
human nature. It purges them of their
cares and their unhealthy thoughts and
desires, it clarifies the mind and makes
sane the soul, it satisfies the restlessness
and contentiousness of the spirit and
gives it peace. On the tennis court
there is developed steadfastness of aim
and purpose, a better temper, and a
kinder heart ; here, through striving
with your fellow man, you may learn to
love him. Foes in sport are friends in
spirit; if the hand of every man seems
against us, and our hand against every
man, let us spill our antagonism harm-
lessly upon the tennis court. Many a
blue devil has here been crushed under
heel, many an animosity has been soft-
ened. You cannot think altogether ill
of any man against whom you have stood
in a hard and fairly fought game ; you
may even come to think well of one
whom you have hitherto held in slight
regard. Likewise, in their humble way,
do our international matches have a civi-
lizing influence. The surest guarantee
of a permanent peace among nations
would be to have them striving keenly
with one another in their games.

Some verses read at a tennis club din-
ner represent an effort to express, not
too seriously, the best that the game
does for its players :

One time the most of us, no doubt,

Had open hearts for others ;
We scorned the shield Distrust held out,

We met all men as brothers.

With years cool wisdom on us slips

The armor once declined ;
The laugh grows idle on our lips,

Or purpose lurks behind.

Fearful to lose our little place,

We dare not venture far
To welcome others of our race,

Men of the self -same star.

The Trail of the Tangier.

221

Eager to win beyond our ranks,

We trample others down,
And pressing 1 o'er them murmur thanks,

Our eyes upon the crown.

And yet we bear no enmity ;
" It 's life," we sadly say ;
' We would be genial, open, free
To all men as the day.

" This armor that doth make us safe,
This visor to the eye,

We feel their weight, we feel them chafe,
We fain would put them by."

And when we come to our green field,

Far from the strife of town,
Forthwith in gentleness we yield

And lay that armor down.

The touch of flannels to our skin,

Of grass beneath our feet,
Of sun at throat may help us win

Safe past the judgment seat.

Arthur Stanwood Pier.

THE TRAIL OF THE TANGLER.

THE "Electric' left the Fifteenth
Street Terminal in Kansas City in the
yellow dawn of an October morning;
the car, with its snub nose and project-
ing forward cage, nosing on like a great
catfish across bridges, railroad switches,
and cross streets up to Ninth Street,
where it headed toward the town of
Independence, Mo., at a smooth, swim-
ming gait. Just beyond the Belt Cross-
ing the motorman glanced back at the
conductor for an inquiring half second,
the inquiry being, " Do I dare ? " and
the conductor flashed back at the mo-
torman, " Sure, dare ! ' The motor-
man's eyes were shining and the conduc-
tor's eyes were shining. The car began
to go faster. Beyond Sheffield, in the
open stretch with its sprinkling of coun-
try houses, the speed was a thing to
question, and, quitting the rear cage
where he had been talking to two men,
the conductor passed through the car to
the motorman out front. Two or three
of the few passengers aboard, who were
noticing, were glad to see that the con-
ductor was disposed to put a stop to the
motorman's foolishness.

In the forward cage the conductor,
his breath issuing explosively in steamy
whiffs, was shrieking to the motorman :
"Jimmy! Mr. Shore says a hundred
more if we reach Shore Station in fifteen
minutes ! Let her go ! Let her go ! "

Then he passed back through the car,
humming, to hide his excitement from
the passengers.

" See here, " said an uneasy man,
plucking at the conductor's sleeve as he
passed, "what 's this for? Ain't we
a-going too fast ? '

" Fast ? ' repeated the conductor,
with a look of competency betrayed,
" fast ? ' He passed on haughtily, but
turned, on some charitable impulse, to
say behind his hand, "We are runnin'
on skedaddle time, but that 's an ex-
pert at the motor, need n't worry, no
matter how fast we go." With that,
he went on back to the rear, where the
two men were waiting for him, the eyes
of both burning with impatience and
distress. One of them, a big fellow,
who seemed to carry one arm with a
little nursing care, and who looked ill
despite his great size, thundered impo-
tently at the conductor :

"See here, Henry, what are we
crawling along like this for? If this is
the best you can get out of this damned
snail "

"Well, I tell you, Mr. Shore," in-
terposed the conductor soothingly,
"I '11 let you come through and stand
by Jimmy. Then you can see how fast
we are goin', and mabby that '11 quiet

you."

"Let's do that. Let's move up

222

The Trail of the Tangier.

there in front, Hardin." As he spoke
the slighter and taller of the two men
stooped for a medicine case that sat at
his feet, and with the case in one hand
steadied the big man with the other un-
til they reached the front cage, where
they took up positions behind the mo-
torman, their urging for speed becoming
like the crack of a whip about the mo-
torman 's ears.

Ahead of them Jackson County
stretched into the pale, gleaming east
with the limitless, dipping roll of the
Missouri country. Fields where the corn
had been shocked stretched off on the
right, up the curve of a hill, into the
sky, the line of small dun stacks like so
many space markers to the watchers be-
hind the motorman. The tiny red sta-
tion sheds, the gleam of the silver-white
mail boxes on the fences, the three or
four big houses of gray stone, the numer-
ous natty houses of brick and shingle,
all marked space in running laps for the
watchers behind the motorman. Woods
tipped with the blood-red sumach, flaunt-
ing hillside sweeps of golden-rod, long,
lean pastures, switches of rank horse-
weed, all were etched out, clean and
sharp, against the eastern light, only to
be succeeded by other woods, other
sweeps, other pastures, other switches,
in a ceaseless, merciless duplication for
the two behind the motorman.

"Great God! " cried the big man at
last, "there is no agony on earth like
the agony of waiting to learn whether
you are going to be agonized or not."
He forgot the trouble that his lame arm
caused him, and flung both hands out in
front of him in a tortured helplessness.

" Careful, be careful, " said the other
man warningly, "be careful with your
arm, Hard."

" Careful, nothing ! " groaned the big
man, his heavy hands working convul-
sively; "what 's the use of being care-
ful about me, what 's the use of any-
thing when she Now here, Jimmy,
you 've got to do better than this, we 're
walking, walking! ' He turned upon

the motorman with irresponsible vehe-
mence, but his companion laid a re-
straining hand upon him.

"Well, you see, the road being so full
of curves, Mr. Shore, " began the
motorman in a faint demur, but letting
his car out a little more, his eyes strain-
ing toward the weird veiled dawn in the
east, his muscles tense with the might
of his endeavor to reach Shore Station
in the appointed fifteen minutes,
"road being so full of curves, I don't
dare go too fast."

"Go just as fast as you do dare,
Jimmy." Shore's lips shook so that
he could hardly talk, and he turned his
wide, well-featured face to the man
beside him, in a dumb reliance that
seemed to be habit with him. Unfor-
tunately for him, just at that moment
the look in the other man's eyes was
appalling. "G-r-r-r-h! It 's no great
comfort to look at you! What 's the
matter, what do you mean " The
words, begun as a cry of protest, were
beaten into a hopeless mumble by Shore's
tempestuous despair. " If you give up,
if you lose hope, you! " he cried, and
the other drew up quickly under some
lash of self-control. His face stayed as
gray as wood ashes, but his tone was
quiet and his eyes were steady.

"No, oh no," he said earnestly, his
low voice rich and warm and confident ;
"it 's not that I have given up, not that
I have lost hope. Only, you know, I
have not seen her myself, I have had ta
take your impression for my impression,
and it 's hard to wait till I see her and
can get my own impression ; that 's all. "

"Oh, it's awful, to keep riding
on and on, and we don't get there at
all." Shore's thought was submerged
by his tears, and came out in fragments
like drowned flotsam. That he was
dramatically unconscious of the mo-
ment's drama, that he was as simple
and direct as he was big, was evident
from the loose way in which he went to
pieces, careless of appearances, shaken
inside and out by the emotion that pos-

The Trail of the Tangier.

223

sessed him. The motorman scratched
his ear, and the other man looked off
into the silver-yellow light in the east.
"I oughtn't to have left her," sobbed
Shore, "but I couldn't seem to stay in
that house any longer until I had you
there with me. You know how it goes
with me in my own sickness when I
haven't you about, it's infinitely
worse now with her sick, " he took
his hand from his eyes and sought the
eyes of the other imploringly.

The other, as though beating about
for relief, began to ask questions that
had been asked and answered many
times before on that same morning.
"When did Carey see her first? " he
undamped his teeth to say, and while
his arm steadied Shore, he was conscious
of a twitching tremor all over his own
body.

" Why, seven or eight days ago, " an-
swered Shore, moistening his lips and
leaning nearer his comrade with that
same insistent appeal for help, that
same close reliance, that same gigantic
helplessness. "This was the order of
things : We had had a good summer at
Mackinac, after that last stance with my
arm in the spring, and we left there
three weeks ago, she and the boy and
I, all well. I was getting along ship-
shape, so I came straight through from
Chicago, and she went down to that for-
saken Illinois town of Dixburn. She
has a married friend there, and of
course she was interested in the place
because you had once lived there. Well,
she stayed there a week, and came on
home with her head aching. It did n't
quit, so I brought Carey out, and he said
malaria. And though that fool 's been
out every day since, he never once said
danger till last night. Last night he
said typhoid, and I wired to Penangton
for you. This morning she Why,
why, she does n't know even me ! ' All
his profound assumption of her love for
him was patent in his inflection. "I
couldn't stand it. You don't know
what it is to a man married like I am

to be without her, - - without her con-
sciousness of herself and of him,
without her spirit " He stopped try-
ing to talk, and gnawed at his lower lip.

"And Dr. Carey thinks that this turn
for the worse thinks that she is in
danger? " Shore's emotionalism seemed
hard on the other man, whose questions
clicked out sharply.

"Why, that 's just it, that 's why
I 'm done with Carey, told me to be
prepared, aw, I can't talk, Ca-
rey 's a fool! '

"How many nurses have you out
there, Hard?"

"Oh, two or three shifts of them;
seems to me I 've seen four or five girls
around. "

"We'll let all but one go. I'll
nurse and you can nurse, and we don't
want to be cluttered up with too much
checked gingham and white apron.
How nearly there are we now, Hardin ? '

"Just around that curve yonder. Go
on. Jimmy, go on! Go on! '

The motorman yielded helplessly, and
the car, obedient to his daring, all but
leaped from the track around the curve,
slid, lock-wheeled, on a down grade for
a rod, and stopped.

Afterwards, the rush of that ride
across country always stood out in the
mind of one of the men as a part the
beginning of the longer, doubling,
twisting trail over which he was to go.

"Thank God and you, Jimmy! '
cried Hardin Shore, as he and his com-
rade leaped through the gates that were
thrown open.

"Get the doctor's case there, Tom,"
commanded Shore to the servant, who
stood waiting beside a light trap at the
station shed. "Don't let that nigger
tell me she 's worse, " he snarled on in
a stiff-lipped agony, as he read through
the gloom on the negro's face. Hur-
rying into the trap beside the doctor,
he gathered up the reins in his well hand
and guided his horses across the car
track, speeding the strong, clean-limbed
animals down the country road for half

224

The Trail of the Tangier.

a mile, without word or pause, then up
a long driveway to a stone house.

As they came on under the overhang-
ing grove of young walnut trees, the yel-
low light of the morning sifted through
the leaves and fell upon the house be-
yond with a pallid illumination hateful
to see, and the prescience of the house's
disaster lifted like a visible thing and
drifted toward the men in the trap,
lodging in the trees overhead with a low
and mournful rustle. There was a chill-
ing sense of a lost presence in the air,
a sense of something gone, something
that had vitalized and irradiated, whose
absence left an oppressive emptiness.
At the corner of the house a group of
negro women stood in nerveless fright,
their hands working in their aprons.
Behind the women some small black chil-
dren gaped wonderingly. The fright,
the stricken expectancy, was hard to
bear, and Shore got down from the trap
with a sick inward trembling ; but fright
and stricken expectancy were acting like
a challenge upon the other man, whose
eyes had narrowed into long steely
gleams, and whose bearing showed fight.

Inside the wide hall, one of the nurses
came noiselessly to meet them. "Yes,
seventh-day crisis, I reckon, or four-
teenth-day, " she whispered to the phy-
sician, and then drew Shore into a chair.
"Sit there for a moment, won't you,
until you feel better, " she said, taking
charge of Shore with an expert recogni-
tion of the latent invalidism showing
plainly now in the drawn lines of his
face.

''That 's right, don't come for a sec-
ond, Hardin. But don't be afraid.
You have not lost her ; you are not go-
ing to. Wait here till I send down for
you." The physician went up the stairs
on his quick feet, and into the typhoid
patient's room. Carey, the doctor in
attendance, stood at the foot of the bed,
looking at his case in gloomy helpless-
ness, while over at the window one of
the nurses was putting crushed ice into
an ice-cap. The little tinkle of the ice

intermingled with the murmuring voice
of the woman on the pillow, and the
two sounds were like the tumbling un-
rest of a hill stream.

"Can't stop that, " whispered Carey,
holding with relief to the hand of the
newcomer, who nodded understandingly,
slipped past him, and put his hand on the
woman's hand, outwardly the physician
only, perceptive at once of the crucial
untowardness of the outlook, the thready
pulse, the short breathing, the hurrying
delirium. With his ear close to her lips
he caught the words :

"A long trail, twisting and turn-
ing. " Then a rhythmic pause, and the
beat of the words again : "Don't forget
Hardin, he will suffer that 's true
I am far along on the tangling trail
ah me ! we go fast, too fast ! ' A flick-
ering, frightened cry! The physician's
hand tightened on her hand, and for a
troubled second she was quiet, then her
eyes opened staringly, flashed, and stead-
ied. "Garth! Garth! " she cried, and
tried to leap up, her eyes wide open upon
his eyes, her arms lifted to his shoul-
ders ; but he laid her back, and held her
with firm, detaining hands, a sudden
illumination in his eyes, as wild, as de-
lirious as that in her own. Little by
little her head ceased to roll upon the
pillow ; her lips stopped twitching, and
her thick lashes drooped till the fiery
gleam beneath them was quite shut out.
Carey came around softly from the foot
of the bed.

"Wonderful past any 'pathy, that
touch of yours ! " he murmured, looking
down upon the woman's hypnotic calm.
Over at the window the nurse was
watching, a trained blankness on her
face.

"She will have a conscious moment
when she rouses. Will you have Mr.
Shore here ; she will ask for him, " said
the doctor in low, resonant tones that
glided across the air with a musical
suggestion more effective than a com-
mand. His eyes stayed brilliant, full
of a strange, white radiance.

The Trail of the Tangier.

225

An hour later the woman, after a
briefly conscious interval, was sleeping ;
Hardin Shore sat in the next room with
a look of hope on his face ; in the lower
hall the two doctors were talking the
case over softly, Carey telling what he
had done and had been just about to do,
the other not listening, but acquiescing
and approving, all after the dicta of the
Code ; in the room assigned to the nurses
the two who were to go were packing
their traveling cases in open rebellion.

"Who-all is he anyway, this new
man, I wish you 'd say, " grumbled one.
She was the girl who had been last on
duty in the sickroom, and there was a
significant resentment in her tone.

"A country doctor, from that little
town of Penangton down the river
where Mrs. Shore used to live, that 's
all the who, " answered the other, equal-
ly petulant; "a friend who runs the
Shores, if I can read anything, send-
ing people away ! '

"And what 's his name?' pursued
the first speaker, that trained blankness
again on her face.

"Henderson."

"But his first name? '

"I d'n' know, Garth, I believe."

"Oh, I see!"

"See what?"

A look of ostentatious discretion
passed over the face of the first nurse;
she would not say what, and presently
the two went out of the house and back
to the city with Carey.

The people who were left ranged up,
watchful and alert, under Henderson's
leadership, for their fight with the fever.

"It's treacherous, typhoid," Hen-
derson told Hardin Shore in the very
beginning ; " it will double on us, it will
let us hope, it will cheat us, it will lead
us on a long trail, the old tangler." He
had got immediately at the woman's no-
tion that the dizziness of her head was
the ceaseless twisting and turning of an
aeriform Something that flew with her,
and he expressed himself with an uncon-
scious assumption of her fancy. "All
VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 15

we can do," he told Shore, "is to keep
up with it, keep a hand on it, till we
tire it out, then pull her back to us."

The Shore child was sent away, and
from morning until night there was no
sound in the great house, save the com-
ing and going of careful servants and
the low whispered word; but through
it all, up to the day of the last crisis,
the household having responded confi-
dently to Henderson's presence, the
house seemed less sensitively prescient
that disaster hovered over it ; the ser-
vants smiled sometimes, and in far cor-
ners of the grounds the small black chil-
dren laughed gayly.

"I feel that I 'm unfair to you, a
regular burden, Henderson, " said Shore,
who stayed near the sickroom helpless-
ly but enviously; "still, I don't know
where to begin to stop it. I 'm foolish
about you. I want you to be in there
with her all the time, and when you are
not with her, I have to have you with
me."

For a number of years Shore, through
a long fight of his own with disease, had
been expressing this sort of dependence
upon Henderson ; for years, through long
tests of friendship, he had been utter-
ly trustful ; for years, through blinding
mists of passion, Henderson had been
entirely reliable, entirely true ; for years
the woman had stood between them ; un-
til now, her eyes always insistently upon
Hardin Shore's eyes, her hand some-
times in Henderson's hand in secure
friendliness, a delicate protective aura
playing from her consciousness like a
luminous ether, through which Hender-
son could not look, and would not have
dared look if he could.

That had been the way for years. But
now, out on the red range of the fever,
had not the luminous veil fluttered rag-
gedly back, and for once, whether he
would or not, had he not seen beneath
it ? " Garth ! Garth ! " she had cried,
and had clung to him. Was it all the
craziness of the fever, had she not
known him ? The mad question became

226

The Trail of the Tangier.

a companion thing of that hurrying de-
lirium of hers, leading him on and on
after her, twisting, turning, coiling.
And over and over he put his hands
upon his shoulders as though he must
push in deeper the burn of those hands
of hers ; over and over, as her eyes
opened staringly upon him, he told him-
self that the question reached her and
was answered, that off on the devious
trail of her delirium she came face to
face with him and knew him for him-
self. When he was not beside her, his
forehead would grow cool, and he would
explain the whole thing to himself ; re-
mind himself of the generic truth that
the revelations of delirium were relia-
ble for the purposes of the pathological
novel only, not for any honest weighing
of things; that instead of being taken
as signal flashes from the sub-conscious-
ness of the patient, they should be taken
for what they were, distorted gleams,
refracted through the red, obstructive
media of the fever-hot brain cells. And
finally, and specifically, whatever this
particular woman said in her delirium,
the fact remained that in the full pos-
session of her faculties, she handed her-
self and her great power of loving to
her husband more unequivocally, more
fully, and more beautifully than any wo-
man in the world. Then he would go
back to her again.

The cycles went by, from seventh day
to fourteenth day, to twenty-first day,
in the weird rhythm of the fever, and
as he sat beside her, ceaseless in vigi-
lance, meeting the disease, symptom by
symptom, fighting, nursing, quieting,
a strange thing came to pass, he be-
gan to see that there were two of him,
one, the physician at the bedside, watch-
ing the zigzag climb of the fever, his
hand on the jerking thread of the pa-
tient's pulse ; the other, a dreamer who,
following a red trail daringly, found
what he sought in a tumultuous, subli-
mated freedom overhead. To the phy-
sician below the woman's broken words
were formless and void, but the dreamer

up above shut his soul about them and
made life of them.

"I must be going! " she would cry.
"Are you here? Are you ready? '

" Oh yes, I am ready, " he would say,
that mystical quieting force of his in the
smile that he turned upon her. As she
grew still, he would talk on, without the
spoken word or the need of it: "Now
we are flying free ! Now the trail leads
us higher, higher ! Now we are in our
place of dreams ! " He would lie back
in his chair then and close his eyes, as
softly as hers were closed.

"That Thing went fast over the tan-
gling trail ! ' The fever would be driv-
ing her on again.

" Did you get tired ? " he would say,
"I never tire coming up here."

Sometimes the physician was sorry
for the dreamer, thinking of the awak-
ening that was to come, but the dreamer
was heedless. It was so real to him, he
followed the trail so often, that it came
about that he recognized his sensations
like landmarks along the way, the first
uplift of his spirit, the wild strength of
his soaring, the tremulous joy of finding
her.

" The end of the tangling trail, " she
would mutter.

"I am here at the end. I shall be
here always, always waiting, " he would
insist, a great calm satisfaction on his
face, and would open his eyes to find
Hardin Shore standing beside them.

"Asleep, Henderson?'

"No, more awake than ever before
in my life."

"Is she better, old man? Every
time I hear you speak like that I think
she must be better, must be coming back
to me, there 's such a singing joy in
your voice, Henderson. Is it true? Is
she coming back ? '

"Oh yes, she is coming back, not
quite yet perhaps, but she is coming
back."

" What is it that she repeats like that
all the time, Henderson ? Can you un-
derstand it ? "

The Trail of the Tangier.

227

"It 's dream - talk, I would n't
bend too close, Hard, it disquiets her.
You will hear only fragments about the
tangling trail of the Thing that flies
with her."

"Keeps muttering," repeated Shore
wistfully. He put his great hand over
his wife's hand in a nerve-racked frenzy
of love, and she opened her eyes and
gazed at him for a moment, then some
bewildered effort at control shivered
through her and she lay still.

"Oh, get away, Hard ! That 's bad,
that 's bad ! ' Henderson pulled Shore
up with an irresistible hand and drew
him into the next room. "You see,
Hardin, " he explained, driving himself
on to comfort Shore with a singular con-
sciousness that the woman was directing
him to the explanation, "her thought
has come to be so constantly of saving
you anxiety because of your own illness
that now she is ill her chief worry is that
you are in the way of distress about her.
It isn't that she doesn't know you;
it 's that she does, comprehends just
enough to be trying to protect you."

The grieved look on Shore's face
lifted happily. "That 's right, you old
conjurer, " he said. "Put me back upon
the thought of her love of me. I know,
trying to think of me, even when
she can't think."

From twenty-first day to twenty-
eighth day! In the blackness of that
last night, Henderson, the dreamer,
passed out of the Shore house into the
grounds. He walked, blindly anxious
for motion, over the soft, thick turf,
with its shaggy mat of leaves, to the
wall around the young orchard behind
the house. The night was in the deep
after-midnight lull, infinitely quiet, but
Henderson pressed his hand to his head
as though to shut out great noises, and
peered out into the dense, clinging dark-
ness as though to sight the flight of some-
thing that swept past overhead.

If she died ! Foolish, futile thought !
He would not let it keep form ; he sent
it hurling as it hovered, vulture-like,

about his mind. She need not die. He
would not let her die. Had it not been
his again and again to rescue the sick,
to hold back the dying? She need not
die. His the power. He knew him-
self. He was not afraid.

And if she lived ! His the power,
to bring her back to the other man, to
bring her back now, bring her home from
the wild trail of their going, from the
high realm of his fancy, reestablish her
in her old relations, not as the free, fly-
ing spirit that he had known in that up-
per living, ah, God, to do that !

Across the black quiet of the night
another figure was vaguely outlined at
the orchard wall. Shore was standing
there forlornly, his lame arm across his
knee, his eyes burning into the darkness,
seeking, seeking.

"I am so lost, Henderson," he
groaned, as Henderson came up silently.
"I followed you out here. I can't stay
in that house. You see, with her un-
conscious, it 's as though she is n't here.
I 'm so used to having her here, Hen-
derson. She has had always the stran-
gest, fullest capacity for being here, all
around and in and through me, every-
thing that a man needs to finish his
comprehension of himself and every-
thing else, Henderson, if you only un-
derstood what I feel, you would n't let
her go, you couldn't."

"Oh, stop, Hardin!"

"Time and again, Henderson, you 've
interposed that will of yours, that power
of yours, between death and me ; time
and again I 've felt it like a thing to
touch and see ; time and again you 've
kept me here when I should have gone
but for you "

"Hardin Shore, do I need this urg-
ing ? " cried Henderson, the clarion ring
of his voice piercingly clear in the
night's quiet.

"It 's because I know your ability,
Henderson," went on Shore, bungling
miserably, " that I want to know that
you are using every ounce of that abil-
ity. You will save her for me, won't

228

The Trail of the Tangier.

you, old man you will save her for
me "

"Yes, I'll save her for you, " an-
swered Henderson, with that final as-
sured confidence which he always used
to compel confidence. "Come on back
to the house, Hard. It 's hour by hour
till dawn now. " He put his arm through
Hardin Shore's arm, and they went into
the house together.

Back in the sickroom Henderson, the
physician, took up his vigil again alone.
He made Hardin Shore wait in an ad-
joining room with the nurse, and, alone,
he sat down beside his patient, the
strength of destiny in his eyes. The
seconds went by with a little clicking
catch in their going, marked by the flick-
er of her breathing, and she gave no heed
to the compulsion in the physician's
touch upon her hand. The seconds
went by with a little clicking catch in
their going, and the physician became
the dreamer and began to talk to her,
urging himself far out after her, match-
ing the red range of the fever with his
own tenacious swiftness : " Come back,
come back! We may not stop at the
place of dreams! It is all over and
ended ! Come back ! '

Tossing, rockin'g, her head, with its
great, tumbled mass of soft hair, came
nearer, and her cheek cradled into the
hand that he stretched out supportingly.

"Oh," she cried, "the end of the
trail at last ? The real ? '

He put his hand on her shoulder gen-
tly. "The real," he said. The last
of all reality, it seemed to him the fin-
ish of the wild dream-fancies that had
been for him so long the fullest and rich-
est reality.

Her eyes opened, shut, opened and
fixed upon him, her tension relaxing,
her mind clearing, her breathing quiet-
ing, the mystic fever cycle ended.

"Why, it 's you, dear old doctor-
boy ! " She had come back, the sane,
strong, delicate-fibred woman, who for
years had been the flower of his fancy,
the root of his morality, his courage!

The craziness, his and the fever's, was
a thing of the past, the mad aerial jour-
neying was over, she had come back !
The physician was sorry for the dreamer
as Henderson laid his hand upon her lips
and looked once into her earnest ques-
tioning eyes :

"Don't talk; you're back, that's
enough; you 're saved, that 's enough."

"It was good of you to save me
for Hard," she said softly, brokenly,
fast growing drowsy again, but compre-
hending still. Hardin Shore tipped to
the door, his wide face lit with joy, and
even as he bent and kissed her forehead
worshipfully, his wife was safely sleep-
ing.

Long, quiet days followed, and at the
end of one of them, Henderson, still
neglectful of his Penangton practice,
sat at the window across the room from
her bedside. Hardin Shore was in his
own room, sleeping off the exhaustion
of those weeks of anxiety for which he
had been so illy conditioned, and the
nurse was out in the young orchard,
methodically measuring off her evening
exercise. Beyond the window the sun
had set, and a soft, thickening gloom lay
over the room. Through it the two fig-
ures, the woman on the pillow and the
man in the chair by the window, were
barely visible to each other. She lay
with her hands above her head, the new
thinness of her face softened by the fall
of lace from her wrists. He sat in his
chair with his head thrown back wea-
rily, the worn fatigue of his face lifting
and floating away like a gossamer when-
ever his eyes rested upon her. The
physician had stayed sorry for the
dreamer; the memory of an illusion is
hard to bear.

"You are all tired out," she said.

"You are all wrong," he said.

"Do you hear the sleepy things out-
side? " she asked. The katydids were
crying and the crickets were chirping in
a drowsy remoteness. "It's strange
to hear things and see things and know
them for what they really are."

The Trail of the Tangier.

229

He glanced at her comprehendingly,
thinking to let her know that he un-
derstood the little shock of amusement
with which she was finding herself again,
but seeing how beautifully her hair lay
about her face, and how subtly her grace
showed in the languid, swinging move-
ments of her long arms, he was not sure
what he had let her know.

"That trail, that tangling trail!'
she began next, as though feeling her
way, and Henderson sat up and bent
forward, his eyes fixed upon her.

"Well, what of it? " he asked, his
breath hard and short.

"Well, I don't know, do you? " She
smiled at him, but the little shaking
span of her voice showed that she was
using it to bridge some chasm that
yawned before her. She raised her arms
and let the laces tumble more thick-
ly about her face, then looked at him
through the veil in an uncertain flare of
bravery. "Did it tangle you, too?'
she asked.

He leaned forward on the arm of his
chair and his eyes burned through the
laces into her eyes. " Did what tangle
me?"

"Why, the trail that we followed,
did it tangle you, too ? '

He had a sudden mannish impulse to
candor, absolute and entire, "Then
there was a trail for you, as for me ! '
he cried hoarsely, "and you realized,"
he stopped in that impulse to candor,
for she had drawn the laces closely about
her eyes. Seeing her do that, seeing
the hurt to her, he dropped back in his
chair with a low, sighing breath. "I
understand, " he said, "you need not be
afraid."

"No, not of not of a sick woman's
fancies, need I ? Need you ? ' The voice
quivered, and the hand above her head
closed tightly. "There was one fan-
cy," she went on, as though to an ap-
pointed task, "there was one about
the place of dreams at the end of
the trail where somebody Hard-
in, I expect always found me. Did
I ever did I ever speak of that ? '
Her intention to define for him their
old rightful relations touched him like
an accolade, raising him a bewildered
knight-errant, to go whither she pointed.

" My, yes, " he answered her evenly,
"and next you would cry, 'Hardin!
Hardin ! ' and we should have to scamper
after Hard." The laces pressed close
to the eyes and the tight hand relaxed.
"Oh, you were a nuisance about Hard, "
went on Henderson in a resonant, song-
ful tone now, his eyes flashing fire to the
west, " * Hardin! Hardin! ' you were
always crying."

She began to laugh, tremulous with
success under her laces. "I suppose it
must have been like that. I could n't
always tell what I was doing and say-
ing, whose name I was calling, I was
whirled about so, it was such a long
trail, that old tangler's. But if it did
n't tangle you, if you understand "
Her slender clasped hands were raised
to him, her voice swayed to him with a
fine, remote music like a wind-blown
bell.

"Yes, I understand. And it did n't
tangle me, " answered Henderson, fold-
ing his arms and striding to the window,
where he stood for a moment, a lean
young figure, erect and powerful, cleanly
cut against the light in the west.

R. E. Young.

230 Home Acres.

HOME ACRES.

A SENSE of pureness in the air,

Of wholesome life in growing things,
Trembling of blossom, blade and wings,

Perfume and beauty everywhere,

Skies, trees, the grass, the very loam,

I love them all; this is our home.

}

II.

God, make me worthy of thy land

Which mine I call a little while !
This meadow where the sunset's smile

Falls like a blessing from thy hand,

And where the river singing runs

'Neath wintry skies and summer suns.

in.

Million on million years have sped

To frame green fields and bowering hills;
The mortal for a moment tills

His span of earth, then is he dead:

This knows he well, yet doth he hold

His paradise like miser's gold.

IV.

I would be nobler than to clutch

My little world with gloating grasp;
Now, while I live, my hands unclasp,

Or let me hold it not so much

For my own joy as for the good

Of all the gentle brotherhood.

And as the seasons move in mirth

Of bloom and bird, of snow and leaf,
May my calm spirit rise from grief

In solace of the lovely earth ;

And though the land lie dark or lit,

Let me but gather songs from it.

R. W. Gilder.

Consecrated to Crime.

231

CONSECRATED TO CRIME.

" The breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there
With the little children round him in a row
Of admiration." Fra Lippo Lippi.

NOT long ago I saw these lines quoted
to show the blessedness of sanctuary ;
quoted with a serious sentimentality
which left no room for their more star-
tling significance. The writer drew a
parallel between the ruffian sheltered by
his church and the soldier sheltered by
his flag, forgiven much wrong-doing for
the sake of the standard under which
he has served and suffered. But Mr.
Browning's murderer has not served the
church. He is unforgiven, and, let us
hope, eventually hanged. In the inter-
val, however, he poses as a hero to the
children, and as an object of lively in-
terest to the pious and Mass-going Flor-
entines. A lean monk praying on the
altar-steps would have awakened no sen-
timent in their hearts ; yet even the fre-
quency, the cheapness of crime failed to
rob it of its lustre. It was not without
reason that Plutarch preferred to write
of wicked men. He had the pardonable
desire of an author to be read.

In these less vivid days we are seldom
brought into such picturesque contact
with assassins. The majesty of the law
is strenuously exerted to shield them
from open adulation. We have grown
sensitive too, and prone to consider our
own safety, which we call the welfare
of the public. Some of us believe that
criminals are madmen, or sick men, who
should be doctored rather than punished.
On the whole, our emotions are too com-
plex for the straightforward enjoyment
with which our robust ancestors con-
templated and often committed
deeds of violence. Murder is to us no
longer as

"... a dish of tea,
And treason, bread and butter."

We have ceased to stomach such sharp
condiments.

Yet something of the old glamour, the
glamour with which the Serpent beguiled
Eve, still hangs about historic sins, mak-
ing them as Plutarch knew more
attractive than historic virtues. Places
consecrated to the memory of crime have
so keen an interest that travelers search
for them painstakingly, and are often
both grieved and indignant because some
blood-soaked hovel has not been carefully
preserved by the ungrateful community
which harbored and hanged the
wretch who lived in it.

I met in Edinburgh a disappointed
tourist, a woman and an American,
who had spent a long day searching in
vain for the house in which Burke and
Hare committed their ghastly murders,
and for the still more hideous habitation
of Major Weir and his sister. She had
wandered for hours through the most
offensive slums that Great Britain has
to show ; she had seen and heard and
smelt everything that was disagreeable ;
she had made endless inquiries, and had
been regarded as a troublesome lunatic ;
and all that she might look upon the
dilapidated walls, behind which had been
committed evils too vile for telling. And
this in Edinburgh, the city of great and
sombre tragedies, where Mary Stuart
held her court, and Montrose rode to
the scaffold. With so many dark pages
in her chronicles, one has scant need to
burrow for ignoble guilt.

There are deeds, however, that have
so colored history, stained it so redly,
and so imperishably, that their seal is
set upon the abodes that witnessed them,
and all other associations grow dim and
trivial by comparison. The murder of a
Douglas or of a Guise by his sovereign
is the apotheosis of crime, the zenith of
horror. As long as the stones of Stir-

232 Consecrated to Crime.

ling or of Blois shall hold together, that blow was struck. " Behold the perfect
horror shall be their dower. The walls tableau ! " he winds up enthusiastically,
shriek their tale. They make a splendid and we are forced to admit that, as a
and harmonious background for the tableau, it lacks no element of success,
tragedy that gives them life. They are Mr. Henry James's somewhat cynical ap-
fitting guardians of their fame. It can preciation of this " perfect episode "
never be sufficiently regretted that the perfect, from the dramatist's point of
murder of Darnley had so mean a set- view recurs inevitably to our minds :
ting, and that the methods employed by " The picture is full of light and dark-
the murderers have left us little even of ness, full of movement, full altogether of
that meanness. Some bleak fortress in abominations. Mixed up with them all
the north should have sheltered a crime is the great theological motive, so that
so long impending, and so grimly the drama wants little to make it corn-
wrought ; but perhaps the paltriness of plete. The insolent prosperity of the
the victim merited no better mise en victim ; the weakness, the vices, the ter-
scene. The Douglas and the Guise were rors of the author of the deed ; the ad-
made of sterner stuff, and the world mirable execution of the plot ; the ac-
the tourist world pays in its vaporing cumulation of horror in what followed,
fashion a tribute to their strength. It render it, as a crime, one of the classic
buys pathetically incongruous souvenirs things."

of the " Douglas room ; " and it traces Classic surely were the repeated warn-

every step by which the great Duke, the ings, so determinedly ignored. Caesar

head and the heart of the League, went was not more plainly cautioned of his

scornfully to his death. danger than was the Duke of Guise.

Blois has associations that are not Caesar was not more resolved to live his

murderous. It saw the solemn conse- life fearlessly, or to die. Caesar was not

cration of the standard of Joan of Arc, harder to kill. It takes many a dagger

and the splendid feasts which celebrated stroke to release a strong spirit from its

the auspicious betrothal of Henry of Na- clay.

varre to his Valois bride. The statue of There were dismal prophecies months
Louis the Twelfth, " Father of his peo- ahead, advance couriers of the slowly
pie," sits stiffly astride of its caparisoned maturing plot. " Before the year dies,
charger above the entrance gate. But you shall die," was the message sent to
it is not upon Joan, nor upon Navarre, the Duke when the States-General were
nor upon good King Louis that the trav- summoned to Blois. His mother, cease-
eler wastes a thought. The ghosts that lessly apprehensive, his mistress, Char-
dominate the chateau are those of Cath- lotte de Sauves, besought him to leave
erine de Me'dicis, of her son, wanton in the chateau. Nine ominous notes, crum-
wickedness, and of the murdered Guise, pled bits of paper, each written at the
Castle guides are notoriously short of peril of a life, admonished him of his
speech, sparing of time, models of bored fate. The ninth was thrust into his hand
indifference. But the guardian of Blois as he made his way for the last time to
waxes eloquent over the tale he has to the Council Chamber. " Le del sombre
tell, and, with the dramatic instinct of his et triste " frowned forebodingly upon him
race, strives to put its details vividly be- as he crossed the terrace, and La Salle
fore our eyes. He assigns to each as- and D'Aubercourt strove even then to
sassin his post, shows where the wretched turn him back. At the foot of the beau-
young king concealed himself until the tif ul spiral staircase sat the jester, Chicot,
deed was done, and points out the exact singing softly under his breath a final
spot in the Cabinet Vieux where the first word of warning, "He*, j'ay Guise." He

Consecrated to Crime. 233

dared no more, and he dared that much tions of France ; the courage, sagacity,
in vain. The Duke passed him disdain- and unflinching resolution with which
fully, and smitten by the gods with Louis strengthened his kingdom, and pro-
madness went lightly up the steps to tected those whose mean estate made
meet his doom. them wholly uninteresting to nobler mon-

This is the story that Blois has to tell, archs. These things are worth consid-
and she tells it with terrible distinctness, eration, but far be it from us to consider
She is so steeped in blood, so shadowed them. High lights and heavy shadows
by the memory of her crime, that there please us best ; and by this time the
is scant need for her guides to play their shadows have been so well inked that
official parts, nor for her museum walls to their blackness is impenetrable. It can
be hung round with feeble representations never be said of Catherine de Me'dicis,
of the murder. But it is strange, after as it is said of Mary Stuart, that she has
all, that the beautiful home of Francis been injured by the zeal of her friends,
the First should not speak to us more and helped by the falsehoods of her ene-
audibly of him. He built its right wing, mies, Catherine has few friends, and
" the most joyous utterance of the French none whose enthusiasm is burdensome to
Renaissance." He stamped his own ex- endure. She has furnished easily used
uberant gayety upon every detail. His material for writers of romance, who corn-
salamander curls its carven tail over stairs monly represent her as depopulating
and doors and window sills. He is surely France with poisoned gloves and per-
a figurfe striking enough, and familiar f umery ; and she has served as a target
enough to enchain attention. Why don't too big to be missed for tyros in
we think about him, and about those historical invective. We have come to
ladies of " mutable connections " whose regard her in a large, loose, picturesque
names echo buoyantly from his little page way as an embodiment of evil, very
of history ? Why do our minds turn ob- much, perhaps, as Mr. John Addington
stinately to the Cabinet Vieux, or to Symonds regards Clytemnestra, fed
those still more mirthless rooms above and nourished by her sins, waxing fat
where Catherine de Me'dicis lived and upon iniquity, and destitute alike of con-
died. "II y a de mechanics qualites qui science and of shame. And this is the
font de grandes talents" but these qual- reason that women, who have spent their
ities were noticeably lacking in the Queen lives in practicing laborious virtues, stand
Mother. It is not the good she tried and fluttering with delight in that dark Me-
f ailed to do, but the evils that she wrought dicean bed-chamber. " Blois is the most
which give her a claim to our magnet- interesting of all the chateaux," said one
ized interest and regard. of them to me ; she looked as if she

To the tolerant observer it seems a couldn't even tell a lie, "you see the.

work of supererogation, a gilding of re- very bed in which Catherine de Me'dicis

fined gold, to add to the sins of really died." And I thought of the Florentine

accomplished sinners like Catherine and children at the altar-steps.

Louis the Eleventh. These sombre souls Mr. Andrew Lang is of the opinion

have left scant space for our riotous im- that if an historical event could be dis-

aginations to fill in. Their known deeds credited, like a ghost story, by discrepan-

are terrible enough to make us quail. It cies in the evidence, we might maintain

might be more profitable as it is cer- that Darnley never was murdered at all.

tainly more irksome to search for their We might also be led to doubt the exist-

redeeming traits : the tact, the mental ence of Cardinal Balue's cage, that in-

vigor of the queen, and the efforts she genio us torture-chamber which has added

made to bind together the distracted f ac- so largely and so deservedly to the repu-

234

Consecrated to Crime.

tation of Louis the Eleventh. There is
a drawing of the cage, or rather of a cage,
still to be seen, and there is the bill for
its making, what a prop to history are
well-kept household accounts ! while,
on the other hand, its ubiquitous nature
staggers our trusting faith. Loches claims
it as one of her traditions, and so does
Plessis les Tours. Loches is so rich in
horrors that she could afford to dispense
with a few ; but the cage, if it ever ex-
isted at all, was undoubtedly one of the
permanent decorations of her tower. The
room in which it hung is cheerful and
commodious when compared to the black
donjons of Saint Vallier and to the Bish-
ops of Puy and Autun. The cardinal
could at least see and be seen, if that were
any amelioration of his lot, and we are
still shown the turret stairs down, which
the king stepped warily when he came
to visit his prisoner.

But Plessis les Tours covets the dis-
tinction of the cage. She is not without
some dismal memories of her own, though
she looks like a dismantled factory, and
she strives with pardonable ambition to
make them dismaler. The energetic
and intelligent woman who conducts vis-
itors around her mouldering walls has
in a splendid spirit of assurance selected
a small dilapidated cellar, open to the
sky, and a small dilapidated flight of
steps, not more than seven in number.
Beneath these steps where a terrier
might perhaps curl himself in comfort
she assured us with an unflinching front
the cardinal's cage was tucked ; and,
reading the doubt in our veiled eyes,
she stooped and pointed out a rusty bit
of iron riveted in the wall. " See," she
said triumphantly, " there still remains
one of the fastenings of the cage." The
argument was irresistible.

" Behold this walrus tooth."

The fact is that it has been found
necessary to exert a great deal of inge-
nuity in order to meet the popular de-
mand for cold-blooded cruelty where

Louis the Eleventh is concerned. He is
an historic bugbear, a hobgoblin, at whose
grim ghost we grown-up children like to
shudder apprehensively. Scott, with a
tolerance as wide as Shakespeare's own,
has dared to give a finer coloring to the
picture, has dared to engage our sympa-
thy for this implacable old man who knew
how to " hate and wait," how to lie in
ambush, and how to drive relentlessly to
his goal. But even Scott has been un-
able to modify our cherished antipathy,
and the deep prejudices instilled early
into our minds. Mr. Robert Louis Ste-
venson, who of all writers has least pa-
tience with schoolbook verdicts, hits hard
at our narrow fidelity to censorship. " It
is probably more instructive," he says,
" to entertain a sneaking kindness for any
unpopular person than to give way to
perfect raptures of moral indignation
against his abstract vices."

Now a more unpopular, a more com-
prehensively unlovable person than Louis
it would be hard to find. He did much
for France, yet France drew a deep
breath of relief when he died.

" II n'est pas sire de son pays,
Quy de son peple n'est pas amez."

Those who fail to entertain the " sneaking
kindness " recommended by Mr. Steven-
son may shelter themselves behind this
ancient couplet. " Of him there is an end.
God pardon him his sins," is Froissart's
fashion of summing up every man's ca-
reer. It will serve as well for Louis as
for another.

But to gratify at once our prejudices
and our emotions, a generous mass of
legend has been added to the chronicles
of Loches, Blois, Amboise, and other cas-
tles that were consecrated to the crimes
of kings. History, though flexible and
complaisant up to a certain point, has her
limits of accommodation. She has also
her cold white lights and her disconcert-
ing truths, so annoying, and so invari-
ably ill-timed in their revelations. We
can never be quite sure that History, how-
ever obliging she seems, will not sud-

Consecrated to Crime. 235

denly desert our rightful cause, and go saved him from being the hero of such

over to our opponents. We have but to fantastic myths.

remember what trouble she has given, and It was more amusing to visit the pic-
in what an invidious, not to say churlish turesque old house in Tours, known as
spirit she has contradicted the most mas- le Maison de Tristan 1'Ermite. How it
terly historians. It is best to ignore her came to be associated with that sombre
altogether, and to tell our stories without and industrious hangman, who had been
any reference to her signature. dead half a century when its first stone
So thought the sensible young woman was laid, has never been made clear, un-
who led us captive through the Collegiate less, indeed, the familiar device of the
Church at Loches, and who insisted upon festooned cord, the emblem of Anne de
our descending into the crypt, at one Bretagne, which is carved over door and
time connected with the fortress by a windows, may be held responsible for the
subterranean gallery. Its dim walls are suggestion. Once christened, however, it
decorated .here and there with mural has become a centre of finely imaginative
paintings, rude and half defaced. She romance, romance of a high order, and
pointed out the shadowy outline of a which for finish of detail may be recom-
saint in cape and mitre, his stiff forefin- mended to the careless purveyors of his-
ger raised in benediction. " That," she toric fiction. Passing through the heavy
said with startling composure, " is the doorway into a beautiful but melancholy
bishop who was confessor to Louis the courtyard, we had hardly time to admire ,
Eleventh. The king had him buried its proportions, and the curious little
alive in this chapel, so that he might not stone beasts which wanton wickedly in
betray the secrets of his confession." dark corners, before a gaunt woman, who
" And did the king have him painted is the guardian spirit of the place, sum-
on the wall afterwards to commemorate moned us to ascend an interminable flight
the circumstance ? " asked the scoffer of of steps, much worn and dimly lit. They
the party, at whom others gazed re- had an ominous look, and the woman's
proachfully, while I wondered how the air of mystery, subtly blent with resolu-
story of St. John of Nepomuk had trav- tion, was in admirable accord with her
eled so far afield, and why it had been surroundings. From time to time she
so absurdly reset to add another shadow paused to point out a shallow niche which
to Louis' memory. It hardly seemed had formerly held a lamp, or a broken
worth while, in view of the legitimate place in the wall's rough masonry,
darkness of the field. It even seemed a " IS oubliette" she whispered grimly,
pity. It forced a laugh, and laughter is in- pointing to the hole which revealed
harmonious beneath the walls of Loches. and gainsaid nothing. There was a
But if the king, whose piety was of a small walled-up door, equally reserved,
vigorous and active order, had the habit which she said was, or had been, the
of walling up his confessors, there must opening of a secret passage connecting
have been some rational hesitation on the house with the Chateau of Plessis les
the part of even the most devoted clerics Tours, more than two miles away. The
when his Majesty sought to be shriven ; full significance of this remark failed to
and the stress of royal conscientiousness dawn upon us until we had climbed up,
combined with royal apprehension up, up, and emerged at last upon a nar-
must have shortened the somewhat haz- row balcony overlooking the sad court-
ardous road to church preferment. The yard far below, and protected by a stout
fact that Louis never wasted his cruel- iron railing. It was a disagreeable place,
ties, that they were one and all the fruits not without its suggestions of horror ; yet
of deep and secret hostility, might have were we in nowise prepared for the re-

236 Consecrated to Crime.

cital that followed. From this railing, ently useless, objects, which tradition had
said our guide, Tristan 1'Ermite was in not failed to turn to good account. For
the habit of hanging the victims whom every man hanged on that spot by the in-
Louis the Eleventh, " that great and defatigable Tristan, a nail was, it seems,
prompt chastener," confided to his mercy, driven into the wall, which thus became
I could n't help murmuring at the cruelty a sort of baker's tally or tavern slate. We
which compelled the unfortunates to counted forty-four nails. The woman
mount nearly two hundred steps to be nodded her head with serious satisfac-
hanged, when the courtyard beneath of- tion. Frequent repetitions of her story
fered every reasonable accommodation ; had brought her almost to the point of be-
but even as I spoke, I recognized the lieving it. She had ministered so long
poverty of imagination which could to the tastes of tourists who like to
prompt such a stupid speech. Perhaps think that Louis hanged his subjects as
some direful memory of the blood-stained liberally as Catherine de Me'dicis poi-
Balcon des Conjures at Amboise may be soned hers that she had gradually
held responsible for the web of fiction moulded her narrative into symmetry,
which has been woven about this grim making use of every available feature to
eyrie of Tours ; and if the picture lacks give it consistency and grace. The fine
the magnificent setting of the Amboise old house which may have harbored
tragedy, it is by no means destitute of tragedies of its own as sombre as any
color. There is a certain grandeur in wrought by Tristan's hand lent itself
being hanged from such a dizzy height. with true architectural sympathy to the

Our guide next pointed out the open- illusion. Some habitations can do this

ing of the mythical oubliette. If the con- thing, can look to perfection the parts

demned toiled wearily up to their beetling assigned them by history or by tradition,

scaffold, the executioners were at least Who that has ever seen the "Jew's

spared the labor of carrying their bodies House " at Lincoln can forget the pecu-

down again. After they had been pic- liar horror that broods over the dark, ill-

turesquely hanged under the king's own omened doorway ? The place is peopled

eye, for we were asked to believe that by ghosts. Beneath its heavy lintel pass

Louis walked two miles along a subter- little trembling feet. From out the

ranean passage to inspect the ordinary, shadows comes a strangled cry. It tells

and by no means infrequent, processes of its tale better than Chaucer or the bal-

justice, the corpses were tumbled into ladists ; with more of fear and less of

the oubliette, and made their own head- pity, more of suggestiveness and less of

long way to the Loire. amplitude. We shudder as we peer into

One more detail was added to this in- its gloom, yet we linger, magnetized by

teresting and deeply colored fable. The the subtlety of association. It may be

right - hand wall of the courtyard was innocent, poor, huddled mass of stone,

studded, on a level with the balcony, with but we hope not. We are like the

huge rusty iron nails. There were rows children at the altar-foot, spellbound by

upon rows of these unlovely, and appar- the vision of a crime.

Agnes Repplier.

The Story of Mimi-Nashi-Ho'icM.

237

THE STORY OF MIMI-NASHI-HOlCHI.

MORE than seven hundred years ago
there was fought at Dan-no-ura, in the
Straits of Shimonose'ki, the last battle
of the long contest between the Heike',
or Taira clan, and the Genji, or Mina-
moto clan. Then the Heike' perished
utterly, with their women and children,
and their infant emperor likewise, now
remembered as Antoku Tenno. And,
ever since, that shore and sea have been
haunted. Elsewhere I told you about
the strange crabs found there, called
Heik^ crabs, which have human faces
on their backs, and are said to be the
spirits of Heik^ warriors. 1

But there are other strange sights to
be witnessed along that coast. On dark
nights, thousands of ghostly fires hover
about the beach, or flit above the waves,

pale wandering lights which the fish-
ers call Oni-bi, or " Demon-fires ; " and,
whenever the winds are up, a sound of
great shouting comes from the sea, like
a clamor of battle.

In other years the Heike were much
more restless than now. They would
rise about ships passing in the night,
and try to sink them ; and at all times
they would watch for swimmers, to pull
them down. It was in order to appease
those dead that the Buddhist temple,
called Amidaji, was built at Akama-
gaseld. 2

A cemetery also was made close by

near the beach ; and within it were
set up monuments inscribed with the
names of the drowned emperor, and of
his great vassals ; and Buddhist services
were performed there, on behalf of their
spirits. After the temple had been built,

1 See my Kotto, for an illustrated paper upon
these curious creatures.

2 Or, Shimonose'ki. The town is also known
by the name of Bukan.

8 The biwa, a kind of four-stringed lute, is
chiefly used in musical recitative. Formerly the
professional minstrels who recited the Heike*-
Monogatari, and other epical or tragical histo-

and the memorial tombs erected, the
Heikd gave less trouble than before;
but they continued to do, at intervals,
things showing that they had not found
the perfect peace.

Several hundred years ago there lived
in Akamagase'ki a blind man named
Hoichi, who was famous for his skill in
recitative and in playing upon the biwa.*
From his early childhood, he had been
trained to recite and to play ; and while
still a mere lad he had surpassed his
teachers. When he became a profes-
sional biwa-hoshi, he was known chiefly
by his recitations of the history of the
Heik^ and the Genji; and in the Japa-
nese account of his life it is said that
when he sang of the battle of Dan-no-
ura "even the Kijin [goblins] could not
refrain from tears."

At the outset of his career, Hoichi
was very poor; but he found a good
friend to help him. The priest of the
Amidaji was fond of music and poet-
ry; and he often invited Hoichi to the
temple to play for him. Afterwards,
being greatly impressed by the blind
youth's wonderful skill, he proposed
that Hoichi should make the temple his
home ; and this offer was gratefully ac-
cepted . Hoichi was given a room in the
temple building, and, in return for food
and lodging, he was required only to
gratify the priest with a musical per-
formance on certain evenings, when not
otherwise engaged.

One summer night the priest was re-

ries, to the accompaniment of the biwa, were
called biwa-hoshi, or " lute-priests." The origin
of the name is not clear ; but it is possible that
the biwa-hoshi shaved their heads, like priests.
Blind musicians, and blind shampooers also,
used to so shave their heads. The biwa is
played with a sort of plectrum, called
usually made of horn.

238

The Story of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi.

quested to perform a Buddhist service
at the house of a dead parishioner ; and
he went there with his acolyte, leaving
Hoichi alone in the temple. It was a
very warm night, and the blind man
sought the coolness of the veranda upon
which his room opened. The veranda
overlooked a small garden in the rear of
the Amidaji. Hoichi sat down there
to wait for the priest's return, and tried
to relieve his solitude by practicing upon
his biwa. Midnight passed; and the
priest did not appear. But the night was
too hot for comfort within doors ; and
Hoichi still waited. At last he heard
footsteps approaching from the back
gate. Somebody crossed the garden,
advanced to the veranda, and stopped
directly in front of him, but it was
not the priest. A deep voice called him
by name, abruptly and unceremoni-
ously, in the manner of a saumurai sum-
moning an inferior :

"Hoichi!"

For the moment, Hoichi was too much
startled to answer ; and the voice again
called, in a tone of harsh command :

"Hoichi!"

"Half* the biwa-hoshi then re-
sponded, frightened by the menace of
the tone. " I am blind ! I cannot know
who calls me."

"There is nothing to fear," the
stranger said, speaking more gently.
"I am stopping near this temple, and
have been sent to you with a message.
My Lord, a person of exceedingly high
rank, is now staying at Akamagase'ki,
with many noble attendants. He wished
to view the scene of the battle of Dan-
no-ura ; and to-day he visited that place.
Having heard of your great skill in re-
citing the story of the battle, he now
desires to hear you, so you will take
your biwa, and come with me at once to
the house where the august assembly is
waiting. "

In those times the order of a saumurai
was not to be lightly disobeyed. Hoichi

1 A respectful terra, signifying the opening
of a gate. It was used by saumurai, when call-

donned his sandals, took his biwa, and
went away with the retainer, who guided
him deftly, but made him walk very
fast. The hand that guided was iron;
and the clank of the warrior's stride
proved him fully armed, probably
some palace-guard on duty. Hoichi 's
first alarm was over : he began to think
himself in good luck, for, remember-
ing the retainer's assurance about "a
person of exceedingly high rank," he
supposed that the lord who wished to
hear the recitation could not be less than
a daimyo of the first class. Presently
the saumurai halted ; and Hoichi became
aware that he had arrived at a large
gateway, and he wondered, for he
did not know of any large gateway in
that part of the town, except the main
gate of the temple. "Kaimon! ' * the
saumurai called ; and there was a sound
of unbarring; and the two passed on.

They traversed a space of garden, and
halted again before some entrance, where
the retainer cried in a loud voice:
"Within there! I have brought
Hoichi. " Then came sounds of feet hur-
rying, and screens sliding, and rain-doors
opening, and women's voices in con-
verse. By the language of the women
Hoichi knew that they were domestics
in some very noble household ; but he
could not imagine to what place he had
been conducted. Little time, however,
was allowed him for conjecture. Af-
ter he had been helped to mount several
steps, upon the last of which he was told
to doff his foot-gear, a woman's hand
guided him along interminable reaches
of smooth planking, and around pillared
angles too many to remember, and over
widths amazing of matted floor, un-
til some vast apartment was reached.
There he thought that many people were
assembled, for the sound of the rus-
tling of silk was like the whispering of
leaves in a wood. And there was like-
wise a great humming of voices ; and
the speech was the speech of courts.

ing to the guards on duty at a lord's gate, for
admission.

The Story of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi.

239

Hoichi was told to make himself at
ease ; and he found a kneeling-cushion
ready for him. After having taken his
place, and tuned his instrument, the
voice of a woman whom he divined
to be the Rojo, or matron in charge of
the female service addressed him,
saying :

"It is required that the history of
the Heike* be now recited, to the accom-
paniment of the biwa."

Now the entire history could have
been recited only in a time of many suc-
cessive nights: therefore Hoichi ven-
tured to suggest that a choice be made,
saying:

"As the whole of the story is not
soon to be told, what portion is it au-
gustly desired that I now recite ? '

The woman's voice made answer:

"Recite the story of the battle of
Dan-no-ura, for the pity of it is the
most deep."

Then Hoichi lifted up his voice, and
chanted the chant of the wild fight on
the bitter sea, wonderfully making
his biwa to sound like the straining of
oars and the rushing of ships, the whir
and the hissing of arrows, the shouting
and trampling of men, the crashing of
steel upon helmets, the plunging of slain
in the flood. And in the pauses of his
playing he could hear, to left and right
of him, voices of men and women mur-
muring wonder and praise : " How mar-
velous an artist ! ' " Never was playing
like this heard in our own province ! '
"Not in all the empire is there another
such singer as Hoichi." Then fresh
courage came to him, and he played and
chanted even better than before ; and a
hush of amazement deepened about him.
But when at last he came to tell the fate
of the fair and the helpless, the pite-
ous perishing of the women and chil-
dren, and the leap of Nii-no-Ama into
the waves with the imperial boy, then
all suddenly uttered one long, long shud-

' Traveling- incognito " is at least the mean-
ing 1 of the Japanese statement that the lord is

dering outcry of anguish ; and thereaf-
ter they wailed and wept, so loudly and
so wildly, that the blind musician was
frightened by the violence of the grief
which his story had aroused. For much
time the sobbing and the wailing con-
tinued. But gradually the sounds of
lamentation ceased; and, in the great
stillness that followed, Hoichi again
heard himself addressed by the voice of
the woman whom he thought to be the
R5jo.

She said :

"Although we had been assured that
you were a very skillful player upon the
biwa, we did not think that any one
could be so skillful as you have proved
yourself to-night. Our Lord has been
pleased to say that he intends to bestow
upon you a fitting reward. But he de-
sires that you shall perform before him
once every night during the next six
nights, after which time he will prob-
ably make his august return journey.
To-morrow night, therefore, you are to
come here, at the same hour. The re-
tainer who conducted you to-night will
again be sent for you.

"There is another thing about which
I have been ordered to speak to you. It
is required that you shall tell no per-
son of your visits here, during the time
of our Lord's sojourn at Akamagaseld.
As he is traveling incognito,* he com-
mands that no mention of this matter
be made. . . . You are now free to go
back to the temple."

After Hoichi had duly prostrated
himself in thanks, he was led, by a wo-
man's hand, to the entrance, where the
same retainer who had brought him to
the house was waiting to guide him
home. The retainer conducted him to
the veranda at the rear of the temple,
and there bade him good-night.

It was a little before dawn when the
blind man returned; but his absence

making a shinobi no go-ryoko (disguised august-
journey).

240

The, Story of Mimi-Nashi- Hoichi.

from the temple had not been observed,

as the priest, coming back at a very
late hour, had supposed him asleep.
During the day he was able to take rest ;
and he said no word of his strange ad-
venture. In the middle of the follow-
ing night the saumurai again came for
him, and led him to the august assem-
bly, where he gave another recitation
with the same success that had attend-
ed his previous performance. But dur-
ing this second visit, his absence from
the temple was accidentally discovered ;
and after his return in the morning,
the priest called him, and said, in a
tone of kindly reproach,

"We have been very anxious about
you, friend Hoichi. To go out, blind
and alone, at so late an hour, is dan-
gerous. Why did you go without tell-
ing us ? I could have ordered a servant
to accompany you. And where have
you been ? '

Hoichi answered evasively,

"Pardon me, kind friend! I had
to attend to a little private business ;
3,nd I could not arrange the matter at
any other hour." . . .

The good priest was surprised, rather
than hurt, by Hoichi 's reticence: he
felt it to be unnatural, and at once sus-
pected something wrong. He feared
that the blind man had been bewitched

by goblins or demons. He asked no
more questions; but he privately in-
structed the men-servants, in charge of
the temple grounds, to keep watch upon
Hoichi 's movements, and to follow him
in case that he should leave the temple
again at night.

On the very next night Hoichi was
seen to leave the temple; and the at-
tendants immediately lighted their lan-
terns, and followed after him. But it
was a rainy night, and very dark ; and,
by the time that the temple-folk reached
the roadway, Hoichi had disappeared.
Evidently he had walked very fast,
a strange thing, considering his blind-
ness ; for the road was in a bad condi-

tion. The men hurried through the
streets, making inquiries at every house
which Hoichi was accustomed to visit;
but no one could give them any infor-
mation about him. At last, as they
were returning to the temple by way
of the beach, they were startled by the
sound of a biwa, furiously played, in
the cemetery of the Amidaji. Except
for sundry ghost-fires, such as usual-
ly flitted there on moonless nights, all
was black darkness in that direction.
But the men hurried at once to the cem-
etery; and there, by the help of their
lanterns, they discovered Hoichi, seated
alone in the rain before the memorial
tomb of Antoku Tenno, making his biwa
resound, and loudly chanting the chant
of the battle of Dan-no-ura. And be-
hind him, and about him, and every-
where above the tombs, the fires of the
dead were burning like candles. Never
before had so great a host of Oni-bi ap-
peared in the sight of mortal man. . . .
" Hoichi - San ! Hoichi - San ! ' the
servants cried, "you are bewitched!
. . . Hoichi- San ! ' ...

But the blind man did not seem to
hear. Strenuously he made his biwa
to ring and clash and clang; more and
more wildly he chanted. They caught
hold of him ; they shouted into his ear,
" Hoichi-San ! come home with us ! *
Reprovingly he spoke to them :
"Before this august assembly to in-
terrupt me in such a manner will not be
tolerated."

Whereat, in spite of the weirdness
of the thing, the servants could not help
laughing. Feeling sure that he had
been bewitched, they seized him, and
pulled him upon his feet, and by main
force took him back to the temple, where
he was at once relieved of his wet cloth-
ing, by order of the priest, and reclad,
and made to eat and drink. Then the
priest insisted upon a full explanation
of his friend's extraordinary behavior.

Hoichi at first hesitated to speak.
But when he found that his conduct had

The Story of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi.

241

really alarmed and angered the kind
priest, he decided to abandon all reserve ;
and he related everything that had hap-
pened from the time of the first visit
of the saumurai.

The priest then said :

"Hoichi, my poor friend, you are
now in great danger ! It is very unfor-
tunate that you did not tell me all this
before. Your wonderful skill in music
has brought you into strange trouble.
By this time you must be aware that you
have not been visiting any house what-
ever, but have been passing your nights
in the cemetery, among the tombs of
the Heik^ ; and it was before the
memorial grave of Antoku Tenno that
our people found you to-night, sitting
in the rain. All that you have been
imagining was illusion, except the
calling of the dead. By once obeying
them, you have put yourself in their
power. If you obey them again, after
what has occurred, they will immedi-
ately destroy you; but, in any event,
they would have destroyed you sooner
or later. . . . Now I shall not be able
to remain with you to-night: I am
called away to perform another funeral
service. But before I go it will be
very necessary to protect your body by
writing holy texts upon it."

In the evening, before sundown, the
priest and his acolyte stripped Hoichi :
then, with their writing-brushes, they
traced upon his breast and back, head
and neck and face, limbs and hands and
feet, even upon the soles of his feet,

1 The smaller Pragna-P&ramita-Hridaya-Sfi-
tra is thus called in Japanese. Both the small-
er and larger Sutras of this name, Pragna-
Paramita, or " Transcendent Wisdom," have
been translated by Professor Max Miiller, and
can be found in vol. xlix. of the Sacred Books
of the East (Buddhist Mahay&ia Sfitras). The
so-called " Smaller " is but an epitome of the
" Larger ; " and both are very brief, the longer
occupying less than three pages of the book,
and the shorter less than two. Apropos of the
magical use of the text, as described in the
story, it is worthy of notice that the subject of
the Sutra is the doctrine of the Emptiness of
VOL. XCII. NO. 550. 16

and upon every part of his body, the
text of the holy Sutra called Hannya-
Shin-Kyo. 1 When this had been done,
the priest instructed Hoichi, saying :
'To-night, when I go away, you
must seat yourself on the gallery, and
wait. You will be called, as before.
But, whatever may happen, do not an-
swer, and do not move. Say nothing,
and sit still as if meditating. If
you stir, or make any noise, you will be
torn in pieces. Do not get frightened ;
and do not think of calling for help
because no help could save you. If
you do exactly as I tell you, the danger
will pass, and you will have nothing
more to fear."

After dark the priest and his acolyte
went out to perform their duty; and
Hoichi seated himself upon the veran-
da, according to the instructions given
him. He laid his biwa on the planking
near him, and, assuming the attitude
of religious meditation, remained quite
still, taking care not to cough, or to
clear his throat, or to breathe audibly.
He stayed thus for several hours. Then,
from the roadway, he heard the steps
coming. They crossed the garden, ap-
proached the veranda, stopped direct-
ly in front of him.

"Hoichi! ' the deep voice called.
But the blind man held his breath, and
sat motionless.

"Hoichi! " the voice called a second
time, grimly. Then a third time, sav-
agely,

"Hoichi!"

Forms, that is to say, the unreality of all phe-
nomena, objective and subjective. ..." Form
is emptiness ; and emptiness is form. Empti-
ness is not different from form; form is not
different from emptiness. What is form, that
is emptiness ; what is emptiness, that is form.
. . . Perception, name, concept, and knowledge
are also emptiness. . . . There is no eye, ear,
nose, tongue, body, and mind. . . . But when
the envelopment of consciousness has been an-
nihilated, then he [the seeker] becomes free
from all fear, and beyond the reach of change,
enjoying final Nirvana."

242

Birds from a City Roof.

Hoichi remained still as a stone ; and
the voice grumbled,

"No answer ? that is strange ! . . .
Must see where the fellow is." . . .

There was a noise of heavy feet
mounting on the veranda. The feet
approached deliberately, halted be-
side him. Then, for long minutes,
during which Hoichi felt his body
shaken like a drum at every beat of his
heart, there was dead silence.

At last the gruff voice muttered above
him,

"Here is the biwa; but of the biwa
player I see only two ears ! ... So
that explains why he did not answer:
he had no mouth to answer with ; there
is nothing left of him but his ears. . . .
To my Lord those ears I will take
in proof that the august commands were
obeyed, so far as was possible." . . .

At the same instant Hoichi felt his
ears gripped by fingers of iron, and torn
off. Great as the pain was, he gave no
cry. The heavy footfalls receded along
the veranda, descended into the gar-
den, passed.to the roadway, ceased.
From either side of his head the blind
man felt a thick warm trickling ; but he
dared not lift his hands. . . .

Before sunrise the priest returned.
He hastened immediately to the veran-
da in the rear of the temple, stepped
and slipped upon something clammy,
and uttered a cry of horror ; for he saw,
by the light of his lantern, that the

clamminess was blood. But he also
perceived Hoichi sitting there, in the
attitude of religious meditation, with
the blood still oozing from his wounds.

" My poor Hoichi ! " cried the star-
tled priest, "what is this? . . . You
have been hurt! '

At the sound of his friend's voice,
the blind man felt safe. He burst out
sobbing, and tearfully related his ad-
venture of the night.

"Poor, poor Hoichi! " the priest ex-
claimed, "all my fault! my very
grievous fault! . . . Everywhere upon
your body the holy texts had been writ-
ten except upon your ears ! I trusted
my acolyte to attend to that part of
the work ; and it was very, very wrong
of me not to have made sure that he
had done so. ... Well, the matter
cannot now be helped ; we can only try
to heal your hurts as soon as possible.
. . . Cheer up, friend ! the danger
is well over. You will never again be
troubled by those visitors." . . .

With the aid of a skilled doctor,
Hoichi soon recovered from his injuries.
The story of his strange experience
spread far and wide, and made him
famous. Many noble persons went to
Akamagasdki to hear him recite; and
large presents of money were given him,
so that he soon found himself a wealthy
man. . . . But from the time of that
adventure he was known only by the
appellation of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi,
"Hoichi-the-Earless."

Lafcadio Hearn.

BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF.

I LAID down my book and listened. It
was only the choking gurgle of a broken
rain-pipe outside : then it was the ripple
and swish of a meadow stream. To
make out the voices of redwings and
marsh wrens in the rasping notes of the
city sparrows behind the shutter re-

quired much more imagination. But I
did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash
of the water helped me.

The sounds of wind and water are the
same everywhere. Here at the heart
of the city I can forget the tarry pebbles
and painted tin whenever my rain-pipes

Birds from a City Roof.

243

are flooded. I can never be wholly shut
away from the open country and the
trees so long as the winds draw hard
down the alley past my window.

But I have more than a window and
a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five
flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a
wooden floor, a fence, and a million acres
of sky. I could n't possibly use another
acre of sky ; except along the eastern ho-
rizon where the top floors of some twelve-
story buildings intercept the dawn.

With such a roof and such a sky, if one
must, he can, with effort, get well out of
the city. I have never fished nor bot-
anized here, but I have been a-birding
many times.

" Stone walls do not a prison make "

nor city streets a cage if one have a roof.
A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study.
I would hardly, out of preference, have
chosen this with its soot and its battle-
ment of gaseous chimney-pots, even
though the great gilded dome of a state
house does shine down upon it. One
whose feet have always been in the soil
does not take kindly to tar and tin. But
anything open to the sky is open to some
of the birds, for the paths of the mi-
grants lie close along the clouds.

There are other birds than the passing
migrants, however, that sometimes come
within range of my lookout. The year
around there are English sparrows and
pigeons; and all through the summer
there is scarcely an evening hour when
a few chimney swallows are not in sight.

With the infinite number and variety
of chimneys hedging me in, I naturally
expected to find the sky alive with swal-
lows. Indeed I thought that some of the
twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof
would be inhabited by the birds. Not
so. While I can nearly always find at
least a pair of swallows in the air, they
are very scarce, and, so far as I know,
they rarely build in the heart of the city.
There are more canaries in my block
than there are chimney swallows in all

my sky. The swallows are suburban
birds. The gas, the smoke, the shriek-
ing ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen
roar of the city are not to their liking.
Perhaps the flies and gnats that they
feed upon cannot live in the air above
the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy
old town with big thunderful chimneys,
where there are wide fields and a patch
of quiet water.

Much more numerous than the swal-
lows are the night-hawks. My roof, in
fact, is the best place I have ever found
to study their feeding habits. These
that flit through my smoky dusk may
not make city nests, though the finding
of such nests would not surprise me. Of
course a night-hawk's nest, here or any-
where else, would surprise me ; for like
her cousin, the whip-poor-will, she never
builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the
gravel, the leaves, or on a bare rock,
deposits her eggs without even scratch-
ing aside the sticks and stones that may
share the bed, and in three days is brood-
ing them brooding the stones too.

It is likely that some of my hawks nest
on the buildings in the neighborhood.
Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been
found among the pebbles of city roofs.
The high flat house-tops are so quiet and
remote, so far away from the noisy life
in the narrow streets below, that the birds
make their nests here as if in a world
apart. The twelve and fifteen story
buildings are as so many deserted moun-
tain heads to them.

None of the birds build on my roof
however. But from early spring they
haunt the region so constantly that their
families, if they have families at all,
must be somewhere in the vicinity.
Should I see them like this about a field
or thicket in the country it would cer-
tainly mean a nest.

The sparrows themselves do not seem
more at home here than do the night-
hawks. One evening, after a sultry July
day, a wild wind-storm burst over the
city. The sun was low, glaring through

244

Birds from a City Roof.

a narrow rift between the hill-crests and
the clouds that spread green and heavy
across the sky. I could see the lower
fringes of the clouds working and writh-
ing in the wind, but not a sound or a
breath was in the air about me. Around
me, near and over my roof, flew the night-
hawks. They were crying peevishly and
skimming close to the chimneys, not ris-
ing, as usual, to any height.

Suddenly the storm broke. The rain
fell as if something had given way over-
head. The wind tore across the stubble
of roofs and spires, and through the
wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot
a weird, yellow-green sunlight.

I had never seen a storm like it. Nor
had the night-hawks. They were terri-
fied, and left the sky immediately. One
of them alighting on the roof across the
street, and creeping into the lee of a
chimney, huddled there in sight of me
until the wind was spent and a natural
sunlight flooded the world of roofs and
domes and spires.

Then they were all a-wing once more,
hawking for supper. Along with the
hawking they got in a great deal of play,
doing their tumbling and cloud-coasting
over the roofs just as they do above the
fields.

Mounting by easy stages of half a
dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by the
way, and crying peent-peent, the acro-
bat climbs until I look a mere lump on
the roof; then ceasing his whimpering
peent, he turns on bowed wings and falls,
shoots roof ward with fearful speed.
The chimneys ! Quick ! Quick he is.
Just short of the roofs the taut wings
flash a reverse, there is a lightning swoop,
a startling hollow wind-sound, and the
rushing bird is beating skyward again,
hawking deliberately as before, and ut-
tering again his peevish nasal cry.

This single note, the only call he has
beside a few squeaks, is far from a song ;
farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole
sound made by the air in the rushing
wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The

night-hawk, alias, " bull-bat," does not
sing. What a name bull - bat would
be for a singing bird ! But a " voice "
was never intended for the creature.
Voice, beak, legs, head, everything but
wings and maw was sacrificed for a
mouth. What a mouth ! The bird can
almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in
the head could never mean a song; it
could never be utilized for anything but
a flytrap.

We have use for flytraps. We need
some birds just to sit around, look pretty,
and sing. We will pay them for it in
cherries or in whatever they ask. But
there is also a great need for birds that
kill insects. And first among these are
the night-hawks. They seem to have
been designed for this sole purpose.
Their end is to kill insects. They are
more like machines than any other birds
I know. The enormous mouth feeds
an enormous stomach, and this, like a
fire-box, makes the power that works
the enormous wings. From a single
maw have been taken eighteen hundred
winged ants, to say nothing of the small-
er fry that could not be identified and
counted.

But if he never caught an ant, never
one of the fifth-story mosquitoes that
live and bite till Christmas, how greatly
still my sky would need him ! His flight
is song enough. His cry and eerie thun-
der are the very voice of the summer twi-
light to me. And as I watch him coasting
in the evening dusk, that twilight often
falls, over the roofs, as it used to fall
for me over the fields and the quiet hol-
low woods.

There is always an English sparrow on
my roof, which does not particularly
commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know.
I often wish the sparrow an entirely dif-
ferent bird, but I never wish him entirely
away from the roof. When there is no
other defense for him, I fall back upon
his being a bird. Any kind of a bird in
the city ! Any but a parrot.

A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an

Birds from a City Hoof.

245

eaves-trough, so close to the roof that I
can overhear their family talk. Round,
loquacious, familiar Cock Sparrow is a
family man ; so entirely a family man as
to be nothing else at all. He is a success,
too. It does me good to see him build.
He tore the old nest all away in the early
winter, so as to be ready. There came a
warm springish day in February, and he
began. A blizzard stopped him. but with
the melting of the snow he went to work
again, completing the nest by the middle
of March.

He built for a big family, and he had
it. Not " it " indeed, but them ; for there
were three batches of from six to ten
youngsters each during the course of the
season. He also did a father's share of
work with the children. I think he hated
hatching them. He would settle upon
the roof above the nest, and chirp in a
crabbed, imposed upon tone until his wife
came out. As she flew briskly away, he
would look disconsolately around at the
bright busy world, ruffle his feathers,
scold to himself, and then crawl dutifully
in upon the eggs.

I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock
sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I re-
spected him ; for though he grumbled, as
any normal husband might, still he was
" drinking fair " with Mrs. Sparrow. He
built and brooded and foraged for his
family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully,
as his wife. He deserved his blessed
abundance of children.

Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting,
vulgar ? Not if you live on a roof. He
may be all of this, a pest even, in the
country. But upon my roof, for weeks
at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I
hear. Throughout the spring, and far into
the summer, I watch the domestic affairs
in the eaves-trough ; during the winter,
at nightfall, I see little bands and flur-
ries of birds scudding over and dropping
behind the high buildings to the east.
They are sparrows on the way to their
roost in the elms of an old mid-city burial
ground.

I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring
calmly far away above the roof. Not only
the small ones, like the sharp-shinned,
but also the larger, wilder species come,
and winding up close to the clouds, circle
and circle there, trying apparently to see
some meaning in the maze of moving, in-
tersecting lines of dots below yonder in
the cracks of that smoking, rumbling
blur.

In the spring, from the trees of the
Common, which are close, but, except for
the crown of one noble English elm, are
shut away from me, I hear an occasional
robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely
a woodpecker will go over. The great
northern shrike is a frequent winter
visitor, but by ill chance I have not been
up when he has called at the roof.

One of these fiend birds haunts a small
court only a block away, which is inclosed
in a high board fence, topped with nails.
He likes the court because of these nails.
They are sharp ; they will stick clean
through the body of a sparrow. Some-
times the fiend has a dozen sparrows run
through with them, leaving the impaled
bodies to flutter in the wind and finally
fall away.

In sight from my roof are three tiny
patches of the harbor : sometimes a fourth,
when the big red-funneled liner is gone
from her slip. Down to the water of the
harbor come other winter residents, the
herring and black-backed gulls, in flocks
from the north. Often during the winter
I find them in my sky.

One day they will cross silently over
the city in a long straggling line. Again
they will fly low, wheeling and screaming,
their wild sea-voices shrill with the sound
of storm. If it is thick and gray over-
head, the snow-white bodies of the herring
gulls toss in the wind above the roofs like
patches of foam. I hear the sea the
wind, the surf, the wild fierce tumult of
the shore whenever the white gulls sail
screaming into my winter sky.

I have never lived under a wider reach
of sky than that above my roof. It offers

246

Birds from a City Roof.

a clear, straight, six-minute course to the
swiftest wedge of wild geese. Spring and
autumn the geese and ducks go over, and
their passage is the most thrilling event
in all my bird calendar.

It is because the ducks fly high and
silent that I see them so rarely. They
are always a surprise. You look, and
there against the dull sky they move,
strange dark forms that set your blood
leaping. But I never see a string of
them winging over that I do not think
of a huge thousand-legger crawling the
clouds.

My glimpses of the geese are largely
chance, too. Several times, through the
open window by my table, I have heard
the faint, far-off honking, and have hur-
ried to the roof in time to watch the
travelers disappear. One spring day I
was upon the roof when a large belated
flock came over, headed north. It was
the 20th of April, and the morning had
broken very warm. I could see that the
geese were hot and tired. They were
barely clearing the church spires. On
they came, their wedge wide and strag-
gling, until almost over me, when some-
thing happened. The gander in the lead
faltered and swerved, the wedge lines
wavered, the flock rushed together in
confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke
apart, and honking wildly, turned back
toward the bay.

It was instant and complete demoral-
ization. A stronger gander, I think,
could have led the wedge unbroken over
the city to some neighboring pond, where
the weakest of the stragglers must have
fallen from sheer exhaustion. Scaling

lower and lower across the roofs, the
flock reached the centre of the city and
drove suddenly into the roar and confu-
sion of the streets. Weary from the
heat, they were dismayed at the noise,
their leader faltered, and, at a stroke,
the great flying wedge went to pieces.

There is nothing in the life of birds
quite so stirring to the imagination as
their migration : the sight of gather-
ing swallows, the sudden appearance of
strange warblers, the call of passing
plovers, all are suggestive of instincts,
movements, and highways that are un-
seen, unaccountable, and full of mystery.
Little wonder that the most thrilling poem
ever written to a bird begins :

" Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps

of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way ? "

The question, the mystery in that " cer-
tain flight " I never felt so vividly as
from my roof. Here I have often heard
the reed-birds and the waterfowl passing.
Sometimes I have heard them going over
in the dark. One night I remember par-
ticularly, the sky and the air were so
clear and the geese so high overhead.

Above the fields and wide silent
marshes such passing is strange enough.
But here I stood above a sleeping city of
men, and far above me, so far that I
could only hear them, holding their north-
ward way through the starlit sky, they
passed whither ? and how guided ?
Was the shining dome of the State House
a beacon ? Did they mark the light at
Marblehead ?

Dallas Lore Sharp.

Anna Mareea.

247

ANNA MAREEA.

AT the door of her low gray cottage,
set in the green hollow of the hills, stood
Ann M'ria. She, too, was low and gray
and weather-beaten ; a tiny, gnarled old
woman with a hitching gait. Overhung
by the spicy, purple plumes of new-blown
lilacs, whose close-pressed stars brushed
the worn clapboards, she waited, shading
her eyes with her hand, and peering eager-
ly afield.

Up the pasture slope sped a flying fig-
ure. Ann M'ria caught her breath.

" It 's her ! It 's doctor's wife ! How
pretty she sets her foot. Why, what 's
she droppin' down fur on the grass ?
Tuckered out ? She 'd oughten ter race
so : one minute racin', next dead beat ;
that 's her all over. Guess I '11 go down
the path to meet her."

A twelvemonth since something very
wonderful had come into the solitary life
of Ann M'ria ; something for which she
had hungered seventy years, a bosom
friend. And how improbable a friend !
No contemporary ; no withered old maid ;
no hard-worked farmer's daughter like
herself, but a young and beautiful for-
eigner. She had drifted to Pondsville
to teach music in the academy, and not
Ann M'ria alone had been fired with
love for her dark, pathetic eyes. The
village doctor could not rest till he had
transplanted this rich-hued exotic to his
own dooryard. Would she strike root
in the bleak New England soil ?

Across the fields from Ann M'ria's
house there wavered a fitful little grassy
footpath, and threading this the old wo-
man now went forth with shining eyes
to meet her friend. While yet afar off
she hailed her.

" Seems a thousand years sence I set
eyes on ye."

With a joyous cry the doctor's wife
sprang to her feet, and her voice, like her
face, carried with it a touch of something

remote, romantic, haunting; not of the
homely Yankee setting. The homely
name, too, of her friend she turned to
music, broadening the vowel sounds, and
lingering on them with a liquid caress.
Ann M'ria caught up the transfigured
syllables, and half-shamef acedly tried to
repeat them after her.

"An-na Mareea! An-iia Mareea!
Don't you dress my name up pretty !
Anna Mareea ! Seems kinder as if I
was some one else. Tickles me to death
to hear ye ; but sakes, it sorter goes to my
heart too, for when you say ' Anna Ma-
reea,' I know you 're thinkin' of your folks
over to Germany, and when you try to
say ' Ann M'ria,' says I to myself, ' Thank
the Lord, she 's gittin' wonted. '

The doctor's wife pressed first one, then
the other wrinkled hand of her friend to
her lips, flashed out a smile through dark
lashes beaded with bright salt drops, and
started with her up the pasture slope.

"Got it bad to-day, ain't ye?" said
Ann M'ria, an added pucker in the criss-
cross furrows of her face.

" You comprehend always. Ah, God
was good to give me one soul in this
strange land who speaks my speech."

" There, there ; doctor speaks your
speech, you know he does."

" Himmel, yes, if men and women can
ever be said to speak the same speech,
but you Ach Anna Maria ! '

Something glistened under Ann M'ria's
lids, but the grotesque lips widened into
a quizzical smile.

"If the neighbors heard you say I
talked your language they 'd say, ' Good-
ness ! Ann M'ria, who learnt ye to talk
Dutch?' My sakes, I'll never forgit
the evenin' we did find out we spoke the
same speech ; that evenin' we run acrost
each other in the medder at sunset and
talked and talked ! Next day I jest hed
to keep holdin' on to myself and kep'

248

Anna Mareea.

a-bustin' out singin* over my ironin', I was
so crazy glad to think I 'd found some
one else in the world with jest my queer
freaky thoughts, and that laughed and
cried all in a breath same as me, and
didn't mind a pile o' dirty dishes in the
sink them blue days in spring that jest
seem to kinder witch yer out o' doors,
with all the treetops beckonin'. If it
ain't a miracle o' grace ; you born over
to Germany, and your folks so fine, and
you leavin' 'em and bein' an opery singer
till you lost your voice ; and your face
like a pictur', and your hands soft as pussy
willows, and me a lopsided figur'-o'-fun
no man would look at twict, and yit no
sooner did we two look deep into each
other's eyes than somethin' speaks up
loud in both on us, sayin', ' You 're bone
o' my bone and flesh o' my flesh ! '
" I love you ! " said the doctor's wife.
By this time they had reached the tiny
front yard, blue with trailing periwinkle
and sweet with lilac and flowering cur-
rant, and, it being too golden a day to
waste indoors, Ann M'ria seated herself
on the worn kitchen sill and drew the
friend of her bosom down beside her.

" I s'pose livin' here and livin' over to
Germany or Italy 's somethin' like the
difference between Ann M'ria and Anna
Mareea ; and Mis' Smith, that folks hev
to call you now, don't sound half so pretty
as what you used to be called, Alma von
Engelberg angel-mountain you said
that meant ? but then there 's doctor ;
I don't suppose they could beat doctor
easy over there."

The doctor's wife shook her head and
flung out both expressive hands.

" There 's not one of them over there
fit to clasp the latchet of his shoes ! "
Then she drooped against Ann M'ria's
shoulder. " That makes it all the worse,"
she sighed.

" Why all the worse ? '

" That I grow restless and wild and

cross, and hate the people, Himmel !

They are the kindest people in the world

when you get beneath the crust, and

hate the sewing society and the ' socia-
bles.' Gott, do you know how to be ' so-
ciable,' you New Englanders ? and then,
the meeting-house, so cold, so bare, so
hideous ! Oh, don't think I complain to
my husband ; I have grace enough not to
do that, but, oh, Anna Maria, it grows
worse instead of better, this restless-
ness. What shall I do ? What shall I
do?"

The shrewd old eyes rested for an in-
stant on the languid figure nestled against
her own.

" Mebbe it 's jest the spring feelin',
dear, and mebbe You talk to doctor ;
don't you fret all alone ; you tell every-
thin' to doctor."

"The hills! They shut me in ; I
can't breathe ! Oh, to push them away ;
there are cities beyond ; something do-
ing ; not utter stagnation. Though what
should I want of cities and crowds ; I had
sorrow enough out in the world, and
when my voice failed, all I asked for was
to forget the world and be forgotten, and
so I crept to this quiet corner to end my
days in what peace I might."

The doorway of the solitary little
house, fronting sunset and mountain,
commanded the windings of the osiered
river that leads the eye on and on, till,
companioned by the narrowing valley,
the glinting waters slip behind a foothill.
Then the eye, baffled, falls back yearning
to know what lies beyond.

" Yes," said Ann M'ria slowly, her
wistful gaze riveted on the furrowed and
forest-dark flanks of Chillion, majestic
even in the all-revealing midday glare,
" y es > y ou ' ve hed your fling ; you 've
seen it all, but here I 've ben seventy
years, girl and woman, eatin' my heart
out for jest one peep t'other side o' them
mountains."

The doctor's wife caught at her
friend's hand.

" What ! You have never been be-
yond ! "

" How should I git there ? Walk,
with my hitchin' gait ? And I ain't

Anna Mareea. 249

never hed no team nor extry pennies to Ann M'ria fingered her calico dress

hire." distressfully, and her eyes sought her

" Your neighbors ? ' friend's in solemn appeal.

" Oh, I 've good neighbors ; but you " I could n't go in these old duds."
don't tell everythin' to your neighbors." " There is time to change your dress."

" Anna Maria ! Seventy years ! Such " I 'd always kinder thought if ever

a little wish." the time come I'd like to wear my

The doctor's wife had slipped to her black silk that was mother's."
knees by Ann M'ria's side ; she was " By all means, the black silk."
fondling her friend's hands, pressing " And my best bunnit ? '
them to her soft cheek wet with tears. " Oh yes, the best bonnet."
The old woman looked down at her with " And grandmother's gold beads ? "
chiding love. "Above all, your gold beads."

" There, there, you 're all flushed up, Ann M'ria made one step toward the

and you 've forgot all about your own bedroom, then turned with working face,
sorror, thinkin' o' mine. That 's why " You think it better be to-day ? " she

folks love you so ; that 's why all the asked with the submissive questioning

folks to the village set sech store by ye, of a child,
and you a furriner." " Yes, yes, to-day. Go and make

" Do they like me ? ' ready, Anna Maria, while I tell my

" Now don't you go pertendin' you husband."

did n't know it. 'T aint only that you 've Outside the low paling the white horse

got the f eelin' heart, but you know how to had come to a halt, and in a moment

show it so pretty. Now what you jumpin' more, Alma, her vivid face raised to the

up to so fast for ? " doctor's, had poured out her tale. He

Alma had started to her feet, and was nodded once or twice, but it was evident

pointing eagerly down the road where a his thoughts were more engaged with

swaying buggy top was emerging from his wife than with the story she was re-

the beech wood. hearsing so dramatically. Touching her

" It 's my husband. He said perhaps flushed cheek with a practiced hand, he

he could be free this afternoon. Oh, told her to ask Ann M'ria for a glass of

Anna Maria, it is early yet ; to-day, this milk before they started, and to bring

very day you shall have the desire of along bread and doughnuts or whatever

your heart." the larder might afford.

Ann M'ria stood as if rooted to the Despite previous tremors, despite the

door sill. glories of the black silk dress, the best

" To-day ! The mountain ! To-day ? " " bunnit," and the golden heirloom clasp-

The sturdy white horse and the broad- ing her wrinkled throat, who gayer after

shouldered man driving him were draw- the start than Ann M'ria. In the capa-

ing steadily nearer. They had passed the cious seat her slight figure was easily

last farm and pink-flushed orchard, and tucked away between her friends, and

were turning into the lane that led up now her hand clasped Alma's, now rested

over the pastures. Ann M'ria clutched on the doctor's knee, now for pure joy

Alma's sleeve. waved in the air.

" Not to-day, dear ; not to-day." She " Hear the song sparrers trillin'

was visibly trembling. There war'n't never sech a hand as me

" Why not to-day ? " for lovin' singin' in bird or human creeter.

" Seventy years I 've waited." Seems 's if I could set and hear singin'

" Then why put it off an hour ? The till my soul melted away. They was a

time has come." hymn they used to sing." And in a

250 Anna Mareea.

quavering treble Ann M'ria shrilled it pin' wet in the dew. Go in and soak
out, your feet and git to bed.' And I done

' There 's a land that is fairer than day.' ,^ e ain>t n thin ' but P int P ts ' af ter

And then there 's the singin' of the kittle, The road which the doctor had chosen

and even cake, when you draw it out of struck across the valley and then wound

the oven and put your ear down to it, up to the high gap between the shoulder

there 't is chirrupin' away to itself. Yes, of Chillion and a lesser neighbor. Un-

I was always a great hand for singin', and daunted, though with drooping head, the

I guess that 's why I always hated my white horse toiled steadily on, his master

name so ; seemed so harsh soundin', and to ease him striding alongside. Half

why I jest love to hear you say Anna the valley, unrolled below them, lay in

Mareea, same as if you was puttin' it shadow, but back on the opposite slopes

to music. Say it again, Mis' Smith." the mellow light yet lingered, and Ann

" Anna Maria, dear, dear Anna M'ria's cottage, catching the sun on its

Maria." panes, flashed recognition. The doctor

" I guess I 'm two folks ; Ann M'ria pointed toward it with his whip, and the

and Anna Mareea. Ann M'ria's the old woman nodded solemnly. Silence

one most folks see, twisted and homely 's had fallen upon her. Her hands clasped

a root, and Anna Mareea 's the insides of in her lap, she rode toward the supreme

me that when folks git a peep of they moment of her life. A moment more,

think 's queer and flighty. I 've days and from the crest of the ridge the new

of bein' jest plain Ann M'ria and dustin' world would burst upon her sight.

and bakin' and sortin' herbs as con- " Stop ! ' she broke out suddenly

tented as a rabbit in a clover field, and with a quavering voice. The doctor

but them other days, when the sight of a checked his horse. " Doctor, I want to

dishcloth turns my stomach, and some- git out."

thin' seems to be prickin' in me like " Would you rather walk the rest of

cider fermentin', and I don't understand the way ? '

what I do want no more than I was " I ain't goin' no further."

talkin' a f urrin language, then I guess " Not going any farther ? '

I 'm Anna Mareea. Don't you let on to Ann M'ria shook her head. " You 've

Dick, doctor, there 's two of me he 's ben awful good, but I can't go a step

got to draw up the mountain road, or further."

he '11 git discouraged. " Dear," said the doctor's wife, " are

" Last night I run out before bedtime, you ill ? '

and it was all so still and clean washed, " No, no, Mis' Smith, I ain't sick. I

sort of, and the stars so solemn, and I set know it seems dretf ul of me after you 've

me down by the well, and little by little hauled me so fur, and doctor he won't

they was all around me, father and never understand it mebbe, but you will,

mother and my three sisters that died be- you will, won't you, dear ? "

fore I was born, and I hed n't a fear, and The old woman in her limp black silk

my soul seemed swellin' in me, and I was clambering nervously out of the

guess I set a full hour thinkin' how beau- buggy, and turned a pathetically plead-

tif ul 't was, and I would n't never bother ing face toward the friend of her bosom.

no more about earthly things, when all "Everythin' I 've made believe all my

of a suddin somethin' in me spoke up, life was behind the mountain ; all the

commonplace as you please, and says, things I 've hed to do without. It 's too

' That '11 do, Ann M'ria, you Ve hed all late ; my eyes are too old ; I could n't

you can stand. And your shoes are sop- see it as I 've made believe all my life ;

The Derelict.

251

I 'd ruther go on makin' believe and
seein' it as I always hev ; all shinin' so
beautiful ; a land flowin' with milk and
honey ; great gleamin' rivers and moun-
tains clear up to the sky with snow on
'em, and marble cities with church towers
with angels carved on to 'em like I 've
read, and somewhere among 'em all a
little white farmhouse under some elms
with a pass'l of children runnin' in and
out, not favorin' me exactly, but favorin'
what I might hev looked like if the Lord
hed n't made me on an off day. Don't
make me go up to the top of the ridge,
dear ; don't make me go ! '

" Dear Anna Maria, no one shall."
" You go up with doctor and hev your
look off, and I '11 set here and mind Dick.
It 's a dretful pretty evenin' to be set-

tin' out with the trees so still they jest
seem to be holdin' on to themselves so 's
not to stir and wake the baby birds.
Take your time, dear, take your time."

. . . .

It must indeed have been a sight of
the Promised Land their own or Ann
M'ria's that met the eyes of the doctor
and his wife from the crest of the ridge
road, for when they returned, hand in
hand, the witness of the glory still shone
transfiguring in their eyes. The old wo-
man read it there, and started exultant
from the low stone wall where she had
been sitting.

" Then it 's all true," she cried, " it 's
true ! You seen it ! My ! but it must
'a' ben beautiful to make your eyes shine
like that ! "

Esther B. Tiffany.

THE DERELICT.

BEYOND the rim of waters vast

They saw her canvas gleam,
And then the apparition passed

Like an elusive dream.

She vanished out of human ken,

She lost her name and fame ;
But heaven alone knows where or when

Her desolation came.

The crew, that manned and banned her, now

Nor calms nor tempests vex;
The pirate billows board her bow

And sweep her slimy decks.

Only the wild winds strike her bells,
The blind waves heave her wheel;

Her leaks are streaming as the swells
Her gaping seams unseal.

Upflung against relentless skies

Or downward dragged amain,
Heaven heedeth not her agonies,

Or heedeth them in vain.

252

Our Public Education in Music.

Shunned by her kin and kind, though still

At heart as proud as they,
She bides her time to work her will

And holds her fate at bay.

While leven-brands forbear to strike,

As clouds above her frown,
She haunts abysses, phantom-like,

That wait to wash her down ;

Until Despair's appalling call,

In some uncharted zone,
Shall urge her o'er its verge to crawl

And make the plunge alone.

What high hopes perished in her clutch

Eternity may tell,
The snarl untangle with a touch

And break the fatal spell.

Edward N. Pomeroy.

OUR PUBLIC EDUCATION IN MUSIC.

NERO, it is said, believed that music,
unheard by others than the performer,
was valueless ; that appreciation and re-
ceptivity were much less important than
execution. Our public education in mu-
sic proceeds along the same lines, incul-
cating performance and creation in music
from first to last, and scarcely recogniz-
ing the non-performer as a factor in art
at all. In the primary school classes, all
are taught to join in singing, and this
choral activity is continued as the chief
element of public musical instruction un-
til the end of the high school or academy
work. In the college, if any change is
made, it is generally in the direction of
harmony, counterpoint, and composition.

Yet it may be taken as an axiom that
nine tenths of the graduates from all
classes of educational institutions, except-
ing conservatories of music, will not be
actively musical in subsequent life ; they
will enjoy music, so far as they are able,
from the passive side. Surely these sub-

merged nine tenths have some rights in
the domain of music and some claims for
an education fitted to their needs ; classes
in musical appreciation are a more cry-
ing necessity than the omnipresent classes
in singing.

In some of the large colleges and uni-
versities a study of fine arts is recognized
as a necessary part of the curriculum. In
Harvard, for example, Professor Charles
Eliot Norton has broadened the culture
of many hundreds, possibly thousands, by
teaching how to understand the subtleties
of painting, the influence of one school
upon another, the characteristics of each
school, the outcome of each theory. He
has never attempted to teach a single stu-
dent how to mix colors or how to handle
the brush ; he has taught the comprehen-
sion of the art, not the practice of it.
Something of this kind is needed in the
musical department of our schools. We
cannot make a nation of musicians (even
if it were desirable to do so), but we can

Our Public Education in Music. 253

permeate the educated classes with musi- symmetry of tone and chord. The Chlad-

cal culture, and in producing many intel- ni plate might be exhibited to prove to

ligent musical auditors we are giving the the eye that noise is unsymmetrical and

most practical uplift possible to the crea- that tone is symmetrical. A few simple

tive musicians of America. experiments in showing the overtones, in

It is probable that a few teachers will demonstrating how Nature builds her

exclaim, against this impeachment, that chords, might follow. The more com-

they are already doing something akin to plicated musical acoustics should come

this, by giving some talks about the art, only in the higher grades of tuition,

by causing essays to be written, by ques- The children should sing our national

tioning the singers about the choruses songs as an adjunct to their history les-

they have sung ; but the work of a course, sons, and each of these songs should be

such as is here pleaded for, means some- made pregnant with meaning by having

thing far more definite and extensive than its story told before a note is sung, or

such sporadic attempts. It does not mean listened to ! What a wealth of history

an appendix to a chorus, or a pleasant there would be in connection with Yan-

chat about a solfeggio exercise. It means kee Doodle, for example. Not of the

a presentation and explanation of every origin of the melody, for that is unknown,

class of music, it means the creation of a but of the Colonial war and of the New

class of listeners during the musical ex- England troops marching into Albany

ercises, the establishment of intelligent and being lampooned to this tune by Dr.

audition, and the awakening of an enjoy- Shuckburgh, the English surgeon ; of the

ment of music without the eternal neces- British bands playing it on Sunday morn-

sity of making it. ings, in Boston, to irritate the church-go-

How many of the thousands of pupils, ing New Englanders ; of the ribald words
who have been singing all the way from sung to it by the English against John
kindergarten to college, know what a Hancock, during the siege of Boston ; of
fugue is trying to tell them ? How many its sounding forth during Lord Percy's
can comprehend even the simplest orches- hurried march toward Lexington to re-
tral composition ? How many understand lie ve Major Pitcairn, thus beginning
the architecture of music in any degree ? the Revolution ; of the American bands
Yet these points would be only a small playing it at Yorktown, at the surrender
part of a public course intended to teach of Lord Cornwallis, thus ending it.
appreciation of music. Let us then ex- The mutations of the Star - Spangled
amine, in definite detail, what such a Banner from English drinking-song to
course should attempt and what product " Adams and Liberty," to praise of Jef-
it would bring forth. It should by no f erson, and to its present shape, might be
means interfere with the vocal training explained. The rollicking naval songs
which forms the present sum and sub- of the war of 1812 might find their place
stance of public school instruction in mu- here, and many another bit of historical
sic (it ought to supplement that), but it music. This, however, deals rather with
should allow some unfortunates, who now repertoire than with system, yet it de-
howl dutifully twice a week, to really en- serves momentary notice as the fittest be-
joy music which they are no longer to be ginning of an American music course,
obliged to assist in making. The architecture of music ought to be

In the primary school and in the lower studied, at least in its elementary phases,

grammar school classes the musical ap- even at this stage. Schlegel has said that

preciation class ought to begin its work, architecture is frozen music (and Ma-

A very simple course of musical acoustics dame de Stael has generally been cred-

rnight awaken the child's interest in the ited with the idea), but few laymen have

254

OUT Public Education in Music.

understood that music is tonal architec-
ture. Wing balances against wing in ar-
chitecture ; theme is in equipoise against
theme in much of the best music. There
are many simple choruses which illustrate
this fact, and many more which show the
practice of the composer of ending a com-
position with its opening idea. After fit-
ting explanation, part of the class should
sing such a song and part of the class
should listen.

The scale-construction which consti-
tutes the language of a composition
might be approached at a little higher
grade. The students would of course be
familiar with the conventional major and
minor, but they would now be taught that
other languages exist, that there was a
musician's Tower of Babel, when the na-
tions began to speak different musical
tongues. The simplest of these, the
pentatonic scale (our diatonic scale with
the fourth and seventh notes omitted),
might be explained as belonging chiefly
to China, but that it is understood and
used by European nations might be de-
monstrated by allowing the class to ana-
lyze Auld Lang Syne and Bonnie Doon,
and both sing and listen to them. Many
other compositions might be mentioned
that would illustrate the six-toned scale,
the Hungarian scale, and others.

Arrived at a little higher grade the in-
strumental side of music begins to claim
the student's attention. A reasonable
familiarity ought to be sought with the
different orchestral instruments. Should
there be a band or small orchestra con-
nected with the school, as is frequently
the case, the working of each instrument
might be colloquially explained by its
student-performer, and each band con-
cert should become in some degree an
object lesson. But eventually there
should follow an explanation of the shape
and technique of each orchestral instru-
ment and its function in the concert
room.

The mere hearing of a fine pianist or
vocalist in the schoolroom, as has some-

times been brought about, is not to the
purpose here, but the audition of a bas-
soonist, an oboist, a French horn player,
etc., would be a practical lesson.

The tone-color of each instrument
should now be studied. The brooding
character of the viola, the portentous and
sometimes grotesque style of the contra-
bass, the feverish brilliancy of the picco-
lo, the rustic vein of the oboe, the comic
character of the bassoon, the baleful
tones of the muted horns, the suspense
that can be pictured upon the kettle-
drums, all these and many more ef-
fects should become recognizable to the
student-auditor.

Just as the student of fine arts knows
that the oil painting speaks a different
language from the etching, the pupil
ought now to comprehend that the orches-
tral work demands more of its auditor
than the piano composition, and as the
art -student anticipates white in a win-
ter landscape, or green in a picture of
spring, our music auditor should under-
stand that a melancholy orchestral work
would imply English horn or viola, a
picture of country life would call for
oboe, a military sketch for trumpet, a
celestial scene for harps, or violins with
flutes.

And now a very definite phase of mu-
sic as a language ought to be taken up.
By the development of figures an instru-
mental composition can often be made as
logical as a sentence of words. The fig-
ure grows and is transformed into larger
forms and sometimes into an entire com-
position. The auditor must be trained to
watch the seed growing into a harvest.
The entire first movement of Beethoven's
fifth symphony is reducible to three fig-
ures of which one is very important ; the
sixth symphony begins with a movement
that is derived almost wholly from a
phrase about three measures long ; the
beautiful fugue in D major, Bach's Well-
tempered Clavier, Book II., No. 5, is en-
tirely made of transmutations of its first
nine notes, a fine example of the mathe-

Our Public Education in Music.

255

matics of music. This figure-language
(" development," the musician calls it)
is as unknown as Chaldaic to the student
of music in the schools, yet it is the foun-
dation of almost all classical instrumental
music. Even in vocal music one finds
much use of this figure-formation, and
some songs by Robert Franz might read-
ily be arranged as choruses and give the
public school student his first induction
into this attractive field of musical intel-
lectuality.

Of course the Wagnerian treatment of
figures of definite meaning, the Leitmoti-
ven, which causes the orchestra to speak
as definitely and somewhat in the same
manner as the Greek chorus in the old
tragedies, must come in for its share of
attention, but the full study of the theo-
ries of the different schools of composi-
tion might be reserved for college edu-
cation.

It would belong to the highest studies
of this course, also, to analyze the shape
of sonata and symphony, to study coun-
terpoint, not in practical composition, but
in its analysis. The comprehension of
the pattern of a fugue might turn much
music that is now considered dry by the
student into a luxuriant garden of intel-
lectual beauties. The connection be-
tween poetry and music as exemplified in
strophe-form and art-song music would
bind musical study of this kind very
closely to literature in these highest
branches.

The above may give an idea, but in a
slight degree, of what may be studied by
the intelligent pupil who never expects to
produce a note of music in his life. The
vocal studies of the present should be sup-
plemented by more of instrumental work,
and the songs and choruses themselves

should yield more to the classes than they
are at present doing.

And, in the midst of so much study
of vocalism, another query is pertinent.
What is being done for the pupil's con-
versational voice ? Are we to train hun-
dreds of singers who are not to sing, and
send out still greater numbers whose un-
pleasant quality of speech is to be a
handicap to them through life ? A plea-
sant voice is as important in the every-
day affairs of life as a pleasant face or a
well-groomed appearance. Yet between
the millstones of vocalism and elocution
the speaking voice of the average Ameri-
can comes forth twangy, irritating, unim-
pressive.

Here we merely state a fact, but dare
make no suggestion. Is education in this
branch feasible ? We do not know. The
subject of natural voices is veiled in mys-
tery, and the scientist has not yet in-
formed us why Russia should be the land
of basses, England of altos, France of
mezzo-sopranos, why the Swiss should
yodel naturally, and why high tenors are
copious in North Spain. Whether this
is a racial, climatic, or food question is
not yet certain, and whether national
voice characteristics will yield to treat-
ment has not yet been demonstrated.

But as regards the main topic of this
article there ought to be no such doubt.
Let the public schools aid in training an
intelligent musical taste, and the Ameri-
can composer will tread a much less
thorny path.

Noble compositions and possibly a
great American national anthem (our
most noticeable musical lack) will soon
follow. At present not one pupil in a
hundred understands the gentle art of
listening to music.

Louis C. Elson.

256 A Letter from the Philippines.

A LETTER FROM THE PHILIPPINES.

[Mr. Arthur Stanley Riggs, the author of the present paper in the ATLANTIC'S series of letters
from abroad, is an American journalist who has been successively the editor of the Manila Daily
Bulletin and the Manila Freedom. THE EDITORS.]

during the day, only to foster rebellion
at night. The other class is in open de-

NATURE, his environment, and the fiance of all our conceptions of law and

system of Spain during the last three order, setting at naught every ordinance

hundred years have combined to make we have established. Of the two classes,

the Filipino, the degenerate scion of the the latter is by far less dangerous. In

ancient Malay pirates, typical of a racial the past year there have been perhaps

sunset. an hundred convictions of individuals to

Devoid almost to nudity of anything death or life imprisonment for open re-
even remotely approaching literature, bellion : a few days ago one judge passed
folk-lore, traditions, or history, the Fili- sentences of death and various terms of
pino people of to-day presents a pitiful duress, from life imprisonment down to
spectacle. Terrorized by the Spaniard a year or so, on twenty of the outlaws,
and his cruelty, the native lies stupidly, But of those receiving the heavier pun-
on every occasion, without the slightest ishments, several were of the outwardly
regard for fact ; his sole desire is to save loyal class, men who secretly fomented
himself a beating. By nature and hered- insurrection and ladronism.
ity and environment disinclined to work The Philippine situation has reached
hard for any thing as a race he takes a stage of complexity now that is corn-
easily to theft. Never having had with- parable with the Eastern question ; the
in the limits of his low mental horizon old familiar and ghostly Balkan problem
such a thing as education to fit him for is very like to the unrest that is to be
a trade, he is not tractable, and views our found in the Archipelago. The offensive
efforts in this respect with suspicion and term " nigger-lover," implying one who
fear. As an individual, the Filipino is sets the black up as preeminent, but who
the most innocent and harmless of any does not do so from any humanitarian
semi-civilized people ; as a race, he pre- principles, has been applied to the gov-
sents a grave danger unless handled with- ernment here, which has also been most
out sentiment, unless put in his place and bitterly arraigned as un-American, auto-
literally forced to prove that he is capable cratic, and blind to its own future. A
of further rights and privileges. Whether good-sized insurrection is going on in the
we shall be able to accomplish the men- north ; famine, cholera, ladronism, and
tal liberation of this collection of tribes, stubborn Moro chiefs stir the south ; f ric-
raising it from the mire of ignorance in tion locally between the various branches
which it is steeped, rests entirely with of the government, and between the go v-
the home government. ernment and the people, has brought af-

At the present time, under the undue fairs in the islands to a standstill. Corn-
liberty granted by America, the Filipinos merce is dull ; business houses of the
appear to be divided sharply into two first class are daily retrenching ; dissat-
classes, which, after all, are really one. isfaction grows with the attitude of the
One class professes loyalty. Some indi- home government, and anxiety as to
viduals of this class are really as loyal as what the effects of the new gold peso
they can be ; others are buenos hombres will be is stronger every day.

A Letter from the Philippines.

257

One of the best of the Spaniards here
said to me a few days ago, while we were
discussing the future of the city of Ma-
nila, that there would be nothing here for
a long time. " The city is a sink," said he
gravely. " You Americans have flocked
in here in crowds, expecting to find El
Dorado. What you have is a city you
yourselves have spoiled. Shall you be
here long : no yes ? Well, if you shall
not stay much time more, you will do
well to get out quickly. This place offers
no inducements. There will be no money
here made, no great positions created.
Stagnation will continue to prevail. We
are waiting for what? We do not
know ; for something. But on account
of the so great expense to live here, one
must have outside means to be even fair-
ly comfortable. If you are satisfied with
what you are earning, with what you are
saving, if indeed you can save anything,
stay ; if not, go home at once ; conditions
here will be worse before they can be
any better."

Seftor is a gentleman who stands

high with the Civil Commission, with
which he is connected, and his utterances
carry the more weight, coming, as they
do, from a man who knows what the pur-
poses of the government are, and what it
will do. In corroboration of his prophetic
remarks, " Deacon " Prautch, aMethodist
who has for some time been steeped in
the peculiar new sect of Catholics calling
themselves Aglipayanos, has backslidden
from rosary and censer to the canons of
his old church. He tried, it is said, to
settle the friar question single-handed by
egging on Aglipay and his deserters from
Rome, thus breaking the Vatican's grip
on the Archipelago. Prautch found, after
spending a few months as editor of La
Verdad (The Truth), organ of the Na-
tional Independent Filipino Church, and
adviser-in-ordinary to Gregorio Aglipay,
the self-consecrated archbishop of the
new organization, that "my Methodist
principles could not agree in perfect har-
mony with many of the usages and rites of

VOL. xcn. NO. 550. 17

the Catholic Church." The whole scheme
seems to have been a piece of purely po-
litical trickery, with its object the dis-
missal of the friars. Both Prautch and
Aglipay expected to seduce the people
from allegiance to Rome, thus making it
imperative that the religious orders should
go back home, defeated. The scheme was
pretty, and it had a very fair chance of
success, owing to local conditions, but a
keener tool than Aglipay was needed to
do the cutting. Aglipay's ability in his
chosen field, the pastoral and polemic
side of his church work, is conceded pa-
tiently, but he has no such fire of per-
sonal magnetism, no such singular at-
traction for the people, as have Antonio
Mabini, Pio del Pilar, and even little
Aguinaldo, the least conspicuous of them
all.

Speaking of Aguinaldo's limitations
reminds me of what an officer told me not
long ago. He had been in the party
that met General, then Colonel, Funston,
when returning with the captured " Pre-
sident." Captain was among the

first to go through the insurgent's papers.
Among them he found the diary kept by
Aguinaldo, which showed what the man's
ideas were regarding the responsibilities
resting upon the leader of the new repub-
lic which he so fondly imagined could be
established. He, Aguinaldo, his chief
adviser and confidant, with their respec-
tive wives and a proper suite, intended to
make a tour of Europe that should last
at the very least a year. Other entries
in the diary showed the discussions the
four had had about the trip, what they
should see, and how the vast moneys they
counted upon should be spent. This book
was begun not long after the famous Ma-
lolos Congress, and during the most crit-
ical period of the inchoative republic, the
most keenly anxious moments of the ex-
washerman's career. Aguinaldo, though
most people, even in the islands, do not
know it, was in 1896 a common wash-
erman in the Cavite arsenal's laundry,
and had so poor a knowledge of Spanish

258 A Letter from the Philippines.

that the Castilians themselves declared Supreme Society of the Sons of the

he spoke it decocina, or kitchen-fashion. People. Its object was and is yet to fili-

Like a good many other tauos, he was an buster, to get independence, if possible,

adept at lightning political changes, and for the Philippines. More properly ren-

so, when he jumped from the party with dered into English from the native dia-

which he had been connected to a new lect, the name means a society of the su-

one, some time after this, and was made preme sons of the people ; that is, com-

a Capitano Municipal in the same year, posed of the most noteworthy men. No

it occasioned no one any great surprise. exact English equivalent of the Tagalog

Practically every Filipino who was can be given, but a prominent Spaniard
identified with the insurrectionist move- of the " days of the Empire " says of the
ment has since been given some govern- Katipunan : " A reunion or organization
ment position. One is a judge of the of the people who meet to concoct as-
Court of Customs Appeals ; another, sassinations cannot be called a reunion
whose nom de guerre is Philip Goodroad, of noteworthy people (supreme society),
and whose real name few beside himself but rather a reunion of noteworthy crim-
know, is a member of the Civil Service inals." To this title the Katipunan can
Board ; still another equally well-known justly lay claim, but to none other.
filibustero and insurgent is a member of Strange as it may seem, this clique of
the city of Manila's Municipal Board, would-be murderers and real insurgents
Among the last of the old junta of Ka- is the illegitimate offspring of Filipino
tipuneros is a man who has just had masonry. Some twenty years or more
created for him the position of collect- ago, a Gran Oriente lodge of the Span-
ing librarian of the Philippines. This ish Masons was founded in the Philip-
man was closely connected with Rizal in pines. About ten years later, by various
the propaganda of the later '90s. The crooked political intrigues, Filipinos man-
new position pays a salary of thirty-five aged to gain consent from Senor Mo-
hundred dollars in gold, more than the rayta, in Madrid, to found " Tagalog "
man ever saw at one time before. He lodges, as up to that time only Spaniards
was, until recently, professor of history had been Masons. These Tagalog lodges
in the Lyceo, in Binondo, the Chinese finally split off from the parent body, the
section of Extramuros, Manila. He him- Gran Oriente, and in the course of time
self is a Chino-mestizo by birth, and has lost their identity as Masonic bodies corn-
been given letters of marque and reprisal, pletely, by reason of being merged into
as it were, to ravish the libraries and col- the Liga Filipina, from which was
lections of Spain, France, Italy, the Con- eventually constructed the grimmer Ka-
tinent generally, and wherever else he can tipunan, which had as its secret purpose
find any old manuscripts or records of the assassination of all the friars, the
expeditions to and affairs in the old Islas overthrow of religion, and the ultimate
Filipinas. It is a position to make the independence of the islands. How suc-
cockles of his heart glad. Beside his sal- cessf ul it has been we already know, but
ary he also gets all his actual traveling the K. K. K. is still capable of yelling
expenses, and many an American and around town at night: " Hindi aco pa-
European was most anxious to have the tay ! ' (I am not dead yet !)
place. Within the past six months it has been

II- shown, by a search of old Spanish ar-

El Kataastaasang Kalagayan Katipu- chives in the possession of the govern-

nan Nang Manga Anac Nang Bayan, or ment, that every Filipino, mestizo (half-

as it is better known, the Katipunan, is breed), and Indio of any consequence in

a society whose name means, in Tagalog, the islands is still a member of the order.

A Letter from the Philippines. 259

Three of the members of the Civil Com- flicted upon their sick. An old captain
mission were in it. Dozens of others, of the constabulary told me about it, on re-
all of whom have taken the oath of al- turning from a recent tour of duty among
legiance to the United States, are old the people, whom he regards as being
members. misguided children rather than malig-

The Katipunero's relation to the Church nant fanatics. The story runs thus:
of Rome is that of a very precocious but When any member of the tribe is at-
also very naughty child, who has kero- tacked by the low fever that prevails
sene and matches in plenty, with no one among the mountains of that region, the
by to watch his performances. Having sufferer is at once taken out of his bed
all the supposed Masonic hatred of things and put into a frame or chair that has
Catholic as a working basis, the Kati- been prepared for the purpose. This
punan circulated propaganda against the frame resembles an easel to a certain ex-
church and the friars, accusing them of tent. Straps are tied about the patient's
having " debased the ancient and prosti- head, which is drawn back as far as
tuted the noble customs of the country," possible, thus stretching the throat out,
beside which their very presence was in- others are passed about the chest, and
imical to liberty and Filipino autonomy, still others fasten the legs in a bent posi-
It is interesting in this connection to note tion, so that the man is half-lying, half-
that the ancient and noble customs of sitting. Then the fire which has been
the country, before the correcting hand built under the frame is lighted, and the
of Spain, iron - stern, closed over las heat and smoke pour up around the poor
Islas Filipinas, were, according to old wretch, who is either killed or cured in
Padre Moraga, the sale of men, wo- a very short time. He has the fever
men, and children as mere chattels to smoked out in from one to three applica-
pay small debts of a few dollars, the tions of the cure, each application lasting
practice of defloration as a recognized from an hour to two and a half hours,
custom, the holding of virginity as a dis- This treatment is repeated at intervals
grace which would prevent the woman of about three hours all day long, and
from going to heaven, and the right of has, in rare and stubborn cases, been ap-
the tribal chief or village presidents to plied for three successive days. Another
hold all his people as his own personal method of applying the same cure to
property, with the right to kill off, maim, fevers is to make the fire hotter and
sell, or give away whomsoever he chose, hotter for the first hour, and then to put
Details of certain other well-recognized it out with water. The collection of stones
customs are so shocking as to be beyond which has previously been put below the
the possibility of publication in a decent fire being white - hot, the water creates
magazine. a great cloud of reeking steam. This is

Some idea may be gathered from this even more favored than the other, but,
statement as to what the Filipino is when being much severer, is not so frequently
the thin veneer of European influence is used. As a general rule, three patients
burned through by the Malay instinct, the out of five recover ; the others are liter-
old pirate savagery. These same cus- ally killed by the hideous torture to which
toms, to a limited extent, still prevail the cure subjects them,
among some of the non-Christian tribes. It is to people like this that Uncle Sam
Among the Igorrotes, who live in the has come with the olive branch. De-
northern province of Nueva Viscaya, a velopments of the American occupation,
fever cure is practiced to-day that for bar- and particularly of the past year, seem
barity and heartlessness is the equal of to show that our captain's estimate of
anything the American Indians ever in- the people is very correct. He describes

260

A Letter from the Philippines.

the Filipino as a very impudent and im-
pertinent child, but, withal, a very dan-
gerous one ; he must be sternly disci-
plined, taught to respect the sovereign
authority, and learn to be obedient and
respectful. The average " civilized "
Filipino has many good traits and quali-
ties : he is a thief and a liar, brutal to
animals, and exceptionally thoughtless ;
but he is clean, mentally, toward women.
His evil side is not nasty. He is not of
a kindly nature, but this is rather his
misfortune than his fault. When he is
made to realize his shortcomings and to
remedy them, at least to some extent, he
attains to a measure of the full stature of
manhood, as has been proved in several
cases.

in.

About six months ago the Commission
passed what is generally regarded as the
most impressive piece of legislation, from
a judicial standpoint, of the year. This
act empowered the governor to close any
bank of whose workings he had the
slightest suspicion ; and he cannot be
held accountable for his acts under this
law. There is in Manila no power of
the people or of the press to " get back,"
speaking colloquially, at the government.
But this new law was so evidently needed,
it was so sane, that public opinion for once
sided with the authorities, an unusual
thing indeed in Manila. A few days
after the act had become a law, one of
the more prominent banks, an American
institution, closed the doors of its savings
department, and has not reopened them
under the old regime. I took the pains
personally to seek out the president and
ascertain the reasons for this action. Af-
ter considerable fencing I learned that
the deposits in the bank exceeded by
some seven or eight times the amount of
its paid up capitalization. The govern-
ment was not satisfied that this should
be the case with a small and close pri-
vate corporation, whose paid up capital
amounted to very much less than fifty
thousand dollars. Of the personal hon-

esty of the banker there was no doubt,
but it had been felt generally for some
time that the institution was shaky ; hence
the governor's action. The old savings
bank has been reorganized as a triple
partnership since then, with the Ameri-
can and two wealthy Filipinos as the
members of a regular brokerage, ex-
change, and banking institution.

Another law that was designed to have
an important effect upon general com-
merce, with particular regard to the high
local rates for sea freights between Ma-
nila and other coast ports, was one that
gave foreign vessels the right, until July 4,
1904, to engage in the coastwise traffic
of the Philippines under an American
registry. It was known as the Coastwise
Shipping Act, and the discussion of it
was bitter in the extreme, but when it
was finally brought up in the great Sala
de Sesiones of the Ayuntamiento Palace
for public and open discussion, the oppo-
sition dwindled down to a mere dissat-
isfied twitter. Since the act has become
a law, one vessel only has taken advan-
tage of the registry thus afforded, the
Norwegian steamer Hjelm.

The conditions leading up to this draft-
ing and passage of what seemed likely to
be the most unpopular of laws were, and
still are, peculiar. So meagre are the
facilities for transportation about the is-
lands, which number altogether nearly
seventeen hundred and fifty, with a
coastline more than double that of the
United States, that practically everything
either north or south of Manila has to
be carried in steamers or in the little, bat-
winged schooners that fancy they are sea-
worthy craft. Taking, for instance, the
trade between ports like Zamboanga on
the south, and Aparri on the north, with
the metropolis, Manila, the freight rates
are relatively ten times as great as they
are between Manila and San Francisco.
In some cases they are relatively twenty
times higher. In the case of Manila-
Iloilo cargoes, the cost is about the same
for the three hundred miles as it is for

A Letter from the Philippines.

261

the seventy-five hundred of the Frisco-
Manila passage.

To combat this, alleged by the govern-
ment to be due to a pool of shipowners'
interests, the new law was passed. It has
brought in one steamer to compete with
the local craft. It was argued that com-
petition would bring the rates down. The
new steamer runs on practically the same
schedule and rates as the others. There
is no pool of shipowners. Local condi-
tions alone are responsible for the high
tariffs, for many of the ports of call are
inaccessible during many months of the
year, and steamers sometimes have to
lie offshore a full week before it is safe
to land cargo.

Commercially, the year has been one
of the most disastrous the islands have
ever known. The rice crop has been a
failure in most of the provinces ; thou-
sands of carabao water buffalo have
died with the surra ; ladronism is respon-
sible for the devastation of province after
province ; money is bitterly scarce and
tight, time and call loans at usurious rates
being hard to get and still harder to
meet ; general agriculture is in a deplora-
ble condition, though measures are now
being taken for its revivification ; church
is at war with church, and a very deep-
seated and hearty dissatisfaction obtains
throughout the community.

Here the old question of sugar duties
and free trade with the United States
crops up again. Practically, it costs the
planters at least twenty dollars for every
ton of sugar they produce in the is-
lands, including what the newspapers are
pleased to call an " infamous " and " ini-
quitous export tax " of a dollar a ton on
all sugar that is sent out of the Archipel-
ago. The selling price hovers around the
twenty-one-dollar mark. It is easy to
see, therefore, that only the most power-
ful and wealthy of the planters can at
all afford to produce. It is this that
caused the demoralization of the sugar
industry here last winter. Furthermore,
it was stated at a meeting of the Ameri-

can Chamber of Commerce last Decem-
ber, in my presence, that the laws regu-
lating the amount of land a corporation
in the Philippines may hold is limited to
2000 or 2500 acres. At this meeting
resolutions were passed with the object
of trying to get the laws amended so as
to make it possible for a company or
organization to hold land up to ten thou-
sand acres or more, according to the re-
sponsibility of the corporation. As it is
now there are vast tracts of land of a
good quality for cane-raising which have
been refused by local companies, simply
because they could not afford to do busi-
ness in the face of the limit, and also
because of other grave disadvantages. It
is the opinion of those best versed in
sugar that the sugar industry here can-
not recover until tentative measures at
least, like the removal of the export tax
and the extension of the land holdings
law, are enforced.

Rice, which is the only food of about
a fifth of the natives, and with fish the
staple diet of about nine tenths of them,
has been the cause of much distress by
its failure as a food crop. This failure
has been due to a number of reasons,
principal among which is ladronism. So
few people know anything of the labor
involved in rice-planting that it may be
worth while to show the methods now in
use among the Filipinos. For weeks the
planter flounders in a quagmire, knee-to
waist-deep in the slime of the field. He
eventually sticks in by hand, under piti-
less sun or in pelting rain, each one of
the eighty thousand plants in his little
two-acre patch. After the crop has been
tended most carefully, irrigated, flooded,
dried off, he steps in once more, and cuts
by hand all the suckers he planted, that
is, all that the animals and thieves have
left. And for this arduous toil he earns
the magnificent wage, if he be the pro-
prietor, of fifty-five dollars in gold per
annum, or fifteen cents a day. During
the year just past many of the rice-farm-
ers have refused to raise any crops : all

262

A Letter from the Philippines.

they did was to produce sufficient to keep
life in their badly nourished but sinewy
bodies. When such an one is asked why
he did not raise plenty, he will reply in
Spanish if he speak it : " Asi mucho
ladron," or, in Tagalog, " Maramin la-
drdn," or if he be a Pampangan, " Tu-
tuii Ian dakal amapanaco " (Too many
thieves).

Conditions in the southern provinces,
where this effect has been most apparent,
are even yet so bad that few men raise
anything except what they most desper-
ately need for themselves. Ladrdn
means thief : but it is a very flexible
term, like the Turkish word for oil,
yagh. The sneak who picks your pock-
et is ladrdn ; he also who cracks a safe,
the horsethief, the looter of mails or
villages or churches ; he who flocks by
himself in bands of fifty or more, and
wipes out whole towns at a single swoop,
killing, violating, burning, and stealing ;
the muchacho who has been your ever
faithful body-servant for twenty years,
and who at last runs off with your dollar
watch, and leaves your rickety, rat-and-
vermin-inf ested casa for some nipa shack
in the basque, each of them is ladrdn.
Never by any possibility a ladr<5n, but
simply " ladrdn," without the saving
grace of even that introductory " a."

In the north of Luzon conditions are
different. In the Bulacan and Rizal pro-
vinces the petty disturbances and unrest
of the early part of 1902 have grown
into a full-fledged rebellion, an insurrec-
tion that is fought according to the rules
of war, though the civil government still
refuses to recognize it as such, in spite
of the fact that the army has already
done so. Faith ! since when did com-
mon thieves march in bands of three
hundred or more, in uniforms, carrying
" state papers," under brigadier-generals,
armed like regular troops, and bearing
the dreaded Katipunan rising sun and
double stripe flag of the old insurrection,
yelling that keen cry, " Hindi aco pa-
tay " ? These insurgents, whose general,

Apolonario San Miguel, was killed a few
months ago, take nothing in their peri-
odical raids but ammunition, arms, and
enough food for their immediate needs.
Members of San Miguel's and Faustino
Guillermo's " armies ' have been shot
and hanged for the crimes of violation
and looting. No white woman, strangely
enough, has ever been offered any insult
of this sort by any native since the
American occupation. The reverse is,
unfortunately, true of native women at
the hands of Filipino, American, and
Spanish men. The natives were told early
in the war that a single white woman
violated would mean the utter destruc-
tion of them and all the islands by the
Americanos, who would bring el infierno
to pass.

In connection with the ladrdn and in-
surrection movements, the order came not
long ago for the native scouts to be taken
over by the constabulary under Henry T.
Allen, a captain of the Sixth Cavalry,
detailed to that service with the tempo-
rary rank of brigadier-general. The
scouts are still fed by the army, though
under General Allen's orders ; this gives
them an anomalous position, and they
report all fights to the Adjutant-General
of the Division before the chief of the
constabulary gets any word. This move
on the part of the administration has
more political significance than appears
at first sight.

IV.

Politics has presented during the year
several changes that are of interest. The
movements headed by the National, Fed-
eral, Liberal, and Socialist parties might
be inimical to the public safety and peace
if they were cohesive. As it is, party
politics among the Filipinos has been made
the subject of some rather ribald jesting:
no one who knows the conditions as they
are has ever taken the matter seriously.

The Workers' Party (La Union Obre-
ra) is practically no more and no less
than a gigantic labor union. Like the
other unions of a similar nature at home,

A Letter from the Philippines.

263

it plays a sort of Ishmael part ; but aside
from exerting considerable influence over
the working classes, it has little concern
with anything but fiestas. It is impossi-
ble to conceive of any Filipino " nation."
The native has no idea of solidarity :
" party interests " are to him as mean-
ingless as the word " snow ; " never hav-
ing seen either, or the effects of either,
he affects a stolid indifference from which
it is not possible to rouse him. Some
months ago Pascual Poblete, the agitator
and blowhard, announced that his " labor
bureau" could furnish at any moment
200,000 men for any sort of unskilled
labor by the day. Nobody took up his
proposition, and now he considers that he
has dealt the Chinese skilled labor im-
portation scheme a deadly blow. As a
matter of fact, he merely added one more
argument to the quiverful in the hands
of the Chinaman's partisans. Poblete is
the Chino-mestizo of whom the Madrid
Herald spoke so bitterly a year or so ago,
accusing him of practically every crime a
man can commit without landing himself
behind the bars for life. He is a game-
ster, habitue* of the mains, subscription-
raiser and labor agitator of the most
dangerous type, being, with Isabelo de los
Reyes, always embroiled in some labor
controversy. Poblete's subscription lists
raised considerable money, and as no ac-
counting was ever made, it is popularly
believed that the cash went to the owners
of various victorious roosters in the pits
at Caloocan and Pasay. He is, of course,
prominent in the councils of the obreros,
or toilers.

Of the other parties, it can only be said
that they are never able to agree on any-
thing among themselves. Doctor Jesiis
even, one of the most prominent of the
local politicians, cannot get along with
the men of his own peculiar ideas, and
has repeatedly quarreled bitterly with his
best political friends. So it is, that none
of the parties amounts to much as a
weapon.

The new democratic labor union, an

outgrowth of the older Obrera, which
celebrated its first gran fiesta on May 1,
is composed mainly of such skilled labor
as the Philippines can boast. Many of
the newspaper compositors are enrolled
in its ranks, among them being not only
Filipinos, but also East Indians, Chinese,
and a few Arabs. Carpenters^machinists,
carriage-builders, masons, and artisans of
all trades make up the rest. There is no
such thing as a separate union here for
each trade ; it is merely necessary that
individual artisans be of the same polit-
ical stripe, which covers, to the native
mind, a multitude of other shortcomings.
This union is, however, as arbitrary as
any similar body in the United States.
Some days ago, the editor of one of the
newspapers had occasion to wish the dis-
missal of a lazy compositor. He told the
man to go at once, and was informed by
the union patron that the man could go
if it was necessary, but that the whole
force would go out in sympathy. If he
was permitted to remain until Saturday
night, he could be dismissed, and nothing
would be said about it by the union. The
man stayed. This party could have a
powerful influence if elections were held
and the natives enfranchised. Though
experience has shown,' particularly with-
in the past six months, that the Filipino
does not readily assimilate new ideas as
a general rule, he picks up some things
with a rapidity that is positively startling.
His childish love of gaudy finery and the
ease with which he is swayed by an oily
and passionate tongue leave him largely
at the mercy of his more educated bro-
ther, the spellbinder would find him
easy prey.

Most spectacular and interesting, from
the public's point of view, have been the
workings of the sedition and libel laws
during the past year. These laws are
somewhat similar to our old law, the dif-
ference being that they are enforced here
on what seems to the average newspaper
man very slight provocation. Three men
are now under sentence, two for having

264

A Letter from the Philippines.

committed libel, and one for sedition.
All three were supposed to be working
against the government, and the conse-
quence was that at the first opportunity
they were made to feel the weight of the
law. None of the sentences has as yet
been executed, as all three cases are on
appeal, and the principals are out on
heavy bonds. The first case involved the
former owner and editor of the Freedom,
F. L. Dorr, and E. F. O'Brien, the editor.
The other case had to do with the alleged
libel of General Davis by William Cro-
zier, proprietor and editor of the Amer-
ican. All three men have heavy fines and
terms of imprisonment hanging over
them, and it is generally believed that
they will have to go to jail. The Freedom
case is too well known to need comment
here, except to say that the seditious edi-
torial in question was a critique on the
government of the sort that is published
every day at home. The other case was
different. In reviewing General Davis's
review of the Glenn court martial, which
disapproved the findings of the court, the
American said editorially that General
Davis ought not to have " smeared over "
the findings with his comment. The
charge was simple libel, but the animus
of the prosecution made it appear that
Mr. Crozier had been guilty of seditious
libel, by holding an official up to public
ridicule, hatred, and contempt. This, of
course, was stated to be subversive of the
general welfare of the government. The
case had several features of more than
usual interest, but it is not advisable to
reopen the matter here. But as a plain
fact, conditions now in Manila are such
that no paper can tell at what minute it
is likely to be summoned td the office of
the attorney-general to answer for any
one of a number of things it had no idea
of doing, and which it did not believe
were done. Retractions are as a rule
fruitless, for the prosecution goes on just
the same, as in the Davis case. It would
be a boon for the editors were a censor
appointed, as in the old days here, for

then there could be no mistakes, and no
one would have to see the inside of Bili-
bid to know about Philippine prisons.
The fact that we are all kept anxious has
much to do with the rapid aging of most
of the newspaper men who have come to
the islands. Those who keep away from
liquor fall a prey to nervous anxiety,
which has an effect almost as evil and
as quick.

From politics and sedition to religion
is an easy step. Church and intrigue are
synonymous in the Philippines. After
residence in the islands, and some under-
standing of the native character, I have
come to the conclusion that the friars do
not entirely deserve their hard lot and
evil reputation.

There have just come into my hands
certain translations of old Spanish doc-
uments and official reports which have
"aided me in the formation of this opin-
ion. These translations have been made
during the last year at the instance of
certain officials, if the reports are correct.
They, have, I believe, the formal accept-
ance of the authorities. They err in the
respect that they are all too keenly se-
vere on the native, or Indio, who plotted
against Spain, but they also open many
doors previously sealed. They afford
brief but vivid glimpses of the heroic
lives of many old padres who worked de-
votedly, faithfully, amid obstacles and
dangers that the American mind can
have no adequate idea of under any cir-
cumstances. There were, of course, and
still are, many of the priests who are
simply swine, bearing the mark of the
beast writ large and clear on puffy face
and distended paunch. But they and
their narrow lives are overshadowed com-
pletely by such men as Padre Mariano
Gil, of the Augustinians. He it was who
uncovered the dastardly plot of the Kati-
punan, and who, for this intrepid piece
of daring, was placarded. The posters
showed his head at the top, with a pistol
on one side and a short knife on the
other, while a few significant words be-

A Letter from the Philippines.

265

low gave his name and title. He was
parish priest of the Tondo district, a hot-
bed of insurrection and discontent.

Between those days, of the middle
'90's, and the present there is a great
difference. In some measure this is due
to the presence of the Americans, with
their prejudice against the religious or-
ders, and in some measure to the keen
church war that has been begun by Agli-
pay. Without considering the merits of
the case very much, the average Amer-
ican has decided that the orders must
go. Aglipay, after years of thought,. has
reached the same conclusion. The two
forces, though pulling at different angles,
have practically assured Rome of defeat.
Just what the true significance of Agli-
pay 's movement is, it is hard to say.
Some very well-informed persons believe
the movement to be purely a shift in
the political game, merely a back-stairs
scheme, as it were, fostered officially, f pr
the expulsion of .the friars. Others claim
Aglipay to be a most genuine and honest
religious leader, with no thought of any-
thing save the work of his church and
flock. Still another opinion, which seems
equally well founded, though hot having
so much numerical strength, declares that
the old insurrection spirit is recrudes-
cent in I'm ; that he is slowly and surely
weaving about us a net, with old leaders,
and others who have taken the oath of
allegiance to help him secretly in the
cities, and men like Faustino Gqillermo
and other avowed insurgents in the field,
to bring the old days once more to pass,
and to compel the Americans to give over
the islands to the sovereignty of the Fili-
pino.

Silly and fatuous as the latter scheme
appears to be, it would yet find ready
and fanatic adherents by the thousand.
Let the Filipino get a really compelling
leader, and the issue will be forced upon
us. If it comes, and there seems a
very good chance that it may, it will
be impossible to hold in the men ; they
will carry into deadly effect the provisions

of Lincoln's General Order 100, with
or without the consent of their officers.
And any Filipino troops that have the
temerity to attack ours will be wiped out
of existence in smoke and blood. There
will be no nonsense about it next time.
This is the opinion of the army.

Aglipay has not had entirely plain
sailing. He made the defections from
the Roman Church so serious that Mgr.
Guidi came to the islands to look after
the interests of the Gran Papa. He
stopped the desertions in numbers, but
he was unable to get back into the fold
those who had deserted it for Aglipay's
rather homoeopathic Catholicism. Mean-
time the latter had been strengthening
his fences all along the line, and has suc-
ceeded in keeping his main body intact.
It is hard to believe that he could have
any grave political import or influence,
not being a big or broad enough man.
His doctrines are less for ritual and more
for spontaneity than those of Rome. In
several important respects his teachings
split squarely off from those of his pre-
ceptors, and the Filipinos who found the
stern discipline and forms of the Romish
Church irksome were his readiest apos-
tles and converts. He is still proselyting
steadily, but the movement by which he
and his church sprang into prominence
came suddenly about the first of the year
as a result of the sub rosa proceedings
of the preceding six months.

In conclusion, a summary of the year
shows nothing particularly startling or
unusual among the natives. They are .
always in ebullition ; plots without num-
ber are being made every day to dispose
of the Americans, and fail as fast as
made. Holy Week was to have seen the
slaughter of many ; it saw a few ladrones
killed and more captured. Just about
that time Governor Taft issued an order
that every one having firearms must
register them, and get a bond of two hun-
dred dollars in gold for permission to

266

A Letter from the Philippines.

have them. A considerable opposition to
this was felt, but most people obeyed it.

The financial situation shows no im-
provement. Mexican silver is going up,
but quotations are based on open mar-
kets, and what effect the gold peso will
have when it and the Mexican peso are in
the market together no one is prepared
to say. Most of the best business men,
however, hold Congress and the customs
service responsible for the greater part
of the depression, and say that until free
trade with the United States is given
them, things will be growing worse in-
stead of better. The anomalous position
of the islands is what does the mischief.
The Constitution did not follow the flag
in the Philippines in any respect, and
until business men know what to expect,
when, and from whom, trade will be dull
and prospects slight, as at present. Re-
trenchment is the order of the day with
the business houses of any value.

Nevertheless, improvements to the city
during the year have been marked.
Houses are going up on all sides, part of
the wall is coming down, work has been
begun on the new electric street railway,
the most important innovation Manila
has ever seen, and rents are still at high-
water mark. Houses that could not be
rented at all at home are considered in
Manila thoroughly sanitary and clean,
but the Health Department has been do-
ing a great work, and though we still have
considerable cholera, bubonic plague,
smallpox, beriberi, and other diseases
originating in filth, the city is now kept
very clean for a tropical seaport with an
unsavory reputation. The harbor works
are also coming along well, and the sub-
marine work on them is about three quar-
ters done. When the trolley is running
there will be notable changes in the pre-
sent problem of transportation, which
makes it imperative for every man to own
at least one horse.

Bishop Brent has established within the
year a settlement house and free dispen-
sary, hospital, and school in Trozo, a sec-
tion of Extramuros, Manila, which has
already done a great deal of very impor-
tant work among the poor. The young
women of the settlement are trained
nurses and teachers, and the value of their
work is testified to by the crowds they
handle every day, and the distress they
relieve. What with teaching, healing,
helping overburdened mothers, Fili-
pino families number anywhere from two
to twenty, and doing the little things
that are so needed and usually so little
thought of, these young women and their
leader are doing a noble and great work.

Judicial affairs have altered but little
during the year. Some of the magis-
trates have sickened of work and climate
and have gone home ; their places have
been filled, and the grind goes on. The
Commission has created some amusing
positions during the year, one being for
a deputy chief of non-Christian tribes.
This man was sent down to Moroland to
study the language and customs. Those
who understand, envy the gentleman his
chance to pick up bolos and collect speci-
mens of Moro cloths.

At the moment, the raising of the old
cruiser Reina Cristina occupies the public
mind to a great extent. The government
had abandoned her, and the work was
done by a corporation, which has her on
view now. She was found not to have
been sunk by Dewey at all, but was scut-
tled by the Spaniards, who opened the
sea-cocks and injector-valves themselves,
sinking her. Her engines and hull are
in good condition, as the rapid growth of
barnacles and other forms of life in these
waters have preserved them remarkably.
The old wreck will be sold, doubtless, as
junk, or for use as a coaster. Her guns
and other valuable accoutrements were
long ago taken by the government divers.
Arthur Stanley Riggs.

The Widder.

267

THE WIDDER.

AT the time of the trial the Tombs
still wore its Egyptian frown, justice was
barbarously vindicated in the quadran-
gle, Croker was Coroner, and the New
Spirit had not yet stalked in Centre
Street.

But to begin at the beginning of the
story it is necessary to go back to the day
when Old Curry returned from the Su-
preme Court chambers.

Yes, Curry was an old-timer. The
fashion of his clothes the ample trou-
sers, the long-tailed coat, the heavy cra-
vat, only less antique than a stock, the
rolling collar, the dusty, broad-brimmed
silk hat that rested like Webster's
squarely upon his wrinkled temples
quickly proclaimed his detachment from
the modern mode.

So that the figure of Old Curry as it
moved up Centre Street was in a marked
way different from any other likely to be
seen on that thoroughfare. With head
bowed, the lank lawyer strode in an un-
compromising line near the curb, his white
hair fluttering, the skirt of his coat ca-
reering in the early April wind.

Turning into Leonard Street, Old
Curry entered one of those middle-aged
brick buildings that stood over against
the grim fayade of the Tombs. The
neig