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Hiterature 5 



pre#^, ambcitige 






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



Anna Mareea, Esther B. Tiffany . 




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 



Literary Development of the Pacific Coast, 

The, Herbert Bashford 1 

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



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 


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 


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 



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 


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 


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



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- 

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- 

" 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 .... 


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

On Mount Hamilton, Charles Keeler . . 41 


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 

White-Throats in Franconia, Dora Bead 

750 Goodale 275 

687 Youngest, The, Elizabeth Foote . 



" 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 



^ 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. 


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 

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- 

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 

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. 


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 

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 

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 

" 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 

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 

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- 

In our own forests there are only two 

" 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 

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- 

"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 


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. 




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. 



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 


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 

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. 



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 

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- 

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 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- 

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 

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 

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- 

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 

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. 


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. 


" 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- 

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 

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 

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 

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 

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. 


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 

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 

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 

" 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 

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 

" What is it ? " Miss Cameron asked. 

"Chink killed," said a bartender la- 

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 

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 

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 

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. 


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 

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- 

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 

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- 


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 

"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- 

"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- 

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 

"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 

"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 

"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 

"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 

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 

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 

" 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 

Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. 


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. 


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 

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 

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 

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. . 


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 

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 

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 

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- 

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 

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 

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- 

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- 

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- 

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 

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 

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- 

" 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- 

"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 

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- 

"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- 

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 

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 


"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 

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 

" 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 

"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 

"Of course I must do right, Marg'et 
Ann. " 

Her father's voice seemed almost 

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 

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 


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- 

"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- 

"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 

"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. 


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. 



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 

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. 


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. 


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- 

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, 


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. 


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 

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, 


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- 

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 


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 


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. 


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- 

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 

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. 


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. 


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. 


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- 

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, 


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- 

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- 

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. 



[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 


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. 


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- 

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 


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. 


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- 

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 

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 


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 

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 

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. 


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- 

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- 

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 


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. 



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. 



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. 


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." 


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 

To be her home and hearthstone ; where no 

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 


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. 


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 


Because thou hast conquered ancient en- 

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 

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- 

In her rich memory, which firmly charac- 

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 

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 

For wishing you in the Morea, at Kam- 

Anywhere, in short. Your visits to the 

Pass unobserved of the world, you being 

Always by a young Prince of known de- 

To her. But something by the mind's fin- 
ger and thumb 

Not to be caught in a moment, something 

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. 


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 



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 

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. 


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- 

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. 


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 

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. 


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 

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 

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 


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- 

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 

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 

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. 


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. 

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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


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 

" 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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


" 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- 


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 

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- 

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. 


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 


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. 



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 


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. 


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- 

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 


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 


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. 


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 

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 


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- 



iftaga?ine of literature^ 

> ant) $olitic& 

VOL. XCIL AUG UST, 1903. No. DL. 




" 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 

" 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- 

"Addio, addio," she said earnestly. 

" A rivederla ! " answered Giacomo, 
with a courtly sweep of the chamois 

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 



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 

Giacomo. She could n't. It 's fever. 

Assunta. She could have left her 

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 

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? ' 




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 

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 


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 

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 



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 

" 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 

"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 ? ' 



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 

" 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. 


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 

" 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 



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, 


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 

"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 

"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 



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." 


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 

"Are you hurt? " asked Apollo anx- 

"Not at all," she answered, contin- 
uing to sit on the grass. 

"If you were hurt, where would it 

" 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 

" Yes, gods, and impostors too, " she 
answered significantly. 

" So I have heard, " said Apollo, with 

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 

"The gods do not explain them- 
selves, " he answered, binding the sheep- 
skin tightly about her wrist. 



"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 

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 

"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- 

"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 

" 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. 



"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 

"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- 

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- 



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 

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- 



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." 


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 



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 

" 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- 

" Why do you want to remember ? * 

"It is so selfish not to." 

He nodded, with an air of ancient 

"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." 



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, 

"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 

"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- 

An hour later, as she paced the gar- 



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. 


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 

"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 

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 ! 



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 

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 : 

" 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." 


G. " Carlotta shall be mine ! ?1 
C. " Give me the ruddy wine ! " 



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. 


"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. 



"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 

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 

"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 

"$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." 



"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 

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. 


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 



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 



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- 

"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- 

She shook her head, smiling. 


"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 

"I hope good news will be infre- 



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 

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- 

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 

"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- 



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 

"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. 


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. 



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- 

"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- 

"Why Antigone?' demanded the 

" 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 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. 


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 



driftwood out to sea; but here, resolu- 
tion crawls up through my body. We 
must be a new kind of centaur, San 

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, 

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. 

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- 

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 



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 

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 


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 



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 

"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- 

"Human?' asked Daphne, almost 

"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 

"But," said the girl slowly, "even 
if I gave him up I might not care for 


"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 



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 


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 

"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 


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, 



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 

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- 



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 

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 

"To-morrow," said Daphne, as she 
went down the hill, "he will be eating 
grass from Hermes' grave." 


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, 



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 

Assunta 's eyes were full of hidden 

"The Signorina ought to know." 


"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 





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 

" 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 ? >: 



" 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 


"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 

" 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." 



" 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. 


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 



" Buon* giorno," said Apollo, exactly 
as mortals do. 

" Buon* giorno, Altezza," returned 

" 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 

" 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. 


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 

" 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 

" I shall never really know whether 
you are a god or not," said Daphne 

" 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. 




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. 


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 

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 


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 

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. 


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 

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. 


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,- 


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- 

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. 


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. 



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 

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. 


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 

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 


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. 



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. 


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- 


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 


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 

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. 


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 


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. 


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- 

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 


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 

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. 


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 

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, 



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- 

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. 


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. 


"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 

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 

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- 


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 


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. 


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 


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. 



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. 


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. 


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 

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 


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 

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. 


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 


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 

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. 


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 


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 

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. 


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 

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- 


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. 


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 "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 


"Let's do that. Let's move up 


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. 


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 

" 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 


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 

''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 

"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. 


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. 


"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 

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 


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 

" 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 

" What is it that she repeats like that 
all the time, Henderson ? Can you un- 
derstand it ? " 

The Trail of the Tangier. 


"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 


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- 

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. 


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 

"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 

"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 

"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. 



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. 



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. 


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. 


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. 



" 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 

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- 


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. 



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. 


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 : 


For the moment, Hoichi was too much 
startled to answer ; and the voice again 
called, in a tone of harsh command : 


"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 

The Story of Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi. 


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, 

"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 

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- 


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 

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. 


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- 


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." 


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 

"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, 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, 

Lafcadio Hearn. 


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. 


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 


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 

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 

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. 


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 

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 

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 


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 

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. 



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' 


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 

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 

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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


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 

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 

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 

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. 


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- 

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- 

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 

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- 

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. 


[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. 


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 

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 


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 


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-